#I stopped laughing at one point and just started screaming

[kukinkrim]

Would love to see Saga Boys with a Reader who’s voice can heals demon marks. Like, they’re a very rare type of hunter who’s born every thousand years or so. They can be an idol, a manager or just a normal person. Your choice!

song for the damned

saja boys x make-up artist!reader

themes: angst with comfort, post-concert

note: this is such an interesting idea! anon, your mind is beautiful

they were still demons; that fact didn’t change. not after that hellish concert, not after gwi-ma was sealed underground with the rest of demon kind, and not even after huntrix allowed them to live a life on the surface. they were still demons through and through. the patterns on their bodies were a constant reminder of that.

the truth was out.

but somehow, the public still loved them.

of course, the fandoms had their meltdowns. some people cried betrayal. they called them monsters, even tried to start a boycott. which wasn't at all surprising. they did try to eat their souls. but the majority? they stayed. the boys were still their idols, after all. still the voices they fell asleep to, the faces they cheered for, the music that made their hearts race.

but while the world seem to have forgiven them—they hadn’t forgiven themselves.

the intricate pruple patterns that curled around their bodies, crawling like flames up their necks, their backs, their ribs; it was a constant reminder of the shame that weighed their hearts. even with gwi-ma gone, it still reminded them of the contracts they made and the leash around their necks.

no matter how much the crowd screamed their names with love, the marks whispered louder. they were sinners. no good demons.

but you came along, waltzing in their little break room with a big bag full of make-up.

they weren’t supposed to like you this much. not at first.

you were just the new make-up artist. brought in post-apocalypse. their management team thought you’d be a temporary fix; a way to 'rebrand the boys with a softer touch' as they said. your job was simple: cover the marks, soften them up, and humanize the demons.

you don't think any amount of make-up could cover all that marks, though, but you said you were willing to give it a try.

what no one expected was that you would be the one to start healing them for real.

it was after a shoot when it happened. romance sat in the makeup chair, shirt off and his jacket tossed over a light stand. hair still wet from a rain scene he recorded.

you saw the mark on his chest for the first time, purple patterns coiling like a snake right over his heart and bodice. he caught you looking.

“ugly, right?” he said with a weak smile that i made your heart ache. “i know. you can just paint over it—”

you reached for a sponge, hesitating to pick it up. a part of you wanted to help him out—you have the power to do so, but a part of you also didn't want to show your secrets just yet.

romance sat slouched in the makeup chair, chest rising and falling with every uneven breath. the purple marks over his ribs pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat of its own. it looked angry today; twisting higher like it was feeding off his exhaustion.

you could see the way he avoided looking at it in the mirror. like if he didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t be real.

a part of you wanted to help him. you could help him.

you haven't done it before. there wasn't exactly an opportunity to practice it. but you probably could. it's worth a try, right?

so you hovered there, fingers brushing the sponge.

“don’t bother,” romance muttered, mistaking your hesitation for reluctance. he looked away.

he thinks you're disgusted of the sight of him. “it won’t cover it. what's the point, right? i'm forever cursed to look like walking graffiti for eternity.”

you tried to laugh, but it came out too tight.

“i mean, it’s not… that bad,” you said weakly.

he glanced at you, one brow raised. “it looks like a squid tried to do calligraphy on my chest.”

you snorted before you could stop yourself.

ah, screw it. you thought.

you closed your make-up bag, earning a confused look from your client. and gently, you reached out to his arms, fingers brushing just above his chest. “i’m not promising anything,” you murmured.

romance blinked, his eyes glancing rowards your hand in confusion. “wait–what are you–"

and you sang.

it was barely a hum, really. a tune that slipped out like it had always been there, sitting beneath your tongue. and romance gasped when his patterns glow.

the purple ink rippled under your touch. slowly, and beautifully, it began to fade. the marks thinned, dissolving like smoke curling off his skin, fading into warmth and gold. his whole body relaxed like someone had lifted a boulder off his chest.

"what...?" he breathes out. romance stared at you, eyes wide. “what… what was that?”

you pulled your hand back, swallowing thickly. “nothing. just… something i do sometimes.”

“that wasn’t nothing,” he whispered, sitting up straighter, touching his chest. he stares at himself im the mirror in awe. “that felt like—uh, kind of like breathing for the first time in years.”

you busied yourself with the makeup kit, avoiding his gaze. “please don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“i’m absolutely making a big deal out of it,” he said, still staring at you like you just hung the stars. "your voice is magical!"

you sighed, shaking your head. "whatever. i need to go to the bathroom. i'll be back."

romance sat in silence in the middle of the room, still admiring himself on the mirror.

not soon after, his members started filing in. they came back one by one from shooting their solo scenes. they looked tired with sweat dripping down their foreheads, immediately slumping on the chairs they could hold on to.

romance, however, looked like he’d just had a religious experience.

naturally, this raised alarms.

“okay, romance, i see that face you're making. what did you break?” jinu asked first, garnering the attention of the other three.

"you look... different. i just can't tell what it is," abby squints his eyes, tapping a finger on his chin.

"why are you smiling like that?" baby asks, pretending to shiver. "it gives me the creeps."

romance ignored them all, still touching his chest, fingertips ghosting over where the his patterns had sat heavy just minutes ago. now gone. he remained quiet, staring at his reflection like he couldn't believe it was real.

jinu finally raised an eyebrow. “you good, man?"

romance looked up slowly, “we’ve got to keep her.”

everyone blinked.

“keep who?” mystery asked cautiously while he ramaged through the drawers for a snack. he glanced at romance once before deciding he's too hungry to look at anyone.

“our make-up artist.” romance said, turning to them with a strange urgency in his eyes. not caution nor fear, but his eyes were unusually shining. “she sang. like, really. i didn’t ask her to. she just… did. and the mark–it faded. i don’t know how, it just did."

for a moment, no one spoke.

"are you on drugs?" mystery whispers.

"i'm serious! see?" he gestures to his body that was clean. gone was the ugly, purple patterns that curled on his skin. the others came closer, making sure their friend wasn't going crazy and sure enough, he was telling the truth.

his marks were gone.

"so that's what's different!" abby exclaimed, "i thought you had a new haircut or something."

"she did that?” jinu asked, still in disbelief.

romance nodded sincerely.

"where is she now, then?"

baby sighed, slumping back into his chair. "maybe she ran away or something."

mystery crossed his arms, “so she’s been walking around here with healing power in her throat and didn’t tell us?”

“honestly?” abby grinned, “i kind of dig it.”

“we can’t let her go,” romance said firmly. “i don’t care if she only signed on for makeup. we are keeping her.”

“what do you mean, like, ‘keeping her’ like a pet or—"

“she’s human,” jinu reminded. “we can't keep her. we can’t force her to stay.”

romance looked like he was ready to argue, but then you poked your head into the room. "oh, good. you’re all back,” you said, smiling casually, unaware of their talk. “great. who’s next for touch-ups?”

all five demons fell quiet.

atleast, for a good few seconds before they were shoving each other back.

"me!” abby practically lunged out of his chair, tripping over mystery's leg in the process.

“i was next,” baby growled, standing up so fast his chair screeched. his hand gripped abby's arm trying to pull him back.

“you don’t even have makeup on,” mystery commented, elbowing his way past the teal-haired demon.

jinu raised both hands, already halfway to the door. “i'm first. technically, i have seniority. i am the leader.”

“technically, i don't care. i'm first!" abby yells, struggling to walk with demons clinging onto his leg and arm.

“i have a smudge,” mystery lied instantly, dragging a finger across his cheek to make one. "i need it fixed. the director said i need to. now. asap. please?"

you blinked, staring at them all like they had grown a second pair of heads.

“…okay,” you said slowly. “you guys are weirder than usual, but sure.” you slipped back inside the room and walked back to the makeup room.

there was a collective scramble behind you. chairs toppled. someone definitely stepped on someone else's foot. mystery may or may not have kicked abby’s shin that caused him to wail in pain.

by the time you reached your chair, all five of them were trying to be the first to sit in it. you don't even know why romance was still here. you finished with him a while ago. you crossed your arms.

“is this a joke?” you asked.

“absolutely not,” jinu said smoothly, already halfway into the seat before baby shoved him off.

“i just think it’s only fair we get the same vocal magic you gave him,” jinu groans, glaring at baby, before motioning to romance’s still-exposed chest—who, by the way, doesn't seem to have any intention of buttoning up.

you rolled your eyes. “oh my god. you're all being dramatic. i don't even know if it will work again.”

mystery stepped forward, “please. i haven’t slept in three days. i can't look at the mirror without hating myself. i need this.” that was the longest, most unhinged thing mystery has ever said to you.

“i think you need therapy.”

“maybe a song could do,” he added quickly.

you sighed, giving in. "alright, as long as you can agree on who goes first. i don't want any fighting, got it?"

[lomlando]

Opening Weekend

summary: "Lando fucking Norris. "

content warnings: mild language, mild? blood, non-serious injury :)!

word count: 1 k

pairing: lando norris x fem!driver!reader

SERIES: Messy || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!

You stand at the edge of the stairs, stuck, staring across at the orange-accented motorhome directly across from you in the paddock. Engineers, pit crew, media personnel, and eager fans all moved around, all dressed in black and orange. 

Kimi moved beside you, joining you in staring, probably trying to understand why the McLaren hospitality was so important and interesting today.

“You’re staring.” He leans closer and states in a low whisper, as if you weren’t aware of that fact yourself.

You were all too well aware. You kindred it to a scene from an old western movie. In your mind, you were the sheriff standing at the edge of the saloon, watching tumbleweed after tumbleweed pass by-waiting, watching, hoping-for your chance to catch the infamous bank robber as he’s passing through town. If you move, you miss your chance; he might slip into the local hostel without you noticing, cause a stand off in the middle of town-not on your watch. 

“You know your media availability starts in like 30 minutes, right?” Kimi states next to you, still, definitely scared of the fact that you may be standing here all day if someone didn’t physically make you move soon. He knows you could and you would. 

You shoot him a look, the first time your eyes had moved in 30 minutes. You knew he was right, you knew he was concerned, but still, you didn’t want to leave your spot. You truthfully felt like you couldn’t. You shifted your eyes back to the sea of orange in front of you. “Yeah, I know.” 

“Realistically, what are you looking for. I mean, I know you are looking for” Kimi gets closer to you and drops his voice down, “Lando,” like was a bad word, and if he said it any louder, he would get in trouble. “But what are you gonna do? Yell to him that he’s a douchebag? Give him the middle finger? Attack him? If you do that last one, at least give me a warning so I’m not seen as an accomplice, please.” 

You sigh, you really didn’t know what you were gonna do either when you saw him. You finally give Kimi more than just a quick glance. “Kimi, I really don’t know if I can move on my own.” It was the truth, your brain was so committed to staying there until you caught a glimpse of the infamous curly, brown hair that it felt like it would never signal to your legs that there was a reason to move. 

“Oh, I’ve got this,” Kimi says and, without warning, picks up his leg and pushes his foot into the back of your knee. His great plan on getting you to move was to deadleg you. 

In seconds, you are sent flying down the few stairs in front of you, hitting the concrete. You don’t cry, you don’t scream, you aren’t hurt. You just look back up at Kimi. 

Who is doubled over laughing to the point of tears, and you can’t help but join in. Three stairs are not going to take down your weekend. 

“Kimi, maybe some warning next time.” You say through tears, still sitting on the ground.

Kimi starts moving towards you, “I didn’t think it was going to send you flying,” he says, offering you a hand. Before you could reach for it, though, he stops and looks beside you. Through the laughing and tears, you hadn’t even noticed the man now crouched down next to you. 

Lando fucking Norris. 

You look between the two boys, both offering their hands to help you up-you take neither. You push yourself up off the ground in what seems like a possible world record time. “I’m fine.” You enthusiastically say, looking between them. 

“You’re bleeding,” Lando says, pointing to your hands. “Like really badly.” 

You look down, and he was right. Your hands had gotten all skinned up, you guess, from stopping yourself. 

“It's fine, they don’t even hurt. Kimi, hand me your water bottle.” You say, motioning for it. You take the top off and pour the cold water over your hands, washing away any evidence that anything had even happened. It hurt, but they didn’t need to know that. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to medical? If you don’t want to go to yours, you can go to McLaren I’m sure they won-” Lando said, looking at you concerned. 

“Yes, Lando. I am fine.” You said. Really, you snapped, admittedly more mean-sounding than you meant for it to come out. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out before his assistant came running out to him.

“Lando, come on. Media. Now.” he said. Lando turned around immediately and started following the man. 

You aren’t sure what came over you, but intrusion struck. In a moment, you picked your leg up and sent your foot into the back of his black skinny jeans-just as Kimi had done to you five minutes prior.

You couldn’t help but gasp as you saw the bright orange shirt fall to the ground. Halfway, thinking there was no way that you were the one who caused him to fall to his knees. Halfway proud that you had not let the opportunity pass. 

Well, there’s the answer to Kimi’s question- I guess that’s what I would do when I saw him. 

tags :)

@vampgege @mimisweetz @fcblb81 @taebearyoongs

[pacofprunes]

CAR SEX ISN’T AS FUN AS IT SEEMS

CONTAINS — thanos x reader, namgyu x femreader

WARNINGS — noncon, drug use, choking, knife (get gross and descriptive), blood, namgyus an incel, lowercase

masterlist

���chill chill, just relax…” thanos mutters as he holds you down with just the palm of his hand pressed against your face, successfully keeping you somewhat quiet and perfectly still with the amount of pressure he was placing. the sweat dripping down your back causing you to stick to the car seat was also keeping you perfectly pliant and still. your hands hitting his chest did nothing but make him go even faster and grip your face even harder.

you sob under his palm and he just rolls his eyes as he continues his brutal pace.

“would you chill out babe? it feels great, you know it does, don’t play so hard to get!”

you bite his hand with every last bit of strength you have until you taste blood and he quickly takes his hand off of your mouth, letting out an “ow” and a “you fucking bitch”. he lifts his hand and lands a swift slap on your face, practically making your head spin around, the stinging sensation starting to spread throughout your face. you just scream at him. you don’t scream for help to people that may be around and you don’t scream just to scream, no, you just scream at him, telling him to stop. begging him to stop. he mutters a “goddamnit” before pulling out of you and reaching into his front seat to grab something. you don’t want to know what it is, and you start trying to open the door over and over. the slapping of the handle against the door and the flipping of the car lock doing nothing. you slam on the window, handprints coating it, praying someone, anyone, would hear you.

he turns back to you and pulls you down onto the seat, forcing you to lay down. he presses a hand onto your stomach. it’s such little pressure, but with the muscles he has, it was enough to keep you completely still.

“listen,”

he takes his hand off of your stomach, putting his arm in front of his face and pouring a white powdered substance onto it, using his finger to shape it into the perfect line. he then leans all the way onto you, his dick rubbing against your leg, twitching, and his body weight holding you down. he puts his arm in front of your face and stares at you dead in the eyes with those blown out pupils.

“you need to chill out, yeah? just let thanos take care of you.”

he pushes his arm up to your face, the white powder rubbing against your nose.

“do you need me to show you what to do?”

he plugs one of his nostrils with his fingers and snorts a little bit of the line of powder into his nose, throwing his head back after and rubbing his tatted hands through his purple locks. he puts his arm back up to your face and you turn away. he lets out an obnoxious childish “ughh”, before plugging one of your nostrils for you and putting his arm right up to your nose so that even if you didn’t necessarily snort it, if you had just breathed in then it would end up going up your nose. he placed his other hand over your mouth so you couldn’t resort to just breathe with your mouth. your eyes water from the burning sensation and he moves his arm away and his palm from your face. he shakes the left over powder onto your neck and snorts it there, making sure to drag it out terribly slow, his nose grazing every sensitive point there was.

“i swear i’ll tell everyone! let me out!”

he just laughs. not sarcastically either, a genuine laugh. he seriously found it funny.

“really? any girl would kill to be in your position right now. you seriously think anyone would believe you anyways?”

he wraps his hand around your neck. not squeezing just yet, but none the less, it causes the tears to slip out of your eyes and your lip to give the slightest quiver.

“hey, hey, hey! would ya’ stop bein’ so serious? the dramatics are killin’ me over here babe.”

he runs his other hand through his hair once again, ignoring your hands clawing at his arm.

“my friend is right outside the car and i promised him that if nobody bothered us, that he could get a turn with you back at my place. so can i at least cum before he opens the door? you’re reallyyyyy fuckin’ blue balling me over here.”

your eyes widen and you get even more desperate. clawing even harder and kicking your feet underneath him. you don’t know how he’s had this much patience, you would’ve thought he’d done much worse by now than slap you. and although a small amount, whatever he had you snort off of his arm was starting to fuck with your vision. his hair was a brighter shade of purple. so so, so fucking bright. it hurts your eyes so much, but everything else was so so blurry. his hair was the only thing you could see. everything blurs so much more when he finally starts putting pressure around your neck and actually begins to choke you once he finally forces himself inside of you.

“fuckkkk…that’s right baby, just keep squeezing me like that. holy shit you feel so good.”

your hits become sloppier, the scratches breaking less and less skin on his arms, your legs moving slower and slower. you hold onto his hands hoping to get them to loosen up but they just won’t. you try begging him, pleading him to just let go, but it just feels too good, he can’t. how could he stop when your neck is just such good leverage for him? but finally, he lets go and pulls out.

“fuck, señorita. keep that same energy when we go for round two.”

he pulls his pants up before climbing into the front seat, knocking onto the window as if signaling to someone. and as soon as he does, the back seat door opens and whom you can assume is his friend jumps into the car. you can’t see him though. thanos’s purple hair in the front seat still being the only thing you can make out.

“wow, you look a fucking mess.”

“me or her?”

you recognized his voice. it was namgyu. everyone who went to the club knew him. he was the biggest fucking junkie there was. nobody wanted near him, not even other junkies, and that’s saying something. well, nobody except thanos. but sometimes you don’t even think thanos wants namgyu near him. he ignores thanos’s question and pulls you onto his lap, prodding at your thighs and holding them open with his own legs, his arms hugging yours tight to your sides. the engine of the car blares and you realize that once you get on the road, it might be your only chance out of this nightmare.

he plunges his fingers straight into your core without warning, causing you to let out a hiss. thanos snaps his head back at the sound and yells at namgyu to “be gentle”.

“don’t rip her open man, i still got some more rounds in me…”

“would you just keep your eyes on the road?”

you squirm in his lap, pushing yourself against his growing erection to get away from his fingers but they only follow your every movement. you can’t look out the window to see where you are, the blurring only getting worse with every light seeping into the car. plus, the windows are obscenely foggy. even without your blurry eyes you wouldn’t be able to see. despite his frame being much smaller than thanos’s, he’s still stronger than you. nothing you do can push his fingers out and nothing you do can get him off of you.

“get off of me—”

it came out quieter than you would’ve liked, and he just scoffs at the pathetic attempt. instead of responding immediately , he just shoves another finger into you causing you to throw your head back onto his shoulder. despite obviously never touching a woman before, his sloppy circles on your clit and finger thrusts in you were slowly pushing you over the edge and you knew that the inevitable was going to happen. there’s nothing you can do physically so you just opt to scream. loud. like really loud. you had no idea if there were cars nearby or people walking, you just knew you wanted out of this damn car and that the only thing you could do was beg or scream. thanos immediately slams his hands on his ears dramatically and decides to just blast some shitty rap music to drown out your sounds. you didn’t care if you lost your voice, you were still going to keep screaming over the music. you couldn’t take this. but the moment you open your mouth again, something sharp digs into your neck. it pierces your skin tightly and you can only assume it’s a knife, which causes you to shrink into namgyu even more.

“if you move, scream, or speak one more time, i swear i’ll cut your throat right open. you got it?”

you just still, tensing every muscle in your body.

“i’ve always wanted to break a bitch like you in. you think you’re too good to get fucked?”

he rubs his thumb even harder on your clit, dragging it up and down. going from extremely fast to extremely slow dragged out rubs.

“i’m gonna squeeze orgasm after orgasm out of you up until we get to his shitty apartment.”

thanos couldn’t hear that over the music. you could hear him obnoxiously singing with the lyrics, probably getting every single one wrong. you swallow tightly.

“by the time i’m done and i pull my fingers out of you, your slutty pussys gonna be begging for something to be stuffed in there. gonna feel too empty for a whore like you i’m sure.”

he presses the knife deeper into your neck and you can feel a long stream of blood drip down your neck. you try to crane your neck away but he just presses it deeper in and you can now feel a waterfall of blood pouring down your neck, causing you to cry and beg him to stop.

“please, i’m sor—”

“didn’t i say not to move?”

he presses it ever so slightly deeper.

“didn’t i say not to speak?”

he twists it now, causing the gash to become wider before letting out a sigh and pulling it out of your neck and ripping his fingers out of your pussy, causing you to clench on nothing, shamefully so. you whine in embarrassment hoping he didn’t notice. it wasn’t intentional, it was just a natural response. but of course, he takes it how he sees it. you really think he seriously knows anything about a woman’s anatomy let alone a woman in general? no. so of course when he sees your poor empty hole clench on nothing the moment he rips his fingers out he laughs.

“guess i was right, huh? of course i was right. all you girls do is beg and beg to get fucked but then you play hard to get right when a guys all hot and bothered.”

he takes his now free hand and squeezes your cheeks between his fingers, making sure to still squeeze his arm tightly around yours, still continuing to keep you still and his legs still keeping your own spread.

“you’re over here acting like you’re too good for me. did you act like that with him?”

“n—”

he places the knife on your lips, the blood from your neck smearing and the taste of iron slipping into your mouth causing you to cringe and gag. you attempt to move away but he just holds your face tighter and clicks his tongue.

“aht—don’t move. wouldn’t wanna cut your mouth open. don’t think thanos would wanna taste the blood when he’s lapping at your mouth like a dog. it’s pathetic, honestly.”

he squeezes your cheeks tighter, waiting for you to open it fully and so you do, and the moment he does he plunges the knife straight into your mouth, the only thing sticking out being the handle.

“by the time i take it out of your mouth, it better be spotless.”

you hated both of them, but at this point you were praying that thanos would turn the damn music down and turn around. and as if your prayers were answered he turns his head around, then turns around again to make sure what he’s seeing isn’t just a hallucination and he turns down the music. not to zero because he still has to have it on, of course, but it’s quieter now.

“woah, woah man, what the fuck are you doing?”

he leans into the backseat and rips the knife out of your mouth, carelessly so, but at least he took it out. he throws it in the front seat and you can hear namgyu mumbling annoyances under his breath.

“what the fuck man? i said you could fuck her, not kill her!”

namgyu pushes you off of him in annoyance, not that there was really anywhere for you to go so it didn’t particularly help you in anyway.

“i wasn’t killing her, just scaring her. y’needa learn how to put a bitch in her place.”

you interrupt their arguing by pounding on the windows once again. you missed a few times, pounding on the car seats a few times because of the blurriness. everything was a blurry shade of gray and black besides thanos’s stupid fucking hair. speaking of hair, namgyu pulls you back by yours, keeping an iron grip on it so you can’t move to the window. in fact, you can’t move at all without it feeling like your skull is on fire. soon after, everything becomes muted as if you’re underwater. you can’t hear things properly anymore. you had never done drugs before and although you hadn’t taken that much of a line, you still took a line nonetheless. you figured everything would just stay blurry since nothing else had happened for a while but now you couldn’t hear anything. you don’t know if they were still arguing and you don’t know if they were even talking anymore.

namgyu waves his hands in front of your face, the only thing you can somewhat make out being his rings. he squeezes your thigh and you flinch. he was probably checking if you were still all there. he finally releases his grip on your hair and pulls you back onto his lap once again, his fingers finding their way back to your core, slipping right back in with ease. you really hope thanos’s apartment is nearby because if namgyu meant what he said earlier, you didn’t want to know how messy thanos’s car seats were about to look, and you definitely didn’t want to give namgyu the satisfaction of knowing he could actually manage to make a woman moan in this lifetime.

[formulafanfics13]

foodPorn order for mr. Hamilton please🍴he finds out and just leaves to beat the poor man up. Everyone gets involved. Total chaos

The great papaya panic - LH44 (LN4) 

Masterlist

Summary: Lewis finds the world’s filthiest message from Lando on your phone. There’s no context. Just graphic foodporn innuendo. He says nothing. Just leaves. To beat Lando’s ass. Cue full paddock chaos. Warnings: Humour, pure miscommunication, jealousy, violence threats, unhinged messages, entire grid-wide meltdown, team principals dragged in, food innuendo that should be illegal.

It happens on a race weekend. You’re in the motorhome, chatting to Angela. Lewis is somewhere behind you. You left your phone on the table. Face up.

It buzzes. He glances down.

Lando Norris: It was so juicy I had to suck it first. Couldn’t stop moaning.

He freezes. Buzz.

Lando Norris: The way it split open when I put pressure on it. Jesus. made a mess.

Lewis stares at the screen like it just slapped him.

Buzz.

Lando Norris: You’d have cried. I was loud.

Lewis stands. Silent. Controlled. No emotion on his face. Just a stillness that screams death is coming. Angela doesn’t even notice.

You don’t see him leave. Ten minutes later, Lando is mid-laugh in the McLaren garage when he hears it.

“Lando.”

He turns. Lewis Hamilton is standing there. No expression. No warning. Just one sentence: “You’re fucking done.” Then Lewis lunges.

What happens next goes down in paddock history.

Oscar screams. Zhou runs the opposite direction. Alex yells “OH MY GOD” like a teen girl in a horror film. Pierre dives between them, takes a shoulder to the ribs, and gets flung into a stack of tyres. George throws his headset and shrieks, “SOMEONE CALL SECURITY.” Yuki just starts filming.

Lando backpedals, hands up. “WHAT DID I DO?”

“You sent my girlfriend moaning messages about splitting her open,” Lewis snaps. “Don’t play dumb.”

Lando blinks. “WHAT.”

“JUICY. MESS. SUCKING THE MIDDLE?” Lewis roars. “You’re dead.”

Charles appears out of nowhere. “Wait what’s happening?”

Carlos: laughs “I think Lando fucked Lewis’s girlfriend.”

Liam shrieks, “DID HE?” 

George watches on in horror and mutters to Liam, “NO BUT HE SAID HE SPLIT SOMETHING OPEN AND SHE CRIED.”

You show up breathless, Angela in tow. “LEWIS STOP. IT WAS PAPAYA.”

Everyone freezes. Lewis turns to you. Confused.

“Papaya,” you pant. “We were sexting papaya. It was foodporn.”

Lando is wheezing. “IT WAS JUST FRUIT.”

You grab the phone. Open the shared album.

Titled: Food I’d Let Ruin Me Photos include: – a papaya split open with lime and chilli – a chocolate lava cake mid-bleed – a cinnamon roll with icing dripping down the sides – a caption that reads: god it’s so thick I’d choke

Lewis is frozen.

You explain. “Lando and I rate food like porn. It’s our thing. We talk about mouthfeel like it’s sex. He sent papaya. I told him it looked raw and ruined.”

Dead silence.

Oscar looked so utterly confused, “So no one’s fucking anyone?”

George sighs, “Just emotionally traumatising us with fruit.” 

Pierre: “Can we take a moment to appreciate the danger I was in? I was defending a man who sexted produce.” 

Carlos smirks, “I was rooting for the violence.” 

Lewis rubs his face. “I thought he was describing you.”

You touch his arm gently. “You think I’d let Lando anywhere near my split-open anything?”

He exhales slowly. Nods. “Good point.”

Zak appears. “Why is my driver covered in sweat and emotionally broken?”

Toto appears behind him. “Because your driver sexted someone’s girlfriend about papaya.”

Christian choked, “I’m sorry. About what?”

Lando collapses into a chair. “Can someone bring me a drink and a priest?”

You grin. Lewis glares at Lando. “Next time, lead with ‘this papaya.’”

Lando, eyes dead: “Noted.”

In the groupchat later:

DRIVER CHAT George: I have secondhand trauma Oscar: I saw my life flash before my eyes Pierre: I think I chipped a rib protecting you, you papaya slut Lando: I LITERALLY JUST SENT HER FRUIT Zhou: The captions were horny as hell tho Alex: “I’d suck the middle” is not normal behaviour Liam: did we ever get the pic Yuki: I did. I came. Charles: can we all just agree never to sext food again Yuki: never Carlos: absolutely not Max: I’m confused. Are we still mad or can I ask for the lava cake recipe Lewis: I swear to god if I get one more fruit pic Lando: sends a kiwi split open with a caption: “tight little thing” Lewis has left the chat

[marixrose]

Can I request an Obey Me! character react to MC, who always smiles and laughs? Like even when they are just having a normal conversation, there's a small smile on their face that will turn into a big smile as they talk?

Yes! Thank you for requesting this, such a fun idea!

🌸 MC isn’t faking it—they’re just naturally cheerful, always smiling gently and laughing often, even when things are simple or quiet. That smile is constant, and it grows as they speak.

Includes the brothers + side characters

Lucifer

At first, Lucifer thinks you’re just overly polite.

“You smile… a lot. Are you trying to butter me up for something?”

But over time, he notices: it’s not flattery. It’s just you. You smile when you talk about breakfast. When you ask how his day was. Even when he’s being strict, you look at him with that same soft grin—and somehow, it disarms him.

It gets to the point where he catches himself smiling back.

“Tch… You’re far too charming for your own good. Keep that up and I might let you get away with anything.”

Deep down? Your smile reminds him of the warmth he thought he lost in the Fall.

Mammon

Mammon is so down bad. Your constant smiling short-circuits his tsundere brain every five minutes.

“Wha—W-Will ya stop smilin’ at me like that?! What’re you planning?! …N-Not that I care or anything!”

You could be asking about the weather and he’d be flustered. He starts inventing errands just to hear your laugh. When you laugh at his dumb jokes? He nearly melts.

Eventually, he gets addicted to it—he’ll try even harder to make you laugh.

“There it is! That smile! Damn it… it’s not fair bein’ that cute!”

Leviathan

Levi panics. Constantly.

Your smile? That sweet, open smile? It’s like a visual overload.

“You’re just smiling like that… at me? W-Why?! I don’t deserve—wait, you’re not making fun of me, right?! RIGHT?!”

He convinces himself you’re only like that because you’re nice, not because you actually like him. But when you laugh at one of his anime references or genuinely enjoy talking to him?

cue internal screaming

“They… like me? They really—oh my Devildom, I’m gonna die.”

He starts rehearsing conversations just to earn that smile again.

Satan

Satan notices right away—your constant smile, the way you brighten when you speak.

“You’re… unusually cheerful. It’s not forced, is it?”

He watches closely. He studies it like a rare book. But when he realizes it’s genuine—just you—he finds it endearing.

It becomes a quiet comfort to him. Even when he’s reading, he finds himself glancing over, looking for your smile.

“There it is again. That smile… I think I could get used to it.”

He sometimes tests how long he can hold eye contact before you break into a laugh.

Asmodeus

Asmo lives for your smile. It feeds his soul.

“Oh darling~ the way your eyes sparkle when you talk—are you sure you’re not part Cupid?”

He compliments you endlessly, not just for your beauty, but for the joy you radiate. He thrives off it, and tries to mirror it.

“You’re like sunshine in the Devildom~! Can I bottle your laugh? Or wear it as a perfume?”

If your smile ever falters, even once, he notices instantly—and does everything in his power to make it return.

Beelzebub

Beel finds your smile comforting. He feels like everything is okay when you’re near.

“You’re always smiling. It makes everything feel… lighter.”

He doesn’t say much, but he watches you with a soft gaze. He starts smiling more too—especially when you’re eating with him or cheering him on during workouts.

“I like your laugh. I want to hear it every day.”

If you ever smile at him while offering food? He’ll associate your kindness with home.

Belphegor

At first, Belphie’s suspicious.

“Why do you always smile? What’s the catch?”

But when he realizes it’s just you, no agenda… it actually soothes him. He’ll pretend to be annoyed, but the truth is your presence calms him in a way he didn’t know he needed.

“I dream about that smile sometimes. Weird, right?”

When you smile at him while he’s half-asleep, he quietly reaches for your hand and says:

“Don’t stop smiling. Even if I don’t say it… it makes things better.”

Solomon

Solomon notices your smile and instantly thinks, Ah. A light in the dark.

“You smile as if the world’s never wronged you. It’s… refreshing.”

He teases you a lot, trying to see how far he can push you before your smile turns into laughter. But occasionally, he looks at you with something deeper in his eyes—fondness, even sadness.

“Keep smiling, MC. Some of us need reminders of what hope looks like.”

And when he smiles back? It’s soft. Like he’s borrowing your joy.

Simeon

Simeon falls head over heels for your joy. You remind him of the Celestial Realm before the Fall.

“You carry light in you, MC. It’s rare… and beautiful.”

He returns every smile tenfold, always gentle, always sincere. He often pauses in conversation just to take in your expression.

“You smile with your soul. That’s something even angels struggle to do.”

He finds himself praying—not to protect you, but to thank whoever made someone like you exist.

Barbatos

Barbatos notices it instantly. He’s seen countless timelines, but yours? It’s unique.

“You smile as if nothing could go wrong… Fascinating.”

At first, he’s wary. A smile that constant must mean something. But the more he sees it, the more it affects even him, the ever-composed butler. You bring out warmth he’s forgotten.

“In all futures I’ve glimpsed, I never tire of your laughter.”

He makes you tea just to hear you hum happily.

Diavolo

Diavolo adores your smile. It’s like a sunbeam breaking through the shadows of centuries-old stone.

“MC! Your smile—it’s contagious! I should hire you as a morale booster!”

He always laughs with you, eager and genuine. He tries to crack jokes just to earn your giggles.

But privately, he cherishes how you never fake it—how your joy feels real, even in the darkest corners of the Devildom.

“I hope you’ll keep smiling like that when you’re queen of this realm.”

[shifteruncensored]

i am TIRED everyone out here throwing "shifting advice" around like it's some universal law or some shit !!!!!!!! like nooo pls stop. a lot of this advice is so ridiculously fucking generic too……it's kinda insulting? like no one is taking ownership of their truth. no one's even TRYNA own it, everyone's just replicating or copying the same boring ass rulebook that isn’t even really relevant to them (for attention most of the time…)

i just want to SCREAM sometimes bcs nowdays people act like there's ONE way to approach shifting & if you don't do it their way …..oh brother!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! they act like you are doing it WRONG or something. but honestly fuck no. because of that nobody has the courage to WRITE their own damn rulebook. people are starting to be too afraid to be messy or different or like really REAL with what works for THEM bcs of some bs some creators keep parroting.

i just feel like most people should throw all that "do this, do that" crap out the window and MAKE your OWN rules. yes make your own insane crazy rulebook that doesn't necessarily make sense to anybody else but YOU. prioritize yourself.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! bcs shifting is fucking personal. how many times must it be said for you to finally acknowledge that……………even my advice is my own takeaway, my thoughts at the moment, and that's it. i'm not some guru with some perfect fucking guide.

and that's the damn point. nobody's got all the perfect answers that will work for everyone in the shifting community. stop messing around trying to fill up someone else's damn mold. blow it up! burn it! fucking rewrite that shit! do whatever the hell you want. just don't listen to that cookie cutter crap that makes you feel unimportant or stupid or lost or not enough.

pls just be you. stop trying to wear someone else’s skin. be the author of your own damn story. even if it is crazy. even if it is weird as fuck. even if you don't have everything figured out. i see so many people trapped trying to follow someone else's "rules" that don't even resonate with their soul. with who they are. all for the sake of shifting. it’s fucking sad….

this isn't me saying don't take advice though!!!!!!!!!!! pls do if it helps !! ask questions, experiment w/ shit, learn from people!! some advice really can change everything.

BUT!!! and it’s a big ass BUT 🍑 don't act like the advice your getting is law or a needed requirement. it's just one person's experience. not the word of the almighty shifting god (just kidding but you get what i am trying to say right?) take what you like & leave what you don't. remix it. break it. ignore it if you don't like it.

you get to make your own rules. you should. shifting is a personal journey FOR YOU. no one knows you more than you.

so plueasseeeeee create your own damn rulebook. and if someone's gonna come at you and tell you what to do? laugh in their fucking face because they don't know shit about YOUR truth.

[binmeister]

What would happen if a fan jumps on stage to attack one of the girls or guys and no other bodyguards were fast enough to stop them and instead of them getting hurt it's male bodyguard y/n that saves them and gets hurt very badly (got stabbed on the stomach, shot near the heart, ect)?

It would be more fucked up if the event was live and Celine was either watching on TV or was there backstage

Saesang

Huntr/x x Bodyguard! Reader

Fight sequences are hard so this is a little short but tadah! This prompt actually loops back into a HC i have that bodyguard!reader has a scar from a stab wound so this fits perfectly in with that

CW: depictions of violence and harm | Wordcount: 1.7k

It was supposed to be a small casual event, everything should’ve been fine. So why were the Huntr/x girls screaming your name as they run to your side and why is your vision blurring and why are you starting to feel woozy?

It was a scheduled concert, live broadcast, one of many circuits as the girls were due to perform at universities around the city as a little motivational thing for students. Everything was running smoothly. Almost too smoothly. You’d been stationed to be on the ground in front of the stage, making sure the barricades kept students a safe distance away from the stage and everything should have continued to be fine and smooth.

The girls performed a few songs, students losing their mind and cheering because their favourite group was performing. You’d heard the crackle of your radio and your eyes meet another security member who looked as confused as you were. The radio crackled again but no command was made and you see him lift his radio and ask if everything is okay, trying to figure out what could be going wrong. 

Your eyes scan the crowd in front of you but no suspicious figures so you turn around and eye the stage to see if anyone was causing havoc there. Then you spot him. Some scrawny looking guy with a hood covering his face but you could tell the dangerous aura radiating off of him was anything but normal adoration for the girls. Your motions are swift as you run up to the stage, slamming a palm onto the front of the stage and swinging your feet up and onto it in one smooth move and you’ve slotted yourself between the confused girls and the guy who had slowly started stepping out onto the stage.

His steps ramp up and the look on his face is twisted, deranged. Then he lunges at you and as you attempt to grab his wrist you feel the familiar cold metal of a knife pass your finger tips - leaving a thin cut up your arm forearm up towards your hand as he slashes and lunges again. The girls are ushered off stage quickly by other security staff, you hear them yell at you to get away because they don’t know what to do. They’ve never had a fan do this before, it’s not some low level demon that they can deal with themselves in front of a crowd no less.

The honmoon coating the area flickers slightly as it senses everyone’s collective fear, the crowd is also yelling now because no one knows what to do. Your other security members are busy trying to ensure the safety of the girls and you realise as you look behind the saesang that a few other staff members are slouched on the ground. Did he plan this? There’s no time to think as you feel the familiar sting of another open wound, he’d slashed at you again in your momentary pause and you’re forced to take another step back. Cursing the fact that you were unarmed because it was supposed to be a casual and safe event.

He’s laughing at you now as he jumps back, just barely out of range of you to grab him and his eyes flick down to the switchblade in his hand and he flicks the droplets of your blood off of it and onto the stage. His hood had fallen off at this point and as he looks back up at you, you realise he’s not looking at you. He’s looking through you and towards the girls you were trained to protect. You grit your teeth as you keep your stance, waiting for him to make his move.

He does so quickly, feet light and he swings his left hand at you to fake you out as his right brings the blade dangerously close to your stomach. You manage to grab the wrist holding the blade long enough that it’s useless but he swings again and slams his left fist up into your jaw, you can taste blood in your mouth as you realised you’ve bit the inside of your cheek from the sudden hit. You turn your head and spit it out quickly, the copper taste flooding your mouth again almost instantly and you feel his caught hand twist in your grip as he seemingly drops the knife and then suddenly there’s a sharp sting by your right hip.

Whatever it was twists and you let out a shout of agony, your right hand quickly latching onto his left one that’s busying itself with twisting the knife into your side. You can feel the warmth of blood flowing out and steadily soaking into your shirt, some droplets dribbling slightly down your pant leg as you keep your grip as firm and steady as you can. Adrenaline pumps through your veins and you manage to drown out the sounds of everyone’s panic, barely make out the movement of other bodies approaching you two on the stage as the saesang manages to free his hand from your weakening grasp and quickly dislodges the knife from your hip before slashing at your right thigh with it.

He slashes again in an attempt to get your grip to weaken as he taunts you about what he’ll do to the girls once you’re out of the picture, how he’ll treat them better than you ever could and how he’ll be the one to keep them safe as he ravishes them. That’s enough for you as you slam your head into his, head butting him hard enough that he yelps and stumbles - knife dropping from his hand at the sudden impact and you’re able to see the blur of other security members flock and grab him now.

The distant sound of sirens rings in your ear and you’re tired, unsteady on your feet as you try to get a hold of yourself so you can go check if the girls are okay. Because that’s all that mattered. Before you can turn your legs buckle and you grunt as you fall to your knees, the perpetrator had been pinned to the floor and he was dazed as other burly guards are now on top of him.

You hear the familiar voices of Rumi, Mira and Zoey and what sounds like a stampede of steps echoing around you as the adrenaline barely keeps you functional. The sound of their voices as they scream your name and beg you to stay awake. The distant familiarity of their hands as they hold onto you and that dripping sensation of their tears falling onto your skin as you feel your eyes continue to lose focus. You feel tired. Your eyes are so heavy all of a sudden.. Maybe you can sleep for a little bit now that the danger was gone.

You collapsed.

The girls are panicked as they scream for help, you don’t know that they’ve rolled you onto your side so your weight isn’t on the stab wound on your hip and you don’t know that Rumi is crying her eyes out as she tries her best to apply pressure on the wound so no more blood spills out. You don’t know that Mira’s cussing out the saesang, calling him delusional in front of the crowd even though she shouldn’t - that she’s ruining her idol image. You don’t know that Zoey has your head rested on her lap as she cries and keeps asking you to stay awake, that help is on the way and that you’re going to be okay soon just please wait for them. You don’t know that your mother, Celine, is watching this all live from her apartment and how she’s putting her coat on as she rushes out the door as she desperately calls Bobby in hopes that he’ll know soon enough which hospital you’ll be sent to.

The event was on the news for a week or so, security heightened and the Huntr/x girls were dismissed from the concert circuit as it was deemed unsafe for them as their personal bodyguard had been severely injured. You had woken up a couple days later, the blood loss you suffered was apparently a lot more than you initially realised and you had to have stiches for the stab wound you’d been gifted but on the bright side, no vital organs were harmed.

You woke up to see your mother’s head on the bed, exhausted by the looks of it as she most likely stayed by your side and prayed that you’ll be okay and you shift your hand up to pet her hair lightly. Your eyes struggle with the white room, the sun not doing you any favours as it made the room essentially flash bang you but you see bodies around the room. All sleeping restlessly like they’d been waiting for you to wake up. Rumi was on your other side, her head rested on her arms as she was hunched down by the foot of the bed and you catch Mira and Zoey in some uncomfortable looking chairs. Zoey is rested in Mira’s arms and it’s clear that she’d been crying since her eyes were puffy and red, Mira in no better a state but you tried not to think too much on it.

The hospital door slides open and your eyes catch Bobby’s downtrodden expression before his eyes meet yours and he lights up, stops himself from shouting as he takes note of all the resting women and rushes over to you and asks you if you need anything in a hushed voice. You request water and he nods as he quickly runs off, flagging a doctor on his way and you just sit back and relax a little. You’re left to your thoughts for a while as you watch everyone peacefully sleeping around you and you’re glad it’s you that was hurt and not any of the people you cared for, rather it be you that’s battered and bruised than any of them. Then a silly thought crosses your mind and you try not to laugh to yourself as you let it linger.

Yeah.. you need a raise after this.

[half-of-a-gay]

Sevika x Russian reader

as requested in the comments of the "Ambessa x Russian reader" by: @lonerslug

💜 SFW Headcanons

The “No One Messes With You” Rule: Sevika may seem calm in a bar, cigar in hand, eyes half-lidded, but if someone mocks your accent, your heritage, talks over you, or lays a hand on you? She's on her feet in an instant. One glare from her usually solves it. If not? She will drag someone out by their collar.

You're Her Moral Compass (Even If She Denies It). You're the only one who can talk her down when she's spiraling with your calm logic and quiet strength. Plus Russian somehow soothes her. Which you found surprising considering people always told it sounds rough and aggressive.

You’ve got that cold-stare-and-soft-heart combo she didn’t expect to fall for. She doesn’t say it, but she listens to you more than she ever did Silco.

You cook real meals when you can - pelmeni, borscht, blini. She pretends she doesn’t like the “fancy” food at first, but catches herself asking when you’ll make more. She's grown to love your food. Especially when it’s hot and spicy, just like you.

You patch her up after fights. She’ll sit still, and endure your annoyed grumbling that she can't understand. When you look up, you notice her watching you with quiet awe the way your fingers move, how gentle you are. She touches your cheek afterwards like she doesn’t understand how someone like you ended up with someone like her.

Speaking of - you mutter things in Russian when you're annoyed, focused, or flustered. Sevika starts picking up key phrases. Sometimes, she repeats them, with her horrible accent, just to see you laugh or get embarrassed. You’ve caught her practicing in private. Once, she called you “моя звезда” (my star). You almost cried.

🔥 NSFW Headcanons

Sevika loves using her strength. Whether it’s lifting you onto the table, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, or pulling you onto her lap with zero effort - it makes her feral to see your eyes go wide when she shows you just how easily she can manhandle you.

Praise in Russian = Weak Spot

The first time you moaned “Вот так…Не останавливайся.” (just like that… don't stop), she nearly lost it. She growled something low and unintelligible and absolutely wrecked you that night. Ever since, she begs for Russian - filthy, praising, pleading. She doesn’t always know what you’re saying, but the tone alone undoes her.

She doesn’t get jealous often - she gets territorial. If someone flirts with you in front of her, she'll lean in, wrap an arm around your waist, and whisper something obscene in your ear, just loud enough for the other person to hear. Later, in bed, she’ll “remind you who you belong to”.

You’re trembling beneath her, when her lips brush your ear, and in that low, gravelly voice, she growls: “Tell me who you belong to.” And she won’t stop until you say it.

When you finally whimper, «Я принадлежу тебе, Севика...» (I belong to you, Sevika)

She kisses you like a starving woman. At that point the entire Undercity could burn and she wouldn’t care, as long as you're still under her, telling her you're hers like that.

Let’s be honest, her metal arm is a feature, not a flaw. Cold metal on warm skin? She uses it very intentionally. Whether it’s holding you open or applying pressure just right, she knows how to use it to make you scream. And she lives for it.

She's secretly and aftercare queen. She’s rough and commanding during sex, but after? She’s uncharacteristically soft. She’ll light a cigarette with shaky fingers, pull you against her chest, and press lazy kisses along your shoulder. She won’t say much but the way her hand gently strokes your back says everything.

[buckyseternaldoll]

kinky side quest

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentina warned you both: no kinky side quests. You hadn’t planned on it—until her words lit the fuse. The mission went perfectly. The real side quest? Very much in progress.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, blowjob in car, clothed grinding, denied fingering, face riding, cunnilingus (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), metal fingers use, vaginal sex, rough sex, bathroom sex, shower sex, wall sex, riding, multiple orgasms, creampie, breeding kink talk, dirty talk, begging, praise kink, soft dominance, aftercare, established relationship, post Thunderbolts settings

Word Count: 9k~ish

Note: This was something I've written in parts before I took the time for myself and vanished. Any mistakes would all be mine. Hope you'll enjoy whatever this was 💜

You were deployed to clear a simple task with Bucky, your boyfriend—though sometimes it still felt unbelievable that you’d scored him at all. Valentina had given you both that flat stare before you left the Watchtower briefing room, like she could see straight through you.

“No kinky side quests,” she’d said, pinning you both with her glare.

You and Bucky had both nodded like good little agents. Really, you hadn’t planned anything. It hadn’t even been on your mind… until she reminded you. Until she said it out loud, and your entire body remembered you were ovulating. Remembered you hadn’t fucked him in days. Remembered how hungry you’d been for him last night when you’d come to bed late and he’d just curled around you to sleep, murmuring he was too tired to start anything.

You’d promised yourself you’d wait. Get through the mission. Earn your prize. You’d ask for him to rail you stupid after you both got home safe. That had been the plan.

But Val’s warning had lodged itself in your skull like a dare.

You’d kept your head in the game right up until you were actually in the car. Just a normal sedan—sleek and fast but nondescript enough for local traffic. Bucky had insisted on driving, fingers loose on the wheel, eyes sweeping the road in practiced arcs. He was so good at this part, so focused it made you ache.

It should only be forty-five minutes to the drop point. Easy. But you were in the passenger seat fidgeting your fingers in your lap like a kid. Trying not to look at him too much. Trying not to think about his thighs in those dark tac pants.

Because while your mind was set on the assignment, your traitor of a heart had latched onto Val’s rule like it was a forbidden fruit. It wouldn’t stop playing the what-if game.

What if he let you?

What if he wanted it too?

Bucky cleared his throat at the wheel. His gaze didn’t even flick to you, but you knew him—he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye for the last ten minutes.

“Baby,” he drawled, voice low and gentle. “What’s on your mind?”

You swallowed, eyes snapping to the side mirror instead of him.

“Mm. Nothing.” You shifted your hips in the seat, realizing too late you’d been leaning toward him like gravity had given up on pretending.

He huffed a faint, knowing sound, thumb tapping the wheel.

“Something wrong?” he pressed, voice rich with genuine concern. Not annoyed. Not suspicious. Just… worried about you.

You hesitated.

Your brain screamed don’t say it. Don’t ruin the mission. You’d promised yourself. You were going to wait until the op was over.

But you’d been so wound up. So deprived. So embarrassingly wet for him for days now that your mouth betrayed you.

You twisted in your seat to face him fully, fingers clenching in your lap. Your voice cracked with nerves.

“Can I… suck your cock before we get there?”

It dropped into the quiet like a grenade.

Bucky actually flinched. You saw it—a tiny twitch of his jaw tightening, a hard swallow.

For one harrowing second you thought you’d fucked everything up.

But then he let out a short laugh—just air, really, a puff of relief, as his shoulders eased.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, and this time he finally glanced at you properly, eyes soft, mouth curved in that tired but patient little grin he reserved for you alone. “That was what was bothering you?”

You squirmed in your seat, cheeks on fire. Couldn’t look at him for a second.

You nodded anyway. Shame was there, hot in your belly, but so was something else—so was the defiance of I want you.

Technically, you hadn’t arrived at the drop yet. This was just transit. Not the mission. Not really.

Bucky’s brow furrowed for a split second like he was actually considering the ethics of it. But then he huffed again, softer this time. Like he’d decided.

“C’mere,” he said.

He took his right hand off the wheel—his warm flesh hand—and reached across to your restless fingers, prying them gently apart. He squeezed your hand once, firmly. Grounding.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he guided your palm down.

Down to his lap.

Pressed it flush over the front of his pants.

You felt the heat there immediately. Even soft, he was thick. Heavy. But under your hand he shifted and you felt it twitch—just a little at first, then again, firmer. Filling.

You bit back a whimper, heat roaring through you.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let you feel it. Let you watch the way his eyelids went half-mast as his cock stirred and hardened under your palm.

It was wordless permission.

But he still gave you the grace of saying it.

“My cock’s all yours, baby,” he said quietly. His voice was impossibly tender. “If that’s what you need, take it.”

That undid you.

Your hesitation shattered, replaced by raw, urgent want.

You fumbled at his fly, unzipping him with shaking fingers. He lifted his hips just enough—obedient, helpful, letting you work without rush—to free him from the confines of his tactical pants.

And there he was.

Big. Thick. Gloriously hardening in the dark of the night.

Ready for you.

—

You didn’t rush.

You made yourself pause. Forced yourself to just look at him.

Your breath caught when you took in the sight of his cock, freed from his tactical pants—thick, veined, standing proud and heavy. Even in the near-dark of the car, you could see it: the occasional slash of passing streetlights cast pale ribbons across his lap, glinting off the slick wetness gathered at the tip. It curved ever so slightly toward you, shameless in its want.

Your mouth actually watered.

God. It was big. So fucking big. It always struck you just how massive he was, the kind of size you could never forget once you’d taken him. Exposed like this, twitching for you, he looked almost vulnerable. Needy.

You wondered—not for the first time—if the serum had anything to do with it. If it had made every part of him harder, stronger, bigger. Or if he’d always been this blessed.

Either way, you were the luckiest woman on Earth.

You owned this cock. Like a queen. Like it was a gift he’d given you to worship and keep.

You flicked your eyes up.

Bucky kept his gaze on the road, hyper-aware of their route even now. But you saw the tension in his jaw, the way the streetlights striped over the hard line of his throat when he swallowed.

His shifted his flesh hand on your back.

He was holding you there, palm warm and firm between your shoulder blades, thumb stroking slow, calming circles over your spine like you were the one who needed reassuring. It made you shiver.

The car’s interior was shadowed and private except for those brief sweeps of city glow through the windshield. You felt hidden and exposed all at once.

“Easy, doll,” he rumbled, voice low and husky but so soft. “Take your time.”

You let out a breathless, shaky laugh, your lips hovering inches from his cock.

“Don’t tell me that unless you mean it,” you warned, your voice cracking with how badly you wanted him.

His hand squeezed your back, fingers flexing a little like he was fighting to stay gentle.

“I mean it,” he promised, voice firm but warm. “I want you to enjoy it.”

That ruined you.

You bent closer, deliberately slow, letting your lips ghost over the tip in the barest, most teasing kiss. The salty smear of his pre-cum met your tongue when you finally flicked it out to taste him.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, grip tightening reflexively on your back.

“Fuck,” he whimpered.

That sound went straight to your core. You fucking lived for those rare cracks in his control.

You licked him again, circling the head, savoring the heat and weight of him, feeling the slight tremor that ran through his thighs. He pulsed in your hold, swelling even harder.

His hand pressed you just a little closer, not forcing but anchoring you to him. His thumb traced slow circles over your spine, soothing in direct contrast to the filthy act you were committing in the front seat of a moving car.

“Good girl,” he murmured so low you barely heard it over the hum of the tires on asphalt.

It burned through you like fire.

You moaned softly against the head of his cock, the vibration making him twitch, before finally opening your mouth wide and taking him in.

He was so fucking thick your lips stretched around him, your jaw ached immediately in that delicious, obscene way you craved.

Bucky let out a strangled groan above you, deep and broken, his fingers digging lightly into your back.

You bobbed your head slowly at first, letting him feel the searing heat of your mouth, your tongue pressing flat along the underside of his shaft as you sucked him in. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the darkened car, mixing with the low, even roar of the engine.

His hips shifted once, restrained—like every part of him screamed to fuck up into your mouth but he wouldn’t let himself.

“Jesus, baby,” he rasped, voice rough as gravel. “Just like that. So fucking perfect.”

You moaned around him, eyes fluttering shut at the praise, your own hips squirming in the seat as slick gathered hot and heavy in your panties.

You let your right hand slide down, wrapping tight around the thick base of his cock, your fingers barely meeting. You stroked him in perfect rhythm with your mouth while your left hand pressed hard into the muscle of his thigh, feeling it tense under your touch.

He was so hot. So alive. So yours.

You needed air. You pulled back with a wet pop, strings of spit stretching between your swollen lips and his glistening cock.

You let your tongue swirl around the tip, gathering more of his salty pre-cum and spreading it with relish.

“God,” you groaned, voice breaking on a whimper. You leaned in to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along his shaft between words. “I missed your thick, fat cock… too fucking much.”

Bucky’s chest rose in a ragged inhale. You saw the way his nostrils flared, eyes tight as he forced himself to keep them on the road.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice cracking. “You’re gonna kill me, doll.”

You moaned at that, licking deliberately slow down his length, tracing every pulsing vein, every ridge, until your mouth reached the base. Your breath was hot and greedy, your mouth glistening as you finally pulled back just enough to see his ruined expression reflected in the side mirror.

“My cock,” you sighed, nearly sobbing with want, before swallowing him whole again in one greedy slide.

Bucky groaned. A low, wrecked sound.

You worked him harder now, your head bobbing faster and wetter, your tongue pressing and flicking under the crown with every stroke. Your hand twisted at the base in perfect rhythm, squeezing tight, milking him.

You felt it when he lost the battle for control. The way his hand on your back shook before squeezing you tighter, pressing you close in silent desperation.

“Baby, fuck,” he gasped, voice going hoarse with strain. “That feels so good. So fucking good.”

You popped off just long enough to pant out a feral little laugh, lips slick and spit-drenched.

“I know,” you breathed, eyes glittering as you licked him from base to tip again, before plunging your mouth back down.

Your pace turned relentless.

Wet, obscene slurps filled the car, the only soundtrack to your sin. His ragged breathing cracked and broke, mixing with the constant rumble of the road beneath you. Your own cunt clenched around nothing, neglected, soaked through, but you didn’t care. You’d make him fall apart for you.

You felt him start to pulse, harder, thicker on your tongue.

His voice hitched, went ragged.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re back,” he groaned, the threat edged with promise, with desperate need.

You moaned around him, the vibration making him jerk in your mouth.

Your hand at the base squeezed tighter, stroking faster, matching your mouth’s relentless pace.

“Let go for me, baby,” you slurred around his cock, words muffled but clear. You pulled back just enough to meet his blown pupils in the mirror, your lips swollen and wet, your breath coming hard.

“Come for me, Bucky.”

And then you swallowed him whole again, eager and hungry, determined to take everything he gave you.

—

You felt it the moment he lost the last scrap of control.

Bucky shuddered hard, the tremor rolling through his thighs, his hand clenching against your back in a bruising grip as he choked out a guttural moan.

You didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.

His cock twitched once—twice—and then he was coming in your mouth, thick and hot, salty and utterly his.

You swallowed automatically, greedy, taking as much as you could. But there was so much of him, and you’d pushed yourself so deep that some of it leaked from the corners of your mouth, sliding down to your hand still pumping him at the base.

He cursed—low, strangled, wrecked.

“Fuuuck—baby—”

You finally let yourself pull back, gasping a breath as you tried to swallow the last of it, licking your lips shamelessly. You felt it smear on your chin and thumbed at it, giggling a little breathlessly despite how hard your own cunt clenched at the taste.

God. He always tasted good to you. Like an appetizer crafted just for you.

Your eyes flicked up to his face, taking in the sight of your normally stoic, disciplined supersoldier boyfriend looking… ruined.

His cheeks were flushed, eyes half-lidded and glassy from release. A faint sheen of sweat caught the occasional streetlight slashing through the windshield. But to your infinite jealousy, he wasn’t panting or out of breath. His chest rose and fell evenly. Enhanced stamina, you thought with a petty, hungry little growl in your head.

He was already recovering.

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, only smearing a little more of his cum over your thumb before popping it into your mouth, sucking it clean deliberately, knowing he was watching.

Bucky’s jaw flexed hard.

“Fuck, baby,” he finally managed, voice raw and ragged. “That was so good. But…”

He swallowed, voice going lower, darker, more dangerous.

“I need more.”

Your heart skittered at that tone.

You let out a breathless laugh, reaching over him for the small pack of tissues you kept in the door pocket. You flicked one free and carefully wiped the remaining mess off his flushed cock, cleaning him up with an absurdly tender touch. He lifted his hips obediently, giving you access, hissing as the tissue dragged over oversensitized skin.

“Easy,” he breathed.

“Don’t ‘easy’ me,” you teased, voice husky. “You came so much I almost choked.”

That earned a strained chuckle from him, one that ended in a low groan as you tucked him back into his tac pants, carefully zipping him up.

You tossed the used tissue aside and smirked, settling back into your seat, your eyes bright and wicked in the glow of the passing streetlights.

“I know you need more,” you purred. “So let’s get this shit done ASAP.”

You leaned in closer, until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear. Your voice dropped to a filthy whisper, warm and mean and so needy you almost trembled saying it.

“Then you can fuck my wet cunt so hard you break me apart.”

He let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl, teeth bared in a grin that was feral and fond all at once.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

His right hand—his warm, calloused flesh hand—slid right back to you. You grabbed it, guiding it ruthlessly between your legs, pressing it tight over the seam of your tactical suit.

He could feel the heat. The damp. Even through the heavy-duty fabric, there was no hiding it.

Bucky sucked in a breath, thumb twitching experimentally over you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice cracking with lust. His eyes flicked to you briefly before darting back to the road, like he couldn’t afford the distraction.

But you didn’t miss the way his pupils blew wide.

“See what you do to me?” you teased, grinding just once against his palm before pulling back, breath shaking.

His fingers curled reflexively, wanting to follow, to press harder.

“Oh, I feel it,” he rasped. His tone was low, dark, but the smile tugging at his lips was all Bucky. Soft. Devoted. “I’m going to fuck you relentlessly.”

You shivered at the promise.

He punctuated it with a single, deliberate kiss to your left cheek—a press of warm, slightly chapped lips that felt less like affection and more like sealing a contract.

You felt your heart kick against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with anticipation.

Sex for hours. That was the deal now.

And you’d be damned if you didn’t earn it.

You settled back in your seat, trying to calm your breathing, a determined glint in your eyes.

Your brain was already plotting the mission, calculating shortcuts, prioritizing targets.

For the good of the assignment.

And for the goddamn sex, you thought, biting back a delirious grin.

—

You and Bucky handled the assignment a little too quickly, if you were being honest.

Like the perfect, ruthless duo Valentina trained you to be.

Intels extracted. Servers wiped. Physical evidence torched. The drop point reduced to smoking debris in the darkness after Bucky triggered the silent detonator, both of you already on the move before the muted whump even finished echoing.

No one saw a thing. No cameras left to prove you’d even been there.

You tapped the comm in your ear, eyes scanning the dark street as you headed back to the car.

“Mission complete. Back to HQ,” you reported, voice low and steady.

Valentina’s cool voice crackled back a moment later.

“Copy. Don’t make me regret pairing you two alone.”

You smirked as you shut the comm off with another tap, cutting the line.

Beside you, Bucky did the same, pulling out his own in-ear and tucking it in his pocket. You saw the way his mouth quirked despite himself, even as he scanned the perimeter one last time.

Professional to the end.

But when you finally got back in the car, the doors shutting with dull thuds in the night, it was like all that icy discipline melted in an instant.

You tugged your tactical gloves off and dropped them on the dash with a clatter. The car reeked faintly of gun oil, burnt electronics… and sex.

You didn’t even try to be subtle about inhaling.

You glanced at Bucky as he started the engine, headlights cutting through the dark. Streetlights flicked past in rhythmic sweeps, carving his face into alternating slices of shadow and gold.

His lips were still a little swollen. You felt your own throb in sympathy.

He caught you staring. Didn’t say a word. Just smirked—slow, knowing.

That smirk widened when he reached across the center console and took your left hand in his, squeezing your fingers.

But he didn’t keep it there.

Instead, he let go and dragged his big, calloused palm right to your lap, pressing between your thighs.

You whimpered.

His fingers grazed the seam of your tac pants, right over your cunt, even through the thick material sending a sharp jolt of heat straight up your spine.

You gasped, pressing back against the seat, hand grabbing his wrist to either stop him or guide him—you couldn’t tell which.

“Still damp,” he said, voice low, cracked with hunger.

You swallowed hard.

“From sweat,” you tried to lie, your tone cracking in embarrassment, knowing full well he could practically smell you.

He huffed out a disbelieving laugh, deep and rough.

“Nah,” he said, voice going even lower, his grin turning feral as streetlights washed his face in amber. “Smelled too fucking sweet for sweat.”

You shuddered at that, your thighs instinctively pressing together around his hand.

Bucky’s fingers moved. He pressed more firmly, dragging slow, heavy lines along the seam of your tac pants, forcing a muffled moan from you.

You squirmed in your seat. The thick, tight fabric was torture. Too much and not enough.

You let out a frustrated sound and reached for the fly of your pants with shaking fingers, unzipping them with a harsh zzzzp.

Bucky’s eyes cut to you once, quickly, heat banked in his stare, before flicking back to the road.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice almost lost under the hum of tires on asphalt.

You wiggled your hips in the seat, shoving the tac pants down just enough to free your cunt—still covered by the thinnest pair of dark stretch shorts you wore underneath.

They were drenched.

The proof was in the way the fabric clung wetly to you, your slick staining it in a dark patch that even the dim streetlights couldn’t hide.

Bucky let out a harsh breath at the sight, his hand immediately dropping to press right against it.

He grunted, fingers flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he rasped. “So fucking wet for me?”

Your moan was half-words, half-desperation.

“Always,” you managed, your voice wrecked.

You didn’t even try to be coy. Your own fingers closed around his wrist, dragging his hand tighter to you. You ground shamelessly against his palm, feeling the heat of him even through the thin damp shorts.

You hissed at the friction, head falling back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t move away. Didn’t tease. He let you use him, fingers pressing in harder, tracing the soaked line of your folds through the fabric with slow, deliberate pressure.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice going even rougher, ruined with affection and lust all at once. “So needy you’re fucking yourself on my hand in the front seat.”

You let out a strangled sound that might have been his name.

His thumb found your clit through the damp cloth and pressed just firmly enough to make your hips jerk.

You bit your lip to stifle the whine that threatened to escape.

He chuckled darkly, that sound so deep it rattled you.

“Better hope no one’s watching,” he teased, glancing at you sidelong, eyes glittering with heat and mischief as the streetlights cut over his features.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering.

You smirked through the haze of lust, voice shaking but defiant.

“Drive faster, Sarge,” you managed. “Or I’ll make myself come before you even get me home.”

Bucky’s grin turned savage at that.

“Oh sweetheart,” he crooned, voice so low it felt like velvet dragging over your skin. He pressed even harder, thumb circling your clit, slow and merciless. “You’re not coming without me. That’s a promise.”

Your answering moan was wanton and helpless, your fingers still gripping his wrist as you rutted against his hand.

And Bucky just smiled, turning back to the road, driving into the night with one hand on the wheel—while the other stayed buried between your legs, making sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to.

—

Bucky didn’t finger you.

No matter how badly you whined. No matter how your voice cracked, wrecked and breathless, your hips rolling up shamelessly into his touch.

He just kept his fingers right there over your soaked shorts, teasing the seam of your folds through the wet fabric but never pushing inside.

“Please, baby,” you panted, your voice a broken plea. You grabbed his wrist tighter, forcing his fingers to press harder until you felt them sink into the dip of your folds—even through the thin, soaked barrier of your shorts. Your clit throbbed at the friction. “Fuck—please, finger me.”

He huffed out a breath that was half a laugh, half a strained groan.

“No,” he said, voice so low it felt like it vibrated straight through you.

You let out a desperate little whine.

He glanced at you sidelong, jaw tight, eyes flashing as another passing streetlight cut across his face.

“Not here,” he growled. The words were soft, but they snapped like a command. “I’m not giving you that in the damn car.”

Your nails bit into his wrist.

“Bucky—”

He exhaled sharply, his hand flexing against you just once before he dragged his palm away.

“I said no,” he repeated, this time softer, more patient, the dominant control edged with fondness. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re home. That’s it. That’s the deal.”

You grunted in frustration, biting back a curse as your hips bucked one last time. You could feel the slick mess you’d made in your shorts, heat and wetness smearing against his palm before he pulled away completely.

You shivered, angry at the loss.

But you didn’t want to risk making him change his mind.

With a ragged groan, you finally reached down, yanking your tactical pants back up. You wriggled your hips in the seat to get them over your ass, cursing quietly as the wet fabric clung to your folds in the worst way. You fumbled with the zipper, finally sealing yourself back up—like it made any difference now.

Your pussy ached.

Bucky didn’t help, either. He just gave you this smug little sideways look, his lips curling at the edges in a knowing grin.

But his eyes were dark.

Hungry.

You swallowed and shifted again in your seat, trying to get comfortable even as you stayed pressed close enough to grip his hand. You clung to it, even after zipping up. Even after you’d shoved down the raw want just enough to stop begging.

He squeezed your fingers.

Hard.

Reassuring. Possessive.

The rest of the drive back to the Watchtower was torture.

Because you didn’t stop.

Neither of you did.

You whispered every filthy promise you could think of, voice ragged with need. You told him exactly what you wanted—what you needed from him the moment you got through that door.

How you wanted him to shove you against the wall.

How you wanted his cock so deep you could barely breathe.

How you needed to taste yourself on him as he fucked your mouth raw.

How you’d been thinking about him all week, even on missions, touching yourself in the shower and whining his name.

Bucky listened. He didn’t shut you up.

He just smiled.

That little wolfish grin breaking out whenever your words got especially dirty. His jaw flexed tight when you moaned out your filthiest demands.

And all he did was grunt, voice rough, promising you over and over:

“Yeah?”

“You want all that?”

“You’re gonna get everything, sweetheart.”

He leaned heavy on everything, each time making your stomach swoop, your pussy clench.

“Everything you want. Once we’re home.”

You could barely sit still. The seatbelt felt like a restraint you wanted to tear off.

Your fingers stayed knotted together, his thumb dragging slow circles over your knuckles, deceptively gentle.

—

By the time you pulled into the Watchtower’s garage, you were shaking.

Bucky parked in the same precise, methodical way he did everything, even though you could see the tension in his arms, the white-knuckled grip on the wheel.

When you finally stepped out, your legs felt like jelly.

But you forced yourself to walk normally beside him through the darkened hallways, past the security doors.

The elevator ride up was somehow worse.

Your body screamed to press against him. To climb into his lap and grind down until you soaked his pants.

You wanted to maul him. Bite his bottom lip. Kiss him sloppy and breathless.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Valentina had cameras in all the common areas.

You felt her ghost in the walls even now. Watching. Judging.

So you stood there beside Bucky, trying to look normal. Professional.

Except your thighs kept pressing together in helpless, instinctive pulses. Your breath was too fast. Your face too hot.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

He let out a single, low chuckle that rumbled in his chest.

He gripped your hand tighter, fingers interlacing with yours so firmly you couldn’t pull away.

“Behave,” he murmured, voice so soft no one else could hear.

You shivered.

But you didn’t dare meet his eyes.

If you did, you’d lose it.

You didn’t know he was struggling too.

That behind that cool, battle-hardened expression, he was undone.

That all he wanted was to drag you back into that car, crawl over the center console, and fuck you right there until you couldn’t walk.

But he didn’t.

Because you both knew the rules.

For now.

But the moment that elevator door opened?

All bets were off.

—

As soon as the door banged shut behind you, Bucky didn’t waste a second.

He spun you around and pinned you hard against the door, his metal arm braced beside your head to cage you in. His right hand flicked the light switch on in one smooth motion, flooding the room with warm brightness before it immediately dropped to curl tight around your waist, holding you in place.

You didn’t even have a second to register the room before his mouth crashed into yours.

It was sloppy, messy, starved—all teeth and tongue and wet, hungry sounds. Your lips smashed together so hard it hurt, but you moaned anyway, clawing at the thick fabric of his jacket to pull him even closer.

He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and bit it, just hard enough to make you gasp.

But then—just when you thought you’d drown in the filth of it—he gentled.

His lips softened against yours, his tongue slowing, licking lazily into your mouth like he was savoring you. Like he couldn’t get enough.

Your whole body trembled.

You felt his crotch grow against you—no other word for it. His cock hardened rapidly in his pants, thick and pressing into your stomach through both your suits. You couldn’t help it—you rolled your hips against him, needing anything, groaning at the friction even though the layers between you made it frustratingly dull.

“Fuck,” you panted, breaking the kiss for air, your head thudding back against the door.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing those blue eyes. His mouth was wet and red from your kisses, stubble scratching deliciously along your jaw.

He licked his lips once.

“You asked for this, baby,” he growled, voice low, gravelly, dangerous but so fucking tender underneath. His lips curled into a knowing, vicious little smile. “No backing out. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

Your breath hitched.

“Please,” you whispered, completely wrecked already.

That did it.

He grabbed you under your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing.

You immediately hooked your legs around his waist, ankles locking behind him, grinding your soaked pussy shamelessly against the hard ridge in his pants. He groaned, fingers digging into the meat of your ass to hold you up as he turned and carried you toward the bathroom.

You didn’t stop kissing.

You attacked his mouth over and over, teeth clacking, tongues tangling, panting breath filling the narrow hallway. Every time you rolled your hips into him, you felt him jerk slightly, his cock pressing harder into you.

“Fuck—so needy,” he growled, breathless this time.

“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky. Always.”

That made him snarl low in his throat, and he crushed you harder to his chest as he kicked open the bathroom door.

He set you down only long enough to rip at your clothes.

Your fingers were shaking so hard you fumbled the zipper on your tactical suit. Bucky didn’t wait. He grabbed it, yanking it down so fast the teeth nearly split.

“Off,” he ordered, voice so low you felt it in your cunt.

You obeyed, peeling it away, your soaked shorts practically peeling off your sticky folds with a wet noise that made you whimper in embarrassment. The cold bathroom air hit your soaked pussy and you hissed, thighs instinctively pressing together.

But Bucky was already shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it aside. You helped him with the rest, fingers frantic as you unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants down.

His cock sprang free, fat and flushed and so fucking hard it slapped against his lower belly. You both paused for half a heartbeat just to look.

It twitched.

You moaned, biting your lip, fingers already reaching for it before he caught your wrists.

“Shower,” he ordered.

You whimpered.

He didn’t let you protest.

He hoisted you up again, your legs wrapping automatically around him, and reached behind you to flick the shower on.

Warm water blasted from above immediately, steaming the room. It hit your back first, making you gasp, then sluiced over Bucky’s broad shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. His hair slicked back against his head, water streaming down his stubbled jaw.

He pressed you against the tile, shifting you slightly higher on the wall, your slick folds lining up perfectly with his length.

You couldn’t help it—you shifted your hips, dragging your soaked, desperate pussy along his thick shaft, smearing your slick all over him even as the shower rained down.

You both moaned, loud, unfiltered.

“Fuck—baby—” he panted, voice going wrecked.

You felt him adjust, one hand bracing you under your ass, the other reaching between you to grip his cock, lining it up.

You barely had time to suck in a breath.

He shoved in.

You screamed.

Your head thunked back against the tile, eyes rolling as his fat cock split you open, inch after inch pressing impossibly deep until he bottomed out.

“Fuuuuck,” you sobbed, nails raking his shoulders.

“Yeah?” he growled, breath ragged against your ear. “That what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled back and slammed in again, the wet, filthy slap of your bodies colliding echoing off the tile walls.

He fucked you relentlessly.

He set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward with hard, wet slaps, your breasts bouncing wildly between you. Water splashed off both your bodies, steam billowing around you.

Your nipples grazed his chest, slick and swollen. Once, they smacked against his face as you jolted in his hold, and he groaned—open-mouthed and hungry—before burying his face between them.

He sucked a nipple into his mouth hard enough to make you wail, his teeth scraping, his tongue swirling messily.

Your moans turned into raw, broken sobs of his name.

“Bucky—Bucky please—fuck—so deep—”

He snarled, mouth muffled against your tits.

“Mine,” he growled, words wet, hot breath burning your skin. “All fucking mine.”

Your cunt spasmed around him, milking him as you clenched so hard you almost forced him out.

He held you pinned to the wall with sheer strength, thrusting deeper, harder, until your vision went white.

You screamed for him, voice cracking, nails digging so hard you drew blood from his shoulders.

He let out a strangled groan against your chest, his thrusts turning erratic.

Then he froze.

Burying himself as deep as he could, cock pulsing hard as he came inside you, heat flooding your core.

You felt every twitch, every thick spurt filling you, even as the shower water washed over you both.

You moaned for it. Wanted it. Loved it.

You clung to him, legs still locked tight, until you both finally sagged.

He held you there, breathing hard against your collarbone, his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly as your walls milked out every last drop.

When your legs finally gave out completely, he eased you down gently, arms wrapped around you to keep you steady.

You both wobbled under the spray.

He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear with shaking fingers, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You okay?” he rasped.

You nodded weakly, still shivering with aftershocks.

“Fuck—yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He smiled. Soft. Gentle.

“Good.”

He helped you finish showering after that, washing you carefully, checking you for any bruises he’d left. You washed him too, fingers tender as they traced over the strong lines of his chest, the scars you both knew by heart.

Finally you both stepped out, skin pink and steaming, drying off just enough to wrap yourselves in thick, fluffy bathrobes.

You were both still flushed, still breathing too hard, still so far from finished.

But that was for the bedroom.

And as he toweled off his hair, watching you with those blown, heated eyes, you both knew you were about to ruin the bed next.

—

You didn’t bother pretending anymore.

He dropped the towel, letting it fall to the floor in a heavy, wet heap. Bucky’s gaze tracked every inch of you, unapologetic, hungry.

Your bathrobe followed with a flick of your wrist, sliding off your shoulders like it offended you. His fell away too, careless, pooling at his feet.

And you both lunged at each other.

Mouths smashed together in another sloppy, wet kiss—needy, uncoordinated, breathless. His hands roamed your body without hesitation, palms hot, fingers digging in to leave bruises.

Your own hands scraped through his damp hair, tugging him closer until your teeth clicked.

He growled low against your mouth, nipping at your lip before sucking it into his own, tongue tracing the sting he left behind.

Your bare, slick bodies pressed together, chest to chest, skin sliding wetly. His cock, still soft from the aftershower, twitched between you, thickening almost instantly from the friction of your bellies rubbing together.

You moaned at the sensation of it hardening right there, growing against your stomach, the heat of him unmistakable.

You fumbled backwards, lips parting just enough to pant for breath before you fell back onto the bed with a bounce.

You lay there, hair splayed on the sheets, chest heaving, legs instinctively parting wide in invitation.

Your eyes locked on him.

He stopped, looming at the foot of the bed, gaze dropping to your glistening cunt.

His pupils were blown wide, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped.

His right hand, flesh and warm, wrapped around his own cock. He stroked it slowly, deliberately. The head already leaking, pre-cum beading before smearing over his thumb.

You watched, moaning at the sight, your own walls clenching in empty need.

“Bucky,” you whimpered.

That got his attention.

He climbed onto the bed, bracing himself over you, his cock dragging against your belly as he lowered his mouth to yours again.

You kissed hungrily, teeth clacking, breath mingling.

Your hand snaked between you, fingers wrapping around his slick length, feeling the heat, the pulse. You stroked him slowly, thumb smearing the wetness over the head.

He groaned into your mouth, hips twitching.

“Fuck—baby—”

You broke the kiss with a gasp.

“Please… finger me,” you begged, voice cracking with desperation. “I need it so bad.”

He stilled for just a second, eyes searching yours, face tightening with lust and affection all at once.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I got you.”

He shifted, bracing himself better. He knelt between your parted thighs, feet anchored into the mattress for leverage. His flesh hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the taut peak while he supported himself on his elbow.

The metal hand slid down your belly, cool and hard and precise, making your muscles twitch.

You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet him.

He paused, watching you squirm.

“Spread,” he ordered softly.

You obeyed instantly, thighs falling wider apart.

He hummed his approval and pressed one cold vibranium finger to your slick folds, sliding it through the mess you’d already made.

You moaned, head falling back, eyes rolling.

He traced your entrance before pressing in slowly, one thick finger stretching you open, the temperature contrast making you gasp.

You clenched around it reflexively.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Open up for me.”

You keened as he started pumping slowly, his metal thumb rubbing teasing circles around your clit.

“More,” you whimpered. “Please, more.”

He rewarded you immediately, sliding in another finger.

You cried out, walls fluttering around the intrusion, slick dripping onto his hand.

Bucky bit his lip watching you, the cords of his neck standing out with restraint.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he muttered.

You could barely answer, only managing a desperate moan.

He kept going, pumping those two thick metal fingers in and out, dragging them along your walls, feeling you squeeze down on him. His flesh hand squeezed your breast firmly, thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple hard enough to make you jerk.

“Bucky—fuck!”

“Such a good girl,” he praised, voice cracked with hunger. “Taking my fingers so well.”

You could hear the wet, obscene sounds of your cunt being fucked on his fingers.

You grabbed at his ass, nails digging in, pulling him closer.

He chuckled, low and mean.

“You want more?”

“Please,” you sobbed.

He rewarded you with a third finger.

You wailed, back arching off the bed as he stretched you wide.

“Fuck, fuck—baby—it’s so full—”

He curled his fingers deliberately, finding that spot inside you that made your vision shatter.

Your body locked up, breath stuttering.

He didn’t let up.

He kept thrusting, harder, faster, the cold metal unrelenting.

Your moans turned to screams, nails dragging red lines down his ass.

He dropped his head and took your other nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing before soothing it with his tongue.

Your entire body convulsed, muscles seizing as pleasure detonated.

He felt it, the way you clenched and spasmed around his fingers, and curled them even harder.

“Come on, baby,” he growled against your breast. “Come for me.”

You did.

You came so hard you saw stars, your pussy squirting wetly around his fingers, slick splashing onto the sheets in messy, humiliating waves.

He kept working you through it, thumb circling your clit, mouth latched onto your breast like he couldn’t get enough.

Your cries broke into choked sobs of his name.

“Bucky—baby—please—”

He finally slowed his thrusts, your cunt still spasming weakly around his fingers, making obscene wet sounds that filled the room.

You felt your walls clench one last time before going slack.

He drew his metal fingers out of you deliberately, slowly, letting you feel every ridge and bump as they dragged from your soaked, oversensitive entrance.

They left with a wet, filthy squelch that made your face burn with embarrassment. Strings of slick clung between his fingers and your pussy, stretching and breaking, leaving messy strands smeared across your inner thighs.

You shuddered helplessly.

Bucky's eyes never left yours.

He lifted his metal hand, studying the mess you’d made of him with hungry, approving eyes. Then he brought those slick-coated fingers to his mouth.

He licked them clean slowly, tongue dragging over the metal with practiced precision, making sure you saw every movement.

You whimpered at the sight, body twitching weakly on the sheets.

He smiled around his fingers, pulling them free with a soft pop.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he rasped, voice thick and ruined with pride and lust.

You swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it all felt.

You nodded shakily.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, voice cracking.

That earned you a low, satisfied rumble from his chest.

He shifted his weight on the bed, knees sinking deeper into the mattress between your spread thighs as he leaned over you. His warm, flesh hand braced beside your head, metal arm planting firmly next to your hip to cage you in.

Then he bent down and kissed you.

It was slow. Tender. A total contrast to how he’d just wrecked you.

His lips moved gently over yours, patient and grounding, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You whimpered again, your hands fluttering up weakly to clutch at his damp hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp.

He hummed against your mouth, nuzzling you with the tip of his nose, pressing sweet little kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your jaw.

But even as he comforted you, you felt it.

His cock.

Hard as granite. Pressed hot and heavy against your thigh. Twitching every time you squirmed, smearing his pre-cum onto your skin.

He wasn’t even pretending to hide it.

And you both knew—

He wasn’t even close to done with you yet.

—

You were still shaking.

Your whole body felt boneless, oversensitive. But the ache between your thighs wouldn’t quit. Even as the aftershocks made your cunt twitch and flutter, you felt yourself need again.

Bucky noticed immediately.

His thumb brushed your lip, swollen from his kisses, and you sucked it automatically.

Your hips squirmed, legs twitching open.

He watched your expression melt into need.

“Oh, you’re not done,” he rumbled softly, smiling darkly.

Your answer was a half-sobbed whine.

“I need more.”

He chuckled, deep and knowing.

“I’ll wreck you, baby.”

You let out a broken laugh, grabbing at his shoulders for leverage.

With all the strength you had left, you shifted, shoving him back against the bed. He let you, grinning, his big frame relaxing against the pillows with his arms spread wide in invitation.

You climbed over him on trembling thighs, straddling his chest for a moment. He grabbed your hips immediately, fingers digging in to hold you steady.

You kept going, shifting your weight until your dripping pussy hovered directly over his face.

He groaned the second you lined yourself up.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes blown wide as he stared up at your glistening folds. “Look at you.”

You didn’t wait. You sank down onto his mouth.

Bucky growled so deeply it vibrated right through your cunt.

You gasped, hands flying to the headboard for support as he immediately got to work.

His tongue was expert, sliding through your folds, flicking your swollen clit with practiced precision. The hot, wet strokes made your thighs clamp around his head.

He loved that, humming deep in his chest so the vibration traveled straight into you.

He slurped noisily, unbothered by the mess, his mouth smearing your slick everywhere. He devoured you like a man starved, dragging his tongue through the spill from your last orgasm, licking you clean only to make you messier.

You moaned, half-choked, rolling your hips desperately over his face.

“Baby—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled you down harder, metal hand bracing one thigh while his flesh hand gripped the other, keeping you wide open for him.

Then he changed tactics—his tongue pushed inside you.

You nearly screamed.

He tongue-fucked you hard, messy, deep, alternating with dragging licks up to your clit before plunging back inside. Your hands scrabbled at the headboard, trying to get away and get closer all at once.

He didn’t let you move.

He moaned into your pussy, filthy and approving, eyes fluttering shut as if savoring you.

“Fuck—please—I’m gonna—Bucky—”

You couldn’t finish.

You broke apart on his tongue, cumming with a raw wail, grinding desperately against his mouth as your juices spilled.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, swallowing everything you gave him, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the room until you were practically sobbing above him.

When you finally slumped forward, twitching and wrecked, he only gave you a second.

His arms tightened, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered as he dragged you lower, lining you up with his cock, so hard it slapped wetly against your thigh.

He didn’t tease.

He shoved in.

You both moaned—his a guttural, broken sound, yours a strangled cry.

You barely had time to adjust before he was fucking up into you from below.

Your body jolted with every savage thrust. You tried to ride, but your thighs trembled uselessly.

Bucky noticed, smiling through gritted teeth.

“Too fucked out to move, baby?”

You mewled, half-sobbing.

He slowed, stopped.

But only to shift.

He sat up, his hands bracing under your ass, lifting you until only the tip remained inside.

“Hold on,” he ordered.

You barely had time to obey before he slammed you back down onto his cock.

You screamed, walls clenching violently around him.

He lifted you again, set the pace himself. Up. Down. Faster. Harder. Using his strength to fuck you on his cock.

Your breasts bounced, slapping his chest and face. He buried his face between them, biting and sucking, leaving raw marks that made you keen.

“Mine,” he growled, voice muffled. “All fucking mine.”

You nodded frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“Yes—Bucky—yours—fuck—”

He panted, hips slamming up to meet you, cock driving so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat.

Your own movements grew sloppy. You tried to ride him back, changing the rhythm—slamming down, grinding in circles that made you both curse, then bouncing again.

Your cunt squelched wetly, obscene, soaking his cock and thighs.

You felt him twitch inside you, cock pulsing.

He stopped again only to reposition.

He lifted you, arms flexing hard, standing up from the bed in one smooth motion.

You clung to him, arms around his neck, legs around his waist.

He walked you to the nearest wall and slammed you against it.

You gasped, head falling back.

“Bucky—please—”

He didn’t answer with words.

He fucked up into you, pinning you to the wall with raw, bruising thrusts.

Your back scraped the wall lightly with every slam. His cock pistoned in and out with wet slaps that filled the room.

You were crying out openly now, voice wrecked.

“Bucky—Jesus fuck—please—fuck—so deep—”

“Yeah?” he growled, teeth bared in a savage grin. “That’s what you want? You want me to breed you? Fill you up?”

You sobbed.

“Yes—please—fill me—want it—want you to come in me—”

That broke him.

He rammed in hard, deep, so deep you saw stars.

Your orgasm ripped through you violently, making you scream his name over and over.

He groaned, voice cracking as he spilled inside you, cock jerking, flooding you with thick, hot spurts of cum.

He held you pinned there, buried to the hilt, making sure you took every last drop.

You shook in his arms, twitching, boneless.

He stayed like that, breathing hard against your neck, his cock still sheathed inside your spasming cunt.

He kissed your temple, breath shaky.

“Good girl,” he rasped. “My good fucking girl. Took all of it.”

You whimpered, pressing your forehead to his.

His hands caressed you slowly, thumb stroking your thigh where it was wrapped around him.

He didn’t rush to pull out.

He just stayed buried in you, letting you both come down, letting your cunt milk him for every last bit of heat he’d given you.

And when he finally carried you back to bed, lowering you onto the sheets, his cum still leaking from you, he kissed you tenderly.

Like you were the only thing in the world.

—

Your body was limp, boneless. You felt the wet smear of him between your thighs, hot and sticky on the sheets, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

Your lids felt impossibly heavy. You tried to fight it, blinking slow and sluggish.

“Mmh… Bucky, I’m—s’fucked up,” you mumbled, voice thick and slurred, the words tumbling clumsy and broken from your slack lips.

Your eyes only opened halfway before fluttering shut again.

Bucky let out a soft, breathless chuckle.

“Yeah, baby,” he rasped, voice hoarse but warm with amusement. “You are. Did say I was gonna fuck you so hard.”

You made a small, helpless noise of protest, shifting weakly on the sheets but barely moving.

He pressed one last kiss to your temple before pulling away carefully.

“Hold on,” he murmured.

You heard him pad to the bathroom, the water running briefly. He wet a face cloth just enough to make it damp and warm, squeezing it once before turning off the tap.

He came back to you immediately, dropping to one knee at the edge of the bed, eyes soft but focused.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed.

He parted your thighs gently with one big hand, the other carefully wiping you clean.

You whimpered faintly at the contact, twitching once from oversensitivity, but you didn’t fight him.

“Shh,” he hushed you. “I know. Just cleaning you up.”

He was thorough but gentle, wiping away the messy streaks of his cum still dripping from your swollen, used cunt. He made sure you were as comfortable as he could make you, murmuring little reassurances under his breath.

Your breathing evened out, eyelids fluttering but too heavy to keep open.

“Mmh… i—sleep… you…” you tried again, the words falling apart, unintelligible.

But Bucky understood.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know, baby. Sleep.”

He tossed the dirty cloth aside onto the floor without caring, then crawled fully onto the bed beside you.

He settled on his back first, then turned onto his side to face you. His metal arm slid carefully under your neck like a pillow, the cool vibranium pressed against your flushed, overheated skin. His flesh arm curled around your waist, dragging you gently but firmly into his chest.

You melted instantly.

Your head rested on his shoulder, nose pressed to his throat, inhaling the raw, spent scent of sweat, sex, and his skin.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your hairline, nose buried in your damp hair.

His fingers found your hair at the back of your head and began to play with it slowly, combing through the strands to soothe you.

Your breathing slowed even more, going soft and steady.

He felt you go heavy in his arms.

“Good girl,” he whispered so quietly it was almost for himself.

Your lips parted, a final sleepy huff of breath warming his skin, and you went fully limp, finally out.

Bucky smiled.

He let his eyes drift shut, fingers still tangled in your hair, body wrapped around yours like a shield.

He could feel the faint wetness still smearing between your thighs, his cum still inside you.

The thought made something possessive and hungry coil in his gut, even through the exhaustion.

He sighed, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

Tomorrow.

There would be tomorrow.

Rounds. Plural.

He fell asleep knowing full well he was going to fuck you stupid all over again come morning.

[lotusnleaves]

INSTINCT

— ᴾᵃⁱʳⁱⁿᵍ: ᶠᵉᵐ!ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ˣ ᴮᶠ!ᴷⁱʳⁱˢʰⁱᵐᵃ

— ˢᵘᵐᵐᵃʳʸ: ʸᵒᵘ ᵃⁿᵈ ᴷⁱʳⁱˢʰⁱᵐᵃ ᵍᵒ ᵗᵒ ᵃ ʰᵒᵘˢᵉ ᵖᵃʳᵗʸ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ʰᵉ ᵍᵉᵗˢ ᵇᵉʸᵒⁿᵈ ᵈʳᵘⁿᵏ ᵃⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵈᵉᵃˡ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇⁱᵍ ᶜˡⁱⁿᵍʸ ᵗᵒᵘᶜʰʸ ᵐᵒⁿˢᵗᵉʳ ʰᵉ ᵇᵉᶜᵒᵐᵉˢ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ

— ᴳᵉⁿʳᵉ: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ sᴏ ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ɢᴛꜰᴏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛᴛᴛ ᴾᵒˢˢᵉˢⁱᵛᵉ ᵏⁱʳⁱ, ʰᵉᵃᵛʸ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ᵒᵘᵗ ˢᶜᵉⁿᵉˢ, ʰⁱᶜᵏᵉʸˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ˡᵒᵗˢˢˢˢ ᵒᶠ ᵖᵈᵃ

— ᴬ/ᴺ: ᵖᵉᵉᵖ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵘᵐᵐᵉʳ ᶜᵒⁿˢⁱˢᵗᵉⁿᶜʸʸʸ ᵍᵘʸˢ ᵃˡˢᵒᵒ. ᵂᵉ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʰⁱᵗ ⁵⁰⁰ ˡⁱᵏᵉˢ ᵒᵐᶠᵍᵍ?! ⁱᵐᵃ ᵖᵒˢᵗ ᵃ ᵖᵒˡˡ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗⁱᵐᵉ ˢᵒᵒⁿ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ ⁵⁰⁰ ˢᵖᵉᶜⁱᵃˡ ᵗʸˢᵐᵐᵐ ⁽ᴵᵏ ⁱᵗˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵍⁱᵛⁱⁿᵍ ᵃˡᵒᵗ ᵇᵘᵗ ⁵⁰⁰ ᵖᵖˡ ʲᵘᵐᵖⁱⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ˢᵒ ˢʰᵘᵗ ᵘᵖ⁾

The party started off calm. You and Kiri had arrived fashionably late, your hand in his, and a black thin strapped dress clinging to your frame like a second skin.

It was one of those frat house parties. lights dim and hazy, the air thick with sweat and regrets, blasting music friends you don't like, and a hook up in every other bedroom y'know the usual.

You only agreed to come because your Boyfriend begged. "Just a little while", he promised. "You need a night out baby" he coaxed. And he wasn’t wrong school’s been hell, and sleep was even rarer than free time lately.

You didn’t plan on staying long just enough to enjoy yourself.

But your boyfriend, shot glass in hand and a smile that promised trouble had other plans

You left him alone for literally ten minutes—ten. Enough time to do a lap, check your phone, say hi to some friends maybe even answer Momo’s texts.

But right now?

your immediately regretting leaving Kirishima near the jungle juice.

You found him lazily spread on a couch in the living room nursing a red solo cup tipsy off what must be his third round, and two many thoughts of you.

He was shameless cheeks flushed almost the same red as his hair, chest rising in slow deep breaths and smile wide and dopey as he leans into a convo with Denki and Sero. Or… more so a monologue.....

Because he hasn’t stopped talking.

About you.

He's pointing sloppily toward the hallway where he saw you last jaw slack and the coordination of a drunk elephant. “Swear to god, I thought I saw her walk past and I almost forgot how to breathe.”

“She’s, like, insane, bro,” he says, eyes glassy with affection and alcohol. “She fixed my stance in two seconds If that. Said my footing was all wrong and boom! Like that No more leg cramps. She’s a genius.”

Sero laughs, clearly entertained. “Dude, we know she’s cool 'don't think we need convincing.”

“No, like—you don’t get it. She’s not just cool, she’s- She’s perfect.”

Across the room, two girls in too tight dresses and itty bity heels glance over, clearly interested in the red-haired hero, probably recognizing him from headlines and sports features.

They continue their brazen staring before stalking across the room and slumping in the couch on either side of the pro hero. One leans in, saying something too soft to hear over the music caressing his muscled arm in the process.

Kirishima blinks, confused and silent for probably the first time all night then waves them off with an oblivious sloppiness. “Nah, I’m good. I got a girl.”

The girls share a look.

“She went to that sushi place last week,” he continues, totally oblivious to the flirt. “Said it was mid. I trust her taste more than my own. If she says it sucked? It might as well be poison 'cause 'mm not touchin' it.

Kaminari lets out a un-filtered cackle slapping the table like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all night.

The girls tho weren't so amused.

They scoff and walk off, heels clicking sharply against the floor—and still, Eijiro’s got no clue he just rejected them.

Because his gaze is on you now.

Somehow, even in his haze, he finds you in the dim corner of the room walking towards him. and his whole body lights up like someone hit a switch.

“There she is” he murmurs proudly. “Told you guys she was perfect.” he all but screams

You stop mid-step.

Half the room turns and you glare at him, embarrassed as he stumbles toward you like a puppy off-leash.

You bite back a smile watching him weave through the crowd—big, dumb, and entirely yours.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t say a word as he ushers you to the couch, just flops down and throws his arm around your shoulders, tugging you close with a content little hum.

The others laugh, wave, and inevitably leave you two to it—but in the mist of all the party action he’s still not letting go.

“Hi, pretty girl” he whispers, burying his face in your neck like he’d rather die than spend a second not touching you.

You don’t say anything at first.

Just run your fingers through his hair

“You good?” you ask softly hands cupping his face " Enjoying yourself "

He nods, blinking slow. “Had fun jus' missed you”

You hum, “I was here the whole time.”

His eyes flick open. “Yeah? didnt see you tho.” he slurs "And i was loooking- trust me"

You chuckle, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I believe you babe but I was there, saw those girls talking to you and everything.”

He frowns, brows furrowing like he doesn’t even remember.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “You turned them down.”

He pauses then grins. "course' I did.”

“But baby your drunk.”

“I’m always yours, even when I’m drunk.” He leans in, nose brushing yours, voice dipping into that low, gravelly place he only gets when he’s half-hard and clinging. “Especially when I’m drunk.”

Your breath hitches.

the thought of him being so loyal—so gone for you—even with soft hands on his arms, even with perfume in his face and compliments slurred into his ear? He didn’t flinch.

He just smiled, shrugged them off, and talked about you.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Alright, lover boy. Time to go.”

He whines softly. “But I was warm.”

“You’ll be warm in the Uber home too.”

Another whine. “Not as warm as you. You’re hot coco-temperature warm. Like—like a heated blanket. But alive and gorgeous.”

You laugh, pulling him up by his calloused hands with all your strength. “Say bye bye to everyone babe cars gonna be here in '5.”

He turns a little too fast and you tuck yourself into his side for stability. The party’s still loud, Kaminari's reenacting something way too animatedly and Mina’s dancing like it’s not well past 2 a.m

You raise your free hand. “We’re heading out guy s'been fun”

Mina spots you first. “Awww, already?”

“Yeah someone’s a lightweight gotta get home 'fore we all find out everythings he's eaten today" you say gesturing toward Kirishima, whos waving happily but never lets go of your waist.

“Love you guys” he says loudly.

“Get home safe!” Someone calls.

“Use protection!” Someone else adds.

The second you’re outside, the cool night air hits hard. Kirishima stumbles forward, swaying into you with all his weight.

“Whoa” you laugh, gripping his jacket tighter. “You’re massive when you lean like that.”

“You’re strong,” he mumbles, nuzzling into your shoulder. “I trust you. Wanna go wherever you go.”

You eye the Uber icon on your phone. “Well, I’m going into that black Camry pulling up over there.”

“Cool,” he breathes, like it’s the most romantic thing he’s ever heard. “Love that car. Great car mama 'world needs more of that car.”

You snort. “You’re a menace.”

He suddenly stops, eyes wide. “Wait. Did I tell you I love you tonight?”

You blink, thrown. “Yeah like a 100 times pretty sure you told everyone you love me babe"

“Not enough.” He cups your cheeks, leaning in close. “Love you. More than my muscles. More than protein. More than Bakugou loves yelling.”

You burst out laughing, dragging him toward the curb.

He holds the car door open, then turns around and hugs you instead of getting inside.

You sigh and manhandle him into the car, guiding his head to your shoulder as he melts into the seat with a dramatic groan of relief.

“Ohhhh yeah. Mmm.”

You shoot an apologetic glance to the driver, who just chuckles and starts the ride.

Halfway home, Kirishima’s fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and slow against your skin. Not grabbing. Just touching, holding.

You glance at him. “Behave.”

“I am,” he whispers. “I cant touch my beautiful girlfriend anymore?”

You roll your eyes. But your smile betrays you.

By the time you get him home, he’s practically glued to you still drunk, but significantly more sober than at the party, hands wandering constantly—up your sides, over your hips, down your arms like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he stops touching you for even a second.

You barely get the door closed before he crowds you against it and your unable to do anything but take it.

There’s something almost primal about kirishima

Not literally of course —he’d never hurt you but there's something about the size difference in the way this big, beefy man's body curls around yours like instinct, like need. In the way his voice rasps in your ear when he's like this so completely enamored, absolutely full of you.

“Yer so fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbles against your throat, breath hot, lips grazing the delicate skin beneath your jaw as he sucks deep purple bruises every where he can. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about you. All night—all night, baby, all I wanted was to come home and do this.”

His mouth is on you before you can respond—open and wet and desperate. He kisses like he’s starving, like you’re air and he’s been holding his breath his entire life. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers dragging along bare skin, calluses rough.

“My baby. So perfect, it hurts.”

Your back hits the wall. Then the couch. Then the floor, maybe—but it doesn’t matter. Not when he’s all over you like this. Not when every kiss gets hungrier, every breath heavier.

And then come the marks.

His teeth find your collarbone—sharp and sudden—and you gasp. He groans like it’s his name you moaned, not just a sound. Like you gave him permission to wreck you, gently and thoroughly.

He moves lower. Your shirt gets tossed somewhere. His lips travel like they’ve got a map of your softest places, leaving violet blooms and dusky red petals behind. Each hickey feels like a signature.

You try to match his energy, act just as confident—but every time he mouths over a new spot and hums against your skin like he’s savoring it, you feel weak all over again.

He’s warm and heavy and everywhere, kissing down your neck and growling low when you whimper its like your vibrating, like he's too close and too far all at once.

His hands slide beneath your waistband, dragging fabric down just a little—and that’s when your mind catches up to the haze.

“Wait.” You press a hand to his shoulder.

He pauses immediately, lips still against your skin, but his whole body going still. “What’s wrong?”

“You were like gone, earlier,” you say gently, fingers brushing his cheek. “Are you… okay now?”

He blinks. And then, like the fog clears in real time, his eyes sharpen. “Yeah,” he says, slower, firmer. “Yeah, I’m okay 'promise baby I sobered up a lot—too much, really you’re, like, painfully hot right now and I'm hyper aware feels like m'on crack”

You let out a breathy laugh, the tension easing.

“I just—” you glance away cheeks warm. “I want to but not if you wont remember by tomorrow.”

“I'll remember” he says quickly, and then softer “I wouldn’t let it get that far if I wouldn't. I’d wait. I’d always wait for you. to good not to savour”

He’s Still a little flushed and smiley from earlier, but very much here.

You nod slowly. “You good too?”

" I’m a little buzzed not gone tho. I know what I want.”

“Yeah?” His voice dips low again, warm breath on your stomach. “What’s that?”

You smirk, tugging him down by the collar of his hoodie. “You.”

He’s kissing down your down your collar bones and absolutely living for each of your little whimpers.

Your skin is flushed, your breath shaky, his weight pressing into you as his mouth trails slow, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your chest.

“Can’t get enough of you,” he groans, voice like honey. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Your hands are tangled in his hair, fingers knotted in soft crimson strands as you try to keep from combusting on the spot. Every graze of his teeth Every kiss just sending you farther away but your mind drifts—just for a minute—to those girls from earlier. Hands on his arms. Laughing in his face like they knew they had a chance.

You know better now. You saw it. But still.

Then it came out you say it without even meaning to “Those girls were all over you tonight.”

His head lifts just slightly, a sharp glint in his eyes. “Really?” he murmurs, already smirking, voice slurred not from alcohol anymore—but from need. “You jealous, baby?”

You scoff, even as your legs tighten around his hips. “No. Just… surprised you didn’t feed into it, not even a little.”

He leans down until your noses brush again, his breath hot across your lips. “You kidding?” he says, and it’s almost a growl. “They don’t even exist to me.”

You blink.

He kisses you again, slower this time, his voice dipping even lower. “All I saw tonight was you. Every time I talked about you, I meant it. Every word. You’re everything to me."

You shiver.

he grips your throat fingers just below your jaw sloppily leaving open mouthed kisses on your stomach “I knew you were gonna bring it up. Knew you’d get all flustered.” He sucks gently on the spot until you gasp. “You got nothing to worry about, baby. But if you need proof—”

His hips grind just enough to make you jolt, and his smirk turns feral.

“I’ll give you proof.”

You open your mouth to reply—but he’s already moving. Shifting downward, tugging the blanket out of the way with little effort, the rough pads of his fingers sliding under your waistband.

What follows is… unhinged.

He strips you slowly, reverently, every inch of skin he reveals becoming another place to mark, to claim. His mouth trails lower, tongue flicking, teeth dragging, until you’re moaning helplessly and clinging to his shoulders.

He doesn’t tease long—just enough to make you twitch, make you beg, before he’s pulling his sweats low and pressing into you in one slow, hot thrust.

“F-fuck—” he groans into your neck, arms braced on either side of your head. “like heaven, swear to god.”

Your hands claw down his back. You can barely breathe.

He sets a steady rhythm, every roll of his hips sending heat through your spine. His voice never stops—muttering against your ear, into your skin, telling you how beautiful you are, how lucky he is, how good you feel around him.

“You’re it for me,” he pants, pushing deeper, slower. “No one else, baby. No one ever.”

You choke on a moan, your body trembling beneath him as he hits that spot again and again.

“You believe me, right?” he breathes.

“Y-yeah—” you gasp.

“Say it. Say you believe me.”

“I do—I believe you—”

That’s all it takes for something to snap in him.

His pace changes, hips snapping forward with a new hunger that makes your breath hitch. You can feel how close he is—how the tension’s wound tight in his frame—but he’s holding back, waiting, watching your face twist in pleasure with every thrust like it’s the only thing that matters.

“You’re so tight, fuuuck—” he groans, voice breaking.

You manage to smirk, drunk off the feel of him. Something wicked and satisfied curling in your chest—because you did this. You made Eijiro Kirishima—the man who never loses composure—come undone. You brought him to the edge and pushed him right over.

The look on your face must give it away, because his eyes catch yours—and he growls.

His heart clenches with a sudden rush of need—not just lust, but something deeper, possessive and raw. His head dips, lips finding your neck as he sinks his sharp teeth into the curve of it—just enough to make you whimper.

“Mine,” he growls against your throat. “You look so good with my marks on you.”

He doesn’t stop there.

He sucks hard, his mouth moving in tandem with his hips, each thrust brutal and precise, perfectly timed with each needy moan that escapes your lips. You're barely holding on now—your nails dragging down his back, your legs shaking from the overstimulation.

“Pretty girl,” he mutters again, kissing over the fresh bruise he just left. “My pretty girl. Always so good for me.”

You clench around him—tight, desperate, overwhelmed—and he feels it.

“Shit—baby, I can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Y-Yeah,” you pant, eyes fluttering. “Me too, just—don’t stop—”

His hand slips between you, thumb rubbing tight circles against your clit, and it tips you right over the edge.

You come hard, soaking him as your body convulses, your mouth falling open in a silent cry. The sensation is too much and not enough and everything at once.

Kirishima follows you with a broken moan, spilling deep inside you as his hips falter. He buries his face in your shoulder, your name falling from his lips like prayer, like worship, like he’ll never stop saying it.

He collapses on top of you, panting into your neck, still whispering soft things you can’t quite catch over the ringing in your ears.

And for a while, everything’s still.

Only the sound of your mingled breathing fills the air, and the warmth between you sinks into your skin like something sacred.

[todayisafridaynight]

when do yall think sawashiro found out akane was alive . just wonderin .

[jamiebluewind]

@sharkapologists ah. I see the tism bit me in the ass again. Carry on!

i swear some of the polls on this site look like

[mooningningg]

notes, anon? this was lovely.

★ Roommate!Sukuna when you give him the silent treatment.

It started with something dumb. Most things with Sukuna did.

A sarcastic jab that cut too deep. An eye roll when you were already fed up. You didn’t even yell — just went quiet. Too quiet.

And that scared him more than anything.

At first, Sukuna was smug about it. Thought you were just being dramatic.

“Aw, what’s wrong, brat?” he snorted that night in the kitchen, shirtless, eating cereal out of the box like a menace. “Pissed I said your cooking was trash? Wasn’t even an insult. It was trash.”

You didn’t reply. Just walked past him like he wasn’t there.

That? That pissed him off more than your usual yelling.

“Oi. Don’t ignore me.” He turned, watching you grab your water from the fridge without even a glance in his direction. “I said something.”

Nothing.

Not a glance. Not a twitch.

Just the sound of the fridge door closing and your soft footsteps back down the hall.

He stared after you, jaw clenched. “Fuckin’ hell.”

Day one? He tried annoying you.

Left his towels all over the bathroom floor. Stole your snacks. Sat next to you on the couch just to shake his knee until you snapped.

You didn’t even flinch.

He waved a hand in front of your face once. “You dead?”

No response.

Day two? He tried teasing.

“Look, I know you miss my voice. It’s the best part of your day,” he said, sprawled out on your bed uninvited. “You can keep pretending, but I know you’re suffering.”

You stepped into your room, took one look at him, and pointed to the door.

He blinked. “You serious?”

Silence.

He scoffed. “You’re being fuckin’ dramatic.”

You shut the door in his face.

By day three, Sukuna was spiraling.

You didn’t laugh at his jokes. Didn’t glare when he stole your charger. Didn’t argue about what to watch on Netflix. You just… stopped reacting.

It was driving him insane.

“Alright, fuck this,” he muttered, stomping into your room uninvited — again. He leaned on the doorframe, shirtless and annoyed. “This ain’t funny anymore.”

You were at your desk, reading.

He hated it.

“I’m not apologizing,” he said quickly, before you could say nothing again. “You’re the one acting like a child.”

Still, no reaction.

Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “What, you think this makes you look cool? You’re not mysterious, sweetheart. You’re fuckin’ annoying.”

You turned the page.

Something in him cracked.

“Fine,” he snapped, marching across the room. “If you’re not gonna talk, then listen.”

He yanked your book from your hands, tossed it on the bed, and leaned down over you.

His hands came down on either side of your chair. Caging you in.

“You ignoring me like this?” he growled, voice low. “It’s cute for, like, five minutes. But you’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You still didn’t speak — just lifted your brows.

He cursed. “I don’t even know what the hell I said. You always get all soft when I call you a brat, but now suddenly I’m the villain?”

Nothing.

“I’m not good at this shit, alright? You want me to say sorry? Fuckin’ fine. Sorry. You happy now?”

Still no response.

He looked at you like you’d grown two heads. “...You're really not gonna talk to me?”

Silence.

“You fuckin’ like this, don’t you?” His voice dropped. “You like watchin’ me squirm.”

Then, slowly, his mouth tilted into a dangerous smirk.

“Fine. Keep ignoring me. I’ll make you speak some other way.”

He leaned in, close — lips just barely brushing your ear.

“I bet I can get you to scream real easy.”

You shoved him off your chair instantly, cheeks burning.

He laughed, victorious.

“There she is,” he grinned, arms folded as he backed out the door. “Took you long enough.”

You slammed the door on him again.

But this time, you were biting back a smile.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh.

[sixeyesonathiel]

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.

it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head

tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.

he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.

now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.

and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.

“excuse me.”

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic ^^

[monstersholygrail]

Your Dragon husband remains knowing little to nothing about human anatomy, even after all this time of being with you. No matter how many times you try and explain it, it just doesn’t seem to get into his thick skull!

So maybe that’s why you aren’t too surprised as your husband ruts furiously inside your hot cunt like he can’t get deep enough inside of you. His big body curled around you protectively while he fucks into you from behind when suddenly a small pout forms on his face.

You watch him curiously as he stretches two fingers all the way up your torso, measuring the length of your tummy till he stops and a bigger pout forms on his face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You ask breathlessly, your words broken by your constant moans.

Your Dragon husband growls under his breath and begins kneading at your soft flesh, feeling for his bulge that sticks out from your stomach and proves just how deep he is inside of you. Your skin burns as hot as his fire and you want him deeper. Harder.

As if he can read your mind he starts plowing into you like a dragon possessed. His long tail wraps around you and helps him slam his length as deep as he can reach. It has your toes curling and your eyes crossing.

“How can my seed possibly take root if my cock is taking up all the room inside your walls?” He snarls, fucking into you furiously as if trying to prove his point. You cry out, back arching into him.

His words register through the fog of lust in your head and you almost want to laugh. But then his throbbing angry tip is kissing your cervix and forcing all thoughts from your head.

“T-trust, nnngh!, trust me. Getting in as deep as you are, it’s mmph— gotta take,” you mewl, eyes crossing with the pleasure that washes over you as his cock bullies it’s way deep along your walls.

Your Dragon husband raises a brow at you. His hand unintentionally pressing down harder on his bulge and making your vision flash white with ecstasy. His cock stuffing you so full you feel like you’re about to burst.

“We cannot— ah fuck!— know for certain. So I will, hmm, just have to keep pumping you full of my seed. If any dares to drip out I will simply fill you again,” he snarls, claws pinching at your skin and making you even more unbearably sensitive than before.

Your eyes widen in slight fear of going that long. He may actually break you. But your pussy flutters as if begging for even more of his cum. And as your husband presses down your lower once again, your vision flashes black as you nearly pass out from the intensity of your orgasm.

With a fierce scream you cum all over your husband’s massive cock. He throws his head back in a fiery roar, literally, and slams back into you one more time as he follows suit. Getting in as deep inside you as possible as he releases spurt after spurt of thick hot ropes of cum.

Working you both through your highs he grinds himself against you, acting like a plug. His scales rub at your clit perfectly and send little shocks down your spine. But as your husband glances down between you he curses under his smokey breath.

“Good heavens! Some has already leaked and created a ring around my cock… it seems we will have to go again,” Dragon Husband rasps, his voice practically a growl again. A glint passes his eye that makes you think he meant to do it.

And suddenly you’re wondering if he knows more about human anatomy than you thought…

This is for my collab for the Monster Championship final w/ @monstersflashlight :)

[espresso1patronum]

I loved your boxer good can we get boxer gojo in jealousy pleaseeee😭❤❣

hehe ofc bb<3 jealous boxer!gojo it is.. part 1 part 2

boxer!gojo who gets jealous way too easily. he sees the way the other fighters look at you—his sports therapist, his girl. sees the way they grin when you tape their hands, the way they lean in when you check their injuries. and he fucking hates it. "bet they like having your hands all over ‘em, huh?" he mutters, voice low and dangerous.

you roll your eyes, used to his possessive streak. "it’s my job, satoru." but that’s not good enough. because right now, his job is making sure you remember exactly who you belong to.

boxer!gojo who fucks you against the locker room mirror, making you watch. "see that?" he pants, one hand gripping your throat, the other pushing your legs apart. "no one else gets to touch you like this. no one." his hips snap into you hard, deep, stretching you open until you can barely stand.

you whimper, hands pressed against the mirror, and he leans in, smirking. "aw, baby—what, too much? you didn’t seem so shy when you had your hands all over those other guys."

boxer!gojo who makes you scream his name. "who’s fuckin’ you like this, huh?" he groans, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing slow and teasing circles. you choke on a moan, legs shaking, and he laughs, low and smug.

"c’mon, sweetheart. say it."

when you finally sob out his name, he rewards you with a bruising thrust, hips slamming against yours. "that’s right. mine."

boxer!gojo who doesn’t stop even when someone knocks on the door. "oi, gojo, you in there? fight starts in five!"

he grins against your neck, still rolling his hips. "guess i gotta make this quick, huh?" his fingers tighten around your throat, keeping you right where he wants you as he fucks you even rougher. "better cum before i do, baby—don’t wanna walk outta here with my cum drippin’ down your thighs, do ya?"

boxer!gojo who leaves you wrecked, trembling, completely fucked out. he kisses your jaw, smirking. "next time you touch another guy, remember this, yeah?" he fixes his shorts, winks, and heads out like he didn’t just ruin you.

and when he wins his fight that night, he points at you in the crowd, grinning. "that one was for my girl."

…because everyone in this arena should know who you really belong to.