#WCS collection highlight

[calumcxke]

NOTHING SAFE IS WORTH THE DRIVE (LHS) - TEASER

pairing: playboy!heeseung x inexperienced!reader

summary: lee heeseung was an asshole. you had decided that. having to work with him on a group project made things a hundred times worse. but when a heart longing to experience love for the first time meets someone more than willing to give it, the line between irritation and something deeper starts to blur.

wc: 1166 (FULL FIC 37.9K)

warnings: reader is completely inexperienced, angst, miscommunication, reader falls too quickly and gets flustered very easily, kinda slow burn but not really, heeseung plays basketball but it’s barely mentioned heeseung calls reader ‘princess’ a lot, kissing, making out

smut warnings: dry humping, oral (f rec.), unprotected sex, virginity loss (teaser does not include smut)

FULL FIC HERE

notes: hi.. i don’t know what demon possessed me and made me write a 37k fic but it’s here. finally. this fic is my baby, it’s also very self indulgent LOLLL,, tbh the only reason i’m posting a teaser first is bc i’m so scared to post the full thing right away, anyway hope u guys enjoy LOVE U ^3^ this is HEAVILY based off treacherous (t.s), bewitched (laufey), and smooth operator (sade)

you check your phone for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, the glowing screen mocking you with the time. heeseung was supposed to be here half an hour ago. thirty whole minutes.

you sigh, your fingers tightening around your phone. you had already texted him- a simple, are you still coming?- but it was staring back at you with “delivered” right under it.

your fingers tap against the table impatiently as you stare down at the open laptop in front of you. the library is quieter than usual, the hum of low voices and the occasional rustle of pages filling the space. you consider packing up and leaving, your hands beginning to collect the pencils and highlighters you had set out around you.

“you’re pretty dedicated to this, aren’t you?”

you don’t even need to look up to know who it is. finally.

slowly, you lift your gaze, leveling heeseung with an unimpressed stare. he’s standing there, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, looking completely unbothered. like he hasn’t just left you waiting for half an hour.

“you’re half an hour late,” you deadpan.

heeseung grins, like he finds your irritation amusing. “technicalities.”

you scoff, shaking your head. “you said we’d meet at six.”

“yeah, and i meant it,” he says, smirking at the way you roll your eyes. “it’s just that… time is a social construct.”

is he fucking serious.

you gape at him, your eyebrows furrowed. “are you seriously trying to use philosophy as an excuse?”

“would you rather me lie?” he asks, finally sitting, slinging his backpack onto the table.

“i’d prefer you actually care about this project. it’s a huge part of our grade, heeseung.”

he waves a dismissive hand, pulling his laptop out of his backpack. “relax, princess. i’m here now, aren’t i?”

you gulp at the nickname, turning your head back to your laptop to open up the assignment. “barely,” you mumble.

heeseung chuckles, enjoying your annoyance. “fine. i had practice, it ran later than expected.”

“that’s all you had to say,” you reply, your eyes flickering up to meet his, “and a text would’ve been nice.”

“can’t really text when i’m on the court, princess.” he shoots back, tilting his head with a smile.

you exhale sharply, already regretting ever agreeing to meet with him. “can we just start? we’re already behind schedule.”

luckily, he agrees, his eyes drifting to his own laptop.

you sigh, your own attention drifting back to your laptop. all you can do is hope that things begin to go smoother than this at some point. because right now, you’re considering slamming your head into your laptop or the table.

you try to focus, you really do. but it’s hard when every few minutes, heeseung is moving. drumming his fingers against the table, shifting in his seat, clicking his pen as he reads articles on his computer.

finally, you snap, your eyes looking up at him from your screen. “are you always this restless, or do you just have an allergy to being productive?”

heeseung blinks at you, lips quirking up like he finds your irritation entertaining. “nah, i’m just bored. this class is stupid.”

“why are you like this?” you roll your eyes, glaring at him. “even if this class is stupid, it’s still an important project.”

“like what?” he tilts his head, all faux innocence, completely ignoring your second statement. “charming? fun to be around?”

you scoff. “you were late. plus you were a dick this morning.”

heeseung chuckles, shaking his head lightly. “c’mon, princess. loosen up a bit. you’re making a big deal over nothing.”

“look, i had a shitty day. you’re not making it any better,” you mutter, scoffing again. a voice in the back of your head wonders if you’ve broken the world record for scoffing this much in five minutes.

heeseung leans forward, resting his chin on one hand. “i’m sorry. you know… i’m pretty good at relieving stress.”

your jaw drops. “excuse me?” you clear your throat, trying to ignore the way his words have a blush creeping up your cheeks, instead turning your attention back to your laptop. “just focus on your work, heeseung. we need to plan out who’s gonna do what part.”

you don’t miss how he tilts his head, a knowing smile on his lips as he clicks his tongue, nodding. “alright. just remember we have to work around my schedule.”

you let out a groan, your head rolling back as you look back towards him. “heeseung!”

he only laughs in response, shaking his head at how you get embarrassed when other students give you dirty glares.

“sorry,” you mumble softly, your eyes glaring at him. “focus.”

an hour later, you guys had made relatively good progress. you had divided tasks, and heeseung had done his work, for the most part. he still found every opportunity to get on your nerves, but at least he did so while being productive.

you both pack up in silence, swinging your bag over your shoulder. you spare him a glance, mumbling out a small, “bye, heeseung.”

just as you step outside, you hear the unmistakable sound of sneakers scuffing against the pavement behind you, “where you headed?”

you turn your head slightly to see heeseung strolling up beside you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie as he looks down at you.

“my dorm,” you reply, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, “it’s late.”

he nods, shrugging as he continues to walk next to you, “i’ll walk you.”

you stop in your tracks, turning to face him with narrowed eyes. “why?”

he tilts his head, raising his eyebrows slightly. “why not? i have nothing else to do.”

“because…” you search for a logical reason, but there really seems to be none. you blurt out the only excuse that comes to mind. “it’s late.”

he furrows his brows, falling in place beside you as you begin to walk again. “it’s 7:30.”

you glance at him, shrugging. “that’s considered late for some people.”

he smirks, tilting his head at you, an amused look on his face. “what if i just enjoy your company, princess?”

your face heats at the nickname, and you roll your eyes, quickening your pace. “we barely know each other.”

“well, i’d like to change that.” he keeps up effortlessly, long strides matching yours with ease.

you scoff, trying to ignore the affect his words have on you. “i think you like to get on my nerves, heeseung.”

he grins, nudging your shoulder lightly. “that too.”

you sigh, glancing at him before looking straight ahead. but you don’t tell him to leave. maybe a part of you deep down enjoys the company. maybe you could allow for a part of yourself to feel wanted if the campus playboy was walking you back to your dorm. and if your heart stumbles a little when he walks just close enough for your arms to brush, you choose to ignore it.

(divider cr: @uzmacchiato)

[sixxels]

it girl

nerd!gojo x popular!model!reader

wc: 20.1k

part 1 ! part 2 !

!!disclaimer!! will include major mentions of fling!sukuna x reader, smut, fluff, angst w/comfort. m.list

you were his most well kept secret, scrolling your instagram for hours on end, collecting each and every magazine that you'd ever featured in, satoru was obsessed with you, the gorgeous goddess who just so happened to go to his university. what happens when he sees you struggling to reach a book in the library and plucks up enough courage to finally go up and talk to you? how will the resident bad boy sukuna disrupt his fever dream come true?

the old campus library felt like a different world, ornate woodwork climbing up the walls, interrupted only by tall leaded-glass windows that caught the soft amber glow of autumn. outside, the trees were aflame with color, copper, rust, deep crimson, and their reflection danced on the polished floors. inside, the air was quiet and thick with the scent of time, yellowed pages, candle wax, and the faintest trace of dust that even the best-kept secrets couldn’t shake.

this was satoru’s sanctuary. dim corners, forgotten shelves, long tables where no one noticed if you stayed for hours. it was the one place he could be invisible. which is why his heart damn near exploded when you walked in.

you didn’t belong here, not in the best way. you were all shimmer and gloss, y2k fantasy made flesh, swishing through the hushed aisles like you were on the catwalk of a juicy couture fever dream. pink cheetah-print mini skirt, rhinestone hair clips catching the library’s warm light, a bedazzled phone clutched in one hand and a louis vuitton pochette tucked under the other. your heels made the kind of clack that had half the students peeking over their books.

and gojo? he saw everything.

he watched as you scanned the shelf, rising up on your tiptoes, your acrylics fluttering helplessly just inches from the book’s spine. of course it had to be the top shelf.

of course no one else was around.

gojo adjusted his glasses, heart hammering in his chest. his fingers hovered over his laptop, still stuck on line 43 of an astrophysics assignment he stopped understanding twenty minutes ago.

he’d memorized every one of your photos, every cover shoot, every tiktok q&a where you smiled that same glossy smile.

but this? this was real. this was his chance.

the goddess of his screen, right here in the dusty old sanctuary he never thought you’d step foot in, struggling to reach a book that he was tall enough to grab without even trying.

clearing his throat almost as a way to prepare himself, he closed the lid of his lap top and stood.

his palms were sweating. he wiped them on his jeans as subtly as he could, heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to escape. every step felt unreal, like he was glitching through a dream he wasn’t supposed to be part of. he could hear the faint squeak of his sneakers against the hardwood floor, echoing too loud in the silence, like the library itself was watching him with bated breath.

you didn’t notice him at first, too busy tiptoeing, a pout forming on your glossy lips as your fingers swiped at nothing but air. your pink mini rode a little higher as you stretched, glittery charm bracelet jingling with the effort, and satoru had to drag his eyes back up to your face like a gentleman. his throat went dry.

he cleared it quietly. “uh—need some help?”

you turned, and wow.

up close, you were somehow even more perfect. highlighter catching on your cheekbones, the faint scent of candy and designer perfume floating around you like some kind of spell. your eyes met his, confused for a split second, then amused. not mean, not mocking. just… curious. like you were trying to place him. like maybe he was a page you’d never noticed before.

“errr, yeah,” you said, with a breathy little laugh that made his stomach flip. “not built for reaching stuff that high.”

he blinked, then smiled, nervous but trying to play it cool. “lucky for you, i majored in tall.” you laughed again even though it was kind of dry, real, sparkly, light. and satoru swore he’d never heard anything more perfect in his life.

“you’re funny,” you said, stepping aside to give him room. “what’s y'name, hun?” he froze for a half second. she’s asking your name, idiot, say it!

“gojo. i mean, satoru. gojo satoru. either one. or uh. both, at once.” he winced. smooth satoru, real smooth. you just tilted your head, smiled like you didn’t mind at all, and watched him pluck the book down with one easy reach.

“thanks, but satorus too long, and i hate calling people by their last name.” you said, cradling the book in your arms like a purse dog. satoru's eyes widened like he was surprised you'd say that so outright. he cleared his throat and runnned his neck. "oh, i see... what would you like to call me then?" he said bashfully.

“hmm. toru, ill call you toru." you said lazily chewing whatever pink gum you had in your mouth.

he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “toru... it's sounds good on your tongue- i mean! in your mouth- holy shit wait, that's not what i meant to-.”

you cut him off with a loud giggle, quickly slapping a hand over your mouth once you realized you were in a library, not that it did much to muffle the still continuing melody.

his brain short-circuited.

he was sure of it. neurons fried. circuits blown. oxygen? never heard of her. because you were standing there, laughing like he was actually funny, like this wasn’t a scene straight out of one of his most unhinged daydreams.

you gave him a look, amused, playful. god, he was dying. his soul was ascending like a cartoon ghost floating up from his body.

you shifted your weight, resting one hip against the shelf. the fluorescent light overhead made the rhinestones on your bebe cami sparkle. you tucked the book under your arm like it was a designer clutch and popped another bubble of gum, watching him with a kind of lazy, feline curiosity.

“so,” you drawled, “what’s a pretty boy like you doing all alone in a dusty place like this?”

pretty. you called him pretty.

he almost choked.

“i, uh—” he coughed, adjusting the frames on his face, trying to stall while his brain caught up. “i like… books?”

you laughed again. it was dangerous, the way you looked at him like that. like he was adorable. like he wasn’t wearing a hoodie with digimon on it and sneakers he hadn’t replaced in three years. like he wasn’t the guy who built computers in his dorm for fun and had a separate folder of your magazine covers saved on his hard drive labeled “for science” even though no science was involved.

“you’re cute,” you said matter-of-factly, like it was obvious.

and satoru? satoru was gone.

he stared at you, eyes wide behind his glasses, face flushed a gentle pink that crept all the way up to the tips of his ears. the air was suddenly thick. too warm. too sweet. it smelled like your bubblegum perfume and fall leaves and something else he couldn’t name, something that made his chest ache.

“y-you think so?” he asked softly, stunned.

you tilted your head again, hair bouncing. “don’t be weird 'bout it, 'course i do.”

he felt his knees weaken. he had to stay calm. say something cool. say something flirty. you’ve practiced this in the mirror for god sake!

“you’re, uh—” he tried, mouth dry. “you’re like… really symmetrical. scientifically speaking. your face, i mean. p-perfect proportions.”

you blinked at him, stunned for half a second before giggling again.

“are you trying to flirt with me using the golden ratio?”

“…yes.”

“oh my god,” you said, biting your lip. “that’s actually kinda hot.”

he almost moaned at your flirty tone.

he was talking to you. you. the girl whose instagram he checked religiously, zooming in on every new post like it was a secret message just for him. he knew what your favorite lip gloss was. he knew you preferred oat milk. he’d bought three different issues of vivi just to see the full spread of your beach shoot, and had one of them hidden in the bottom drawer under his spare laptop cables. the girl he had fucked his fist raw to.

you were standing right in front of him, telling him he was hot for quoting fibonacci.

this couldn’t be fucking real.

“do you, like… study fashion or something?” he blurted out, trying to keep the conversation going.

he couldn't lose this opportunity.

“not that you need to. you look like… like you walked out of a y2k time capsule, but in a cool way. like, the hottest- i mean coolest way.”

you grinned, chewing your gum thoughtfully. “nah. i'm in marketing. but i do part-time modeling gigs. keeps my followers happy. and my bank account.”

'oh, i know.' he thought, but smiled like he didn’t. like he hadn’t memorized your last seven ad campaigns and tracked the rise in your follower count every week.

“that’s really cool,” he said instead. “you’re, like, really good at it.”

you raised a brow. “you’ve seen my stuff?”

he panicked. “uh. once. maybe. a few times. like… it came up. on the internet.” he cleared his throat.

you smirked. “just came up, huh?.”

he felt the heat rush to his ears. “i… no… maybe.”

you stepped a little closer, still grinning, glossy lips curving like you knew exactly the effect you had on him.

“it’s okay, toru,” you whispered conspiratorially. “i'm fine with hot guys like you looking at my stuff.”

he snorted, loud and awkward, then clapped a hand over his mouth. your laughter followed, softer this time, almost sweet. you didn’t seem like you were judging him. if anything, you seemed like you were delighted by how much of a mess he was.

you leaned back against the bookshelf, flipping the book’s cover open lazily. “what were you working on, before i came over and distracted you with my tragic lack of height?”

he glanced back at his table, his laptop still open, screen filled with half-written code and tabs full of equations.

“just… homework. physics stuff. not super interesting.”

you hummed. “oh wow physics! you really are a genius? not some nerd poser or something?”

“or something,” he said with a sheepish grin.

you eyed him again, like you were scanning him. tall. gangly, but in a model-off-duty kind of way. platinum white hair slightly tousled like he’d been running his hands through it. piercing blue eyes behind round glasses that only made him look more ridiculously pretty, like a gorgeous professor with no idea how hot he actually was.

you popped another bubble. “you're hot toru, y'know that?”

he groaned, covering his face. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you nudged his arm with your elbow. “in an endearing way, though.”

his heart did a full backflip. she’s flirting with me. she’s actually flirting with me. this isn’t a simulation. this is real.

he was suddenly hyper-aware of everything. the way your perfume lingered in the air. the soft click of your nails against the book cover. the scuff on your pink heels. your lip gloss glinting like a disco ball every time the light shifted. his eyes trailed down to the perfect curve of your tits, god what he would give to cop a feel for just a secon-

“so,” you said, as casually as if you were asking for the time, “you gonna ask for my number or just keep eye fucking me like that?”

his jaw dropped.

you giggled again.

“i—I wasn't- i was gonna-,” he stammered, clutching the edge of the bookshelf for support. “i just didn’t know if, i mean, you’re, like, you. and i’m just—”

you raised an eyebrow. “you’re toru.”

he blinked.

“my toru, if you play your cards right.”

he was dead. buried. emotionally incinerated.

“uh—can i—yeah—your number, please. definitely. like. right now.”

you pulled your phone from your purse, bedazzled case catching the light like a chandelier. “here."

he shakily took your phone.

you peeked at it and burst out laughing. “just 'gojo'? that's lame.”

he shrugged, somehow managing a grin. “oh! uh... i guess you'll have to make up the name...”

he saw your lips curl as you typed in a new name. you turned the phone around and he read the contact.

'toru 🫦'

“you’re so... flirty...”

“yeah i get told that.”

you tilted your head again. “i like you, toru, you're cool.”

he didn’t think anything in his life had ever sounded better.

"r-really? you're like, really cool to-"

"y/n! hurry the hell up or we're leaving without you!"

a foreign voice interrupted the moment, and you looked over your shoulder through the book cases to see sukuna and yuki looking around for you.

"ah shit, sorry toru but i gotta run. parties am i right?"

satoru stammered abit before straightening up and nodding his head quickly like he knew anything about parties. he gulped looking at sukuna, he alone looked 100x more likely to be dating a hot model like you, he was tatted up, smoking hot and oh so boyish. you were hanging out with guys like this on the daily? it made satoru's self confidence waver.

"no, yeah, totally. uhm... it was really nice meeting you y/n-"

"you too toru see yah! i'll text you!"

you replied, fast walking off to your popular friends that seemed to be pretty adamant in you returning quickly.

satoru watched you walk away, heart still pounding in his chest. the weight of the moment, of you, was slowly sinking in.

he stared after you, eyes wide behind his glasses, watching the way you moved—effortless, like a star gliding through space, not a care in the world, completely unaware of the way the whole library seemed to be holding its breath in your presence, just like him. he saw how students whispered as you passed by, you were already back in your element, heading toward your friends. your heels clicked rhythmically against the floor as you weaved through the bookcases.

'she called me toru. she called me toru.'

he could barely wrap his mind around it. you were her. the goddess he’d collected magazines of, the one whose photos kept him up all night, the girl whose life seemed so perfect and out of reach. and you’d called him toru, a nickname only his mom called him.

like it was nothing. like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he felt his pulse racing again, the aftershock of the interaction rippling through him. 'there was no fucking way this was real. it couldn’t be. not in a million years.'

he stood there for what felt like an eternity, watching your figure shrink as you disappeared into the crowd of students waiting at the library exit. a part of him wanted to run after you, but he stayed rooted to the spot, trying to calm his breathing, trying to get his bearings.

'i'll text you' your words rang in his ears.

he fumbled for his phone, eager to check for the message. he knew it wasn’t going to be anything mind-blowing, just a quick “hey” or maybe an emoji, but it didn’t matter. it was something.

his hands shook as he unlocked the screen.

no new messages. his heart sank, and for a brief moment, he was ready to throw his phone out the window. 'don’t overthink it, satoru. it’s just one conversation. stop acting like she’s going to text you back immediately, you idiot.'

he paced back and forth for a few minutes, his mind in a complete fog. the sound of his footsteps was the only thing that seemed to ground him, the reality of the library pulling him back from his spiral of thoughts.

'okay. okay, you need to calm down. what just happened is… insane. but it’s not like she’s your girlfriend. hell, you barely know her. but fuck…'

he sat down at the nearest table, pulling out his laptop and trying to force himself to focus. his fingers hovered over the keys, but the words weren’t coming to him. the physics problems blurred together on the screen, the equations meaningless in comparison to what had just happened.

he laughed to himself, a quiet sound that felt a little too much like a nervous breakdown.

'she called you pretty. she said you were hot. and she didn’t run away. she didn’t laugh at you. she just called you cute! god, you’re fucked, satoru.'

he couldn’t stop smiling, even though he knew he was being ridiculous.

'this is real, right? she actually liked me. she didn’t just see me as some… weirdo in the corner of the library. she saw me.'

~

you didn’t think much more about it after that. after all, you were you, and satoru? well, he was just some pretty nerd who you had a quick flirty conversation with. sure, it was fun, but it wasn’t like anything was going to come of it.

but you couldn’t help thinking about his smile. the way he stammered and blushed. the way his eyes flicked up to meet yours, like he was afraid he might melt if he looked too long. he wasn’t the first guy to be nervous around you, but there was something… refreshing about the way he acted. not like he was trying to impress you, but like he was genuinely just happy to be talking to you.

it was cute.

you were knocked out of your thoughts when sukuna slung an arm around your shoulders as yuki walked next to you out of the library.

“took you long enough,” sukuna drawled, his voice low and rough in that way that made heads turn even when he wasn’t trying. his rings clinked lightly as his fingers settled on your shoulder, all casual possessiveness and knowing smirks. “don’t tell me you were actually studying?”

“she was flirting,” yuki chimed in, tugging her black leather jacket tighter around herself. “with glasses.”

“glasses?” sukuna raised a pierced brow, looking amused. “you mean the lanky nerd who always camps out in the back corner like he pays damn rent?”

you gave a lazy little shrug, chewing your gum thoughtfully as your pink acrylics tapped against your phone screen. “y'know him? he’s cute.”

yuki nearly choked on a laugh, slapping a hand to her chest. “cute? you think he’s cute?”

“like, awkward cute,” you clarified, eyes scanning your texts, pretending not to notice how sukuna’s grip subtly tightened. “he called my symmetrical face hot.”

yuki actually wheezed. sukuna just stared down at you for a second, unreadable. “you fuckin’ with him?” you gave him a sugary smile, lips glossed just right. “no. he was just sweet, helped me reach a book.”

“sweet,” he repeated flatly, like the word offended him on a molecular level. but you were already ahead of them, weaving through the quad, your low-rise mini skirt swishing, a little pink blur in a sea of neutrals. you didn’t even need to look back to know they were following you. people always followed you.

you were the kind of girl people stared at. you were the girl. the one in the center of every group pic. the one who got handed aux at parties. the one every guy either wanted or bragged about knowing. and yeah, it got exhausting sometimes. but it was better than being invisible. it was better than being left behind.

sukuna and yuki flanked you like always, your unofficial bodyguards, your chaos and calm. people moved for the three of you like you were royalty. “what’s his name?” yuki asked as you all approached the parking lot. she was already pulling her keys out, ready to drive you to the party.

“satoru,” you said absently. “but i’m calling him toru.” sukuna scoffed, you were oblivious to the drop in his stomach.

~

back in the library, satoru still hadn’t moved. his brain kept replaying the moment you said his name. toru. he never knew two syllables could make him feel like his chest was going to explode. and then your friends had shown up. those friends.

satoru had locked eyes with the pink-haired one for only a second, but it was enough.

he was tall , broad-shouldered, ink running down his arms like artless declarations of rebellion, slick black piercings catching even the dimmest light of the library. he had a cigarette tucked behind one ear like it was an afterthought, like he didn’t even need it to look dangerous. his shirt clung to him like it didn’t dare wrinkle. his stare was deadpan, half-lidded and bored, like he’d already sized satoru up and decided he wasn’t worth the breath it would take to speak.

his eyes said it all, 'i’ve done things your virgin brain can't even fathom. i’ve had her in ways you’ll never even understand.' satoru felt small, smaller than he had in years.

this guy, sukuna, looked like the kind of man girls wrote warnings about in their diary. the kind your friends begged you to stay away from but you never did. he looked like he lived in red lights and black leather and bad decisions. like he didn’t even need to try to get a girl like you. like he already had.

he looked like the kind of guy you did date.

satoru’s fingers twitched at his sides, a nervous impulse to hide himself behind his sleeves. behind his hoodie. behind something. anything. 'they’re probably just friends,' he told himself. but the words didn’t land. not really.

not when you were surrounded by people like that, cool, popular, hot in a way that didn’t come from filters or good lighting but from raw, lived-in confidence. people who belonged in glossy polaroids, in afterparties, in stolen moments behind closed doors.

people who weren’t him.

he thought about the way you’d laughed at his dumb jokes, called him toru like it was something soft and special. how you’d looked at him like he was something worth looking at. but it didn’t change the fact that he was stammering and akward.

meanwhile, sukuna probably had you pressed against a wall the night before, hand on your throat, like he owned you. satoru blinked down at the ground, heart clenched, throat dry.

what if he does? what if you weren’t just flirting? what if sukuna was the one you called when the party ended? the one who got to see you undone and bare and real?

the image hit him hard, a flash of you in someone else’s bed, laughing the way you had in the library, except it wasn’t for him this time. he shook his head, embarrassed with himself, but the thought had already burrowed in.

'you’re not her type.' and god, wasn’t that the worst part? because he wanted to be.

he wanted to be everything you liked. everything you needed. but standing there in that hoodie with his backpack half-zipped and his heart in his mouth, he wasn’t sure he even belonged in the same room as you.satoru dropped his forehead to the desk, groaning softly.

'get a grip. you’re spiraling. again.'

but he couldn’t help it. not when he’d spent the better part of his freshman year zooming in on pictures of you on the cover of “tokyo street glam.” not when he had a folder on his phone labeled “math notes” that was really just full of screenshots from your instagram stories.

you were his secret. his guilty pleasure. the one girl he let himself obsess over even when he swore he didn’t do that anymore. and now? you were real. not just real, but you’d talked to him. you’d liked talking to him. he finally lifted his head, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, still slightly fogged from the heat of his own forehead.

'snap out of it, satoru. she’s not a fantasy anymore. you met her. she smiled at you. she gave you her number. that has to mean something.'

his phone vibrated. his whole body went rigid he snatched it up off the table so fast he nearly dropped it.

[new message: unknown number]

xxx xxx xxx: heya toru :)

his mouth dropped open a little. he just stared at the screen, like it might disappear. like it was a mirage. his fingers hovered for a moment, then tapped quickly.

toru 🫦: hey :)

and then, as fast as he could, he threw his phone face-down on the table and physically shoved his chair away from it like it might explode. his heart pounded. his ears were ringing.

'holy fucking shit she texted you.'

he let out a shaky breath, tugging his hoodie sleeves down over his hands and scrubbing them over his face.

~

“he texted back,” you told yuki, holding up your phone lazily.

“he’s probably combusting in that dusty ass library right now,” she grinned, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. “you just turned that boy’s world upside down.”

you blew a bubble, letting it pop slow. “good.”

“you gonna see him again?” you shrugged, but your smile betrayed you. “depends. maybe.”

yuki eyed you. “you like him.”

“i don’t not like him.”

from behind, sukuna made a low noise of disapproval.

you ignored it.

~

back inside, satoru was still buzzing. his fingers hovered over the keys, unsure what to say next. he wanted to impress you. to be funny. to be hot. but mostly, he just didn’t want to blow it.

he checked your profile again, he didn’t mean to. it was just instinct now. all your selfies, your campaign shoots, your y2k party outfits, the way you always looked like you stepped out of a dream and into a flashbulb.

your most recent post was from a few minutes ago where you snapped a photo of you and yuki getting ready for a frat party. 'of course.'

~

the alpha phi frat house was already buzzing by the time you and yuki pulled up. the thump of bass-heavy music vibrated through the ground, mingling with the distant chatter and laughter of students spilling out onto the lawn. fairy lights crisscrossed above, casting a warm, golden glow over the scene, while the scent of alcohol and pot hung thick in the air.

you stepped out of the car, your mini dress hugging your curves perfectly. your hair was styled beautifully, and your makeup was a flawless blend of early 2000s glam and modern chic. yuki, ever the contrast, sported a sleek black ensemble, her dark lipstick and sharp eyeliner giving her an edgy allure. as you made your way through the crowd, the familiar faces of your inner circle came into view.

choso was the first to greet you, leaning against the kitchen counter with a red solo cup in hand. his long, dark hair was tied into two high ponytails, and his deep-set eyes held a quiet intensity. choso was the enigmatic artist of your group, often lost in thought but always present when it mattered. despite his reserved nature, he had a soft spot for you, often sketching portraits of you in his notebook.

“y/n,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“heyy cho,” you replied, giving him a quick hug. “still acting all edgy brooding in corners?”

he chuckled softly. “y'know it.”

nearby, suguru lounged on a couch, his long black hair tied back, revealing a perfectly sharp jawline and a mischievous glint in his eyes. he raised his glass in a silent toast as you approached.

“y/n, always a vision,” he drawled, his voice deep, sexy and smooth as silk.

“awe how sweet of you. not sleeping with you tho, sorry!” you shot back, smirking.

suguru was the charismatic leader, effortlessly drawing people into his orbit. he had a way with words and a confidence that made him irresistible to many. your relationship with him was flirtatious, filled with playful banter and lingering glances.

"that's too bad, pretty."

shoko, the group’s resident medical major and drunkard, sauntered over with a bottle in hand. her short hair framed her face, and her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“y/n! shot?” she offered, already pouring two.

“you know i can’t say no to you, girl,” you laughed, clinking glasses with her.

shoko was the life of the party, always ready with a drink and a sarcastic comment. she balanced her wild side with a deep loyalty to her friends, always there when it mattered most.

sukuna, ever the token bad boy, leaned against the wall, his tattoos peeking out from under his shirt. his pink hair was tousled, and his eyes followed you as you moved through the room.

he gave you a once over and approached you, slinking an arm around your waist and hooking his head down to inhale you're perfume with a groan.

sukuna was your on-again, off-again fling, the tension between you two palpable. he exuded danger and allure, and while your relationship was complicated, especially with his tendency to be extremely unloyal, there was no denying the chemistry.

you giggled before pushing him off and working your way further into the party, dodging bodies as you progressed.

nanami stood nearby, his tie loosened, a drink in hand. he offered you a nod, his expression as stoic as ever.

“y/n,” he greeted simply.

“nanami, letting loose tonight?” you teased, leaning against his side looking up at him. “as much as i can,” he replied, a hint of a smile on his lips as he dipped his drink.

nanami was the responsible one, always the voice of reason. he kept the group grounded, his calm demeanor a counterbalance to the chaos. maki zen’in, fierce and unapologetic, approached with a confident stride. her athletic build and sharp eyes commanded attention.

“y/n, looking sexy,” she complimented, giving you a nod.

“maki, you look so fucking hot.” you responded.

maki was the strong, silent type, her loyalty unwavering. she was someone you could always count on, both in and out of a fight.

~

as the group settled into their usual banter, yuki leaned in, a mischievous glint in her eyes, capturing their attention.

“guess who y/n was flirting with today?” she announced, drawing everyone’s attention. the room quieted slightly, all eyes on you.

you shot her a sideways glance and felt for the phone in your pocket, remembering you needed to text a certain someone back.

“a nerd,” yuki continued, grinning.

sukuna’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening.

“a nerd?” suguru echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah, glasses, stammering, the whole 9 yards,” yuki elaborated.

“he was cute,” you defended, shrugging, about to hit send on the message you were about to send satoru when sukuna interrupted.

he scoffed, pushing off the wall.

“i’m getting another drink,” he muttered lowly, disappearing into the crowd.

the group exchanged glances, the tension palpable.

“well, that was dramatic,” shoko commented, taking another sip.

choso snorted abit and suguru just shook his head.

you rolled your eyes, but a small smile played on your lips. sukuna fucked around with all kinds of girls, what gave him the right to get all pissy? you didn't really like him like that anyways, he just knew how to fuck...

you watched sukuna’s retreating figure push through the crowd, jaw locked, shoulders tense. he didn’t even glance back.

you waited a beat. maybe he was just being dramatic. maybe he’d cool off and come back and pretend like nothing happened.

but he didn’t.

and something about that made your blood boil.

“i’ll be back,” you muttered, not really addressing anyone in particular.

yuki gave you a knowing look but didn’t stop you.

you slipped past sweaty bodies and neon-lit walls, the music thudding behind you like a heartbeat as you pushed open the sliding glass door to the patio. it was colder out here. quieter. sukuna was leaning against the railing, cigarette hanging lazily between his fingers, jaw clenched tight like he was chewing on all the things he wanted to say but wouldn’t.

you stood a few feet away, arms crossed.

“you always do this,” you said softly, voice sharp in contrast to the quiet. “get weird whenever someone else so much as breathes in my direction.”

he didn’t turn around. just took a slow drag of his cigarette and exhaled smoke into the air like it was supposed to calm him.

“so now you’re into nerds?” he said, voice flat. you scoffed. “is that really what you’re mad about?” he glanced over his shoulder, eyes flashing. “i’m not mad.” you stepped closer, irritation prickling under your skin.

“bullshit. you stormed out like i cheated on you or something.” he turned fully to face you now, arms spread slightly like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“we’re not together.”

you laughed, bitter and tired. “exactly. we’re not together. so why the fuck do you care?”

he looked at you then, really looked. and for a second, something flickered in his expression, hurt? jealousy? possession? it vanished almost as quickly as it came.

“i don’t,” he said coldly. “you can fuck whoever the hell you want.”

“then why are you acting like this?”

he stepped closer, his voice low and cutting. “because you act like you don’t care, like it’s just casual, and then go around flirting with other guys like it’s a game.”

“you sleep with other people all the time.”

“yeah, but i don’t shove it in your face.”

“i wasn’t trying to shove anything—” you snapped, taking another step forward, “—you just can’t stand not being the center of attention.”

his eyes narrowed. “and you can’t stand the idea that someone might not want you.”

that one stung more than it should have.

you blinked, lips parting, breath catching in your throat for half a second. then you swallowed it down and stared right back at him.

“fuck you.”

he smirked. “you already did.”

you rolled your eyes and turned, ready to walk back in, to let this whole thing rot where it stood. but then—

“he’s not gonna fuck you like i do,” he called out, venom laced in his voice.

you stopped.

turned.

walked right up to him.

“maybe not,” you said sweetly, “but he doesn’t talk to me like i’m disposable.”

sukuna didn’t say anything, jaw tight again, eyes unreadable.

you stepped back. “enjoy your drink.”

and with that, you left him there, cigarette burned down to the filter, staring at your back as you disappeared into the party.

~

you stalked your way back into the party, turning heads as you walked. you navigated back to a some what secluded couch and sat down trying to calm yourself, and think. and maybe, okay, definitely, text that nerd.

you reached for your phone that had been vibrating on and off all night in your purse. as expected, a few dms, a couple mentions from the party, sukuna had liked one of your thirst traps from last week, typical, but it was the one message that you'd received a few hours ago that made your heart do a weird little flip.

toru 🫦[10:03]: wydddd?

you [12:47am]: u still up nerd?

you paused. stared at it. then hit send before you could chicken out.

you rolled onto your back, biting your lip, phone clutched to your chest.

the reply came way faster than expected.

toru 🫦 [12:48am]: im always up for you

you stared at the screen, mouth open.

“what the hell,” you muttered, smiling like an idiot.

you [12:49am]: that was smooth toru. didn’t know you had game

toru 🫦 [12:49am]: i don’t. im literally panicking rn

toru 🫦 [12:49am]: i had to rewrite that message like five times. you don’t wanna see the first drafts

you snorted.

you [12:50am]: ok show me the deleted ones

toru 🫦 [12:51am]: i think one said “yes i am awake haha as a human does” and then another one just said “gulp”

you [12:51am]: stopppppp LMAO

you [12:52am]: that’s so cute it’s disgusting

toru 🫦 [12:52am]: glad i could repulse you into liking me? i think?

you [12:53am]: don’t get cocky bud ur just some cute guy i met

toru 🫦 [12:53am]: you think i’m cute?

you laughed again, your cheeks a little warm despite the hour.

you [12:54am]: you’re literally the prettiest boy i’ve ever seen

toru 🫦 [12:55am]: oh

toru 🫦 [12:55am]: oh my god

toru 🫦 [12:55am]: you’re just saying that

you [12:56am]: i’m not lol. you looked so good in the library today. like… ridiculously good

toru 🫦 [12:57am]: i was sweating so bad. i think my shirt was sticking to me. you looked like a dream tho. a bratz doll kinda dream

you grinned.

you [12:57am]: i am a bratz doll. kinda my whole label lmao. yk what i really like?coffee. speaking of!

you [12:58am]: wanna get some tomorrow? 1pm ish? bluebird café?

your finger hovered for a second before you sent it.

across campus, in a dorm room cluttered with textbooks, half-eaten candy, and his favorite hoodie tossed over the back of his desk chair, satoru gojo was staring at his phone like it held the secrets of the universe.

he read the message once.

twice.

three times.

and then he launched himself face-down into his pillow and let out a noise somewhere between a squeal and a dying animal.

“yes,” he whispered into the sheets. 'yes yes yes fuck yes.'

his thumbs scrambled to reply.

his response came in seconds.

toru 🫦 [12:58am]: yes. yes. yes pls

toru 🫦 [12:58am]: i mean yeah sounds cool lmao

he immediately smacked his forehead. sounds cool?? what was wrong with him?? you were literally the hottest person he’d ever seen and he was texting like someone’s nervous little cousin.

still.

you responded instantly.

you [12:59am]: ur such a loser

toru 🫦 [12:59am]: ur such hottie

he stared at the screen after sending it, heart pounding. he could still see you in that tight little outfit from earlier, that confident swing of your hips, your glossed lips twitching when you called him hot, like you already knew what that did to him.

and god, what didn’t it do to him?

he was so far gone. the way you talked to him, like you were toying with him. like you knew he’d let you. like you knew he’d beg if you asked nicely enough.

fuck.

he shifted on his bed, adjusting himself under the sheets with a hiss.

you had him half-hard from just a few texts and a smile.

his phone buzzed again.

you [1:00am]: wear a shirt like you were wearing today again. the tight one. pls. for science.

toru 🫦 [1:00am]: yes ma’am

toru 🫦 [1:00am]: but only if u promise to sit close to me

toru 🫦 [1:00am]: like. real close

you bit your lip, heat crawling up your neck and down your legs.

you [1:01am]: i was gonna sit in ur lap anyway?

gojo made an honest-to-god whimper.

toru 🫦 [1:01am]: brb. passing away. dying. deceased. funeral tmrw before coffee

you laughed into your hands, locking your phone as the giddiness spilled over.

you didn’t know why you were getting all hyped over this guy.

he was awkward. kind of dorky. always blushing.

just an awkward guy with a pretty face.

and you?

you were already dressing to impress. already picturing how he’d react when you leaned in close, lipgloss shining. already planning which perfume would drive him crazy.

just coffee.

totally chill.

except your pulse wouldn’t slow down, and your smile wouldn’t fade.

not even a little.

~

meanwhile, sukuna stood on the patio still, cigarette ash crumbling between his fingers, the cold air biting at his skin, but he didn’t feel it. all he could think about was the look in your eyes when you told him off. the way your voice didn’t even shake. the way you walked away like he didn’t matter. like he was just another hookup who didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

'fuck.'

he dragged the smoke in deep, holding it in his lungs like it might cauterize the part of him that still gave a shit. but it didn’t. it never did.

you always did this. wormed your way under his skin like a parasite. made him feel things he swore he didn’t have in him. and every time, he let you. like a fucking idiot.

you weren’t his. he wasn’t yours. that was the deal. and he liked that. needed it. no strings. no expectations. he fucked, you moaned, and then you went home. clean. efficient.

but tonight?

you had the audacity to smile about some four-eyed loser in a cardigan. to say he was cute, cute, in front of everyone like you weren’t the same girl who’d been choking on his cock last weekend, mascara dripping down your cheeks, begging him to keep going even though you were shaking.

and now? you were giggling over some soft-spoken virgin with library dust in his hair?

fuck off.

he could see it. this “toru” guy blushing like a fucking idiot when you touched his arm. stuttering through compliments. looking at you like you hung the stars. and worse—way worse—he could see you liking it. eating it up. letting yourself be doted on like you were something sweet and fragile.

'what a fucking joke.'

you were a brat. a tease. a bad girl in a tight dress with too much lipgloss and not enough shame. sukuna knew that. he liked that. you weren’t soft. you weren’t gentle. you were fire and sharp teeth and split thighs. that’s what he fucked. what he owned.

and now you were giving that soft shit to someone else?

nah.

he got the real you. the parts no one else could handle. the parts that needed someone like him. the late-night chaos. the bruises you didn’t want to explain. the shame-soaked mornings where you wouldn’t look him in the eye.

he got the truth.

that nerd didn’t know you. he didn’t know the mess under the makeup. the desperate texts at 2am. the neediness that bled through every time you swore you didn’t care.

and you?

you didn’t get to act like you were someone new. like you were pure now, just because some pretty boy batted his lashes at you in the nonfiction aisle.

fuck that.

he scoffed under his breath, flicking the dead cigarette into the grass and watching the embers scatter.

this wasn’t supposed to matter. none of it was supposed to matter.

you were hot. you were cool. and he thought if he kept it physical, kept it casual, he wouldn’t get sucked in.

but there you were. invading his thoughts, ruining his night with one stupid, flirty smile at someone else.

you shouldn’t get to do that.

he dug into his pocket for another cigarette and lit it with shaking hands.

he was spiraling and he knew it.

he hated this.

hated how you’d crawl into his head without even trying. hated how you made him feel sixteen again, jealous, stupid, insecure. hated that you didn’t even ask him to stay. hated that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want him to.

and he really fucking hated the idea that you’d text that guy tonight.

maybe you already had.

maybe he was texting you back right now, saying something dumb and sweet like you looked really pretty today, and you’d eat it up because that was the shit you liked now, wasn’t it?

and sukuna would be out here, sucking down his second cigarette, pretending it didn’t gut him.

“fucking hell,” he muttered, tossing the second one too.

he stared up at the night sky, jaw locked, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he could force the feeling down if he just stood still enough.

but it sat there anyway, heavy in his chest.

you were slipping away from him.

and he didn’t even know if he wanted to stop you.

~

he walked back into the house like he hadn’t just spent twenty minutes outside trying not to feel things. the bass of the music hit him first, pulsing through the floorboards, drowning out whatever was left of his pride. he grabbed another drink just to keep his hands busy. he didn’t even know what it was, probably something sugary and cheap,but he needed something to hold so he wouldn’t punch a wall.

he spotted yuki first, dancing near the kitchen with shoko and maki, drinks in hand, glittering under the soft lights strung along the ceiling. he didn’t bother looking for you at first. he told himself he wouldn’t. told himself it didn’t matter.

but his eyes betrayed him, scanning the room like they always fucking did.

and there you were.

sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, grinning down at your phone like it had just told you the funniest joke in the world.

he didn’t have to guess who you were texting.

he knew.

the look on your face said it all. soft. dreamy. your glossed lips tilted into a little smirk, teeth poking through as you bit back a laugh. your fingers moved fast, typing something with a kind of excitement he hadn’t seen in you in a long time. not with him. not for a while.

you never looked at your phone like that after fucking around with him.

no, you usually ghosted him the next day, like you needed to forget it even happened. like he was something you regretted once the high wore off.

but now you were sitting there in a tight little dress, glowing from the inside out, because some nerd made you smile with a few well-timed texts.

he clenched his jaw, setting his drink down before it cracked in his grip.

' fuck that guy.

fuck his stupid glasses.'

fuck how easily he got your attention after one day.

he took a slow breath, trying to shake it off. he wasn’t going to be that guy. the clingy one. the bitter one. he had girls. options. people would kill for a night with him and he knew it. he didn’t need you. he never did.

but goddamn, it felt like you were the only thing he wanted in that moment.

he forced himself to move, leaning back against the counter, trying not to watch you as you texted.

you glanced up once, eyes sweeping the room, and you caught him. just for a second. your smile faltered, and you looked away fast, back to your phone, back to 'toru.'

sukuna’s stomach twisted.

you didn’t come over.

you didn’t even wave.

you just kept texting.

he swallowed hard and looked away.

suguru came up beside him, handing him a new drink. “you look like you’re about to rock someone's shit.”

“i might,” sukuna muttered, taking the cup.

“you know she’s not yours, right?” suguru said casually, like he wasn’t cutting sukuna open with the truth.

sukuna didn’t answer. he didn’t have to.

“just saying,” suguru added, sipping his own drink, “you act like you don’t care, but every time she entertains someone else you look like you’re about to commit a felony.”

“she’s not like that with me,” sukuna said quietly.

“yeah,” suguru said, looking back at you, “and maybe that’s the problem."

he hated that look on your face.

soft. sweet. like someone actually deserved it.

like he hadn’t just had you moaning into his neck a week ago.

“unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, jaw twitching. he pushed off the counter and made his way across the kitchen, bumping past some guy in a letterman jacket hard enough to make the drink in his hand slosh. the guy looked ready to say something, but one glance at sukuna’s expression shut him up.

he thrived on that.

the fear. the respect. the control.

he didn’t lose.

and now here he was, second place to some awkward little library rat who probably still asked his mom how to do laundry.

pathetic.

you weren’t even that special. not really.nat least that's what he told himself.

you had a pretty face, sure. tight body, knew how to use it.

but god, were you exhausting.

always wanting to “talk” after. getting weird if he didn’t text back fast enough. acting like he owed you something when all you ever were was convenient.

it wasn’t his fault you caught feelings.

it wasn’t his fault you mistook a few orgasms for meaning.

and now? you were all smiles and fluttery lashes for some guy who’d probably cum in his pants if you so much as kissed his neck.

he laughed, bitter and mean, dragging a hand through his hair.

you’d be bored in a week. two, tops.

guys like that didn’t know what to do with girls like you.

he did.

he knew how to make you fall apart. knew how to get under your skin, pull sounds out of you you didn’t even know you could make. he’d ruined you for other guys, he was sure of it.

and yet there you were, looking like he didn’t exist.

looking like he never even mattered.

he downed the rest of his drink and tossed the cup aside like it disgusted him, then stalked toward the hallway without a word to anyone. if he couldn’t have your attention, he’d find someone else’s.

you weren’t the only hot girl at this party.

and if you wanted to pretend he didn’t matter?

fine.

he’d show you just how easy it was to forget someone.

even if it was a lie.

even if it tore him up inside.

he was good at pretending.

you taught him that.

~

you lock your phone, the ghost of a smile still clinging to your lips, cheeks warm as you sink into the couch cushion. the room buzzes around you, low bass, clinking drinks, scattered laughter, and for a second, you forget where you are. all you can think about is the way satoru types like he can’t get the words out fast enough. like he’s trying to hold your attention before you disappear.

you tuck your phone into your purse and push yourself up, brushing your hands down the sides of your dress. no use staying curled up in the corner when the night’s still young and the liquor is just starting to hit.

“finally decided to rejoin the rest of us?” suguru calls as you weave through the crowd toward the kitchen.

“was that you smiling at your phone like a puppy?” choso adds, lifting a red solo cup to his lips with a grin.

you snort, accepting the tequila shot suguru passes you. “shut up.”

“no, really. that was some schoolgirl shit,” choso teases, bumping his shoulder against yours. “who’s got you blushing like that, huh?”

you shoot him a look as you throw the shot back, the alcohol burning a slow, sweet trail down your throat. “nobody.”

“mhmm,” suguru hums, not buying it for a second. “not like you to be giggling like that, especially not when sukuna’s in one of his moods.”

you shrug, licking a little salt from the back of your hand. “he’s always being weird.”

choso raises his brows. “you good with him?”

“why wouldn’t i be?” you say, a little too quickly.

they exchange a look but don’t push it. instead, suguru downs his shot and offers his hand. “come dance.”

you let him pull you onto the living room floor, the music thudding loud enough that it vibrates through your heels. choso joins, the three of you falling into a loose rhythm, spinning and swaying under the hazy glow of the string lights. suguru’s hands find your waist, steady but never greedy, while choso twirls you around with a flourish that makes you laugh.

it feels good, easy. warm bodies, familiar faces, and the distraction you didn’t know you needed.

you let go for a little while. lose yourself in the music and the alcohol and the safety of your friends’ touch. suguru dips his head to murmur something that makes you laugh, choso pretending to swoon dramatically in response. you throw your head back, laughing harder, spinning until the room blurs

and then your eyes land on him.

sukuna.

he’s leaned against the far wall, and he’s not alone.

there’s a girl tucked into his side, long legs, shiny hair, tiny black dress, and she’s all over him. her hand drags a lazy line down his chest, and he just stands there, smirking like it’s nothing. like she’s nothing. like you’re nothing.

his fingers ghost along the hem of her dress, drifting lower with zero subtlety. and still, he doesn’t look at you. not even a glance. not even a twitch.

you pause mid-step, not frozen exactly, just… confused.

because wasn’t he the one who got all tense when he heard you talk about another guy? wasn’t he the one looking pissed earlier, jaw tight, eyes sharp, when yuki teased you about your little crush? wasn’t he the one who always acted like he hated when you gave anyone else your attention, even though he never wanted to claim you outright?

and now this?

your stomach doesn’t twist, it just sinks, low and slow. not with jealousy. not with hurt. more like: what the hell is his problem?

you keep moving. force your body to flow with the music again as suguru slides behind you, hands warm at your hips. you’re still dancing. still laughing. still here. but your mind keeps circling back.

it’s not that you expected anything different. not really. you and sukuna were never official. never had rules. never had to check in with each other. but still… there was always a tension, a pull, something unspoken between the two of you that made it feel like no one else could come close.

and yet, here he is. practically letting that girl climb him like a tree. acting like you didn’t spend last weekend tangled in his sheets. like he didn’t tell you just days ago that you made his head spin.

you down another shot when suguru hands it to you, nodding in thanks. it burns going down, but it keeps your face smooth. keeps your smile intact.

choso leans close, voice low in your ear. “you good?”

you hesitate. nod. “just don’t get him.”

he follows your gaze. sees the way sukuna is still letting that girl grind against him. the way his hand now fully cups her thigh.

“he’s being a dick,” choso says plainly. “you know that, right?”

“yeah,” you murmur. “i just don’t get why.”

suguru cuts in, quiet and even. “because you scare him.”

you blink. “what?”

“he doesn’t get to control how you feel about someone else. and it’s killing him,” suguru says. “so he does this. acts out. pretends he’s unbothered. he’s not.”

“but like…” you glance over again, brows furrowing. “if it bothers him so much, why go hook up with someone right in front of me?”

“because he’s immature,” choso replies. “and stupid.”

you exhale, a short breath through your nose. “yeah. that checks out.”

it doesn’t hurt, not exactly. it just leaves you feeling weirdly hollow. like something unfinished is hanging in the air between you, something you were never allowed to name.

you pull away from the guys with a small, grateful smile. “i’m gonna go outside for a sec.”

“you sure?” suguru asks.

you nod. “i’m fine. just wanna clear my head.”

you step out onto the porch, letting the chill air wrap around your bare arms. your heart isn’t racing. your hands aren’t shaking. but your mind won’t stop running laps.

you’re not mad at sukuna for messing around. you never expected monogamy from him. but you are mad, maybe a little, for the double standard. for how he acts like it’s betrayal when you even mention another guy, and then turns around and grabs the first girl who bats her lashes at him.

it’s not jealousy. it’s not heartbreak.

it’s just… tired.

you deserve more than someone who only wants you when it’s convenient.

your phone buzzes.

toru 🫦 [2:07am]: i can’t stop thinking about u

you smile a little. softer now. gentler.

toru 🫦 [2:08am]: u looked so pretty tonight btw. i saw your post on instagram!

you [2:08am]: ur sweet. i needed that.

and you mean it.

you don’t even have to wonder about his intentions. satoru makes you feel wanted without playing games. without dangling affection like a prize. he doesn’t try to make you jealous. doesn’t punish you for being desirable.

he just likes you. for you.

toru 🫦 [2:09am]: good. i’ll remind u in person tomorrow :)

you laugh, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. light and real and unfussy.

maybe that’s the difference.

with sukuna, it’s always been messy. volatile. a push-pull you never had the rules for. he likes you, but only when it hurts. only when he’s the one making the rules.

but with satoru?

it feels easy. like you could be soft without having to apologize for it.

you slide your phone back into your purse and square your shoulders.

you’re not gonna let sukuna take this night from you. he doesn’t get to own your attention. not anymore.

you head back inside, head higher than before.

the night isn’t over yet.

and tomorrow?

you’ve got a date with a boy who looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

and maybe, for once, that’s exactly what you need.

~

satoru stood outside the bluebird café, adjusting his tight black shirt that showed off his sleeper build perfectly, for the fifth time. his hands were shaking slightly, heart thudding in his chest like a drumbeat. it wasn’t the coffee date that had him nervous. it was you.

you had that effect on him, on everyone, really. the thought of seeing you outside the chaos of the library, outside of that brief, awkward interaction where he’d fumbled through every word, made his stomach twist.

he’d told himself he was going to be cool, collected. he could do this. it was just a coffee date. no big deal. he’d gotten through way worse. but none of that had prepared him for how his breath caught every time he thought of how you’d looked in that stupid skirt and that ridiculous attitude that was so effortlessly attractive.

you were the kind of girl who looked like she belonged in a music video, the kind who could walk into a room and immediately make every other girl look like they were wearing the wrong outfit. and every guy would look at you with that same dumb, slack-jawed expression.

satoru shoved his hands in his pockets, adjusting his glasses, and forced himself to open the door. he didn’t have to look around to know you were here. he could feel your presence. the tension in his shoulders had already relaxed, just the thought of your energy pulling him in like a magnet.

when his eyes found you—fuck. it was like a punch to the gut.

you were sitting at the corner table, like you owned the place. of course, you did. you had that undeniable “i’m too cool for you, but i’ll let you look” kinda vibe.

you wore a tiny denim skirt that was, to be frank, barely even a skirt. a rhinestone-studded top that clung to you in all the right ways, and those chunky platform heels that screamed “diva.” your lips were glossy and full, glistening under the soft café lighting, and your hair was perfectly messyx just enough to look like you’d rolled out of bed, but still looked like a million bucks.

satoru’s breath caught in his throat.

his eyes drifted lower, watching how the hem of your skirt just barely grazed the edge of your thighs, how the way you moved your hand to adjust your drink made his brain short-circuit for a second.

your eyes locked with his as he approached the table, and for a second, time stopped. you smirked, that damn smirk that sent a rush of heat straight to his chest. he could feel his body temperature rise, and before he could stop himself, his brain ran through a dozen inappropriate thoughts at once.

fuck. you looked so gorgeous. he wasn’t prepared for just how gorgeous. his mind ran through a series of scenarios that were definitely not appropriate for public spaces, none of which helped the fact that his heart was now hammering in his chest like a jackhammer.

you were so… confident. he hated it. no one should have that much power over him, especially someone who he was almost two times bigger than.

“hey,” you greeted, your voice a little too smooth for his liking, like you knew exactly what effect you were having on him. he could see the way your eyes roamed over him, amusement dancing in your gaze. you probably knew exactly what you were doing to him.

“hey,” he managed to say, sitting down across from you, trying to act normal, trying to ignore the way his thoughts were spiraling.

you leaned forward slightly, your fingers wrapping around the cup of iced tea you had already ordered as you took a sip, a slow, deliberate motion that only made things worse.

“so, i see you listened,” you teased, your lips curling into that seductive smile. “that shirt looks so hot on you, toru.”

satoru flushed, already regretting that he had let you get under his skin so easily. but when you looked at him like that, eyes gleaming, lips glossed and soft, he couldn’t help it.

“thank you, you look stunning.” he muttered, his voice suddenly rough. his mind was already back to thinking about what he’d seen when you smiled like that, the way his body reacted in ways he definitely shouldn’t have let it.

he couldn’t help but imagine what you would be like in his bed. not that he’d ever say it out loud, but the thought haunted him. could he make you beg for him? could he make you moan his name like you probably did for that pink haired guy you were with at the library? would you let him pull you closer, your breath hot and needy as he kissed you until you couldn’t think anymore?

god, he hated that you could make him think about these things.

satoru shifted in his seat, trying to seem nonchalant but his body betrayed him. “thanks for asking me to come along, didn’t know you were the one to make moves, especially not on boring nerds like me,” he said, a cocky grin finding its way to his lips despite the growing ache in his chest.

your eyes narrowed, amusement twinkling behind them. “i like that you know your place,” you said, the words light but with an edge, as if daring him to challenge you.

he shifted in his seat again, fighting the urge to lean forward and test the limits of that challenge. “trust me,” he said, “i know exactly where i stand.”

you laughed, low and sweet, and he almost lost it right there. his hands gripped his cup tightly, knuckles white, as he tried to focus on anything but the way your lips curved when you smiled. you were dangerously close to being everything he wanted, and he hated it. hated that he wanted you so badly.

~

by now you two had fallen into comfortable conversation.

you laughed at something he said, something dumb and not nearly as clever as he wanted it to be, and satoru thought he might melt into the floor. it wasn’t just the sound of your laugh, though that alone could wreck him; it was the way your hand rested casually on the table between you, your fingers brushing his every now and then like it was nothing. but to him, it felt like everything.

you tilted your head, giving him that soft little smile that made him feel like you saw right through him.

“you’re adorable when you’re trying so hard to be smooth,” you said gently, voice lilting like a secret between friends. your tone was sweet, not mocking, but it still made heat crawl up the back of his neck. “like, you’re actually pulling it off. just barely.”

satoru smirked, covering up his absolute internal collapse with a shrug. “i don’t try. i am smooth,” he said jokingly, praying you wouldn’t notice the way his foot was tapping under the table from nerves. “this is just my natural charm.”he said with a big goofy smile.

you leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand, elbows on the table. your lips curved into the softest, most devastating smirk. “oh? so you’ve accidentally been giving me bedroom eyes this whole time?”

he choked on his coffee.

you giggled and reached over to lightly pat his chest, like you were soothing him after delivering the most casual, lethal blow. “relax, toru. i think it’s sweet. guys like you don’t usually give me the time of day.”

he blinked, stunned. “guys like me?”

“you know,” you said, like it was obvious, “the smart, weirdly-pretty ones. the ones who don’t realize they’re hot because they’ve been sheltered their whole life.”

he stared at you, utterly ruined. “you really think i’m hot don't you? keep on saying it. not that i mind.”

“oh, baby,” you said with a little laugh, “you don’t get to sit across from me all soft and shy and pretending not to stare at my lips, and act like you don’t know the effect you’re having.”

his mouth went dry.

but your voice softened again, gentler this time, like you could sense he was hovering right on the edge of overload. “you’re really sweet, toru. funny, too. i like how you get flustered when i push you a little.”

he tried to summon a coherent response, but his brain was short-circuiting. you were too much, kind and confident, beautiful and bold, and now you were complimenting him like it was nothing?

“i—uh—yeah, no, i like you too,” he finally managed, rubbing the back of his neck. “a lot, actually.”

you smiled at him, soft, fond, and then stood slowly, adjusting your mini skirt with deliberate care. your sweater slipped a little off one shoulder and you didn’t bother fixing it. you let his eyes linger.

“so listen,” you said casually, slinging your purse over your shoulder. “i have this little shoot i need to do for a brand deal tonight. just a few instagram shots. nothing crazy. cute little set, fluffy lighting, all that.” you tilted your head again, voice syrupy sweet. “you good with a camera, toru?”

he blinked. “uh… i mean, yeah. i guess? i’ve done some stuff for the yearbook.”

“perfect.” you smiled like a cat who’d just caught something in her claws. “i think you’ll be really good at capturing all my... angles.”

his brain stuttered.

“you wanna come by?” you asked, already typing something into your phone. “you can help me out. i’ll feed you. and maybe after… i’ll let you pick which photos i post.”

his mouth opened. no sound came out.

you looked up and smiled, soft, radiant, but still with that glint of mischief behind your lashes. “unless you’ve got better plans than coming back to my place and watching me pose in a juicy couture set?”

he almost knocked over his drink standing up.

“great,” you said brightly, as if you hadn’t just set his entire nervous system on fire. “i’ll text you my address. bring your hands. i might need help adjusting.”

and with that, you leaned in, kissed his cheek so softly he thought he imagined it, and walked out, hips swaying, head high, leaving him to sit there, stunned and overheating, wondering how the hell he was supposed to survive whatever came next.

~

'holy fucking shit.'

satoru was still in his seat, mouth parted slightly, the ghost of your kiss burning on his cheek like it had been stamped there. his hands trembled around the now-lukewarm cup of coffee he hadn’t touched since you started chatting and proceeded to ruin his entire internal equilibrium.

you were gone. walked out like it was nothing. like you hadn’t just asked him, him, to come back to your apartment and help you take instagram photos, like you hadn’t just tilted your glossy mouth toward his skin, kissed him soft and sweet and unearned.

he blinked.

then blinked again.

was he dead? was this a near-death hallucination? maybe the universe was punishing him for all those nights he zoomed in on your thirst traps at 2 a.m. with trembling fingers and a blank expression, whispering, “jesus christ,” to no one like it was a prayer.

you were god. you were everything. and you’d just invited him over like it was casual. like it didn’t undo months of fantasies. years of longing. this was not how it was supposed to happen. he was supposed to pine forever, secretly. obsess quietly.

not…this.

his phone buzzed, and when he fumbled for it, his screen lit up with a new message.

you [3:14pm]: here’s my address. text me when you’re outside. :) come over sometime later, yeah?

satoru almost dropped the phone.

you [3:16pm]: don't forget to bring your handsss!

bring your hands.

he rubbed a hand down his face, cheeks flushed, ears burning. his brain was running at 200mph, playing reel after reel of every single post you’d ever uploaded. every grainy mirror pic, every behind-the-scenes video, every thirst trap with the caption “don’t text ur ex, text me instead <3”—which he had once seriously considered replying to with “ok” before deleting it like a coward.

you were chaos incarnate, dripping lip gloss and destruction. the human embodiment of the for you page and he’d liked every post. every single one. anonymously. pathetically. from the dark corner of his bedroom, dim blue light glowing against his glasses as he muttered things like, “she’s unreal. she’s actually not real. they made her in a lab.”

he’d saved your bikini pics. zoomed in on the brand tags like a freak. reverse searched your lipstick shades. bought the magazines you were featured in, yes, plural. he had a stack of them in a drawer under his bed like some kind of teenage dirtbag, some with his computer cables in his drawer.

pages dog-eared, his favorite ones burned into his memory. one of them had a spread where you wore this ridiculous rhinestone bikini on a beach, holding a dripping popsicle with your tongue out, and he was still not okay from that shoot.

satoru stared at your text like it was written in gold. like it would vanish if he didn’t cherish it hard enough.

he groaned. out loud. in public. attracting a confused glance from the barista cleaning the counter. he stood up fast, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder like a man on a mission.

~

by the time he was outside your apartment door, his palms were damp.

you lived in the bougiest building on campus, the kind of place with gold-trimmed elevators and a concierge who looked like he’d sooner tase someone than let them loiter. satoru had to buzz up, which was another level of humiliation he hadn’t mentally prepared for.

you answered with a playful, “be right there,” and he swore your voice alone could short-circuit his brain. when the door finally opened, he almost blacked out.

you were in a tiny zip-up hoodie, baby pink, cropped at your ribs with juicy scrawled in rhinestones across the back, and the tiniest matching shorts he’d ever seen in his life. you were barefoot. you looked like a trashy 2000's supermodel. like an ashanti music video vixen. like someone who’d ruined countless men’s lives just by biting their straw.

“hey, toru,” you said, sweet as sugar. “you brought all of you, right?”

he swallowed hard. “i brought all of me.”

you giggled and tugged him inside by the wrist.

he nearly tripped over his own feet entering your place. the air smelled like vanilla and something dangerously flirty. your apartment was exactly how he imagined it: mirrors everywhere, pink lighting, framed photos of you on the wall. a vanity covered in makeup. pink fuzzy rug underfoot. was that… a pole in the corner?

'jesus christ.'

he tried not to stare too hard as you sauntered across the room, hips swinging, grabbing your phone and ring light.

he noticed how you kicked a hoodie that looked way too big to fit you under your bed discreetly, he managed to read 'kappa' printed on the back. wasn't that sukunas frat? he was pushed out of his head by the sound of your voice.

“so,” you drawled, throwing a wink over your shoulder, “you’ve stalked my instagram enough, you know my angles, right?”

satoru’s laugh came out strangled. “uh, yeah. yeah, totally.”

he did. he really did. he knew exactly how you posed, how you tilted your head just slightly for selfies, how you arched your back just a little for those mirror pics, how you gripped the waistband of your juicy pants like it was the most natural thing in the world to drive men to insanity with a pose. he’d studied them. like they were scripture.

you sat down on your velvet couch and grabbed a tube of gloss, reapplying it with a pout. “you nervous?”

“no,” he lied. “i’m... i’m excited. yeah. i’ve always wanted to see the magic happen live.”

“oh, baby,” you purred, “you are the magic.”

he made a noise. an embarrassing one.

you tossed him your phone and struck a pose, leaning back on your palms with your knees spread just slightly. “go on, toru. get my good side.”

you didn’t have a bad side.

he fumbled with the camera app, trying to focus on anything besides the way your tank top stretched across your chest, the way your shorts rode up on your thighs, the glint of a belly button ring catching the light.

click.

“you’re shaking,” you teased.

“i’m fine.”

“mm. i’ll be the judge of that.” you repositioned, crawling forward on your hands and knees across the couch like you weren’t trying to end his entire life.

click. click.

“toru,” you said sweetly, “are you blushing?”

“absolutely not.”

you laughed and flipped your hair over one shoulder. “you’re so cute. i like you.”

he was going to die here. he was going to drop dead in your living room with nothing but his own frantic, horny thoughts and your body burned into his retinas.

you held out a hand. “gimme. i wanna see.”

he passed you the phone with trembling fingers. you scrolled through the shots, nodding in approval. “these are actually good. like, really good. i’m impressed.”

“thanks,” he said, voice cracking. “i, uh… do some photography stuff on the side. for class.”

“mm, bet you do,” you said, not looking up. “bet you’re good with your hands, huh?”

he opened his mouth. closed it. opened it again.

you glanced up, expression sweet and wicked. “you okay, toru?”

“i’m great.”

“you look like you’re gonna combust.”

“i might.”

you leaned back into the couch, phone in your lap, and studied him with that same soft-lipped smile. “you’re adorable,” you said, voice quieter now. “all that brainpower, all that quiet nerd energy, and you’re sitting here losing your mind over me in shorts.”

he groaned into his hands. “can you blame me?”

you laughed. “not at all. i like it. you make me feel powerful.”

he peeked through his fingers, helpless. “you are powerful.”

you tilted your head. “then why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

he sighed dramatically. “because i’m in your apartment. you just crawled across a couch like a centerfold. i’ve seen your instagram stories like, eighty million times. i subscribe to the magazine you’re on the cover of. and now you’re here. being cute. and sexy. and funny. and calling me toru like we’re... like this is normal.”

your expression softened, something real flickering behind your lashes.

“toru,” you said, and this time it was less teasing. more intimate. “you really like me?”

he nodded. “kinda obsessed with you, actually.”

you smiled. slow and sweet.

then you got up, crossed the room, and straddled his lap before he could blink.

maybe sleeping with satoru is what you needed to make your conscience stop thinking about sukuna and that bitch at the party earlier.

his heart nearly fucked itself over.

you cupped his face gently, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “good,” you whispered. “because i kinda like you too.”

he swallowed. “kind of?”

you grinned. “well. i liked you in the library. i love you with a camera in your hands... my own personal photographer.”

his breath hitched.

you shifted on the couch, camera forgotten in your lap, as you studied satoru’s face, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, that gorgeous white hair falling in soft waves over his forehead. you looked like a vixen straight off a low-res 2004 myspace album, lips glossy, attitude filthy-sweet, thighs barely crossed. he was already unraveling.

“okay toru,” you said, voice dripping in something syrupy, slow, and dangerous, “i think we’re gonna start with something a little more… intimate.”

his mouth went dry the moment you pulled out the velvet rope. pink. soft. sensual. his brain blanked.

“rope?” he choked.

“yeah,” you smiled, casually, like you weren’t turning his entire nervous system into static. “i want you to tie my wrists. loosely. make sure i can still move my hands around.” you leaned forward, offering your arms like it was a fucking privilege. “think you can handle that?”

no. he absolutely could not. but he still nodded, taking the rope with shaking hands. his fingers brushed your skin as he looped it around your wrists, and that alone had his dick twitching in his jeans. he swore under his breath.

'she smells like vanilla and heat and fuck me,' he thought, looping the velvet. 'i haven’t even touched her properly and i’d die for her right now.'

you let your arms fall back, raising your bound wrists over your head in a pose so casually provocative that his mouth parted on instinct. the rope pulled tight just enough to bite. your top slid higher, barely covering anything. the whole scene looked like it belonged in a magazine he would’ve hidden under his bed in high school, and now it was real. in his lap. begging to be remembered.

he swallowed hard. 'i’m gonna wet dream about this forever.'

“you look ravishing,” he whispered hoarsely.

“do i?” you teased, tilting your head. “want to see more?”

you let one strap of your tiny rhinestone top fall. then the other. and when you pulled it down just enough to expose one perfect breast, nipple glossy from a layer of shimmer lotion.

you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

his brain short-circuited.

'holy shit holy shit i’ve jacked off to pictures of her and now she’s half naked in front of me and i’m not gonna survive this.'

click.

the shutter snapped and he wasn’t even sure if his hand had moved. he took another, then another, each frame of your body more brazen, more artful, more his.

you arched under the dim light, toes pointed, eyes lidded. your lip caught between your teeth as you said, “these ones… they’re only for you.”

his heart fucking stopped.

“they’re not going online,” you added sweetly, glancing up through your lashes. “no other one of my fans gets to see me like this. just you, toru. my number one fan."

he clenched the camera harder, fighting the urge to fall to his knees and thank the gods for whatever good karma led him here. 'only me. fuck. fuck. she’s mine.' even if it was just for tonight. even if it was only temporary.

you shifted again, slowly opening your legs as you lay back, balls if your heels digging into the cushions. the hem of your panties, bright pink and sparkly barely clung to you. he could see the outline of everything. and then you stretched, arms over your head, making your stomach tighten and your tits rise beautifully, rope still binding you just right.

“toru,” you breathed, eyes locked on his, “do you want to see me take them off?”

'god yes. god fucking yes. i want to see what’s under that glitter. i want to taste it. i want to ruin her. fuck.'

he nodded. “yeah,” he rasped. “please.”

your fingers slipped under the waistband slowly, deliberately, dragging the panties down your thighs with an elegant arch of your spine. and he watched, stared, like it was the last thing he’d ever see.

“don’t worry,” you said, tossing them onto his lap. “these aren’t for instagram either.”

his cock throbbed. it was unbearable. it was heaven.

he took more shots, each one filthier than the last, legs spread, lips parted, bound wrists clutching the edge of the couch as you moaned softly for him. you looked like you belonged in a pornographic museum. like a goddess on her throne letting her chosen mortal worship.

and you’d picked him.

'she’s gonna kill me. i’m gonna nut in my jeans like a fucking loser. oh my god.'

you sat up, resting your chin on his shoulder while he adjusted the camera. “you okay?” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his ear. “you’re breathing kinda heavy, baby.”

'call me baby again and i’ll fucking bark.'

“just… warm in here,” he muttered, cheeks red, voice strained.

you smiled and trailed a finger down the center of his chest. “poor thing. want a break?”

he looked down at you, your chest still bared, your body shining with light, legs folded in perfect lazy confidence. “you think i could survive a break?” he asked, voice lower now. rougher.

you laughed. soft. wicked. “fair point.”

then you took the camera from his hands, placed it on the table, and straddled his lap in one easy motion.

“no more pictures,” you said. “now you can just look.”

his hands flew to your waist on instinct, gripping you like you were the only real thing in the universe. and honestly, to him, you were.

'how did this happen? how the fuck did i go from jacking off to her tiktok thirst traps to having her in my lap, tits out, moaning my name?'

you cupped his face, voice softer now. “you okay?”

he nodded.

you leaned in and whispered, “do you want to touch me?”

he nodded again, too fast.

you smirked. “then do it. but be gentle. i like being handled like i’m expensive.”

“you are,” he said instantly, voice ragged. “you’re the most expensive thing i’ve ever touched.”

you kissed him for that. deep and filthy and grateful. and as he dragged his palms over your ass, up your waist, over your bare chest, he was already gone.

and somewhere in the back of his hazy, lust-soaked brain, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

these pictures?

these moments?

they were only for him.

and if you ever asked, he’d burn the whole world to keep them safe.

you gasped into his kiss as his fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you flush against him. his breath was hot and ragged, mixing with yours in the close air of your living room. you felt the curve of his mouth against your neck, the brush of his stubble as he nipped gently at your skin.

'he’s so warm,' you thought, sliding your hands through his hair, tangling your fingers in the soft white strands. 'and he’s mine, right here, right now.'

he moaned low, almost lost in the feeling of you beneath him. you’d taught him how to pose you like a goddess for the camera; now he was learning how to worship you in real time. his hand slid up your back, then lower, fingertips grazing the top of your panties still bunched around your thighs.

“you know,” he murmured against your ear, voice thick with want, “i’ve wanted this for so fucking long. i don't even think this is real.”

you smiled against his skin, tugging at his hoodie so you could slide it off his shoulders. “i can tell,” you purred. “i promise i'm real toru. real and all yours right now.”

he lifted his head to meet your eyes, those pale blues shimmering with need.

your laugh was soft, sultry. “oh, baby,” you said, rolling your hips against him, “i wanted you before i knew your name.”

his pupils dilated, and he swallowed hard. “fuck,” he breathed. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you cupped his face, thumb brushing his lower lip. “only if you want me to,” you teased, leaning in to kiss him again. this time, your tongue brushed his, and he groaned, hands fisting in your hair.

'holy shit,' he thought, 'this is real. she’s here, wanting me, touching me.'

you pulled back, slipping off the last barrier, his jeans, until both of you were just skin and heat. you guided his hands to your body, showing him where to touch, where to press, encouraging him with soft moans and glowing praise. every direction you gave him made his confidence soar, made him believe he could be the one to make you melt.

he paused, looking into your eyes. “i… i want to make you feel good,” he said, voice husky. “really good.”

you smiled, heart swelling. “then show me, baby.”

he nodded, then bent to kiss you again, this time more tender, more deliberate. he let his palms roam your body, over your breasts, down your waist, skimming the curve of your hips. you pressed into him, encouraging him, letting him know just how right it felt.

'he’s so gentle' you thought. 'so respectful. and so fucking good with his hands.'

you moaned, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “toru,” you gasped, “fuck me.”

he hesitated only a moment, surprised by your boldness, and then he was inside you, filling you in slow, delicious thrusts. your breath caught, and you clutched his shoulders as he moved, your rope-bound wrists sliding free in the heat of the moment.

“shit,” he groaned, chest pressed against yours. “you’re perfect.”

you arched against him, closing your eyes. “yeah… perfect for you.”

his pace quickened, fueled by your praise, your soft encouragements, your needy gasps. every time he hit that sweet spot, you cried out his name, and it sent a thrill rippling through him.

'my name on her lips…' he thought, 'this is everything.'

you rode him hard, matching his thrusts until both of you were breathless, skin slick with sweat and sheen of your own arousal. you held him tight, panting, and pressed a kiss to his collarbone.

“let’s finish the shoot later,” you whispered against his skin, voice thick with satisfaction and warmth. “right now… just us.”

he kissed you back, slow and tender, and you felt his body tremble. “just us,” he echoed.

and in that moment, tangled together on your couch, every magazine cover, every instagram scroll, every stolen fantasy he’d ever had of you crystallized into this single, perfect reality, warm, messy, intimate, and wholly, irrevocably yours.

~

you were now tucked beneath the folds of your plush throw blanket, legs tangled with his, head resting against his bare chest as the glow from your salt lamp bathed the apartment in a hazy, honeyed light. his arm was slung loosely around your waist, fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin. satoru had never been this close to someone, physically, emotionally, and his brain was still catching up.

you were real. warm, beautiful, half-naked and still glittering from the camera flash and sweat. and now you were curled into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“you okay?” you murmured, voice soft, a little breathy.

“am i okay?” he huffed a quiet laugh. “i just lived out the most insane fantasy of my life, and now i’m laying here with the hottest girl in the universe like it’s normal.”

you tilted your head back to look at him, eyes half-lidded and mischievous. “hottest girl in the universe, huh?”

“scientifically proven,” he said, smug but still pink in the cheeks. “objectively. you broke the hotness scale.”

you giggled, then leaned up to kiss his cheek, slow and sweet. “you’re so dramatic,” you whispered against his skin.

his heart thumped. he wanted to keep you here forever, in this little soft bubble that smelled like your body lotion and sounded like your quiet laughter. but instead, you stretched like a cat against him, bare legs brushing his, and said, “so…”

he blinked, brain short-circuiting again. “so?”

you propped your chin on his chest, gazing up at him with that glittery, effortless confidence of someone who knew she had him wrapped around her finger. “there’s a party tomorrow night,” you said casually, tracing patterns on his stomach. “you should come.”

satoru blinked. “a… party?”

“mm-hmm. like, a real one,” you teased. “not like a dungeons and dragons meetup or whatever you nerds do.”

“hey,” he laughed, “first of all, rude. second of all… are you serious?”

“dead serious,” you purred. “it’s at suguru’s place. it’ll be mostly my friends. you’ll meet everyone.”

satoru’s stomach dropped a little. your friends. the one he saw with face tattoos and designer sunglasses and mysterious piercings in places he couldn’t guess. the ones who always looked like they just stepped out of a campaign ad for a luxury fashion line. the ones who probably wouldn’t even look twice at him if he wasn’t draped in your attention like an accessory.

“won’t they think it’s weird?” he asked before he could stop himself. “me being there.”

you raised an eyebrow, amused. “why would it be weird?”

“because…” he swallowed, trying to sound cooler than he felt. “i’m not exactly in your league.” you sat up, straddling his waist now, your eyes burning into his. “toru,” you said, serious, “don’t ever say that again.” his breath hitched.

you leaned down, pressing your lips to his. “you’re sexy, smart, and you make me laugh. you made me nervous. so if you’re coming to the party, you better show up like you belong.” he stared at you, stunned. “you were nervous?”

“duh.” you smiled. “you were wearing that little tight black shirt and looking all hot and mysterious. i thought you’d ghost me after coffee.” he buried his face in your neck, groaning. “i literally thought i was going to faint when i saw you in that skirt.”

“good,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. “i wore it just to fuck with you." he moaned dramatically, pulling you closer. “you’re evil.”

“and you like it.” he couldn’t deny it. you were fire and silk and sugar and bite, and he was hopelessly addicted.

“so?” you whispered, brushing your lips against his. “you coming to the party or what?” he nodded, breathless. “yeah. fuck it. i’m coming.”

you grinned. “good. bring your charm, toru. my friends are gonna love you.” you said it like a promise, not a possibility. like he already belonged.and for the first time in a long time, he almost believed it.

~

group chat: the pretty committee

(you, yuki, choso, suguru, shoko, maki, sukuna, nanami, shiu)

you ✩ [9:43pm]: kappa mixer on saturday night. i’m bringing a plus one btw

yuki 🧃 [9:43pm]: oh?? do we know him or is this another random model-slash-dj you found at pilates

you ✩ [9:44pm]: neither. it’s toru. the library one

choso 🥀 [9:44pm]: wait toru?? like. satoru gojo??

maki 🥋 [9:45pm]: the one you said looked like he types in html for fun?

you ✩ [9:45pm]: he does. it’s hot

shoko 🚬 [9:45pm]: you’re bringing your nerdy little fantasy to the mixer? this is big

you ✩ [9:46pm]: we’re just friends. chill

suguru 🐍 [9:46pm]: uh huh. just friends who take steamy photos together and then go silent for six hours. got it.

you ✩ [9:46pm]: not steamy. artistic, and how did yk i only told yuki 😭🙏🏼

shoko 🚬 [9:46pm]: mm. “artistic.” sure.

yuki 🧃 [9:47pm]: oops... anyways please tell me you at least warned him that sukuna might bite

you ✩ [9:47pm]: he’s a big boy. he can handle it

maki 🥋 [9:47pm]: he survived a coffee date with you, he can probably survive a frat party

you ✩ [9:48pm]: exactly

nanami ⏳ [9:48pm]: just tell him not to drink anything suguru hands him. that’s the only advice that matters

suguru 🐍 [9:48pm]: excuse me?? i’m a generous host

shiu 🕷️ [9:49pm]: generous with what. vodka or trauma?

you ✩ [9:49pm]: okay but actually. be nice to him

suguru 🐍 [9:49pm]: i’m always nice. he’s cute. nerdy. polite. kinda like nanami if he still had joy in his eyes

nanami ⏳ [9:49pm]: i can leave this chat

suguru 🐍 [9:49pm]: no you can’t

choso 🥀 [9:50pm]: sukuna? you good?

sukuna ⚡ [9:51pm]: fine. just didn’t realize we were inviting groupies to my frat

yuki 🧃 [9:51pm]: omg

choso 🥀 [9:51pm]: man. come on

maki 🥋 [9:52pm]: this is why we can’t have nice things

you ✩ [9:52pm]: gojo's not a groupie. he’s literally a person. y’all will be normal or i swear to god

sukuna ⚡ [9:52pm]: no one said anything. it’s your life. do what you want i ain't pulling up i'm busy

you ✩ [9:53pm]: thanks. i will.

suguru 🐍 [9:53pm]: and the drama begins before the drinks are even poured. we’re so back

shoko 🚬 [9:53pm]: love when the pregame starts in the group chat

shiu 🕷️ [9:54pm]: should i bring popcorn or bail money?

you ✩ [9:54pm]: anyway. toru’s coming. wear something cute. try not to scare him off.

~

meanwhile, sukuna was scowling at his phone. he stared at the last message you sent, thumb hovering over the screen like it was taunting him.

'toru’s coming. wear something cute. try not to scare him off.'

his jaw ticked.

satoru.

toru.

like he needed the nickname shoved in his face again. like he hadn’t already figured out you were letting that four-eyed pretty boy get his hands all over you. not that he’d said anything. not that he had a right to. not anymore.

you weren’t his. not officially. not really.

but you had been, in every way that mattered. in the way you used to climb into his lap without asking, drunk on vodka and power, whispering all your filthy secrets into his ear. in the way he could make you beg with just a hand on your thigh, in the way your eyes used to flick toward him at every party even if you showed up with someone else.

he used to be the one who got under your skin. the one you’d crawl back to after breaking someone else’s heart. the one you’d come to when you were sick of boys and needed a man.

and now? now you were bringing some soft-spoken, glasses-wearing, overachieving fucker to the mixer like you were introducing him to the family. like he was real. sukuna exhaled through his nose and tossed his phone on the bed.

he already knew who he was. satoru. the honors student. the tutor. the sweet one. the one you flirted with at the library just to prove you could. sukuna remembered watching it, how your voice dipped lower, how you tilted your head when you asked for his number, the way you said toru like it was already a pet name.

and now you were texting the group chat like he was coming to the damn cookout. it shouldn’t have bothered him. it wasn’t supposed to. he had girls on rotation. he had no shortage of hookups. but none of them were you. none of them had that glint in their eye, that attitude, that stupid, intoxicating mix of gloss and venom and sugar that made him feel like a rabid dog just for wanting a taste.

he lit a cigarette and opened your instagram.

he didn’t even have to search. you were at the top of his stories. you always were. he watched the one you posted two hours ago. a link to your new post, a perfectly captured album of you. a cropped hoodie. thighs out. caption: 'might delete later.'

fuck you.

he stared at the photo like it owed him something. your smudged lip gloss. the slight indent of a ring on your finger where you’d been playing with your jewelry. the shadow of someone in the background 'was that him?' no, just a lamp.

still.

he swiped back to your page. all those tagged posts from yuki, suguru, choso. none with gojo. not yet.but he was coming. he’d be there, saturday night, in your orbit, breathing your air, looking at you the way everyone did, like you were the sun, and maybe, just maybe, you’d start looking back.

that’s what scared him. not that gojo liked you. but that you might like him back.

he took another drag and let the smoke burn in his lungs longer than necessary, jaw tight as he exhaled. fuck it. he could play it cool. he always did. he’d smirk, talk shit, wrap his arm around someone hotter, louder, easier. make sure everyone saw. especially you.

pretend it didn’t bother him when your eyes skipped right over him in a room. pretend it didn’t fucking matter that you hadn’t come back.

like none of those nights meant shit. all that time you’d spent in his lap, tugging at his chain and moaning his name like it was gospel, just so you could turn around and let some floppy-haired loser in a tight black tee take your fucking instagram pictures?

you traded him in for someone soft. someone polite. someone who probably apologized after cumming too fast. he scoffed, tossing the half-finished joint onto the ashtray with more force than necessary. pathetic.

sukuna leaned back on the mattress, bare chest rising and falling slow under the dim red lights, smoke curling above him like it was trying to fill the silence. the room felt empty. stupidly empty.

he thought about texting you. something slick. something cruel. maybe 'hope he doesn’t cry when he finds out where that mouth’s been.' or 'you always go for the ones you can control, huh?'

but he didn’t. just sat there, jaw grinding, thumbs still, screen glowing back at him. eyes sharp. chest tight with that ugly kind of jealousy he swore he’d grown out of.

'what a fucking joke.'

you were his first. you were supposed to stay that way.

~

the uber pulled up to the kappa frat house which was the furthest frat from campus. the sun dipped below the horizon long ago, casting the sky in a warm, dusky glow. gojo sat in the backseat, watching you re-apply your gloss, heart pounding like a drum in his chest. he glanced over at you again, radiant as ever, your lips curled into a soft smile as you scrolled through your phone.

“you okay?” you asked, sensing his nerves.

“yeah,” he replied, voice a little too high-pitched. “just… a lot of people, you know?”you chuckled, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “you’ll be fine. they’re just people. my people, but still.”

he nodded, trying to steady his breathing. the memory of the night before flashed in his mind, your body pressed against his, the way you whispered his name, the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips. it felt surreal, like a dream he never wanted to wake from.

“last night was… amazing,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours.

you leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “it was,” you agreed. “but tonight’s about fun. let’s not overthink it.”the car came to a stop, and you both stepped out, the sound of music and laughter spilling into the street. gojo took a deep breath, adjusting his glasses.

“ready?” you asked, offering your hand. he took it, fingers intertwining with yours. “ready.”

as you walked up the steps, the door swung open, revealing a sea of faces. conversations halted, eyes turning to the two of you. gojo felt the weight of their gazes, the scrutiny, the curiosity. “who’s that?” someone whispered.

“is that her new guy?” another murmured. he swallowed hard, resisting the urge to shrink back. you squeezed his hand, grounding him.

“ignore them,” you whispered. “they’ll come around.” you led him through the crowd, past familiar faces and curious stares, until you reached a plush couch in the corner. you both sat down, the noise of the party fading into the background.

“see? not so bad,” you said, leaning into him. he smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “yeah. not so bad.”

as you chatted about the party, your friends, and the latest gossip, gojo couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging. with you by his side, the world seemed a little less daunting.

you’re halfway through your drink when you spot them weaving through the crowd, choso and suguru, side by side, both dressed in their version of “casual” which somehow still looked like a fashion campaign.

choso in a black sleeveless mock-neck that showed off his tattooed arms and a single chain glinting against his collarbone. suguru, laidback and smiling, with his hair tied low and a fitted shirt open at the chest like he’d just walked off a yacht.they zero in on you immediately, and you can already see the glint in suguru’s eyes.

“well, well,” he says as he gets close, his voice warm, teasing. “so this is the mystery man.” satoru stands to greet them, and you watch choso’s brow lift ever so slightly, like he wasn’t expecting him to be… that tall. that broad. that annoyingly good-looking.

“hey,” satoru says smoothly, extending his hand. “satoru. thanks for not jumping me right away.”

choso grins, shaking his hand, then clapping his shoulder with a kind of quiet approval. “we only beat up assholes,” he says, and then adds, “you’ve got a solid grip, man.” suguru’s eyes flick between you and satoru, clearly amused. “you been holding out on us,” he tells you, then turns to satoru again. “you always look like that or is this a special occasion?”

“this?” satoru gestures to himself, cocking a brow. “i’m barely trying.” you snort into your cup. he’s cool as hell on the outside, but you know better. his knee was bouncing a second ago and he keeps fiddling with the ring on his thumb.

“seriously though,” choso says, leaning back against the couch, sizing him up again. “did not expect you to be built like that. what the hell do you do?”

you glance at satoru, who flashes a sheepish grin that doesn’t match the cocky tilt of his voice. “freshman year i got into boxing,” he says. “figured if i was gonna be a nerd, might as well be one that could take a hit.”

“or give one,” choso mutters, clearly impressed. “you’re cut.” suguru raises a brow in appreciation.

“not anymore,” satoru says, rubbing the back of his neck. “haven’t had the time. but yeah, i trained for like, two years. gym in shibuya. coach was an ex-mma guy. real psycho, made me spar with dudes twice my size.”

“you won?” choso asks, grinning.

“got knocked out once,” satoru says with a shrug. “but i broke a guy’s nose, so. fair trade.” suguru whistles, clearly amused. “you’re full of surprises."

“oh, he’s full of a lot,” you murmur, sipping your drink again, and satoru shoots you a look that’s somewhere between mortified and turned on.

“so you two…” suguru gestures between you vaguely, like he doesn’t want to say together outright. “what’s the vibe?” you stretch lazily, one leg over the other, and smile. “friends,” you say lightly. “he’s been helping me shoot some things for instagram.”

satoru’s mind flashes, vivid, bright, to the way your hand had pulled his to your waist the night before, the flash of your camera catching the outline of your lingerie, the way you’d whispered just for you in his ear as you pressed your chest to his. he can still smell your perfume on his shirt. his fingers twitch just thinking about it.

“instagram,” suguru repeats, mouth quirking. “uh huh.”

“we get along,” you add, and it’s almost too soft. too real. “he’s sweet.” satoru stares at the amber in his glass, willing himself not to combust. sweet. how the fuck was he supposed to keep it together when you called him sweet like that, like he was a boy you actually wanted to keep around?

choso nods slowly. “he’s got a good vibe.” suguru hums. “solid energy. confident without being a dick.”

“yet...” choso adds, shooting him a warning glance.

satoru just laughs. “don’t worry. she’ll keep me in check.”you lean into him slightly, your thigh brushing his. “he’s already well-trained,” you murmur, just loud enough for choso and suguru to hear. suguru lets out a low whistle. “damn. it’s always the nerdy ones.”

“it really is,” choso agrees. “they bottle that shit up for years and then one day just, boom. thirst trap worthy.”

“he could literally crush a watermelon with those thighs,” you say dreamily, mostly to mess with satoru, and he almost spills his drink.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, laughing through the mortification. “you’re gonna give these guys the wrong idea.”

“what idea?” choso grins. “we’re just bonding.”

“team-building,” suguru adds.

“hazard training,” you say, with a wink. satoru shifts a little closer, brushing your arm. “you guys always this intense?”

“you should meet sukuna,” choso says dryly. you go still for just a second, but it’s nothing you let show. satoru feels it anyway, the way your fingers tighten slightly on your drink.

“he’s not coming tonight,” you say casually. suguru raises a brow but doesn’t push. instead, he turns his attention back to satoru. “so what’s the goal, man? you trying to get into modeling too or just vibing in the deep end?”

“i think he’s already in too deep,” choso mutters. satoru shrugs, keeping it chill even though he’s fully sweating under his hoodie. “just hanging out. making memories. flexing for the grid.”

you laugh, leaning into his shoulder like you can’t help it. “you’re lucky you’re pretty,” you say, voice low and fond. he turns to look at you, and there’s a flicker of something quiet in his eyes. “so are you,” he says softly. the pause that follows is short, but not empty. then suguru claps his hands. “alright. drinks?”

choso’s already standing. “i’ll grab tequila.”satoru watches them go, the easy way they navigate the crowd, like they belong in every room they enter. and somehow, they’d made him feel like maybe he did too. you turn to him, smiling, eyes glinting under the low lights. “see? not so bad.”

“yeah,” satoru breathes. “not bad at all.”

“i’m gonna go get us drinks,” you say, hand brushing satoru’s thigh as you stand. “tequila or beer?”

“uh—tequila?” he answers a bit too fast.

“that’s what i thought.” you wink, and just like that, you’re off, hips swaying through the crowd like you own the place. maybe you do, in a way. everyone watches you go. including satoru.

once choso and suguru return the nudge his shoulder friendly.

“bro,” choso mutters, following his line of sight. “you’re so cooked.”

“cooked?” satoru repeats, blinking.

“done. fried. beyond saving,” suguru says, grinning. “the way you looked at her just now? hopeless.”

“i wasn’t—i didn’t—” satoru fumbles, then groans. “fuck.”

“nah, it’s cute,” choso says, clapping him on the back. “endearing. like a golden retriever in love.”

“he’s got the hair for it,” suguru adds. satoru sighs, slouching further into the couch as if it’ll swallow him. “is this what you guys do all night? just nag each other in rotation?”

“mostly,” choso says. “but you’re new, so we’re going easy.”

“plus, you’re already getting the invite into the guy circle,” suguru adds, gesturing toward the two men approaching with solo cups in hand. “that’s nanami and shiu.” satoru straightens instinctively. he recognizes nanami from campus, business major, intense stare, kind of always looks like he’s five minutes away from quitting everything to become a lumberjack. shiu, he doesn’t know. tall, dark, lean, with eyes like he’s permanently unimpressed.

“nanami,” suguru greets, casually fist-bumping him. “shiu. this is gojo.”

“the gojo?” shiu arches a brow, handing him a cup.

“uh,” satoru says, taking it. “i guess?”

“the one she’s been parading around all night like a shiny new toy,” nanami says flatly, sipping his drink. “welcome to hell.”satoru laughs nervously. “thanks?”

“ignore him,” choso says. “that’s just how he flirts.” nanami gives him a blank look. “no, it’s not.”

“so,” shiu says, sitting on the edge of the armrest next to him. “you and y/n. what’s the story?”

satoru opens his mouth. closes it. tries again. “we’re just friends.” four disbelieving stares hit him at once.

“friends,” shiu repeats.

“sure,” choso deadpans.

“got it,” nanami mutters.

“you should hear how she says your name,” suguru adds. “like it’s a little treat.” satoru flushes instantly. “we really are just friends.”

“do your friends usually strip for you in front of a camera?” shiu asks, sipping. “or is that a special bond?” he nearly chokes on his tequila

“jesus christ,” he wheezes. “do you guys have, like, a hazing ritual or something?”

“you passed it,” choso grins. “we just needed to see if you’d fold.”

“and you did,” suguru says proudly. “folded like a lawn chair.”

“i’m so glad i came,” satoru mutters into his cup.

“so is she,” nanami says, not looking up. “she hasn’t stopped smiling since you got here." satoru pauses.

“yeah,” choso says, more gently now. “she likes having you around.” he doesn’t know what to say to that. so he doesn’t say anything. just sips and lets it sit in his chest, warm and blooming.

“by the way, don’t let sukuna get to you,” shiu says after a beat, and it’s the first time the name’s been spoken with any real weight. “i won’t,” satoru says quickly, then—“why would he?”

“because he’s an asshole,” choso says simply. "we love him and all but jeez. he's a handful."

“and because he doesn’t like sharing,” suguru adds. “not attention. not space. definitely not her.”

“wait—” satoru frowns. “were they a thing?” the group goes quiet. nanami speaks first. “not officially.”

“but?” satoru presses. shiu shrugs. “they hooked up. on and off. nothing defined.”

“he never claimed her,” choso says, “but he didn’t want anyone else to either.”

“toxic,” satoru mutters.

“bingo,” suguru grins. “he’s like if a red flag started a punk band.”

“and she’s…” nanami trails off, shaking his head. “better than that.” satoru feels his fingers tighten around his cup. “is he here?”

“not yet,” shiu says. “but he might show. he’s unpredictable.”

“he’s pissed,” choso adds. “we all saw the group chat.” satoru nods, remembering the texts he peeped over your shoulder to read. groupie. right.

“just don’t take it personally,” suguru says. “sukuna lashes out when he feels cornered. and you’re not doing anything wrong.”

“you like her?” nanami asks suddenly. the question knocks the wind out of him. satoru blinks. “i…”

'do i? yes. obviously. painfully.' he clears his throat. “she’s cool. really cool. and smart. and funny. and like, stupidly pretty.”

“so yes,” choso says, nodding.

“and you’re what?” shiu asks. “waiting for a sign from god?”

“nah,” suguru says. “he’s just scared.”

“i’m not scared,” satoru lies.

“you should be,” nanami says bluntly. “she’s a lot.”

“she’s worth it, though,” choso adds. “if you can handle it.”

“i don’t know if i can,” satoru says honestly. the four of them regard him for a moment. then suguru grins. “well, shit. at least you’re honest.”

“more than most guys around here,” choso agrees.

“better than sukuna already,” shiu mutters.

“he’s not gonna like this,” nanami warns. “you being here. with her.”

“he doesn’t have to like it,” satoru says, surprising even himself. “it’s not his choice.”

“now that’s the energy,” suguru says, clinking his cup against his.

“just don’t throw the first punch,” choso says.

“unless he does,” shiu adds. “then, by all means.”

satoru laughs, tension breaking just a little. he looks around at the group, four guys who could easily have iced him out or humiliated him, but instead welcomed him in like some weird brotherhood of unhinged protectors.

“thanks,” he says. “don’t mention it,” choso shrugs. “we like you.”

“you fit,” suguru says. “somehow.” they all laugh.

they all laugh.

and then—

“hey.”

your voice cuts through the circle, light and bright as you reappear with a full drink in hand. satoru looks up, eyes softening instantly.

“took forever,” you pout. “you miss me?”

“maybe,” he says, like it’s a secret. “a little.”

you hold the drink out to him. “your tequila, my liege."

“you’re too good to me,” he says, and takes it.

“i know,” you smile.

you glance around at the others. “you boys behaving?”

“'course,” choso says.

“mhm,” you deadpan.

you settle beside satoru again, arm pressing into his, and for a second, nothing else matters.

just the music, the warmth, the way his pinky brushes yours.

just the ease of it, even in the chaos.

just the five of them, chatting and drinking and laughing like they’d known each other longer than a single party.

just you, leaning in with a whisper meant only for him,

“told you they’d like you.”

and he believes it.

because for the first time in a long time, he likes himself too.

~

as the laughter from the group dies down, the tension in the air shifts, subtly but unmistakably. the door to the frat house creaks open, and it’s as if the entire room collectively inhales. gojo freezes, his attention snapping to the doorway. there’s something about the presence that disturbs the natural flow of conversation, something sharp, something unsettling.

a shadow falls across the room as sukuna steps in, his lean form tall and imposing against the backdrop of the house’s dimly lit interior. his eyes sweep over the crowd with the kind of disinterest that only someone as effortlessly menacing as him could pull off. his movements are deliberate, calculated, each step echoing in a way that makes the room quieter, the air heavier.

satoru’s heart skips, though his face betrays nothing. he’s heard about sukuna, of course, the chaos that follows him like a storm cloud, the way he can control a room without even trying. and now, standing in front of him, that reputation feels all too real.

“sukuna’s here,” choso says lowly, voice barely cutting through the tense air. the others shift, subtly bracing themselves, like they’ve been trained for this.

sukuna’s gaze flickers over to your group, locking onto you for a split second. the quiet hum of the party seems to die in that moment, like even the music knows to hold its breath when he enters. then, just as quickly, his attention flicks to satoru.

the tension is palpable, a crackling undercurrent of something no one dares to name. satoru meets his gaze with an unreadable expression, but inside, the nerves coil tighter. his mind races, what is it about this guy that makes everyone shift in their seats? the guy’s presence isn’t just intimidating, it’s suffocating, like being in the presence of something raw and dangerous.

“well, well,” sukuna’s voice cuts through the air like a blade, smooth and mocking. “the nerd’s here. funny, i didn’t think you were the type to be at a party like this.” his eyes twinkle with a dangerous amusement, his lips curling into a smile that could easily be mistaken for a sneer.

satoru’s first instinct is to say something snarky, to assert himself, but the weight of sukuna’s presence steals his words. he knows the others are watching, waiting for the first crack to form, the first move in this unspoken battle.

you clear your throat, cutting through the tension. “sukuna,” you greet, your voice light but firm, not giving away anything. “didn’t expect you tonight.”

sukuna’s eyes flick back to you, and for a moment, there’s an unreadable look between you two. it’s brief, but gojo catches it, the subtle shift in the atmosphere. it’s like a silent communication between you and him that doesn’t need words, a silent acknowledgment of something old and familiar.

“i’ve got my reasons,” sukuna says, eyes flicking back to satoru. “but i’m not here for small talk. just wanted to see who your latest… distraction is.” his gaze turns calculating. “is this the guy who’s been making you so ‘artistic’ lately?”

the words hang in the air, heavy and laced with a darker implication. there’s no mistaking it now, sukuna doesn’t just find satoru an interesting figure, he finds him a threat. a challenge. and gojo can feel it, this undercurrent of possessiveness that lingers in sukuna’s words, in the sharpness of his stare.

satoru’s heart rate spikes, but he forces himself to stay calm, keep his composure. he turns toward you, offering a lazy smile, though the back of his neck prickles. “didn’t realize i was a ‘distraction,’” he says, his voice light, though there’s an edge to it now. “but i guess that’s one way to describe me.”

you throw him a glance, warning in your eyes, and for a brief moment, satoru wonders if he’s being too obvious. too bold. sukuna doesn’t like that, doesn’t tolerate being mocked or even challenged, and the dangerous aura around him grows thicker the longer the interaction stretches.

sukuna narrows his eyes, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “oh, don’t get cute with me,” he warns, his voice smooth but laced with venom. he steps closer, his presence crowding the space. “you don’t belong here, pretty boy. you might’ve fooled some of them, but i can smell a pretender from a mile away.”

satoru’s jaw clenches, but he keeps his face cool, chin tilted just enough to show he’s not intimidated. “you’ve got a lot to say for someone who doesn’t even know me,” he retorts, voice dropping a little lower.

the tension in the air thickens. suguru and choso exchange a look, both noticing the way things are escalating. shiu, standing a few feet away, flicks his eyes over to you, trying to gauge your reaction.

you step in before things can spiral any further. “sukuna,” you say firmly, your voice sharper than before. “can we not do this here? this is not the time or place.”

sukuna gives you a look, something between admiration and disdain. his gaze flicks back to satoru, but this time, there’s something darker in his eyes. “whatever you say, princess,” he murmurs, his tone low and dangerous. “but this one? he’s not what you think he is.”

with that, he turns and makes his way deeper into the party, his presence still lingering like a shadow over the group. the atmosphere remains thick, the tension hanging in the air like smoke from a fire that hasn’t quite burned out.

satoru takes a slow breath, trying to shake off the lingering unease that sukuna’s words have left behind. he glances over at you, who’s still standing a little too still, eyes locked on the space sukuna just vacated.

“is he always like that?” satoru asks, his voice low, though there’s no denying the edge of concern there.

you let out a long sigh, turning to face him fully. “yeah,” you say softly, almost apologetically. “sukuna’s a… complicated person.”

“i can tell,” satoru mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. his earlier confidence is slipping, replaced by a twinge of doubt. he thought he could handle this crowd, but sukuna… sukuna was something else entirely.

“you don’t have to worry about him,” you say, your voice softer now. you place a reassuring hand on his arm, and for a brief moment, the world feels a little less heavy. “he just has a way of… testing people. seeing how much they can take.”

satoru lets out a breath, looking at you. there’s something about the way you say it, like you’ve seen this play out before, over and over again. something in his gut tightens at the thought.

but he nods, forcing a smile. “i can take it,” he says, though his voice is steadier than he feels. “but i’m guessing sukuna’s not gonna be my biggest fan, huh?”

you smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “he’ll get over it,” you say, but there’s a strange bitterness in your tone. “he always does.”

satoru watches you, trying to read the unspoken words in your gaze. there’s a history there, a tension between you and sukuna that’s thicker than what’s on the surface.

he’s not sure how deep it goes, but something tells him that tonight was only the beginning.

the rest of the night stretches out before them, full of promises of fun and tension, of friendships and unspoken rivalries. but for now, satoru is left with the quiet certainty that his place in this world, your world, is still uncertain. and sukuna? he’s just the first of many obstacles that stand between him and whatever this is with you.

but he’s not backing down. not now. not ever. he was going to have you, even if that meant knocking sukuna around abit.

part two out! 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

[cybermindz]

max verstappen x fem!reader

⟢ summary. max wasn’t doing a very good job at being an attentive boyfriend, always busy and not paying you any mind, so when you voice your dismay he gives you exactly what you want.

⟢ contains. slight angst, nsfw, smut : unprotected séx, côckwarming ♡, softdom!max, crybaby!reader, he’s stubborn and mean asf (madmax hehe), you ride him in his gaming chair, dirty talk, creampie, begging, mention of alcohol consumption, usage of petnames (e.g. baby, sweetheart, love), wc : 6.4k

nora's ☆ note. peek-a-boo! srry for being gone, this has been in my drafts since jan LMAO. it’s my first time writing something angsty, hopefully it’s up to par w the rest of my writing (o´罒`o) anyway love u all, i’m going through all my work that’s been collecting dust <3

Your feet padded down the endless hallways of the penthouse you currently resided in, searching for Max with a glass of gin in hand. One of his favorites.

The boisterous district of Fontvieille Monaco has gone long quiet as the evening begins to fade in. It was the most treasured part of your day—when the sunset casts over the ocean and how the crowds of people start to diminish slowly one by one. Loud voices and laughter simmering down, back into their homes or into fancy restaurants and bars to enjoy the rest of their night.

Each roll of the blue waves along with the golden disk already beginning to touch the surface ocean water is a view you could never get sick of. The sun slips quickly behind the line of the horizon as it spreads its last rays—stunning hues of oranges and yellows seeping through the windows of your living room, allowing to emit a shadow of your figure on the floor and walls with each step you take as you continue your hunt for your boyfriend.

It is where you feel the utmost of tranquility—the calmness of this environment is a way for you to wind down without having to care for anything else outside of the place you call home, to help wash away any troublesome thoughts. Usually these hours are spent with you and Max watching a movie or making a home cooked meal together. Usually your limbs would be tangled with one another in sacred and intimate ways.

Though this time around, your surroundings don't put you at ease, it doesn’t shake away your worries. In fact, it’s worse than usual.

This current lifestyle by all means, was everything you could ever dream of. You were incredibly lucky to be the partner of someone like Max. The Dutchman who is portrayed and misunderstood as a villain half of the time is actually a gentleman.

Your lover was so genuine and kind, as sweet as the gleam of sun that is currently kissing your skin—the warmth filling your whole body, bringing an overwhelming sense of comfort. It’s the sole reason why you fell in love with him, and you fell hard.

His own love for you is like a garden—blossoming into heavenly flowers within his fast beating heart.

He dotes on you, cares for you when you need it most, like tending to a single daisy amongst a field of grass. Nurturing and watering it with the most fondness, just like he does when kissing you, and god his kisses are to die for. His lips soft against yours like a warm embrace, so tender and delicate, melting into each other's souls. It always felt as if it were the last, as if the world was crumbling beneath the bottom of your feet. Nothing around you mattered, just the two of you in that space sealing in the gap.

He’s a race car driver for crying out loud—bound to be blunt and direct. But the persona he shows to the crowds of people and millions behind a tv screen is only half of who he truly is. Sure he can have a nasty temper at times during the highlights of his career but those were all under heavy stressful circumstances. In no way shape or form has his impatience and anger on track reach you from behind closed doors…until recently.

That familiarity of admiration for you has suddenly turned into rushed and quick pecks on the lips, hugs lasting only a fracture of a second. There wasn’t any long lasting gentleness to those intimate actions anymore, no adoration laced behind them.

This switch in attitude has you dwelling on it in an unhealthy way. Concerns filling your brain as he hardly devoted any time to you recently. Perpetually blowing you off with an ���I’m busy.” and other broken promises to make it up to you whenever you’d suggest going out together for the day.

You genuinely didn't mind it at first, you out of everyone understood how important his career was to him. But, he’s constantly conducting business calls, in emergency meetings, or practicing on the race simulator. You were aching for him, in more ways than one.

It’s lonely enough with him having to travel all around the world 12 times a year with an extra addition of other flights for further business matters. And, with your own work you aren’t usually there to accompany him more than you’d wish. So with the rare occasions of him actually having a break with you at home and to have him not pay any attention to you was, without any exaggeration…starting to annoy you.

In contrast to the beautifully painted sky outside your windows showcasing its eternal beauty of lovely colors, your mood was somber and gloomy. Almost like the soon to be night sky beneath a cascade of iridescent stars on the sandy shores of Monaco—the air thick with a cold breeze and scent of salt, the feeling melancholic.

With an intake of a breath through your nose, the tracks of your light footsteps halt when you finally reach the blackwood door that leads into his office you were positive he was in. You make sure to knock three times—an order you mustn't forget, not wanting to walk in on him potentially streaming a game or being in a meeting with his camera on.

Upon hearing a faint, “Come in.” from the other side of the door, you enter the office with caution. Staring into the dreary space, anyone would be aware of how grim it was; pens and papers scattered across his work desk messily, the trophies resting on the display shelf held a sheer layer of dust, and the cold temperature didn't make it any better. The atmosphere alone coerced goosebumps to emerge onto your skin.

Max himself looked disarrayed, sat in the race simulator on the other side of the room. You walk over to stand beside the makeshift car seat to get a better look at him. All the noticeable tell-tale signs didn't go unnoticed by you, he was pushing himself too much. It was really displeasing to see him not taking care of himself. His light brown hair framed his forehead with eye bags digging into his skin, and there was a prominent little line in between his eyebrows—indicating that he’s been focusing for too long.

“Hey, everything okay?” Setting down the cup of gin on the wooden desk concernedly, you pull off his headset and brush your hand through his locks—pushing them back into place. Max doesn’t tear his eyes off the screens of his multiple monitors, barely sparing you a glance or reacting to the contact of your touch like he normally would.

“Hi baby, yeah…yeah ‘m alright,” he mumbles slowly, almost as if he didn’t register what you said.

“I got you a drink.” A frown makes way onto your features when he doesn’t say anything after that, not even acknowledging the alcohol in front of him. With a tilt of your head you wait expectedly, continuing to burn holes on the side of his face—like you were trying to read into his thoughts. “You coming to bed soon? You should get some rest.”

“Mhm…in a bit.”

You didn’t know why you thought the outcome would be anything different. The monotone lack of response from him had you sneering as a combination of anguish and irritation consumed your body. He’s still looking at the screens, an intense focus in his irises—a need to complete the race laps of the simulator even with his headphones off.

You knew then that he’s not honest with his intentions, being dismissive as usual and leading you to the feeling of neglect yet again. Though this time you’ve reached your limit, patience running thin.

Whilst huffing out an annoyed breath you toss the headset into his lap without a care, “Liar.”

That was a terrible mistake.

His reaction was just about immediate, bewildered at your sudden outburst. “What was that?” Max finally turns his head, eyes narrowing to look at you as you saunter off to the door. You intended to just retire into your shared bedroom alone, tears already pooling at your lash line from all the pent-up frustration with your back facing him.

“If you knew what was good for you, you wouldn’t dare to walk out that door.”

Halting your footsteps, a shiver bolted up your spine, the previous anger briskly replaced with unease. You’d like to think it was from the cool air that was blowing from the vents instead of his bleak words.

“Get back over here,” he spoke assertively, voice low and ominous—like he was disappointed in your unexpected change of mood, making your skin crawl with uncertainty.

It was a dangerous gamble between wanting to defy him or to finally have all of his attention after two weeks. But you knew better than to test his warnings and tolerance especially after hearing that irked tone. Blinking away the unshed tears, you steel yourself to shift your body and face him again.

“Now. Sweetheart, don't make me repeat myself.”

Your breath hitches, this was probably the first time in days where he’s held eye contact intently with you for longer than twenty seconds and it just about has you stumbling over your feet. The icy glare spoke for itself, already irritated with the way you lashed out at him, which is rare coming from you. He’s got a pounding headache and the last thing he wants to deal with is your little attitude.

His mean demeanor nearly made your eyes water again by the time you returned to his side, following his order. Within a split second, Max chucks the headphones to the ground bitterly. The loud clank! it makes when it hits the wooden floor has you jolting out of your skin, his annoyance radiating off of the small scowl on his face and actions.

In swift movements he pulls you down to straddle his lap without a word, a squeak of surprise leaves your lips since you didn’t have time to process what was happening.

The proximity has your heart skipping a beat, a rush of heat spreading throughout your entire body with nervousness. It was slightly cramped in the space between him and the pc steering wheel—leaving you little to no room to breathe, chest brushing against his to not have your back pressed into the metal material.

You felt that familiar ache in your stomach building up from how close he was and how he was holding your waist to keep you steady. It really didn’t take much for you especially since you’ve missed his warmth—his big veiny hands on your body. Your mind begins to whirl already, making you desperate for more right away, it was easy to tell from your quickened breath.

He observes your small frame all but quivering atop of him, dressed solely in one of his t-shirts that was evidently larger on you and a pair of panties peeking from underneath.

“What’s gotten into you huh?” His eyes lingered a while longer on your bare thighs that were scantily covered. He strokes it with his hands lightly, the contact igniting a trail of fire in its wake on your supple skin before his sharp gaze snapped to return to your face, “always interrupting me.”

You can practically hear the erratic rhythm of your heart beating in your ears because of his fierce scrutinizing eyes, and it doesn't benefit you in the slightest when the expensive cologne he knows drives you crazy wafts into your nostrils—making it even harder to concentrate. The air gets thicker by the second around your heated bodies.

“What’s gotten into me?“ You’re muttering under your breath, looking everywhere but his burning stare to try and rein yourself, “Max you…you hardly have time for me anymore.”

He’s a busy man, engrossed and occupied in his job. You get it, you truly do, you understand the fear he must bear of not wanting to be last. Carrying that title of being number one is both a blessing and a curse. It doesn't help that he's his own worst critic, correcting what he thinks he could do better by practicing on the simulator as much as he possibly can—it’s the only thing that occupies his mind.

The amount of pressure he must feel has to be overbearing—all the more for a non-stressful winter break, he’s been losing too much sleep and he couldn’t even bother to mind your concerns. All you wanted was to take care of him in different ways, you’ve tried for days but those days turned into two weeks and you’ve had enough.

One of his hands smooths over your back, humming gruffly while the other jerks your chin to force you to look at him with a firm grip so you don't pull away, “Y’know I have to be on top of my work right?”

“Yes! Of course I do but—“

“I’m doing this for us.” He then takes both of his palms, dragging them down your sides tantalizingly to grasp your hips. Max kneads the flesh briefly before guiding you with a secure hold to have your clothed heat rub at his crotch that's already flinching, growing hard underneath you. He does so almost mockingly, knowing just what you want and eliciting a shocked choked gasp from you, “working so I could get you the things you want.”

Your small hands went to hold onto his broad shoulders at the unexpected friction, it was getting tougher to keep yourself grounded—body trembling with the effort to stay in check, to stop yourself from grinding down on him greedily like you so desperately wanted.

“Max,” your face is sullen as you speak just above a whisper, he was mere inches away, so close you can almost taste him. You could just…lean forward a bit, claim his lips and have him again, “I don’t care about that, I just want to spend—“

“Time with me.” He interrupts again, stealing the rest of the sentence out of your mouth like he’s heard it a hundred times before and you can't seem to get snarky with him at the moment because of the way he was gradually rolling your groin against his. A rush of butterflies stirs in your tummy from the staggering sensation.

Max reaches under the hem of his baggy shirt that's draped over you with an exasperated exhale, his touch ticklish as his fingers dance along the soft skin near the band of your underwear. You can start to feel your body seeking more of his attention, so close to being obtainable you can taste it on the tip of your tongue.

“Is that it? Fine. If that’s the case, then you’re going to sit still.”

His words pique your interest at once that you seem to ignore his condescending behavior—content with just getting to be in his presence again.

He takes notice of your tongue peeking out to wet your lips in expectancy, earning a flicker of amusement on his features before quickly masking it back with a stoic expression. You can feel him trail lower and lower until the tips of his fingers reach your sensitive bud to circle it delicately over your panties, almost feather-light to tease you. The response from your body was instant, mewling and arching your back. Your clothed breasts were now flush against his chest, allowing more warmth to exchange between the two of you.

“All you wanted was to get your little pussy wet huh?” He lets out a scoffing chuckle, making a wave of humiliation wash over you from the way he puts it. You shake your head in denial, not wanting to give him the satisfaction that you are in fact sexually frustrated.

“N-Ngh! No!” But he can see right through your miserable bluff, especially with your heavy puffs of breath and stammering.

You were utterly touch-starved that your underwear was already dampening under his touch with your growing arousal. All from just sitting on his lap and light traces of contact.

“No? Then why are you soaking my fingers right now?” A sense of pride always filled his body knowing the affect he had on you, to have you heat up and slip into that sweet headspace with just a few ministrations. “Aww my sweet baby, you just needed a bit of my attention? Is that it?”

Max continues to work you up with a lazy smirk on his lips, watching you closely for each little face twisting reaction, “answer me sweetheart.” He lightly taps at your clit, another chuckle almost slipping from his throat when you sit up straighter because of it.

“Yes Max, I…want you.” Your voice comes out a bit whiny than you intended but you don’t seem to care because of the way your brain is clouding, craving more without question.

“There’s my good girl.”

With your lower lip sucked between your teeth you brace yourself for more, blood pumping with excitement. He was finally going to fuck you like you’ve been wanting for days, right?

Wrong.

What you didn’t expect was to be fully naked, straddling his cock whilst he ignored you.

Dumbfounded was an understatement.

As you watch the clock on the other side of the office—perched on top of the door behind him, your sanity quickly dissolves with each passing tick. It took you about ten minutes to realize the vast amount of self-control he held. So while you were sitting on his lap, firm length sheathed deeply inside you—Max simply returned to the simulator, superbly content with this proposal. You on the other hand, couldn’t stop the tremor of your thighs.

Breaking the tense silence with an unsatisfied grumble, you wrap your arms around his neck in hopes to get more direct contact of his skin on yours. Your frame was taut and rigid above him, trying your damn hardest to not make any sudden movements like he ordered.

Being able to finally feel him again like this but not allowed to do anything about it has you on edge, you eagerly wanted—no needed some sort of relief. So with much contemplation your movements get bolder with a grind of your hips, though it only makes him give you a stern look in exchange, enough for you to force into a stop at once.

He clicks his tongue in disapproval, giving a light smack on your plush ass as a warning. “Stop fuckin’ moving,” he hisses through gritted teeth, still annoyed with you and it had your heart aching uncomfortably.

You should be the one that was upset but you felt so vulnerable and deprived, especially with him still being fully clothed, his shorts and briefs pushed down just enough to free his cock making you feel all the more exposed and in the mercy of his hands. You so miserably needed more of him, all of him.

“Max please,” you can’t help but beg now, knowing that it’ll usually weaken his resolve with that angelic voice of yours, “I can’t.”

It doesn't seem to deter him though. A sense of disappointment engulfs you, he was so hellbent on teaching you a lesson that you know you don't even deserve.

“You can and you will. What happened to being my good girl?” His hands never leave the steering wheel behind you and his voice, not even in the slightest—doesn’t waver whenever he speaks, practically like he was unaffected with your warm wet cunt wrapped around him, “besides, isn’t this what you wanted? Don’t make me punish you.”

He’s mocking you. You can almost see his lips quirking up into a smile as you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck with no retaliation afterward, so eager to please him.

The only thing you can possibly do was snuggle closer for the little bit of warmth his clothed body can radiate in the cold office and listen to the loud roar of V6 engines coming from the game. With tightly shut eyes, you try to think of something to distract you but nothing works as your mind parades itself from the feeling of his fat tip kissing your cervix, stuffed full.

This was already punishing enough, none of this was painful oh no—it was the complete opposite. But, the pleasure rising up and not having your desires fulfilled was tearing you apart. It was borderline torture.

The stretch makes slick from your pussy drool on his girth, a mess pooling straight down his balls and whenever he would move his feet on the pedals of the simulator—his thigh jumps, making you shift on his lap and bounce ever so slightly on his shaft. It has you whining against his ear like a bitch in heat.

Max’s eyes burn into the screen of his pc after perceiving the sound of your soft whimper and whines against his ear, breath tickling his skin and making it prick up. He always loved any noises that he could pull from you, his possessiveness and ego feeds off it. He's transfixed—entranced by how sweet it sounds. He can’t lie, he did miss you. Missed having you close like this, desperate and easily acquiescent for him, your soft voice all breathless and needy.

Just the feeling and connection of you.

He clenched his jaw when your velvet walls fluttered around him, his own self-control was close to snapping. But being an asshole just to spite you seemed more pleasing, he purposely moved his legs more forcefully on the pedals to elicit more of those pretty little cries of pleasure.

Though he completely freezes up the moment he hears you sniffling against his neck, hot tears hitting his shirt seconds after.

Max knows he's been a shit boyfriend but he's too prideful to admit it, so frustrated and harsh while his sole center of attention was on how to be better, better, better with his work that he seemed to forget your own needs. He’s conflicted at the moment as he thinks about it, infuriated at himself for taking it out on you.

You were trying so hard for him, to be his good girl that you always were despite your own discontentment and bitterness to his treatment towards you. You didn’t want to upset him any further even if this was his own doing, it made both his heart stammer and his cock twitch from how kind you are to him. He didn't deserve you.

When you feel that certain jerk inside of you, your one track mind really couldn't stop your lips from speaking once more through your small sniffles. “P-Please Max,” you attempt again with hesitation, lip bitten raw from your constant chewing, “I can’t take this much longer.”

His self-restraint finally snaps.

Your ears perk and pick up the sound of him sipping, completely downing the glass of alcohol that was disregarded earlier in one go. He hisses harshly after the burn cascades down his throat with each gulp and then leans forward, muscles flexing slightly as he places the now empty cup on the desk with a soft clunk before turning off the gaming system.

The unexpected silence causes your stomach to twist in a knot, no longer capable of hearing the thunderous engines of formula one cars—just his ragged breathing and ticking of the clock.

Anticipation nags in the back of your mind, a hundred things running all at once while you sit there pliantly and unmoving, silent tears cascading down your face.

You can't help but think that you’ve surely done it this time, you’ve pissed him off now haven’t you?

“So ungrateful for all the things I give you, hm?” He eventually speaks amidst the strained quietness. The words he utters out didn’t hold any actual malice, voice softer now. His anger giving away to more vulnerability as his hands went to pry your face away from his neck, holding it in his palms gently.

It ached to see you hurt, the pain in your features mirrored in his own heart. His hands trembled subtly while he cradled your soft cheeks, thumbs brushing away the salty tears that fell—trying to comfort and soothe you, “always complaining.”

You lean further back slightly to get a better view of his features, seeing a mixture of emotions swirling in his irises.

Pity. Sadness. Longing.

You could feel it with the way he held you with care, you could feel it in the air—through his soft breath against your skin. Your own heart tugs a bit when you realize that he was feeling guilty. Guilty for doing this to you, for mistreating you.

“I miss you.” You hiccup whilst his thumbs continue their calming motions on the apple of your cheeks.

He focuses on your pretty face stained with wet tears before brushing some loose strands of hair framing your face, tucking it behind your ear and he couldn’t help but marvel at how cute you looked. You were nuzzled into his hands like a kicked little puppy—doe glassy eyes staring into his own.

Max lets out a shaky breath out his nose when a pout adorns your pretty pink lips, he wants to kiss it away, hear those moans you’d make against him. But first, he really needs to apologize for his negligence.

He coos at your broken voice, torn between his self pity and yearning for your presence even if he didn't deserve the slightest bit of your leniency, “‘m right here baby.” His chest continues to sting as your tears increase, the weight of his words hitting you harder than he expected.

He knows that his reassurance has touched a nerve, that you've been longing to hear those words for days. That he was never really gone, he still cared for you the same, just too stubborn about his own emotions. While keeping his tender hold on your face, his gaze never leaves your watery eyes. He wants you to feel his unwavering love, a necessity to put your mind at ease, “let me kiss you, can I?”

A soft hum coming from your throat and a small nod is enough confirmation for him to pull you into a fulfilling gentle kiss, one that you were familiar with, the kind that you yearned for so severely. The adoration was felt again as he put much effort and devotion behind it. It felt so good being cherished like this again.

With a pleased sigh passing through you, Max tilts his head—removing one of his hands from your face to hold your nape, intending to deepen the kiss even further. He takes the opportunity to push his tongue past your lips when you part your mouth.

The taste buds on your own wet muscle begin to flood with the flavor of bitter alcohol as it dances and tangles along with his. It was all so, so intoxicating. And he revels at how your lips always manage to be plump and soft, as tasty as he remembered. He mutters against them gently yet firm as he speaks, trying to convey his conflicted feelings, “so sorry my love, ‘m so sorry.”

He places a few chaste kisses on you before pulling away slightly so he can stare up at you for a moment, his pupils tracing every inch of your naked body. He can't get over how beautiful you look with desire and need whirling in your eyes. His heart stutters again with so much regret when you sniffle and hug his shoulders, pressing closer like you were trying to meld into one.

A small glimmer of light breaks through the storm of emotions when the sound of a sheepish giggle comes from your mouth. The lighthearted noise that he’s grown to love over the years of knowing you filling the tense air. Your saccharine voice overflows his ears with words of forgiveness, too compassionate for your own good. He muses at the fact that even through the stressful and pressuring times—the neglect, you were always there to welcome him with open arms.

Max rids the confines of fabric still clinging to his body with a sense of urgency, like a man on a mission to make it up to you. He tosses them to join the pile of your clothes forgotten somewhere on the floor before returning his mouth on you, this time on the column of your neck, peppering it. Starved and parched for you, just as much as you were for him.

His kisses are hot and wet, tongue lapping at your skin while his hands wander over your chest. He can feel you responding to his touches once more, pulse quickening just beneath his fingertips, your breathing coming out in faint gasps.

Small “I love you’s.” tumble from him like a mantra without stopping his focus on your skin. The once pained expression on your face now changed into an alluring one within ticks—cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide, and mouth slightly parted from all the attention.

It only fueled his hunger even more, growing impossibly harder inside of your pussy. “So fuckin’ pretty, I could stare at you like this forever.” His lips work their way up to your ear, licking the shell of it provokingly, the action has the hair on your arms standing stiffly. Max’s voice was direct and rough as he whispers, “fuck yourself onto me, go on baby you can move for me now.”

It's like a fire switch has gone off in your brain. At last, you lift yourself up until his flushed pink tip peeks out to the point of almost slipping out and slowly sink back down. Both of your mouths fall open to let out a low satisfied moan in unison. Your eyelids flutter, half-lidded now, barely being kept open with furrowed brows as you gape back at him.

“Haah!—“ your breath gets caught in your throat as he braces his feet on the floor and plunges his hips up to meet yours when you lift yourself again, stuffing his fat cock into your soaking heat in one instantaneous push. Your small hands claw on his shoulders in surprise, leaving red scratch marks on his pale skin.

“Breathe for me baby…yeahhhhh just like that. I can see you dripping for me, my needy girl look at you—so fuckin’ wet,” he bites his lip to stifle the guttural moan that threatened to slip at the sight before his eyes, “Missed you so much too—shit.”

He continues to run his filthy mouth with a vein protruding his neck and stills his hips so you can set your own pace, your walls shuddering around him in response to all of his words. Whilst you repeat the same action again and again, you’re already not able to formulate a single thought from the mind numbing sensations. Just mentally saturated at being filled to the hilt over and over and over.

“F-fuuuuuck, so good Max—feels so good!”

“That’s it, just focus on feeling good, ‘m here s’okay. You have me now.” He devours your mouth once more, this time with great fervor—his tongue exploring every inch of the wet cavern more hastily, tasting every bit of what you can give.

He swallows each and every little sound coming from you, every whimper and whine because of each drag of his length, feeling it reverberating through his mouth down to his chest—now full of warmth and contentment.

Max’s hands on your breasts continue to squeeze, fondling your mounds until his calloused fingers pinches and rolls your nipples between them to pebble up in the cool air, adding a jolt of pleasure in the mix. The feeling of you taking him inside, the sounds of your sweet gasps—it drives him insane. He groans deeply, breaking the kiss to have his head fall back against the chair.

You’re fucking him so good all of his tension and worries are melting away from each roll of your hips. Maybe a little too good that he’s biting the insides of his cheeks to stop himself from ramming into you like a madman.

"Keep using me however you want sweetheart, don’t stop ‘till you're satisfied,” he mutters, ragged and hoarse.

You can hardly focus, it was too much for you to endure. All you can make out is how good he feels, how his mushroom head hits that spongy spot with the way you’re taking him in so deep at this angle. This is everything you've ached for, so it’s no surprise how easily you’re falling apart so early on along with him. So overly sensitive and responsive to each stroke of his stiff cock, being able to feel every ridge and vein.

The observation of him splitting you open was incredibly arousing to gawk at. Strings of slick connects where the two of you continuously meet, hot and sticky with a translucent white painting the base of his length as you continue to cream around him.

He swears he feels like he’s floating, going absolutely delirious, and it’s obvious with the way he wouldn’t shut his mouth. Max always gets this way from the taste and feel of you, it’s like his mind couldn't fathom anything else around him.

“You're so good baby, so good for me," he praised, palms going to grip at your hips tightly. He’s clutching you so securely as if he can't bear to let go, leaving crescent shaped indents on your hips from his blunt nails. "You love this, you love being filled up by me, don't you?"

“Y-Yes, Max," you moan out needily, your own fingers digging into his shoulders, "I love it so much. Mnnh—so big.”

His grip on your hips tightens as he tries to hold back, to prolong the need to just pound into you, his breath coming in ragged, shallow pants. The sound of wet plaps! from skin slapping against each other fills the office walls when you move a little faster—air thickening around you further with the smell of sex. His brain clouds, losing himself in the pleasure you bring upon him. He can feel his willpower slowly giving way to his desire and need for you, but he wants you to have this.

The view of you riding him and your sweet whimpers was making it harder for him to control himself. He shuts his eyes and clenches his jaw to focus on not coming so quickly, “You're so tight, so perfect. Can’t even fuckin’—hah! Can hardly think straight.”

He makes it a point to hold out for you, so you can come at the same time just how he always likes. But you whine and suddenly stop, legs starting to strain. The vulgarity of his words, the sensations, it was all getting too overwhelming.

Max groans at the loss of pleasure, reopening his eyes to look at your flushed disheartened face, “What's wrong baby?”

“Need you,“ you whine frustratedly and press your forehead against his, swapping breaths as you both pant, “I can’t…”

"Need my help?" He grabs your hands to place it behind you so you can grasp at the steering wheel, this allows you more leverage and support to slam down onto him, “Lean back and hold onto this sweetheart, hold on tightly.”

For extra measure he snakes a strong arm around your back, holding your waist sturdily as he helps guide you to fucking him more harshly now.

“Oh f-fuck! You’re s-so deep!” You tip your head back, bearing your hickey covered neck to him. He almost came from the sight alone, a low groan bullying it’s way out of his mouth.

“Yeah? That’s better isn’t it baby?” He asks softly but there’s a clear hint of teasing, a playful mocking in his tone. Though his voice is finally starting to waver, all of it sends him into overdrive as he draws close to bursting at the seams. His fingers from his free hand tease the skin of your inner thigh, making your hips stutter slightly. “Oooh, s-shit just felt you squeeze around me, you like that?”

“No teasing Max,” you whine and cinch your brows together, looking back at him with a small scowl but it looks more of a pout in his eyes, “touch me please.”

“Demanding now are we?” Deciding to not be mean anymore than he already has been tonight because of how precious you looked—he licks the calloused pad of his thumb and presses it harshly against your clit, neglected and swollen. He circles it, spreading his spit and your wetness slowly. You shriek at the added stimulation and grip the steering wheel so hard your knuckles turn white.

“My good girl, my everything, all I ever need.” He’s babbling again when your pussy clamps down on him at the praise. Both of your brains seemingly go fuzzy yet in tune with one another, only thinking of one thing and it’s that sweet release.

With each moan from you, a sharp groan and grunt comes from him. His own hips begin to move with you again, no longer capable of keeping still, his thrusts matching each lift of your body. The pleasure builds and builds, becoming almost unbearable.

“So. Fucking. Good.” He punctuated his words with each buck, becoming more sloppy as time goes on—hanging so dangerously close to the edge. And he knew that you were almost there too, he could feel it in the way you were moving against him desperately, clenching and shaking around him. "You're close, aren't you, baby?"

Incoherent babbles of yes's and pleas were all you can respond with. Each drive of his hips were now constricted because of how hard you squeezed around him, your walls pulsing like a vice as your body goes taut.

He didn't stop, couldn't stop, he needed you too badly, needed to feel you as you fell apart for him, all because of him. His thumb rubs more vigorously against your bundle of nerves to heighten the pressure in your core, ready to burst at any given moment.

“Y-Yeah I know I'm right there with you, come on baby,” he urges and leans forward, licking and speaking against your ear, knowing that it’ll drive you even closer to your peak, “I want you to come for me–come with me.”

Your vision begins to blur, nerves on fire as you can only focus on the blissful pleasure. The moans coming out of you now louder and more high-pitched as you chase for your orgasm. He angles his hips and snaps up into you harder, now hitting your sweet spot more incessantly. You suddenly go quiet, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you come around him in a silent scream.

“Holy shit, gooooood fucking girl,” his concentration switches to pure ecstasy when he watches you shake atop of him, he can feel everything—every muscle and contraction around him, it was enough for the heat burning in his abdomen to explode along with you. The base of his cock throbs as spurts of cum shoots inside of you while a guttural moan rumbles deep within his throat.

His thrusts begin faltering as he tries to coax the most of your orgasm out of you, pushing his cum further into you as much as he can until the fat head of his now flaccid cock burns in overstimulation.

You collapse onto his chest blissed out and limp when you finally come down from your high. Completely fulfilled again as he hugs you to his sticky body, not caring to pull out, keeping you plugged full of his cum. His chest heaves against your head, rising and falling almost like a soothing lullaby, sitting there and just listening to each others heavy breathing.

“I’m sorry again my love,” he speaks after a while of calming quiteness.

“Shhh don’t talk about it anymore,” you chide playfully, resting your chin on his chest to stare up at him, “just don’t ignore me like that again.”

“Oh I don’t plan on it.”

The familiarity of your bond re-emerges. The tension and hurt from earlier is entirely gone, replaced by a sense of comfort and ease with you lax in his arms. His eyes drinks in the sight of you with a content smile plastered on his face. He’ll have to book a getaway for the rest of his winter break and take you over and over to make up for lost time.

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐂𝐘𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐙 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 please do not plagiarize, translate, or repost.

[anonity]

SOMEONE BETTER -- oneshot

been gone for a min for a last min road trip w/ friends for new years :) happy 2025! had this in my drafts after watching the paige ep on flau’jaes podcast

WC: ~1200 summary: paige catches you and your saved basketball edits

the amount of paige edits that popped up on your for-you-page was diabolical. especially considering she was your roommate.

you were waiting for her to return from practice, feet kicked up on the coffee table of your apartment, when the first of the day came up.

originally, you’d justified your ever-growing collection of edits as hype-videos: something you could scroll through before paige’s games to get you in the right mood. for a while, that checked out – you only saved her highlights, quick moving graphics with smooth transitions.

but then it had quickly devolved into what can only be described as an obsessive fan folder, filled with edits so thirsty you think you would actually combust if anyone saw them, let alone paige.

it was bound to happen.

you continued watching edits when the door opened, kept scrolling when it closed, and carried on even as paige leaned curiously on the kitchen counter. its not like she would know who you were watching – hell, you had juju watkins videos coming up on your page every couple days, too. 

this arrangement had worked perfectly for you for months. you got to indulge in your quietest delusions, and your best-friend-turned-roommate could continue on none the wiser. 

until her voice rang out clearly from your phone. you would’ve played it off, really, said it was an interview clip or something, had her voice not immediately been followed by the “or nah” audio. 

mortified did not even begin to describe the feeling clawing into your throat.

you scrolled impossibly fast and began praying. maybe she hadn’t been paying attention. maybe she wasn’t even in the kitchen anymore. maybe you’d imagined the entire thing and paige wasn’t even real and this was all some kind of awful dream you’d wake up from in 3, 2, 1…

“whatcha watchin’?”

you think your soul has left your body. 

paige is sauntering over and looking very smug. you’re wondering how fast you can make it from the couch to the balcony. 

“an interview,” you try anyway, despite the fact that not a single interview in the history of basketball has ever included fucking ty dolla sign.

paige smirks, leaning over the back of the couch. her breath tickles the top of your head and you shiver despite yourself, eyes trained on the tiktok now repeating on your phone – one of those orange muppet videos (pepe? is he supposed to be a shrimp?) stuck on the first slide. really, if it weren’t for the horrors of your current situation, you would find the irony funny. if you survived this event, maybe you would make one. you can see it now. “i’m watching edits of my roommate – my roommate walks in – i have to defend myself to my roommate –” i have to defend myself to my roommate.

“which interview?”

“umm,” you say, eloquently. you can’t think past your orange muppet spiral. “overwatch?”

paige laughs, a noise that distracts you long enough for her to yank your phone away. “overtime?”

shit.

you can barely get out a disdained “paige!” before you hear the audio repeating again. would a fall from the third floor kill you? is it still considered a fall if you jump?

you stop lunging for your phone – maybe you can just play it cool. who cares if theres a paige edit on your FYP? it's only weird if you make it weird. “you act like those don’t pop up on your for you page too.” 

paige shushes you, biting her cheeks in mock-seriousness. she shushes you! the nerve! if you weren’t so mortified you would argue with her! 

but you are mortified, and so you stay quiet.  the silence stretches on and on until your phone also goes silent. the apartment's heating unit is suddenly very loud, and for once you aren’t irritated at the noise – instead, you just think of how much you will actually miss your loud heating unit once paige processes the situation and kicks you out of your apartment in the dead of winter. 

you think it can’t get any worse, until another audio starts playing and a self-satisfied grin stretches across paiges face. “you have like 70 videos in here.”

somebody kill me.

the original silence is filled with mr. lover lover, and there is absolutely no way you can “it’s for the hype” your way out of this. she continues scrolling. you stare helplessly at the floor. after what you can only guess is six or seven incriminating edits, she pauses, her jaw clenching inexplicably. here it comes. 'get out of my apartment' – 'i can’t look at you the same anymore'. you’re so cooked. fried, even.

“whatchu got caitlin saved in here for?”

what?

you must’ve voiced that thought out loud, because she responds. “you got a thing for iowa players too?”

your brows furrow. this was not the direction you thought this would be going in. instead, theres an edge cutting through paige’s words that you can’t quite place. is she still pissed? you let out a nervous laugh. “relax, paige, it’s not like i’m making wedding plans with her.”

paige stiffens. “it’s enough for a save-the-date.”

“paige, it’s like a 30 to 1 ratio.”

“yeah, our points ratio is 30:1 too.”

what the hell? first of all, you watch enough basketball to know that's not true. second of all, again, what the hell? 

“i mean, it’s fine, i get it.” paige shrugs, suddenly uninterested in your phone. she tosses it on the couch and you (slowly) slip it into your pocket before she can change her mind. “i just think it’s funny you watch her when you literally live with someone better.”

“better at what?” paige splutters. “basketball.” 

suddenly, it clicks. you sit, quiet, stunned for a second. “paige, if i didn’t know any better i’d say you sound jealous.”

“it’s not jealousy! it’s.. like, respect.” paige gestures wildly, and you’d almost believe her if there wasn’t a flush creeping up her neck.  you raise a brow. “respect?” “we share a netflix account! and you’re saving edits of my competition!” “you’re totally jealous.” 

paige looks cornered, backing towards the kitchen. her gaze falls to the floor. “i just think, like, i dunno – i just think i care about you and i’m right here and you’re saving edits of caitlin freakin’ clark.”

you can’t help the laugh that escapes, the absurdity of this situation catching up to you. somewhere in the back of your mind, you see the orange muppet again. 

“what’s so funny?”

“you’re just –” you take a deep breath. “i can’t believe your jealous over a caitlin clark edit. you act like we’re together or something.”

“maybe i wanna be.”

paige freezes. you freeze. the heater kicks off. you're moving before you can think about it, standing in front of her. her eyes stay trained to the floor.

“i’m sorry. i just – you drive me crazy.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

she finally glances up, a smile cracking. “it’s not.”

“then what are you gonna do about it?”

her hand is on your jawline in an instant, and the nervousness bubbling in your chest is finally cut off with her lips on yours. when you pull away, she’s grinning.

“30:1 edit ratio, huh?”

your face heats, and you push your head against her chest. “not funny, paige.”

“i’ll make a new folder for you – poor decisions, filled with caitlin clark edits.”

"alright that's enough."

[the-flaneur]

dearest darling flan would you ever consider writing for lewis 😔 i do not see nearly enough fics to justify js how attractive he is and it pains me

dont go insane (lh44)

pairing: lewis hamilton x driver!reader, platonic grid x reader

summary: when george invites some of the drivers over for a drunken presentation night, what better topic to present than your speciality? lewis' di-...outfits

warnings: suggestive mentions

wc: 1243

a/n: your wish is my command 😉 may have deviated a little bit, but dont worry i have many more fics lined up for this very attractive man

[masterlist] [request]

“ok ok everybody, thank you for joining us for the very first annual driver’s presentation night, hosted by yours truly, george russell. a connoisseur of powerpoint presentations, if i do say so myself,” george grinned.

the driver’s spare meeting room, which had been earlier crammed with spinning wheelie chairs and long white desks, had been replaced with the comfort of some old beanbags and blankets, as you, max, george, lando, oscar, charles, and alex settled in for a very long evening. as the last words left george's lips, a round of uncoordinated cheers erupted from the drunken audience. max let out an especially loud whoop before nearly faceplanting into a beanbag. 

"you're all welcome," he said with exaggerated politeness. "now then, without further ado, let's dive right into our first presentation of the evening!"

he gestured grandly towards you, nearly losing his balance in the process. "everyone, please welcome the one the only, the illustrious and femioone-feminonnena…blimey…” he cackled, tossing you the screen remote, “oh you know who it is…y/n! welcome yourself up to the stage,” 

"thank you, georgie poo. and hello everyone, i'm very very happy to be here tonight to present a special look back at the goat’s fashion choices. i would’ve rather regaled you with tales of his other…talents, but george made me promise to keep it pg, cause there are children here,” you giggled in front of all your friends, with a pointed look at lando and oscar, who seem to look mildly offended.

“obviously as the stunning wife of formula 1's golden boy himself," you continued, clicking onto the first slide, which showed you and lewis posed together for his recent dior collection, the boys hooting and hollering appreciatively, “i am the best and the only person able to give such a presentation, so make sure you’re listening,”

more applause and whistling followed as you clicked through to the first slide of lewis from the 2024 met gala, “of course, we gotta start off with a newfound lewis hamilton classic, the 2024 met gala. simple, classy, a great message and followed the theme, unlike so many others,” you rolled your eyes at the last bit, as the boys laughed.

“i can’t believe he disses my fashion sense, when his older met gala looks are questionable,” charles groans, swiping to show the group a photo pulled up on his phone. you sigh when you see lewis’ zig zag suit from 2019; definitely not camp enough for you or 2024 lewis.

“hey cut the man some slack,” alex laughs, seeing your pouting face, as you continue to click through the slides showcasing his various looks. the room continues to fill with laughter and playful jabs both at your commentary and the well-meaning yet snarky comments from the other drivers.

on the seventh slide, a photo of lewis in a see-through mesh top from the early 2021 season appeared on the screen, which definitely caught the drivers’ eyes. his chiseled features were highlighted with the bright backdrop, and the material of the shirt definitely emphasised his broad shoulders and toned physique. as well as the absolutely sinful tattoos criss-crossing his biceps, yummy…

"he looked absolutely dashing here, didn't he?" you purred, voice dripping with admiration. pausing the presentation, you let the image linger on the screen as you continued, "and trust me, he cleaned up even better in private that night..."

the room erupted in good-natured eye-rolls and chuckles at your suggestive remark. lando, never one to miss an opportunity, quipped, "well, we all knew lew was a total “stud”,"

oscar snorted, "yeah, until he decides to show up to the races in a black shirt and pants with hummingbirds on it," the others groaned in agreement, recalling lewis' infamous (amongst the drivers) outfit choice from several years prior. you laughed, unfazed by the teasing, "okay, okay, i get it. but this look right here? classic lewis - sophisticated, stylish, and undeniably sexy,” pointing once again to another showstopper lewis look.

you continued to advance the slideshow to the next image, another candid shot of you and lewis leaving a glamorous red-carpet event hand-in-hand. george leaned in to whisper something to alex, both of them grinning mischievously. 

george, still smitten with his own awaiting powerpoint prowess, decided to inject some competitiveness into the situation. "alright, let's not forget why we're really here, shall we? fashion, schmashion - who still really wants to hear more about y/n's insightful analysis of lewis's wardrobe choices?"

the room erupted in laughter, as you shot george a stern look, "hey now, my presentation is far more interesting than your mediocre slide designs, george!"

undeterred, george retorted, "oh yeah?” 

your face grew warm at the snide remark, but a spark of competitiveness ignited in your eyes. "oh, i think i can handle whatever you throw my way, george! don’t mess with the best," with a dramatic flourish, you clicked the remote to advance the slideshow featuring a collage of george's most...questionable outfits from past casual outings events. the drivers gasped in unison, their jaws dropping at the sight of george sporting everything from neon-colored blazers to patterned socks that clashed with his trousers. even the most tame of them were at least questionable to the discerning eye.

max let out a low whistle, while lando and oscar burst into uncontrollable laughter. with a sly grin, you continued, “i wouldn’t get ahead with the insult boys…george ain’t the only one who needs to pay for fashion crimes,”

"let's start with you, maxie," you sighed, pulling up one singular image on the presentation, the red bull racing suit, “unfortunately, your one fashion weakness is that you have no variety. did you know out of almost all the media pictures people get of you, it’s like a 1 in 500 to get one of you not in your suit, let alone anything fashionably interesting. you really need to convince pr to dress you in something else. how else am i supposed to critique you?" you humph.

max held up his hands in mock defense, laughing along with the others. "clearly, it was a stroke of genius."

as your merciless fashion critiques continued, the room descended into a fit of giggles and playful jabs. even george couldn't help but crack a smile, impressed by your preparations. lando shouted as you ripped his metaphorical fashion career away from him, "you know, if you're going to tear us apart like this, maybe we should just let you design our outfits from now on."

"oh, i think i've got enough on my plate with being mrs. hamilton already. besides, i have a feeling everyone might object to me dressing up the entire f1 grid in matching juicy couture tracksuits." the group erupted in laughter once more, and max raised his glass in a toast.

"to y/n, the only person in this room brave enough to call us out on our questionable fashion choices," max declared, his voice laced with humor and appreciation, "may her sharp tongue and keen eye for style forever keep us in check," the others echoed the toast, clinking their glasses together.

“but don’t worry i’ve saved an absolute treat for last,” you giggled, clicking towards the next slide, and the drivers, not for the first time tonight, were speechless.

there, plastered across the screen was a very…tasteful selection of lewis’ best pics. and the title: best clothes = no clothes.

being mrs hamilton was so much fun ;)

permanent f1 taglist (comment or msg me to join)

@charlesgirl16 @tallrock35 @sweate-r-weathe-r @unlikelystay @alex-wotton

@daisyfreecs @euphorihan @louloucs @oikarma @dying-inside-but-its-classy

@fadingcloudballoon @princessminjikwon @nina-or-anna-or-nora

© the-flanuer || do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platform.

[chaoscreaturewrites]

Call of duty, ghost, cute meet, fluff

Her tism wins him over

Summary:Out at a bar ghost saves her from falling. She wants to talk with this stranger but flirting isn't her thing. He's had a bad month and she's the highlight he could listen to her go on and on for hours. But her friends interrupt and criticize her making her shut down so it's up to ghost to get her to smile again.

WC:1.9k

Her pov

Once a month she goes out to a bar with her friends, it's not the best environment for her autism but she does usually manage to have some fun.

While her friends dance she goes to the bar for another drink. She gets shoved by a few people hustling by and loses her balance. She's falling certain she's going to collide with the filthy floor, but the hit doesn't come, only the feeling of a hard bar-like thing pressing against her abdomen.

She opens her eyes and sees it's someone's forearm holding her up, impressive. Still hanging over him she turns and looks up to see her savior and finds a tall, well built man with beautiful chocolate eyes wearing a mask.

She pushes up her glasses and stands up supporting herself. The man simply turns back to the bar and takes a sip of his drink staring off into the void in front of him like what just happened was simply nothing, but for her that was a reality altering moment that sent her heart racing and filled her stomach with butterflies. 

She wishes so badly she knew how to flirt or was any good at small talk cause right now, this man, she wants to make a connection. 

Her friends had given her some pointers and she's watched shows so she pulls from that information. She steps up to the bar into the open space next to the mystery man and orders a drink for herself and one for him. 

This gets his attention, hopefully in a good way but his expression gives nothing away as he looks at the new drink. 

“Thank you for catching me”

He picks up the new drink and gives her a nod of thanks. 

Sending him a drink was her one hope for starting something but that's been shut down so she calls it quits, she's not skilled enough for this and doesn't want to bother him more. 

As she walks away the glint of something catches her eye, she finds its source to be a beautiful knife handle with shining copper inlays, holstered on the man's belt.  This sparks a special interest of hers, making all the self consciousness and social pressure go away. 

Now she approaches with confidence, tapping the man's shoulder, the second his gaze turns to her the words start flowing from her effortlessly. Complementing his knife, talking about the craftsmanship, detailed techniques, her own collection, she goes on and on. 

His pov

The squad goes out for their ritual after mission drinks. Tonight spirits aren't great, lower than usual but they still go.

Ghost takes a seat at the bar, Price settles in a corner to have a cigar, Gaz and Soap flirt looking for a pretty distraction.

Movement in his periphery catches his attention and he acts on instinct when he sees a lil bird start to fall, reaching out his arm and catching her. Seems like she's a bit dazed so he takes that moment to look her over, she's not dressed like the other girls here. No short dress or skin tight outfit, she's dressed sensibly, comfortably, jeans and a t-shirt. She doesn't need a short skirt or too tight leggings to show off, the jeans hug her ass beautifully, shirt tied on the sides defining her waist ever so slightly, he finds this look much more appealing than any party dress. 

She gets even cuter when she faces him, how She adjusts her glasses and brushes her bangs back into place. He was right to say she got dazed by the look written on her face. He has to turn away, can't just keep staring at her shamelessly, he's not right for a sweet Lil bird like her, he's too damaged and in a dark place tonight.

He hopes she'll just walk away for her own sake even though it's the opposite of what he truly wants. But no, she goes to stand right next to him, close enough he can smell her scent, it's such a harsh contrast to the smokey sharp smell of the bar. He doesn't know if it's her perfume or hair but she smells like peppermint, honey, rose, and something he can't name but is so alluring. 

“ Thank you for catching me”

He was so caught up in the scent of her he didn't hear her order him a drink until the glass was slid in front of him. This catches him off guard, what's he's supposed to say ‘ oh i didn't mean to do that it was just instincts from my training’. No, that's probably not the right response, if only Soap or Gaz  was here they would whisper to him what to tell her. Now it's been too long since she's spoken. He needs to act so he just gives her a nod of thanks and turns away in embarrassment while he internally berates himself. 

He feels a touch on his arm and is amazed to see it's her again, he expected one of the guys, but now it's her the Lil angle who keeps coming back no matter how many times he looks away. 

He didn't have any expectations but what she said still surprised him. Is this really happening? She likes his knives, she knows a lot about them, so much detail, she has her own collection, oh she really is an angel. He happily listens to every word she says, fully under her spell as she info dumps. Everything fades away, the bar scene replaced by just her, the sharp smokey scent replaced by hers, the music replaced by her voice, the darkness of his last mission being cleared away with every passing minute in her presence.

Her pov

“Y/N there you are, what are you doing”

“ are you info dumping rn, girl that's not one of the flirting tips”

Their words snap her out of her special interest hype instantly and she becomes very self-conscious and shuts down a bit, feeling bad that she just info dumped to a stranger who she probably bothered a lot. 

She turns back to the man but can't meet his chocolate gaze again. Hands intertwined picking at her fingers, eyes down, shoulders slumped she apologies to the man.

“Sorry”

She goes to walk away following after her friends feeling dejected, like she's made a fool of herself again cause she just can't fit in and interact with others freely.

They all sit at a booth and chatter continues, they try to tell her it's okay, it happens but the words bounce off.

His pov

Who the hell are they? She's with them, why on earth did they stop her and ridicule her like that, I didn't want her to stop, that was one of the best conversations I've had in weeks and I didn't have to say a word. 

He sips the drink she bought him and tries to calm down. He regroups with the guys at Price's booth, apparently he didn't cool down enough and they ask what's bothering him. He tells them all about her and what happened, well he left out how he started at her ass.  Soap refuses to let that be the end of their story and drags Ghost out of the booth  and around the bar until they find her.

Gaz followed along giving Ghost tips and lines to say, nothing to flirt, only things he thought Ghost could pull off. They shove him towards her booth and watch hoping he can pull this off.

The pep talk did help, boosted his confidence, he's now a man on a mission and he never fails a mission. He walks right up to her and holds out his hand.

She looks up at him, still a bit of that dejected look showing but mostly shock. Her friend gives her a nudge which seems to bring her back to reality. 

“ I.. I can't dance”

“ Neither can I”

He has no intention of dancing with her, he just needs to get her alone again, away from the ones that made her shut down. 

Her small hand slips into his and he closes around it and pulls her up, moves her in front of him and walks her out of the bar, he'd like to have a quiet moment with her. 

She visibly looks calmed once out of the bar, a bit of that sparkle returning to her eyes, her posture straightening, and that energy that drew him In returning. Good.

Her pov

He came back, he came and found me, maybe, maybe I wasn't bothering him, could that be possible. Something seems different about him, less soft and lonely, more confident and determined.

Oh, does he want to dance, I really can't dance, if I had any chance dancing would ruin it completely. 

“ I..I can't dance”

“ Neither can I”

No dancing Thank god, but then what does he want, oh does that even matter. This is a chance, and unknown I want to take, I need to take. Here goes possibly everything. Yup this man is confident and those calluses he must be really good with that knife, must use it a lot, I wonder what he does. 

Where is he leading us, oh we're going outside, that's good, the music I can't take much more, gotta call it a night real soon.

 A deep breath of the fresh chilly night air clears away a lot of her tension, she needed this badly. She looks up at him again and waits, wondering why he came back, why bring her outside. 

His hand never left her and now he uses their hold to pull her in, closing the distance between them, she can feel the heat radiating from him and instinctively nuzzles against his chest. He wraps his arms around her in a hug as they stand there on the sidewalk while the world passes around them.

“ I liked what you said before, I could listen to you talk for hours… that was the highlight of my month” 

His pov

 “ I liked what you said before, I could listen to you talk for hours… that was the highlight of my month” 

“ really”

The way her voice cracks, the desperation in her tone tells him just how big an impact this has on her, how deeply tonight has affected her.  He needs to show her, convince her.

So he picks her up, making them eye level, enjoying the way she wraps her leg around him. 

“ Honestly, yes, tell me more about your knife collection or any of your other interests, there's no other way I'd like to spend my time. A cup of tea and listening to you”

It all happens so quick, he barely registers it, but it did happen, she grabbed his face and kissed him right in his mask. It was quick but not chaste, there was a hunger there, passion. Now her cheeks are quickly turning red and her pupils blown, this can't be the only time he sees this, no he need her in his life. 

….

“ So how did it go?”

“ we have a date next weekend”

Soap and Glaze erupt in cheers and Price gives him a pat on the back, his version of an atta boy.

Also can check out my cod master list and see if you'd like to be tagged for any future works for specific characters

[seiwas]

if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: ​​you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause. 

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called. 

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time. 

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior. 

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas. 

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out. 

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual. 

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement. 

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind. 

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again. 

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his. 

.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio. 

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time. 

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids. 

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like. 

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare. 

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing. 

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.” 

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.” 

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since. 

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning. 

You nod. 

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors. 

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again. 

He hums. 

“But I couldn’t find you, so…” 

He hums again. 

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.” 

A pause. 

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you. 

You snort, “I wish.” 

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.” 

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think. 

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you. 

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card. 

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.” 

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze. 

An interesting man. 

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think. 

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed. 

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be. 

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting. 

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.” 

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly. 

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors. 

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity. 

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye. 

“Do you come to this–” 

“My studio is just by the corner, so–” 

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?” 

“It’s on the way to work most days.” 

You nod, humming. 

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead. 

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.” 

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again. 

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.” 

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said. 

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies. 

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer. 

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.” 

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever. 

.

.

.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be? 

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations. 

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster. 

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you. 

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now. 

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio. 

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s. 

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good. 

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?” 

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate. 

“And this?” 

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge. 

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer. 

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later. 

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye. 

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.” 

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say. 

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout. 

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.” 

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges. 

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should. 

.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours. 

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet. 

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind. 

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums. 

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time. 

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should. 

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort. 

“Just ask, I know you want to.” 

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety. 

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line. 

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper. 

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles. 

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting. 

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces. 

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close. 

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.” 

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.” 

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along. 

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from. 

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand. 

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.” 

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever. 

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth. 

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.) 

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close. 

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you? 

.

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay. 

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface. 

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more. 

“Would that be troublesome?” 

You laugh at his rigidness. 

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.” 

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough. 

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you. 

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break. 

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are. 

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard. 

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.” 

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.” 

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art. 

So, no. 

There’s no other place he’d rather be. 

.

.

.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation? 

“Will you be free next weekend?” 

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late. 

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it. 

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.” 

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio? 

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion). 

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks. 

“Not for a session.” 

You tilt your head curiously. 

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it. 

“For a date.” 

.

You begin to take up his weekends now, too. 

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three). 

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food? 

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often). 

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way. 

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company. 

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp. 

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday. 

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt. 

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through. 

It’s unexpected, but you like that. 

And you like him—quite a lot, really. 

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair. 

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features. 

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be. 

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours. 

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his. 

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before. 

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. 

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating. 

“Kento,” you whisper. 

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him. 

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now. 

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door. 

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually. 

.

Things are good a month until your exhibit. 

Things are good until they aren’t. 

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years. 

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures. 

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this. 

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work. 

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy. 

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either. 

You groan, banging your head against the table. 

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing. 

Nanami finds you in your studio that way. 

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended. 

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this. 

And it’s too much—it’s all too much. 

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to. 

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away. 

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined. 

Silence. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly. 

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.” 

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.” 

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing. 

“Then we’ll do what we can.” 

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way. 

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.” 

“Who?” 

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.” 

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.” 

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–” 

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?” 

That makes you look up. 

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home. 

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say. 

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently. 

.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before. 

You remold and repair to build up yourself. 

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him. 

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul. 

.

.

.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning. 

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really. 

He smirks, “You’re a natural.” 

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along. 

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate). 

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks. 

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner. 

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody. 

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely. 

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?” 

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself. 

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you. 

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat. 

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours. 

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?” 

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops. 

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself. 

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love. 

.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly. 

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to. 

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck. 

A gasp escapes you. 

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest. 

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish. 

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while. 

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you. 

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate. 

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss. 

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.  

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body. 

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good. 

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.) 

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows. 

A tear drips down your face. 

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried. 

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.” 

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours. 

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad. 

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content. 

.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit. 

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way. 

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one. 

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes. 

He smiles at you the same. 

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged. 

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on. 

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams. 

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched. 

It is as much you as it is him. 

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls. 

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately. 

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[bleulikedaylight]

Ms. Delinquent, Natasha

pairing: delinquent basketball captain! natasha romanoff x student council president! reader

synopsis: Y/N L/N, perfect student council president, gets paired with the school’s worst nightmare—rebel basketball captain natasha romanoff—for a major project. she’s late, annoying, and impossible to work with. but one unexpected moment makes Y/N wonder… is there more to natasha than the chaos she brings?

warnings: mild cursing + tell me if i missed anything !! | wc: 3.8k | genre: wlw (as always <3), romance, fluff, high school au !! ;p

note: hii !! thank you so much for reading my work. just a quick heads-up—english isn’t my first language, so i’m really sorry in advance for any grammatical errors !! T^T

also, feel free to send messages, asks, requests, or literally whatever—i love hearing from people, and i swear i don’t bite (unless you want me to? jk, i'm so cringe 😔☝️)

anyway, i just noticed i accidentally made a second blog instead of a whole new account… so if you follow me and an account with the username @definitelynotbleu followed you—that's me. that’s my main blog, because apparently, tumblr said “you can’t follow people using your side blog.” like okay. thanks, i guess? ☹️💔💔

i’m lowkey considering just making a whole new account and moving all my fics there because this setup is slowly driving me insane. BUT I’M ALSO KINDA LAZY SO. WE’LL SEE. also i haven’t even made a masterlist yet. i’m cooked. actually beyond cooked. overcooked. burnt. ashes. 🥀🥀🥀

(ALSO I’M SO SORRY FOR VERY LONG AUTHOR NOTES I’M JUST A YAPPER OKAY T^T)

part one ♡‧₊˚ part two ‎♡‧₊˚

The next day, you show up to school with a venti coffee, three hours of sleep, and a list of tasks color-coded in pastel highlighters. You’re not thinking about her. You’re not. You have work to do. You have plans. You are a woman of discipline. You are the student council president.

And then she walks into the classroom like she didn’t just emotionally destabilize you twelve hours ago.

She’s in her varsity jacket, gym bag slung over one shoulder, earbuds in. One of them falls out as she moves, and you catch the faint sound of Arctic Monkeys. Of course she listens to Arctic Monkeys. You hate that it suits her.

She sees you. She nods. Calm. Collected. Like last night’s heart-attack-inducing flirtation didn’t happen.

You scowl.

She smirks.

Wanda leans over to whisper, “You’re glaring like she stole your planner.”

“She might as well have,” you mutter.

—

You meet after school again, this time in the student council office. She shows up ten minutes early and eats all the jelly beans in your organizer tray. You tell her off. She just shrugs and asks for more.

Somehow, it becomes a thing.

Every day for a week, Natasha Romanoff shows up. Sometimes with food. Sometimes with new bruises. Once, with a notebook full of genuinely helpful project notes, written in messy, slanted handwriting. She has surprisingly good insights, you have to admit.

But it’s not just the work. It’s the way she listens. The way she leans back in the chair, arms crossed, watching you with something between curiosity and amusement, like you’re a puzzle she’s enjoying solving.

It’s unsettling.

It’s distracting.

It’s maddening.

Especially when she starts casually touching you. Nothing scandalous—just light taps on the shoulder when you make a joke, her knee brushing yours under the table, taking the pen out of your hand when you’re overthinking the sentence structure.

"Relax, President. You’re not writing the Constitution."

You swat her hand. “I am setting a standard.”

She grins. “Yeah. A very adorable, very high-strung one.”

You want to scream.

And then—she starts drawing on your notes.

Like, full-on doodling hearts on the margins when you’re focused on your laptop.

“You’re vandalizing school property,” you say, eyeing the tiny cartoon of a girl with your hairstyle next to one with her haircut.

“Correction,” she replies without looking up. “I’m customizing history.”

You blink. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“Depends. Are you flattered?”

You throw a highlighter at her face. She catches it with one hand. You hate how cool that was.

—

It gets worse when she starts appearing outside of project hours. One morning, she joins you in line at the school caf. Orders black coffee and a muffin. Pays for your iced coffee without asking. When you try to protest, she tilts her head.

“What, you don’t like muffins?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

You don’t answer.

Next time you go to your locker, there’s a sticky note on the inside door.

You stare at it for an absurd amount of time.

Wanda finds you still holding it twenty minutes later.

—

And then there’s the basketball practice.

You don’t normally attend. But your vice president is managing the halftime event and drags you into helping.

So you’re there, clipboard in hand, head spinning with logistics—until the buzzer sounds and Natasha Romanoff is suddenly there, sweat-soaked, breathing hard, hair in a messy ponytail, grinning like she just won the world.

She finds you in the crowd. She winks.

You look away so fast you almost pull a muscle.

Wanda catches the whole thing. “Do not make me be the one to say it.”

“Say what?”

“You’re falling for her.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“I can’t stand her.”

“You stood outside for three hours watching her throw a ball into a net.”

“It was for the halftime event.”

“You made the flyer.”

You have no comeback.

—

Then comes Friday.

Project submission day.

You meet in the library to print the final version. Natasha shows up with two drinks—your usual order and something new for you to try. You hate how thoughtful it is.

“So, we’re done,” you say, double-checking the pages.

“We are.”

“No more late-night messages.”

“No more weekly meetings.”

“No more walks home.”

She says nothing.

You look up. Her face is unreadable.

“We’ll go back to being classmates,” you offer, almost as a question.

She nods slowly. “Right. Classmates.”

Why does that feel like a loss?

Before you can say anything else, someone calls her name.

A girl you vaguely recognize—varsity, volleyball, always surrounded by people. She walks over, all smiles and confidence, and hands Natasha a note.

“From me,” she says, touching her arm.

You freeze.

Natasha takes it, unreadable again. “Thanks.”

The girl walks away, not even sparing you a glance.

You stare at the paper. Then at her. You’re not sure what expression you’re making, but Natasha blinks.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say, too fast.

“You look mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Jealous?”

“What?! No!”

She leans in, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Relax, president. It’s just a love letter. Happens all the time.”

You bite your tongue. You’re not jealous. You’re not.

But you go home annoyed.

And when she doesn’t text you that night, you keep checking your phone anyway.

—

—

The next week is chaos.

Event week. Schedules, permissions, venue requests. You bury yourself in work. You avoid the gym wing. You skip the caf. You go out of your way to not see her.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because Natasha doesn’t chase you. She doesn’t text. Doesn’t show up. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong.

You don’t want her to. Except you do.

You hate her.

Except you don’t.

And then it’s Thursday.

You’re reviewing final logistics with your committee when the door opens.

Natasha walks in.

Everyone freezes.

You blink. “Can I help you?”

She walks up and hands you a folded paper.

“Coach needed this signed.”

You take it. “Okay.”

She doesn’t leave.

You glance up. “Anything else?”

She shrugs. “Just wanted to see you.”

You almost drop the pen.

Wanda chokes on her drink.

Natasha leaves before you can reply.

—

Later, your phone buzzes.

You stare at the screen.

You don’t.

That night, you can’t sleep.

Because maybe you miss working with her too.

Maybe you were wrong about her. Maybe she’s not a complete walking red flag. Maybe she’s just... complicated. Rough around the edges. Mysterious in a way that makes you want to keep learning more.

Maybe you’re in trouble.

And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

—

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal.

Just a message. Just a moment. Just Natasha being… Natasha.

And yet, three days later, you're still re-reading that "i miss working with you" text like it’s a published poem.

It’s embarrassing.

Wanda calls you out during lunch. “You’re staring at your phone like it owes you tuition money.”

“It’s none of your business,” you reply, stabbing your salad with unnecessary force.

Yelena snorts. “She still hasn’t asked you out, huh?”

“I am not waiting for her to ask me out.”

Kate raises an eyebrow. “Would you say yes?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know.

Because maybe you would.

—

The rain starts mid-afternoon.

Hard. Fast. The kind that floods the quad and knocks down your color-coded event posters. Not metaphorical, poetic rain. Actual, annoying, soak-your-socks rain. You’re standing under the broken awning outside the school gym, binder clutched to your chest, watching your hard work dissolve into paper mush.

You’re in the school grounds, fuming, clipboard soaked, when she finds you.

“Event prep not going well?” she asks, casually offering her umbrella.

You don’t take it.

She holds it over both of you anyway.

“I worked so hard on those signs,” you mutter. “And now they’re dead. Murdered. By the sky.”

Natasha looks at the puddles like she can beat them up for you. “Wanna make new ones?”

You blink at her. “Why would you help me?”

She shrugs. “Because I like you.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You what?”

“I like helping you,” she clarifies, emphasis deliberate. “You’re cute when you’re stressed.”

You sputter. She smirks.

“Also, I brought snacks,” she adds, pulling a plastic bag out of her varsity jacket. “Thought you might forget lunch again.”

You hate how well she knows you. You hate how that makes your heart do a thing.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

She hands you a rice ball. “So, what’s the plan, boss?”

You look up at her. Rain falling, your shoes soaked, everything a mess—and suddenly it doesn’t feel so bad.

“Plan is… save the event. Rewrite everything. Get glitter glue. Hope for divine intervention.”

Natasha grins. “Finally. A mission worthy of my talents.”

—

That night, you work together again. Just like before.

But it’s not just like before.

Now there’s this thing between you. A current, a tension, an almost.

She sits closer. Laughs more easily. Steals your pen, your snacks, your attention.

You tell her to focus.

She tells you to loosen up.

And at one point—when your hand accidentally brushes hers and you both freeze for half a second too long—you think: this might actually be something.

—

By Friday, everyone notices.

Wanda keeps sending you suspicious side-eyes. Yelena openly teases Natasha in front of you. Even the teachers are acting weird, like they’re expecting a plot twist.

You try to ignore it.

But it’s hard when Natasha keeps finding excuses to be near you.

“Forgot my book. Oh look, we have the same one.”

“Need help carrying that? You clearly skipped arm day.”

“You busy later? I found this new café. They have your favorite coffee.”

It’s maddening. It’s sweet. It’s maddeningly sweet.

You are losing your mind.

—

Then comes the night before the event.

You’re in the auditorium, double-checking lights and stage cues. Natasha shows up, of course. She’s holding a flashlight in her mouth and balancing a roll of tape on her head.

“You’re not on the logistics team,” you tell her.

She drops the tape. “Nope. Just here for moral support. And also to see your cute boss voice again.”

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“You’re annoying,” you say.

“I know.”

A pause.

“You’re… kind of important to me,” you say suddenly. Quiet. Unexpected even to yourself.

Natasha looks up. Serious now. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Just… thought you should know.”

She crosses the stage, stops in front of you, eyes soft in the dim lighting.

“You’re important to me too,” she says. “And not just for school projects.”

Your heart flips. Or malfunctions. Or possibly explodes.

She leans in. You panic.

You shove a clipboard between you. “I-I still have to check the mic system!”

Natasha blinks. Then laughs. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Pres."

—

Later that night:

—

And then, the day of the event arrives.

Everything runs perfectly.

The crowd cheers. The booths look amazing. Your team is killing it.

And in the middle of it all—between speeches, music, and chaos—you feel her watching you.

She’s not trying to hide it.

You glance at her.

She grins.

You grin back.

—

The event ends with a bang. A literal bang.

Someone in the STEM booth miscalculates the chemical reaction for their demo volcano. You hear the fizz, you smell the vinegar, and then—

Boom.

Foam everywhere. It explodes so violently it hits half the hallway. Your shoes are soaked. Your socks are crying. Your bangs are sticking to your forehead. And right next to you, Natasha Romanoff looks like she just walked out of a shampoo commercial—except her face is covered in pink foam, and she’s wheezing.

“You’re laughing?! This is your fault—”

“How is it my fault that the Science Club can’t count?!”

“You egged them on!”

“I told them to go big or go home!” she says, wiping foam from her jaw. “They just… went nuclear.”

You glare. She grins. And then she reaches out—

Flick.

Right on the center of your forehead.

“Relax, Miss President. You look like a very angry bubble tea.”

“I swear, Romanoff—”

She brushes foam from your nose. “Still the cutest bubble tea on campus, though.”

You stare at her.

You forget how to speak.

You nearly combust on the spot.

—

Later that night, the chaos finally dies down. You’re still buzzing from the noise, the laughter, the adrenaline of pulling off an entire school event without anyone setting the curtains on fire (the foam doesn't count, okay). You sneak off behind the gym—because it’s quiet there, and because you know she’ll follow.

She does.

Varsity jacket slung over her shoulder. Tired eyes. Twisted smirk. That lazy, confident swagger like she didn’t just help you keep the student body from collapsing into absolute anarchy.

“Hey,” she says softly.

You look up from your clipboard. “You survived the foam-pocalypse.”

“Barely.”

She walks over, sees you shiver, and wordlessly drops her jacket onto your shoulders.

You go still.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She leans against the wall beside you. You're seated on the bench, curled under her jacket like a burrito. She watches you. Quiet. Soft.

“You did good today, Pres.”

You glance at her. “I had help.”

She shrugs. “I just followed orders.”

You roll your eyes. “You literally yelled at a sophomore to stop lighting incense indoors.”

“He was summoning good vibes.”

“He was summoning a fire hazard.”

She laughs. You bite your lip to hide your smile.

“…Can I tell you something?” she asks, voice suddenly quieter.

You nod slowly.

She shifts. Leans down slightly, just enough that you can see the way her eyes flicker nervously before she brushes your hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your cheek.

“I like you,” she says. “Not just for school. Not just for events. I like you, Y/N. Like, like-like you.”

Your heart stops. Your entire body goes still.

You stare.

Then—“Took you long enough.”

Natasha blinks. “Wait—what?”

You laugh—light and breathless. “You think I didn’t notice the forehead flicks? The snacks? The weirdly specific coffee orders? The way you walk me home and then pretend it’s not a big deal?”

Natasha looks faintly betrayed. “I was being subtle!”

“You’re literally six-foot-two and smirk at me like a YA love interest. Nothing about you is subtle.”

She gasps. “Are you comparing me to a Wattpad boy?”

“I shouldn’t, but yes.”

Natasha groans into her hands. “This is the worst confession ever—”

You reach up, grab her hands, and pull them down gently.

“I like you too, Delinquent.”

She goes silent.

Then she flicks your forehead again. “I knew it.”

“Ow?!”

“Deserved.”

You grab her collar before she can pull back and lean your forehead against hers, still giggling.

“You’re infuriating.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

You kiss her cheek. She actually short-circuits.

—

—

You barely sleep that night.

Too giddy. Too electrified. Too busy replaying every second of her smile, her laugh, the way she short-circuited when you kissed her cheek.

The group chat keeps blowing up—Wanda’s in full meltdown mode, Yelena’s already planning the wedding, and you… you’re floating.

But the world doesn’t stop just because your crush finally confessed.

The next day arrives fast. Loud. Demanding.

And before you know it—

The interschool basketball match begins.

You shouldn’t even be in the gym.

You’ve got student council paperwork spilling out of your arms, a working list of urgent tasks highlighted in pastel chaos, and three missed calls from your VP asking where the sign-up forms are. Your planner is a warzone, your phone is blowing up, and you haven’t eaten since breakfast.

But you’re here.

Sitting beside Wanda, Yelena, and Kate in the front row of bleachers, legs crossed, hands clenched in your lap, trying very hard not to watch the court.

You tell yourself it’s just for school spirit. You're here to support the school. Support the team.

It’s not about her.

It’s never about her.

Except it’s absolutely about her.

Because Natasha Romanoff is on the court, and for the first time ever, she’s… off.

Her passes are sloppy. She misses two layups in a row. Her defense is late. Her rhythm? Gone. There’s a visible crack in her composure—she’s snapping at teammates, cursing under her breath, yanking at the hem of her jersey like she can pull herself together through sheer will.

“She’s spiraling,” Kate says quietly.

Yelena’s brows furrow. “She doesn’t play like this. Ever.”

“She looks—nervous?” Wanda says, watching closely. “She keeps glancing at the bleachers.”

You force yourself not to move.

Not to flinch.

Not to let the burn in your chest show.

Because she is glancing. Over and over again. Her eyes are scanning the stands, sharp and desperate, like she's looking for something—or someone—and not finding them. Each time she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, her face hardens. Her jaw tightens.

“She’s looking for you,” Yelena murmurs, like she’s just realized.

You press your lips into a thin line.

“She thought you wouldn’t come,” Wanda whispers.

And for a moment, you almost don’t.

But then—

Then she misses another shot. The crowd groans. She slaps her hands against her thighs, furious.

And suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

“God,” you mutter, already standing, “if I get suspended for this—”

You cup your hands around your mouth and yell across the court before your brain can catch up.

“ROMANOFF! PLAY LIKE YOU MEAN IT!”

The whole gym stops.

Like, actually stops.

Every head turns. The air shifts. Even the referee pauses.

And Natasha?

She freezes.

Her eyes snap to you instantly—like she’d been waiting for that voice all game.

And when she finds you?

Her whole expression changes. Like she can breathe again.

The corner of her mouth twitches. A breathless laugh escapes her. Her shoulders roll back. Then—

She moves.

Sharp. Precise. Lethal.

The Natasha everyone knows is back.

She steals the ball from the opposing point guard like it’s nothing, darts down the court, and scores with a clean, perfect shot that wipes out the tension from the past ten minutes.

From that moment on, the game shifts. Momentum tilts.

Natasha becomes unstoppable.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until the final buzzer sounds—Natasha’s team winning by two points. The crowd explodes into cheers.

You clap automatically. Just once. Then grab your things, ready to disappear before anyone processes what just happened—

But she doesn’t go to her team.

She doesn’t wait for the trophy, or the coach’s speech, or the photos.

She runs.

Straight. To. You.

Through her teammates, through the crowd, ignoring her coach yelling her name and the players trying to high-five her.

You blink as she stops in front of you—sweaty, panting, eyes burning with something so raw it makes your chest ache.

“Hi,” she breathes, like the world’s been holding its breath without you.

You stare. “Hi?”

“You came,” she says, her voice hoarse. “I thought—” she shakes her head, words failing. “You weren’t there. I looked and you weren’t—”

“I was late,” you admit softly. “I had council stuff—”

“I thought I ruined everything,” she whispers.

You frown. “Romanoff—”

“I couldn’t see you,” she continues, like it’s been sitting in her throat the whole game. “I kept looking and you weren’t—God, I thought I lost you.”

You blink fast, something thick in your throat. “You didn’t.”

A pause.

And then—

“Can I kiss you?” she asks, not a tease this time. Just desperate. Just honest. “I—I need to know this is real.”

Your heart is pounding.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You can.”

She kisses you.

Right there. In the middle of the gym. In front of literally everyone.

It’s messy. Breathless. Charged with too much feeling and not enough time. Her hands slide into your hair, holding on like she’s still scared you’ll vanish.

Gasps ripple through the crowd. Wanda screams. Kate chokes. Yelena straight-up punches the air.

And when Natasha finally pulls back, she leans her forehead against yours and breathes, “Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?” you ask, dazed.

“Disappear,” she says. “Make me play like a rookie. Make me lose my mind.”

You grin despite yourself. “You were that bad?”

She scoffs. “I nearly fouled out looking for you.”

You try to look smug. “Guess you need me around, huh?”

Natasha leans in, brushing her nose against yours.

“Guess I do, President.”

The crowd is still roaring. Someone’s taking photos. The coach is yelling in the distance.

But all you feel is her.

And for the first time in weeks, everything finally makes sense again.

You sigh, dramatic and hopeless. “I’m so doomed.”

She kisses you again, softer this time.

“Yeah,” she murmurs against your lips. “But at least now you’re doomed with me.”

—

The next morning, Natasha walks up to you in the middle of the hallway.

She’s in her varsity jacket.

You’re in her hoodie from last night.

Everyone sees.

She stops in front of you. Smirks.

You squint. “Why do you look like you’re about to say something embarrassing?”

“Because I am.” She flicks your forehead again. “Hi, baby.”

Your entire soul leaves your body.

Wanda SCREAMS from across the hallway.

Yelena fist-pumps.

Natasha leans in, lips near your ear.

“Now everyone knows you’re mine, Pres.”

You elbow her. Lightly.

She catches your hand.

Doesn’t let go.

Then threads her fingers through yours like it’s always been that easy.

And maybe it is.

Because from the way your heart leaps, the way her thumb brushes yours—

You realize you’ve been hers all along.

[erenists]

Obsessive! Geto

Masterlist ✦ Part 1  | Wc:639 Synopsis: To others, it might look like a crush. But Geto’s obsession with you runs much deeper—stalking, secret photos, and fantasies no one should ever admit. It started the moment he saw you. And it’s only getting worse.

Warnings: He’s kinda like a stalker… yearns for you (Like for half of the headcanons…) Pervy Geto too, lowkey. MDNI 18+. He masturbates to your pics.

Obsessive!Geto the first time he saw you in the halls was while he was walking to his physics class and immediately knew he needed to have you.

Obsessive!Geto who begs Shoko and Utahime for your Instagram once he realizes they’re friends with you. “Guys, please, I beg you—I’ll give you half of my paycheck.”

Obsessive!Geto who immediately starts going through every single photo you’ve posted and every highlight you have up, his breath caught in his throat, heart thudding every time your face pops up on the screen.

Obsessive!Geto who has a collection of photos of you—whether it’s ones you’ve posted yourself or ones Shoko and Utahime have shared—just know he has it. Saved. Archived. Cherished.

Obsessive!Geto who decides that just isn’t enough and makes it his goal to take secret pictures of you. So to reach that goal, he had to figure out your schedule. And of course, to figure that out, he had to follow you around. Without you knowing, duh.

Obsessive!Geto who figures out your schedule in the span of two days—he’s efficient like that. Had to make sure he wasn’t looking suspicious, of course. Wouldn’t want to scare you. Not yet.

Obsessive!Geto who makes sure to walk past your favorite café at the exact time you like to grab your drink—just to catch a glimpse of you in your little post-class daze. He already knows your go-to order by heart. He starts ordering it too. It makes him feel closer to you.

Obsessive!Geto who sits across the café with his phone subtly angled at you, pretending to scroll while he snaps photos of your lips as you sip, your fingers as they wrap around your cup. You have no idea he’s there. You never do.

Obsessive!Geto who keeps your photos in a locked folder on his phone, organized by category: “smiling,” “serious,” “outfits,” and of course… “for when I need you.”

Obsessive!Geto who starts to steal little things from you. A pen you left behind in lecture. A scrunchie that slipped off your wrist when you passed by. He keeps them in a box under his bed like relics. He sometimes opens it just to smell the faint scent of you on the fabric.

Obsessive!Geto who gets off to your Instagram stories. The ones where you post mirror selfies in tight gym clothes. Or post-thirst traps with captions like “felt cute.” He watches them over and over. Replays. Slows them down. Imagines what you'd sound like moaning his name.

Obsessive!Geto who once overheard you talking about your type—and ever since, he’s been slowly morphing into it. New cologne. New playlist. New jacket. If you say you love something, he breathes it. You like soft-spoken guys? He’s the quietest in the room now.

Obsessivel!Geto who’s convinced it’s only a matter of time before you notice him. Before you realize you’ve always wanted him. That no one will ever love you the way he already does. "Just a little longer, baby. You’ll see."

Obsessive!Geto who slips up once—accidentally liking a photo of you from two years ago at 2:43AM. His heart drops into his stomach when he realizes. Deletes the like. Prays you didn’t see.

Obsessive!Geto who watches your story the next day and panics when you post a cryptic caption— “y’all ever feel like someone’s watching you?” He freezes. Fingers twitching. Is it about him? Did you finally notice? His cock twitches at the idea.

Obsessive!Geto who starts to fantasize about what it’d be like to finally talk to you. To sit beside you in class and whisper filthy thoughts in your ear like, "You have no idea how long I’ve been watching you, princess." And you’d blush. You’d squirm. Maybe slap him, maybe not. Either way, he thinks you’d look beautiful underneath him.

A/N: Part 2?? isnt he such a silly goose, honestly he'd go to jail if he wasnt so beautiful </3 part 2

REBLOG OR COMMENT TO BE ADDED TO TAGLIST!

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

“Are you gonna be a good girl?” || Young President!Coriolanus Snow x reader

Summary: Coryo's friends have always been and probably will always be condescending towards you. When you refuse to stay home when he invites them over for dinner, you become aware of the intricate control that Coriolanus has skillfully woven around you, highlighting a sense of submission in your actions.

Warnings: reader smoking, age gap (r is 18 and Coryo is 25), manipulative, controlling, toxic!coryo, power dynamic, condescending behaviour,

Wc: 740

A/n: crap summary but i kinda got inspired by Priscilla and I lowkey imagined cailee as Priscilla in this but u don’t have to. I LOVE THIS MOVIE SM 😭 also pretend Arachne is still alive.

"I want to visit my family later today, Coryo," you mention, casually flicking the ashes from your cigarette into the nearby ashtray. Coryo looks up from his newspaper, his gaze fixed on you. “What?”

"I want to see my family later today," you repeat, "I haven’t seen them in weeks." The sentiment is laced with a tinge of longing. With a cigarette delicately held between meticulously manicured nails, your painted lips articulate the words, the smoke swirling into the air.

A hush settles in the air until Coryo’s voice breaks the silence, his tone void of emotion. “You can’t. Not today,” he asserts, his attention returning to the newspaper. Your eyes fixate on him. “And why not?” You try not to raise your voice, but a hint of urgency slips through.

"Because, sweetheart, we have guests coming over for dinner." You roll your eyes. "And I want you here, yes?" he adds, pointing to you. “Who’s coming?” Coriolanus sighs deeply, dismissing the question with, “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does matter. Who’s coming, Coryo?” Your tone grows more agitated. He casually shrugs, “Just a few of my friends, that’s all.” The harsh stubbing out of your cigarette emphasizes your displeasure.

"Your friends?" you question, annoyance evident in your tone. Sensing your irritation, he casually discards his newspaper to the side. “Yes, does that bother you?” he spat in response, his words carrying a tinge of defiance.

You let out an exasperated laugh, “You know how I dislike your friends, Coryo. They’re horrible to me!” You grip the armchair tightly, leaning towards him. You can practically feel the irritation radiating off you.

Coriolanus dismissively rolls his eyes. “Please. They’re not horrible to you. You’re being dramatic—” The room is charged with tension as your hand forcefully slams on the table. “Yes. They are. They belittle me, Coryo!” The weight of your words hangs in the air, your chest heaving from the emotional intensity of the outburst.

It's true. Whenever you're around Coriolanus' friends, it's hard not to notice the condescending vibe they throw your way, the snarky comments about anything and everything about you.

The memory of your wedding day remains vivid in your mind, etched with indelible images of raised eyebrows and skeptical glances from all of Snow's friends as you walked down the aisle. The collective gaze left you with a lingering sense of embarrassment. You were only 17, and he was 24.

You were well aware of the swarm of thoughts buzzing through their minds every time they saw you with Coriolanus. According to them, you were too young, too naive, too quiet, and perhaps even too unintelligent to hold the title of First Lady.

The unsolicited opinions seemed to echo a common sentiment: Coriolanus should have chosen someone closer to his age, someone who shared more similarities with him.

Conversations with his friends were always filled with subtly belittling comments that Coryo either didn't notice or chose to ignore.

Arachne stood out as the harshest among them all. Her comments, in particular, were cutting and had a way of driving you out of the room, often leaving you with tears streaming down your face.

In their eyes, you were just weak. A wife who sat there and looked pretty. But you were more than that, you knew that, hell, even Coriolanus knew that, but he never spoke up.

"They just like to tease you. Don't be so sensitive," he scoffs, the nonchalance in his tone amplifying your frustration. You gnaw at your lips as Coriolanus rises with a sigh, leisurely stretching his neck before heading to the nearby table to pour himself a glass of alcohol.

"I don't want to be here," you whisper loud enough for him to hear you. "I want to see my family, Coryo," your voice trembling with the urgency of your plea. "You can't deny me of seeing my own family," you exclaimed, the words escaping your lips with an urgency that surprised even you.

His response was swift, harsh. He took hold of your chin, his fingers digging into your flesh as he forced you to look at him. "You are to stay here, do you hear me?" he commanded, his voice cutting through the air.

The forcefulness of his grip left you momentarily breathless. Your attempt to pull away was futile as his gaze bore into you, a mix of anger and expectation in his eyes. Tears welled up, blurring your vision as a wave of helplessness washed over you.

As your gaze meets his with glassy, doe-like eyes, Coriolanus can't help but be overcome with a sense of remorse. His hold gently eases, his fingers transitioning from your chin to delicately trace the pad of his thumb along your cheekbone.

"Are you gonna be a good girl and stay, hm?" His voice was softer now. You swallow hard and you find yourself nodding, silently surrendering to the intricate web of control that Coriolanus deftly wove around you.

Coriolanus tenderly brushes away a stray tear that had dared to escape, his touch as soft as a fleeting whisper. Leaning in, he draws closer to your face, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek. The warmth of the kiss lingers for a brief moment, a delicate embrace, before he gently withdraws. "Now, go get ready," he says, his back turned to you as he pours himself another glass as you wordlessly leave.

[jungwnies]

tamed - max verstappen (2/4)

୨ৎ : pairing : max verstappen x fem!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : after his big win, a social media blunder threatens their fragile peace, can quick thinking save the day?

୨ৎ : genre : romance, angst, humor ୨ৎ : tws : workplace stress, social media anxiety, mentions of anger and conflict ୨ৎ : wc : 816

part one | part two | part three | part four | epilogue

The Red Bull Racing headquarters buzzes with a nervous energy you haven't felt since your first day. Max, despite his initial hostility, has been surprisingly cooperative lately. He actually showed up to the photoshoot with the rescue kittens (and even managed to resist the urge to playfully flick one on the head when it batted at his nose, though you caught him giving it the side-eye afterwards). He even sat through a media training session without threatening to throttle the instructor (though he did "accidentally" spill his coffee on the poor guy's notes).

But you know it's a fragile peace. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and the fiery Max Verstappen you met on day one could reappear. You're determined to keep him on track, both literally and figuratively. You've been working tirelessly, crafting a PR strategy that balances his "authenticity" with the need to, well, not offend half the planet. It's a delicate dance, but you're starting to get the hang of it.

You've been subtly tweaking his social media presence, replacing the angry rants with photos of him training, interacting with fans (from a safe distance), and showcasing his surprisingly dry wit in carefully scripted interviews. You even managed to convince him to participate in a charity event, where he reluctantly interacted with adorable children and somehow managed not to scare them off (though you did catch him making faces at a particularly clingy toddler when he thought no one was looking).

But the real test comes with the race weekend.

The atmosphere is electric, the tension palpable. Max is a coiled spring, his focus laser-sharp. You watch him navigate the track with a mix of awe and anxiety, your heart pounding in sync with the roar of his engine.

And then, it happens.

He wins.

Not just a win, a dominant victory, leaving his rivals in the dust. He emerges from his car, a triumphant grin on his face, the roar of the crowd washing over him.

This is your moment.

You rush back to your makeshift office, adrenaline coursing through your veins. You have the perfect plan to capitalize on this victory, to showcase Max's talent and charisma to the world.

You've been collecting photos and videos all weekend, capturing Max's every move. You have shots of him strategizing with his engineers, interacting with fans, and celebrating with his team. You even have a hilarious clip of him attempting to assemble a cat tree for his cats, Jimmy and Sassy, who seem determined to sabotage his every move. (Jimmy bats at the dangling toys while Sassy strategically positions herself on the instruction manual, rendering it completely unreadable.)

You carefully curate the content, crafting a narrative that highlights Max's dedication, his passion, and his (somewhat) softer side. You write witty captions, select the perfect filters, and schedule the posts for maximum impact.

But amidst all the excitement, you make a critical error.

Hidden among the carefully chosen photos is that infamous picture from the team event – the one of Max mid-sneeze, looking like he just wrestled a bear and lost. You don't notice it, too focused on the bigger picture, the perfect PR strategy.

You hit "schedule" and lean back in your chair, a satisfied sigh escaping your lips. Mission accomplished.

You spend the rest of the day basking in the afterglow of Max's victory and your perfectly executed social media campaign. You even treat yourself to a celebratory glass of champagne (or two).

The next morning, you wake up to a barrage of notifications on your phone. You scroll through them, confused. Mentions of Max, Red Bull Racing, and... laughter?

You open Instagram and your blood runs cold.

The photo.

The dreaded, hilarious, utterly embarrassing photo of Max mid-sneeze, sandwiched between a picture of him spraying champagne on the podium and a heartfelt message to his fans.

Your heart plummets to your stomach.

You frantically try to delete the post, but it's already too late. The damage is done. The internet has exploded with memes, comments, and articles about "Sneezy Max."

You imagine Max's face, contorted not in a sneeze but in pure fury. You can practically hear him roaring your name, his voice echoing through the corridors of Red Bull Racing headquarters.

Just then, your phone pings with a text from Max.

"Care to explain yourself?" it reads, followed by a string of emojis that can only be interpreted as rage.

You take a deep breath and brace yourself for the inevitable fallout.

You rush to the Red Bull Racing headquarters, your mind racing. How are you going to explain this? What kind of excuse could possibly justify posting such an unflattering photo of your notoriously image-conscious boss?

You burst into Max's office, ready to grovel, beg for forgiveness, offer your resignation – anything to appease the storm you know is about to erupt.

And when you see him, you're taken aback.

taglist: @residentdemonhunter , @nctislifue , @kqliie , comment to be tagged

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[kancelolol]

Amidst a Blanket Ryusei Shidou x GN!reader

Shidou has strange habits, and you think you might just love all of them.

wc: 1.3k || Established relationship || Slightly suggestive?? || Jokes about kidnapping || Fluff || Oneshot

Shidou Ryusei is unpredictable.

It got to a point where you stopped attempting to anticipate his next move, especially ever since you two began living together. You never know how many bruises he'll come home with after practice (you wonder how he has so many, surely football doesn't produce this many injuries??), or if he'll step through the front door with a new mini velociraptor figurine to add to his collection. His little eccentric quirks and living habits just integrated into your life, becoming something you adapted to rather than restricted.

This moment right now is a pretty good example of that.

Your legs and arms are pressed close to your body as you drowily blink up at the ceiling, awaking from your slumber. It was warm. Very warm. Probably thanks to the fuzzy trap you were caught in.

On the days when you're expected to not have work, you often find yourself waking up in bed wrapped in a blanket like a burrito. As a heavy sleeper, you were easy to confine, with the perpetrator being your one and only boyfriend, Shidou—who's an early riser (for reasons you will never understand).

You just sigh with remnants of sleep still lingering, recognizing the situation. It prompts you to push some of the blanket away from your face using your chin, craning your head towards the bedroom balcony.

There, you see Shidou standing with his hands on his hip. Without gel, hair was flat on his head, and his bare back was exposed to you...alongside his ass cheeks.

You sigh even harder at the sight, which his ears perk up at. Turning around in all his naked glory, a vibrant grin forms on his face.

You hardly reciprocate the energy.

"Good morning~" He strides over to you, sliding the door close behind him, "Sleep well?"

"Very. So much so that I think I'll go right back." You return your gaze to the ceiling, shimmying deeper into the blanket.

You hear a mixture of a snicker and shuffling at the end of the bed before an elastic snap—which you assume was him putting on his boxers. Seconds later, his face pops into view as he towers over you, wearing his signature smirk.

"It's nearly noon, it'd be boring to rot in bed all day. Don't you want to hang out with me~?"

You groan, forcing your eyes shut in hopes that he will somehow disappear. Instead, the bed dips, and you feel him pull down the edge of the blanket to expose your nose.

He places a soft kiss on the tip of it, making you peak your eyes open. He moves to the side to plant the second kiss on your cheek, while the third kiss lands gently on your forehead. His forearms rest on each side of your head as Shidou stares down at you.

The light shining in through the glass balcony door illuminates his face, highlighting his blonde hair and bright pink eyes—which match his dyed pink tips that were tickling your face as you mirrored his stare.

You think Shidou Ryusei is like the sun.

Not the kind that little kids wish for on a cold rainy day so they could play outside without their parents scolding them about getting sick. Or the kind that people pray for when there's heavy snow that causes a power outage.

But the kind that burns during the summer.

It's unrelenting and difficult to handle, painting your skin red with an unbearable sting, while sweat continues to soak into your clothes and hair.

Yet, it never meant to hurt. To make people uncomfortable.

It just simply shines the brightest it can—for as long as it can—in order to place its mark on the world.

Only those who make the most of it can realize its true beauty. Unlike the others, they'll be the only ones to experience just how sweet and refreshing the taste of watermelon can be, or the exhilarating feeling of splashing in the cool ocean.

Even when Shidou's troublesome at times, you cherish your time with him—his dazzling energy guiding you through new, bewitching perspectives of the world.

You admire his long, blonde eyelashes that flutter curiously, "You need to stop doing that."

His eyebrow quirks up, "Doing what?"

"Standing outside. Naked. Our neighbors are going to file a complaint."

Shidou snorts as he lets himself fall on top of you, nuzzling into your neck, "For what? Going on with my business in my own home? It's not like I'm doing it out in a park."

"It's still an open space where strangers can see you. Which I doubt they want to." You remind him in case he somehow forgot. You don't think any of them have witnessed his little morning routine yet, but you dread the day that they do.

"Are you jealous that you're not the only one who gets to see all of this?" He wiggles his eyebrows with a smirk, clearly not taking this seriously.

You deadpan, too tired to reason with him, "Nevermind. You're impossible."

"Sorry baby. It's basically a daily ritual for me. Can't give it up." He raises his head before pressing his forehead against yours, twirling a strand of your bed hair on his finger, "Don't worry though, even if other people get an eyeful, I'm completely yours."

You roll your eyes, pretending that his words aren't making you question if they induced a sunburn on your face. Unfortunately, the smug look Shidou wore tells you that he already knows.

"...Whatever. Just get me out." You avert your gaze with a pout, pushing against his weight from under the blanket. You grumble lowly, complaining about how you don't understand his motive for this frequent prank, while you lean into the hand toying with your hair.

"Of course your highness~" He smirks, lifting himself off you before undoing his binding, "And it's cause you're cute."

"What?"

"You're too cute. Makes me wanna wrap you up and take ya somewhere far away."

You look at him with bewilderment as he frees you from the blanket, crawling on the bed to kneel in front of you.

You narrow your eyes as you sit up, "So you wanna kidnap me?"

"Is that a bad thing?" He tilts his head to the side with mock-innocence.

You shoot him a glare. He laughs.

"I'm kidding~ I'm kidding~" He chuckles light heartedly, "You'd miss your family and friends too much. Wouldn't wanna hurt ya like that."

You know it's a joke, but your heart beats irregularly nonetheless.

"You're so weird." You mumble a whine, but you think you might be just as weird for feeling so content.

"Ya still love me though." He leans in with a sly grin, gradually closing the distance to give you the fourth kiss on your lips.

You can't help but allow the corner of your mouth to curl up at his words, which only makes Shidou's smile widen against yours. He tastes like the toothpaste in your shared bathroom, even more so when his tongue traces yours—slow and savoring.

You kiss him back, hands curled against his chest as you let out a pleased hum. It's different than usual, soft in a way that makes you feel sleepy again.

Until your bottom lip tingles in pain.

You yelp, eyes flying open as you jerk backward. Shidou grins at you devilishly, licking his lips.

He nipped you.

You gaped at him, eyebrows twitching at the fact that he attacked after getting your guard down.

"...You—!"

He cackles loudly, dodging the pillow you threw at him. You get into an altercation, wrestling while cursing him out.

However, you can't hide neither the giant smile on your face, nor your laughter that mingles with his.

Because although Shidou Ryusei could be a pain, you've always loved the summer

[hwallazia]

LOVE LANGUAGE – 정우영 & 최산

⋆ synopsis. after a long, tiring day at work, all you want to do is come home to your boyfriends and cuddle with them. of course they fulfill your wish, but with something more. a little surprise for you.

pairing. poly! woosan & fem! reader

wc. 2,8k

warnings. smut but the fluffiest (still, mdni!), softest doms! woosan (like fr they’re devoted to yn), sub! reader, fingering, begging, sooo much praise, dirty talk, suggestive language, nicknames (baby, princess, darling, good girl, & more), sweetest touches, just the three of them being stupidly in love and woosan being the best boyfriends ever <3

nic’s notes ⋆ i know all the smut one shots or drabbles i’ve written have the same tags. it’s just that i can’t bring myself to write idk something more hardcore? ㅠㅅㅠ i just write whatever comes to my head but with my preferences, which is vanilla sex essentially with a looot of nicknames and praise. next time i’ll try to do something a bit rougher and more passionate ♡

You’re having a hard day.

You’ve already lost count of how long your boss has been talking to you, reminding you how much he hates mistakes in a company like his. His eyebrows furrowed together as a sign of frustration. You’ve honestly forgotten what you had originally started talking about. The more the man continued speaking, the more entangled you became with his words. After being scolded by your superior, you sit down in your desk chair and take a sip of your already lukewarm coffee. A gesture of disgust curves your lips.

You sigh, leaning back in your seat. It’s too much to bear for it being eight-thirty in the morning, you repeatedly think about how much you want to yell at your boss to fuck off. He’s had you like this for weeks, busy with projects that don’t even concern you, but rather the other team his stepdaughter is on.

Of course, he wouldn’t make her work like he makes you work. Baggy eyes? In her lover’s daughter's eyes? Over his dead body. Your blood boiled every time you scanned her carefully every time she entered a room, almost always surrounded by three girls who followed her like fans, more like stalkers you think, smiling as if she was a celebrity, while you were trapped at your desk, doing her job.

You remember that time when you deigned to complain to your boss about this situation. “You get paid to work, not to complain. Go back to your desk” were the only words he said to you. Choking with all your strength the desire to suffocate him with your own hands, you replied with a “Yes, sir” with your hurt pride held high.

At some point in the morning, Miss Everybody-loves-me walks by your desk, her finger pressing to the surface of it as it runs over it, collecting dust particles from her fingertips. In her other hand resting her Starbucks drink.

“New project?” She says, showing a row of white, perfectly arranged teeth.

You shake your head, “It's the same one from the other day,” You reply, “Yesterday.” A tone of annoyance highlighted in your voice.

She nods repeatedly as if she understands you, as if she is being empathetic with you. Hypocrite. “My bad. I really thought you’d have it ready by today. You know, because the executive meeting is tomorrow and—.”

“Yes,” You say loudly. Of course you already know that you have to have it ready for tomorrow, it’s for that same reason that you haven’t been sleeping properly the last few days. Because you’re busy doing the work of the bitch who was in front of you, talking to you, “Yes, yes. I already know that piece of information. Thank you.”

“Just stopping by to remind you.” A giggle slips past her lips, the desire to want to smack her growing bigger and bigger, “Keep up the good work! Bye.”

She presses her longest fingers against her lips and then peels them away, sending you a flying kiss. You’re grateful she left, you can’t hold back the urge to finally shut her up with a good smack on that stupid smile of hers. A low “shit” escapes your lips as you watch her turn around and face your desk again, still not leaving you alone. “Oh, by the way. I hope you liked the coffee. Before I left my place, I saw that there was still that cup of coffee that I hadn't finished a few days ago. Four days have passed? I don’t know, nor do I remember. Anyway, bye.”

You finally watch as her anatomy disappears as she walks further. You turn and bitterly scan the coffee mug resting on a small oak table not too far from you. Your fingers hold the mug’s handle and throw it right into the trash. You want to scream at this exact moment, and the only way you find to relieve your miserable morning anger a little is to scream into the sleeve of your blazer.

The morning passes with difficulty and you smile for the first time today when you take a quick look at your watch and realize there are only two minutes left until you finish your workday. You had successfully completed the project and its presentation for the meeting you have the next day. At least your day was productive—after all.

Those are the longest two minutes of your life, but when they are finally over, you almost run towards the exit of the large building in which you’ve spent almost eleven hours of your day locked up.

In the blink of an eye, you’re already parking your car in the garage of the apartment where you live with your other two boyfriends. You know they were already home, probably cooking, watching a movie, or playing. As usual.

In about five minutes you’re already inserting your key, the sound of the locks and their mechanism working correctly to unlock the door being the only thing you could hear. Once the door is wide open, you cross the threshold and kick off your heels which have trapped your feet from a long day at work. You feel like you’re floating when you finally touch the warm floor of your apartment, and you trudge to your room, finding San leaning against the bed’s headboard, smiling at finally seeing you after a long day. A book resting on his right palm and his glasses decorating his beautiful face. The sigh that leaves your lips is inevitable. A soft smile is placed on your lips.

“Sannie.” You murmur, your arms outstretched for him to wrap you in a hug as you walk towards him.

“My love,” he crawls to the edge of the bed where he reciprocates your hug.

Your cheek resting against his flat chest, his hand gently caressing your hair. Through your nostrils, you can perceive the combination of that lavender shampoo you bought him a few months ago and soap. He smells so good, you thought to yourself. Him cooing at you like you were a baby is an image you want to keep in your head forever. You swear you can give into his arms as the tiredness starts affecting you.

You manage to hear the sound of a door opening. Then you turn round and find your other lover, Wooyoung, his hand drying his damp hair with the help of a small towel. However, you can’t see him, because your eyes have closed involuntarily while you enjoyed San's loving hug.

His eyes shine when he sees your figure. “There’s my girl.” He approaches you and San. His lips make contact with your other cheek.

Finally separating from San, they can ask you how your day was.

You sigh to look them in the eyes. “Terrible. Everything was so overwhelming today.” You pause, “Too much paperwork, too much.” You repeat it a second time, this time even more exhausted.

“Mm,” San murmurs, “Do you want to talk about that?”

“Not really. I just want—”

Wooyoung interrupts you to say, “Did that bitch have anything to do with it?” He says referring to Bora.

A loud gasp leaves your lips as you remember that she’s also been part of your day, “You have no idea what she did to me today,” You tell him what happened with your coffee. A soft giggle comes from San, the same person you just denied wanting to talk about your day.

“That bitch. How dare she?” San lets out an annoyed ‘mhm’ when he hears him speak. Your chivalrous San never uses that kind of insult to refer to women. He never actually insults women, “What? She deserves it. Look what she did to your girl today!”

“Our.” You correct him, a smile decorating his lips as he hears you say that.

“Yes, that. Ours.” You cup his chin and pull him to your lips to place a kiss on his cheek. His smile growing even bigger as San shakes his head at him.

A sigh leaves your lips, “To be honest, I just want to take a bath in the tub.”

“With bubbles?”

“And massages?” San adds after Wooyoung.

You can’t contain your smile, your boys’ hearts melting at the sight of you, “You guys want to bathe me? Really?”

“As if we haven’t seen you naked already,” Wooyoung speaks, your palm crashing against his side in a poor attempt to hide your embarrassment.

Your boyfriends guide you to their spacious bathroom. San heading to the bathtub while Wooyoung rummages through the drawers, looking for the bubbles he mentioned to you a few minutes ago. Your body collapses in slow motion against the cold porcelain of the tub, San holding you securely in his arms like a baby.

“You’re home now. You don’t have to worry about anything else, okay?” He places a quick kiss on your forehead, “Let us take care of the rest.”

Tiredness barely allows you to give him one of those smiles that your boyfriend falls in love with so much, “Found ’em!” You turn to meet Wooyoung with a victorious smile on his lips.

It takes several minutes for the tub to fill almost completely. When it does, Wooyoung undresses in a flash and climbs into the bathtub, keeping you company. San was still sitting behind you on the wide edge, his hands working your scalp so you don’t even have to worry about washing your hair.

You hum under his touch, your body gradually relaxing. Meanwhile, Wooyoung starts putting bath bombs of your favorite scents. The delicious aroma of vanilla and coconut invading your senses.

You feel San’s laborious hands leave your hair and subtly dry it with a towel. Now his hands move down to focus on your shoulders, his fingers exerting gentle pressure against your skin. Again, you hum as you felt him work that area.

“We know how hard you work every day. And how hard you try, and we love you so much for that.” You’ve already lost count of how many kisses San has pressed against your forehead, “That’s why we want to take care of you,” He paused briefly, “Tonight and always.”

A genuine smile forms on your lips. You really had no idea what you’d done to deserve two great boyfriends, so caring and affectionate. Your love for them can’t be described in words and neither can theirs for you. You melt after hearing their words, only being able to utter a soft ‘thank you’, hoping they understand that that ‘thank you’ was much more than the meaning of the word itself.

Wooyoung’s hand brushing against your skin as it goes down is what takes you away from the sweet words of the man behind you, his eyes never disconnecting from your gaze. You finally understand the way your boyfriends want to pamper you. And you’re not against their intentions at all.

“Just relax, my love.” Wooyoung whispers, “I’ll make you feel so good.”

Heat flushes through you as he drags his hand even lower, your legs unconsciously opening a little more, your cheeks turning a cute red. You hum when his fingers caress your folds softly, leaning your head against San’s forearm.

“Young-ah,” His name is nothing more than a simple breath of air in the silent bathroom, “Please.”

“What is it, princess?” San’s low voice resonates inside your ears, “Tell us what you want.”

“P-please,” You beg, “Touch me.”

“I am touching you, love.”

You let out a minimal desperate pant. “Come on. Don’t tease, Woo”

“I’m not teasing, babe. I’m just doing want you’re telling me to do, aren’t I?” He scoffs. Your hips slightly rocking against his hand looking for some friction.

You let out a long sigh and with that your last trace of bashfulness, “Please. Put your fingers inside me, Woo. Please.” You give him your best doe-eyes, you know it worked when he emits a 'fuck' under his breath. 

Wooyoung dips his middle finger into your heat, the sound of your stickiness being drowned out by the warm water, how wet your cunt is being a secret between your boyfriend and his fingers. Thanks to the habit of doing this almost every week, he now knows where to touch, when to increase his pace, and above all, how to drive you crazy with just his long phalanges.

You don’t know when your eyes closed, but you know it was because of the satisfaction that was overtaking you. You unconsciously raise your hips in an attempt to get his fingers even deeper into you. 

For a moment you think San was enjoying the view in front of him with fierce eyes, hungry for you. You imagine him lightly pumping his cock behind you, a sight for sore eyes.

That is until you feel a pair of hands rest on your breasts, skilled fingers touching your nipples, varying in a pattern of touching and pinching them.

“I’m—” You can’t even formulate a coherent word, everything just being overwhelming in a good way, a very good way. 

Wooyoung hits the soft, right spot and you tremble beneath him, your back arching beautifully. Your lips vocalize a precious moan, “Wooyoung, baby. Don't stop.”

“Fuck, your moans are so pretty,” San says as he reclines and attaches his lips to the side of your neck, leaving cute lovebites that will surely turn purple by tomorrow morning. You’ll have to take care of that, but later. Right now you’re trying to hold onto the last piece of sanity you have left.

“Definitely our favorite sound,” Wooyoung replies, his fingers pumping into you faster, “Are you close, my love? Gonna cum on my fingers?”

His husky voice just pushes you even closer to the edge, “Yes, yes!” San sucks sharply in the right place as you cum. A long moan leaves your lips as you tremble beneath Wooyoung, him helping you ride your orgasm the best way possible.

Your eyes shut the moment you come. A few seconds later, you feel movement in the waters, as if someone has left and entered again. You think it’s Wooyoung, who came out to get a towel and dry you off, but when you feel a hand, different from the one that had been touching you until a few seconds ago, caressing your inner thighs you open your eyes meeting San’s.

“Hi, beautiful.” He admires your blissed-out expression for a moment, “Can you give us another one?”

You whimper, trying to hold yourself together, “I-I don’t know, Sannie,” You try to say “no” since you’re still sensitive and kind of overstimulated, but you just don’t want to admit it. Somehow you turn to your shy self again. It only lasts a few seconds though. His fingers make their way into your arousal and a hot, loud moan escapes from your lips.

He starts pumping his fingers into you at a fast pace, barely bearable for you. His movements cause you pleasure and pain at the same time, after all, you haven’t fully recovered from your previous orgasm and your boyfriend is already pushing you toward the abyss of pleasure again.

“Oh, princess,” He murmurs with the sweetest voice, “You’re being such a good girl for us.”

Wooyoung now is occupying the sit San was in, behind you. He reclines and murmurs right into your ear, “Come for us, darling. Just let it go. We’ve got you.” His voice is so unrecognizable, so fucking deep.

Your visual field begins to be covered by small black dots that get bigger and smaller, overstimulation causing this effect. Your body trembles in a sudden rush of heat, finally releasing into the now lukewarm water with a loud, long moan that sounds more like a cry. The small tears caused by pleasure slide beautifully down your cheek, dripping down your chin and mingling in the water. Your body feeling as if a fresh wave of water has washed over it.

“Mm,” San starts, “The only bad thing about doing this in the tub is that I can’t taste you, but honestly seeing your face as you come undone for us is more than enough.” He presses a kiss against your slightly open lips. Your blissed-out gaze making them fall even more in love with you.

“I... I love you both, so much. Thank you for doing this for me.”

“You deserve to be loved and pampered for everything you do for yourself and us every day. You’re amazing and we’re so proud of you.” Wooyoung mentions.

If you had the strength to cry right now, you would. However, sleep is taking you over so you can only mutter, “You both mean everything to me.”

You really have no idea when you fell asleep, but it’s okay. You know perfectly well that your boyfriends are going to set everything up and snuggle you in bed.

Wooyoung watches as San sees you with all the tenderness in the world. He was about to tease him saying that he was going to scare you if he kept looking at you so intensely, when he heard a cute, low snore.

“Did she fall asleep?” Wooyoung asks.

“Like an angel.” San replies, still admiring you.

“Well, let’s get her into a pair of pijamas so we can cuddle with her in bed.”

They both dry themselves off before taking you out of the tub. Seeing you so adorable and soundly asleep makes them share one of those looks of theirs. 

Yes, they have a big, painful boner with no relief, but tonight was all about you, so they decided to put their needs aside and focus on you and making you feel good, loved and important. Because you are, because they’re willing to give their lives for you if they had to. 

Because you’re their everything and they love you more than the word itself could mean. 

| masterlist

[thefreakandthehair]

steddie | rating: m | wc: 955 | tags: established relationship, use of cake as a metaphor, they're so in love your honor | art credit: @firefly-party

Eddie Munson celebrates two birthdays every year: the day he was actually born, December 19th, and the day he woke up in the hospital, April 8th. Funny enough, the latter is usually a bigger celebration. Family and friends that no longer exist in separate groups come together with all of Eddie’s foods and drinks, small gifts and sometimes, a bigger gift from the collective.

Try as they might, they’ve yet to top the Metallica tickets. 

But today is Eddie’s original birthday. December 19th— the one that’s usually swallowed up by the holidays, the one that really doesn’t mean all that much to him because, well, compared to waking up after saving the world, why would it? The last few celebrations have been tight-knit, mostly just himself, Wayne, and Steve either at Wayne’s trailer or the tiny little apartment Steve and Eddie managed to find for themselves. 

This year, it’s just the two of them with no one to blame but Mother Nature. A blizzard drops nearly three feet of snow over northeastern Indiana and no one is going anywhere, least of all Wayne whose getting up there in years. We'll make up for it later, Eddie assures him when he calls with a stream of apologies. 

How can he complain though? Wayne will make up for it, he’s snowed in with the love of his life, and the apartment smells like his favorite pasta sauce, the one he knows takes Steve hours to simmer. So no, he’s not disappointed. Not in the slightest. 

“Sorry your day got snowed out,” Steve sighs, plopping down onto the couch and draping an arm along the back of the couch, toying with the ends of Eddie’s hair. “I did get you a surprise though.” 

Eddie’s brow furrows, knitting tightly above his nose. There’s been no mail for two days, and their apartment doesn’t exactly lend itself to keeping secrets. “A surprise? What kinda surprise?”

“Well,” Steve smirks, confident in the way that always makes something stir in Eddie’s chest. “It’s not a birthday without a cake.” 

He’s so fucking lost. 

“A cake? We’ve been snowed in since Sunday and I would’ve smelled you baking in here. Also, I would’ve tasted it already, or at least demanded to lick the spoon so— wait, what are you doing?” 

Steve stands up and walks around the back of the couch, just behind Eddie. “Just close your eyes, okay? Or do I need to blindfold you?”

He can hear Steve’s smug grin without even seeing his face and now it’s not just his chest stirring. Eddie shifts I’m his seat. 

“No, no I can just close my eyes. Put a pin in the blindfold idea though.“ 

With his eyes closed, all he can do is imagine what the rustling is behind him, scenarios that will never compare to the sight he sees when Steve gives him the all clear. 

“Okay,” Steve says, his voice now coming from directly in front of Eddie. “Open.”

Very funny, brain, he thinks. My entire life since the demobats has to have been just one long, final burst of dopamine before kicking the bucket because there’s absolutely no way this is fucking real. 

Steve’s standing in front of him, shirtless, in nothing but some of the tightest shorts he’s seen Steve wear since the time he blindly walked into Scoops Ahoy asking for rum raisin and instead, got a fucking show. They’re dark maroon in hue with the word Cake printed in white script across the entirety of Steve’s ass. Moles litter his skin from the base of his neck down the flesh of his thighs, and the small indentation in his lower back is highlighted by the low waistband. Barely noticeable cuts in the sides expose what looks like black lace detailing. 

“Holy shit,” Eddie groans, unable to stop himself from reaching out and touching the soft, cotton material. 

“Yeah?” Steve looks over his shoulder with a knowing smile. “You like it?” 

Eddie fingers trace the font and he doesn’t even dare to blink. If it is a coma dream, he doesn’t want to risk waking up. “Do I like it? If I ever say no to that, Steve, take me into a field and off me because I’ve been replaced by the body snatchers.” 

Steve laughs and Eddie pulls him in closer, one hand on Steve’s hip and the other working its way up Steve’s thigh and beneath the fabric.

“Y’know,” Eddie starts, swallowing with a dry mouth around the lump in his throat. “There’s just one little problem with this birthday cake.”

“What?” Steve looks back over his shoulder again, this time confused. 

He gives his right cheek a light tap, just enough to relish in the way the plush flesh moves. “It’s not finished.”

“Oh yeah? What’s it need?” 

“You know I need my cakes frosted. And c’mon,” he leans forward and presses a kiss to Steve’s hairy thigh, just below the hem of the shorts. “Where’s the candle?”

Steve turns with a teasing grimace. “Did you just compare your dick to a candle?”

“Sure did. Is it working?” He smiles with his bottom lip between his teeth as he stands and places both hands in Steve’s hips. 

“I can’t believe it, but yeah, it kinda is.” Steve’s eyes flicker down to Eddie’s lips and back up. 

Eddie can barely get his thoughts in order, placing both hands on either side of Steve’s face and kissing him between words. 

“Best.” He kisses his forehead. “Birthday.” He kisses his nose. “Ever.” He kisses his lips. 

They make their way back to the bedroom and no one can blame him for leaving Steve’s ass littered in purpling hickies and love bites. 

It’s a cake, after all.

art by @firefly-party to celebrate @sidekick-hero's birthday today! here's a little collaboration to honor our favorite Cake Enthusiast! Sandy, we love you and hope you have the absolute best day. go give her some love, everyone!

[shius]

Can u write top suguru x househusband (wifey) male reader

as you wish!

| house husband | v.2

modern au | bottom!househusband!reader x top!teacher!suguru

a reversed roles fic based on my previous house husband writing

summary- suguru has had a frustratingly difficult day day. coming home to his precious house husband is just what he needed to relieve his stress.

cw- amab!reader, dubcon, petname ‘angel’, consensual groping, praise, body worship if you squint, gentle sex, missionary, marking, unprotected sex, soft suguru

not proofread, a bit rushed

wc: 1.2k

you’ve been at home all day, cleaning for the umpteenth time that day. you always kept the house pretty spotless and having no day job left you pretty unoccupied unless you made plans with friends, or went shopping. your real highlight of the say, however, was your husband coming home from work. he worked as a full-time teacher, but the school was one of the biggest in the area, so he made enough to be the breadwinner. today was not his day. he unlocked the door and stepped inside like he had been wishing to do since school started. he took off his lanyard, his shoes, and let out a big sigh, and flopping onto the couch before you could greet him. you heard him from the bedroom and made your way over to him. you say next to his head on the couch and started brushing your fingers through his hair. “how was your day, suguru?” you ask him. he looked a lot more exhausted than usual, so you were pretty attentive about it. he let out a long deep breath through his nose before responding. “those students of mine were really testing my patience today. it gets so frustrating.” he said, clearly angry but his soft spoken voice somehow tuned that feeling out. he scooted his body up for his head to rest on your lap, taking in your gentle aura. he sat up after a while and pulled you to straddle him. “missed you, angel…” he mumbled into your chest as he held you. you found it so sweet when he used that nickname you. you continued rubbing his back as you allowed large his hands so graze over your clothing. he basked in your scent. his hands roaming along your figure on top of him. he tilted his head up to look at you where he met your eyes already looking at him. you leaned your neck down so you could kiss him, tender as ever. he loved touching your body, any part of it he could get his hands on he admired. you sat on your knees to adjust yourself better, “accidentally” grinding against his tight slacks. what can you say, you missed him all day. his breath hitched and his eyes shot up at you. “what are you doing, y/n?” he questioned, a little flustered. “ ‘m sorry suguru, i missed you a lot today…” you answered him, your cheeks heating up at the confession. you hugged him closer, feeling his hands roaming around your ass. you jumped at the feeling, watching as a sly grin formed in his face.

one of his hand sneaked around to both your fronts, reaching palm you through your underwear you had been to lazy to change out of. your breathing got heavy. you could feel against your inner thigh his cock slowly began to strain in his pants. he grunted quietly every time your body shifted on top of his. he pulled your cock out of your underwear, sending a shiver down your spine. he rubbed his finger over the top, collecting any seeping pre. you moved yourself off of him so you could take your bottoms off completely. he does the same, undoing his slacks and slipping them off of his waist. he wasted no time indulging in you, climbing over your body on the couch, trapping you underneath him, your legs on either side of his. he caught your lips for a messy french kiss. he held your face with one hand and your waist with the other. you could feel the heat radiating off his throbbing cock against yours. “put it in, please…” you begged. “without any preparation? are you that desperate?” he said, teasingly. “i don’t care if it hurts… i just need you…” you whines, wrapping your arms around his neck. he felt his heart flutter, honestly. knowing you were craving him so intensely. he did as you wished however, jerking himself a few times so he could have some for, of lubricant if not his saliva. you were so tight. he took longer to push himself inside of you because of that. he hissed, the squeeze of your hole made it so much more heated for him. you dug your nails in his shoulders, the feeling of him stretching you out stung, but it’s what you begged for. you felt your eyes glass over, letting out a string of whines. you heard his grunts as he bottomed out, he would take as long as he needed no matter how frustrated he was, he could never risk hurting you. he hooked your legs around his arms, letting them rest on the nook of his elbows. he planted his hand on the couch next the sides where your upper back met the cushion. making your hips raise up further. “are you ready, angel?” he asked you, looking up at you, seeing the lewd expression painted on your face. “mhm” you answer. you could feel every ridge of his length inside of you. he started to thrust, not taking long until he rammed against the most sensitive spot inside of you. the curve of his cock always seeming to find its way. your lips parted, moans and quiet cries of his name spilling out. he lowered his head to place kisses along the side of your neck, nipping the soft skin, marking you on your tender flesh.

your whined his name whenever his pace changed, going slow at some moments, speeding himself up the next. his long started to fall down into his face from the quick motions. he looked so beautiful with his hair in his way like this. you heard how quiet, but noticeable, moans were released from him. every now and then hearing a, “god..” “you’re so tight, angel…” nothing could get past you. your sensitive cock already leaking cum from the tip everytime your body shook from his thrusts. his hips started to grind against you, your body jolted, the head of his cock continuously hitting your spot. you gripped onto him tighter, moaning his name. your walls convulsed around his shaft, making him groan, sinking his head down. he grinded into you deeper as you came against both your and his abdomen. your body shook underneath him, following right behind you was his release. you felt himself slowly try to pull out but failing, as he was already shooting his cum inside of you. he watch his release seep from you. he sat back on his knees, catching both of your breaths. you moved the hair stuck to your forehead out of the way, struggling to sit up. “ah, im sorry, angel. let me help you to get cleaned up.” he said, comforting you. you nodded, taking his hand as he picked you up bridal style, smiling at you, taking the both of you to the bathroom, where he started a warm bath for the both of you to share. needless to say, he was a renewed man at school the next day.

————————————————————————

thank you for your request! ~ shius

| written by shius, please do not steal or repost my work without permission! |

[wataksampingan]

I'm not in the US nor am I a US citizen, but the Weather & Climate Livestream has been very informative.

Currently there's a presentation about coral bleaching and what sort of data are collected and used in an effort to save them, or slow down the bleaching events. Coral reefs and their survival are personally important to me, so I'm paying attention.

All this to say: Hey Americans, I'm just a filthy nobody from the other end of the world. But corals are a cause close to my heart and this made me want to yell for it, and for this livestream that's trying to gain traction (and media attention).

You've got very cool, important work being done even now - which will affect the rest of us in the world, for better or worse - and you have very cool, enthusiastic people doing the work, like the specific scientist in the screenshots, Mariya Galochkina, even now. If corals aren't your thing, there have been and will be other topics covered e.g. agriculture and climate, typhoons, floods, extreme heat, water quality etc.

We can help you with views, but your own scientists and researchers need you to yell for them.

From the WCS website (which has its whole schedule and certain highlights up):

From Wednesday, May 28th to Sunday, June 1st, join meteorologists and climate scientists from across the US as we share our work, and show you what makes it so vital. We will clarify the impact of the cuts on this research, and answer your questions about weather and climate research in the US.

FOLLOW THIS LINK TO WATCH (Hour 43 /100 at time of posting).

(Yes other non-US people, it's US-centric but I'm willing to bet my own country and many other's coral scientists and researchers rely on/work with the NOAA's data and maps to try and save our own reefs. If that goes down, research and conservation/preservation/regeneration is going to be more difficult than it already is. And I'm not giving up our corals without a damn fight, in whatever capacity.)

Shoutout to @thrivingisthegoal for the original post calling for attention to the livestream! Loads of people in the livestream chat came in via your post; more power to you 💪