#amai speaks

[amai-kurusu]

@timetohop you have a rival

@axolotltime ME WHEN I GET YOU

[amai-kurusu]

You're about to enter an unskippable cutscene. Are you sure?

"No one wants to see art of ocs" If I dont see art of peoples ocs at least once a day I DIE. Do you want that to happen? Do you want me to DIE? Draw your ocs.

[amai-kurusu]

OH G O D

[jyakkopotto-saddo-gaaru]

finally finished!!! dont make fun of me this one was hard

[zylphiacrowley]

(it's stalwart_spirit lmao)

You're probably going to have a million people message this but THE ART BOOK MINION

Lol I def saw this already but I always love and appreciate whenever people tag or message me about him XD

[amai-kurusu]

CHILE MENTIONED-

I LOVE the fact that they put Vaquita's story!!! It was a delight to see him there!!

This was very lovely to wake up to. It's completely legit, in the replies people posted videos and pictures of the 'walk for El Vaquita', the fake protest to get El Vaquita desperately needed medical attention.

The comments in the tweet lead to celebration of a another Chilean comrade doggo named Negro Matapacos. And this is exactly the kind of education I want this month.

[amai-kurusu]

Aight @timetohop I see you.

WAR OF THE BOOPS

[sonarspace]

nicknames, sukuna

a/n: short soft sukuna drabble cause he makes me go crazy. ignore any translation mistakes, i used google translate 😭 content: sukuna speaking in japanese. fluff, nsfw (oral - fem!recieving) wc: 582

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

"sukuna," you call him as he's seated beside you watching a random season of survivor. he hums in reply. "you're my cutie pie".

you cheese at him when he turns his head to look at you, eyebrows furrowing. "i'm your what?" you don't miss the slight blush that creeps up on his face. "my cutie pie," you say moving closer to make yourself comfortable in his lap. "my sugar plum," he raises an eyebrow at you.

the ends of his mouth slighlty tugging upwards. "my cupcake" you kiss him on the cheek "my cotton candy," your hands in his hair as you kiss his forehead. unable to hold it in any longer, he smiles. "my suki wookie," you look into his eyes and smile squishing his face. he lets out a quiet chuckle.

he flops you on the mattress as he pries your legs open and makes himself comfortable on top of you. trails kisses down your body as he whispers sweet words in japanese into your skin like a secret. "恋人 — koibito (lover) " a quick peck on your lips. "天使 — tenshi (angel)" a kiss at the space between your ear and neck. "私の心の光 — watashi no kokoro no hikari (light of my heart)" his lips move over your chest.

you wish you could understand what he was saying. you only knew the basics so you could figure out he said "my". my what, you wondered. "what does that mean?" you ask quietly. he looks up at you, the look in his eyes soft and loving "my brat". he jokes his head falling down to your chest as he laughs. "sukunaaa" you laugh.

he continues leaving feather light kisses over your body. now moving over your hips "私の桜 — watashi no sakura". you gasp as you translate it in your head. "your cherry blossoms?" you chirp. caught, his cheeks turn a shade darker. "can i, か甘いい女の子 — ka ama ī on'nanoko" that you knew. he always called you that. sweet girl. his sweet girl. you nod.

he kisses over your panties. you whimper. a slight sheen of wetness coating you as he pulls off your panties. "キャンディーのように甘い — kyandī no yō ni amai (sweet like candy) " he whispers to himself.

he kisses your clit once, twice, until your hand scratches at his scalp. "please," you whine. "hmm, be patient, 恋人の女の子 — koibito no on'nanoko (lover girl), haven't eaten all day". his tongue pokes out and he lickes a stripe from your opening to your clit. his lips wrapping around your clit as he moans in satisfaction at your taste. his finger moves down to your opening as his mouth over your clit brings you pleasure. his finger moves in and out of you at a teasing pace, fast and then slow.

your legs tighten around his head, limiting his oxygen intake but he doesn't make any move to pry them away. instead his tongue on your clit moves at a feverish pace. you soon cum with a cry of his name. mewling and moaning. he pulls away.

happiest man on earth. he thinks that whenever he's with you. "愛してます — aishitemasu (i love you)", he says softly, expecting no reply. you've watched enough romantic japanese movies to know what he meant, so you reply back "私も愛しているよ, すくな — watashi mo itoshite iru yo, sukuna (i love you too, sukuna)". and his mouth drops. giddy at your confession he takes away your breath as he kisses his love into you.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

© SONARSPACE 2023 | DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK ON OTHER PLATFORMS!

[tainted-liquor]

'Basketball Wife'

"Back the fuck up, thank you." - Miles G. Morales Earth42!Miles Morales x Booksmart!Reader TWs: Cursing, n I think that's it Ingredients: Sugar, kisses, and a lil bit of smiles! W/C: 980? A/N: This was another request that I rlly loved working on! Enjoy luvs ꨄ

You and your boyfriend, Miles, had been dating for around 10 months or so. He didn't have the best reputation with the faculty, skipping out on certain classes, having the lowest participation score out of most of the students, and overall wasn't a very happy camper. It's not like his grades were bad, oh hell no! He just wasn't a very optimistic person and opted to fade into the background of most people's lives. Which for some reason had the opposite effect, inducing random girls and, very very rarely, boys to throw themselves at him just to say 'I know Miles.'

Now when he decided to join his school's basketball team, shit only got worse for him. He used to eat his food in the lunch room until a pool of girls decided to sit near him in an attempt to snatch his attention. This obviously pissed Miles off even more, pushing him further back into the shadows and closing himself off even more from the people around him. So he decided to eat in the library. It was empty for the most part, with about 5 students eating together and talking, one of them being you. There you sat with your group of girls, chatting away about random topics, ignoring the rather aggressive slam of the library door. For you, it was just another lunch before you went back to your classes.

As you skipped to your 5th-period class, you parted ways with your friend Kayla as you prepared to be assigned the 2-person project your teacher had gone over yesterday. You obviously weren't a fan of work, but you were excited regardless to choose your partner. So when class got started and the teacher announced he would be ASSIGNING your partners? Honey, you were pissed off. The class erupted full of irritated groans and 'Oh my god's as he listed off the names, choosing the oddest combos you'd ever heard in your life. He called your name, and then Miles as you rolled your eyes slightly. Really, you wanted to be with your best friend Amai, but you didn't have much of a choice, did you?

When the teacher finished reading off the list of pairs, everyone scattered across the room to sit next to their partner. So you moved accordingly, scooting your desk over to Miles's with a couple of noisy scrapes. He wasn't exactly rude, just didn't really seem interested. You really didn't feel like explaining what you wanted to do to someone who wasn't listening, so you just decided to compromise.

"Look, we don't have to talk at all, but at least come find me today so we can work on this project. We don't even have to speak, just correct something or write notes on the slides."

So you met every day for the next 2 weeks in the library, with Miles gradually warming up to you as you spent more time together. He went from saying 2-3 words a day to you to having full-fledged debates on random topics. Even when the project was over, he still hung around. Inviting you to watch him practice for his games, putting you on his cfs story on insta, and stationing you in the front row every time he had a basketball game without fail. So it wasn't necessarily a surprise when he asked you out.

You snuck around together for the next 10 months, not really wanting to deal with questions about each other. You had grades to keep up, and he didn't want to attract any attention. Spending minimal time together during school hours but hanging out in Miles's dorm or his house after hours, spending countless nights in each other's arms. He asked you to come to yet another one of his basketball games, to which you happily agreed to make an appearance.

You sat on the benches as you silently cheered for Miles, giving him discreet little heart signs and blowing tiny kisses in his direction every now and again. He winked at you, and no sooner than he did you heard a girl behind you begin to blab on.

"Bitch he winked at me! Oh my god!"

You felt a vein in your temple tense, exercising all of the strength in your body to not turn around. She stepped down a row, sitting slightly close to you as you watched her wave frantically, which Miles ignored. The game went on for about another 45 minutes, with Home scoring the winning shot. The court erupted with loud cheering, you had that same amount of school pride as you yelled along with the crowd. As the team celebrated in the middle of the court, a few players walked over to whoever was important to them in the crowd fixed on the benches.

Miles made a quick glance at you before briefly nodding backward, indicating for him to follow him to the back like you would usually do. Just as you were getting your stuff ready, that dumb bimbo quickly hopped up to grab at his arm. He wasted absolutely zero time in pushing her off, giving her a rather stern "I have a girlfriend. Back the fuck up, thank you." with a grimace that said nothing but pure disgust. He jogged up to you, pulling you from the front of the bleachers and pulling you into a deep kiss. A couple people perked up at the action, watching as two people who seemingly didn't even know each other casually kissed in the middle of the court.

Bitches were mad that day, their delusions coming to a very sharp halt as the reality of Miles's girlfriend smacked them like a backhand from Floyd Mayweather. But you didn't give a single fuck as Miles cooed a gentle "I love you, mi amor." Into your ear. You knew who he preferred over everyone in the school; that mattered to you.

[amai-kurusu]

Why would you hide this in the replies @jake0302 this is a banger

“So, your patron is the God of Death?” Yeah. “So, are you a necromancer? A great Warrior?” …Nah, I’m a Doctor.

[bunniehunn]

Yuubeni Chōga

Finally, Yuubeni’s character intro! She’s my yuusona/partial self insert(ish?) Tumblr destroyed the resolution click for a clearer view 😭😭 Me yapping A LOT about her under the cut!

Appearance:

Yuubeni is a young woman with light, freckled olive toned skin and dark brown, almost black eyes. Barely below average at 5’3, with a small build and curves. Still has some baby fat around the stomach area. She has short, curly dark brown hair, usually down. Her fashion fluctuates between the extremes of pink and feminine to looking like she just hopped out of a Dick’s Sporting Goods.

Personality:

Yuubeni is an introverted girl, who always likes to help her friends. She struggles a lot in multiple aspects of her life, like taking care of herself or school work, but she always seems to have energy to assist someone in need. She has adhd and anxiety, and she’s a little sensitive to negative attitudes towards her. She’s a bit naive and gullible, which gets her and her friends into less than desirable situations constantly. She’s also a bit self-conscious socially, and she tries to avoid talking much about herself or her interests in fear of embarrassing herself. If you do get her to talk about something she’s passionate about, though, she switches up to probably one of the highest energy people you’ve ever met. Of course, she’ll probably be thinking about that moment for days, scared you found her weird. She waters down her personality, and won’t let too many people get close. It’s easier for her to befriend extroverts so she doesn’t have to speak, or those who some might say are a little out of the norm.

Backstory:

Yuubeni was born into a very normal family. Her family moved around constantly due to her father’s job, and they never stayed quite in one place for too long. The most recent place they moved was the one they’d stayed for the longest, and Yuubeni really started to feel like she fit in. Of course, she can’t have anything nice, can she? Just as she finally felt comfortable, another move was announced. Distraught, she ‘took a walk’ in the middle of the night. During her ‘walk’, was the moment the sound of horse hooves clopping against pavement were heard, and moments later she blacked out. Waking up in a floating coffin was, obviously, VERY anxiety-inducing for her.

Now at NRC, she’s having trouble juggling her school work, duties, friends, and the constant overblots.

A relationship chart + some extra blurbs.

Random Tidbits!:

Started an art club at school! (Mostly so she can have school-sanctioned art time. Doesn’t expect anybody else to join.)

Gamer! Will get Ortho to convince (force) Idia to play with her. It’s a source of comfort for her.

Sings and acts, likes to do theatre but gets really bad stage fright. Like, straight up full-body shaking.

Her favorite flower is a hydrangea! Her brooch on her striped bow is based off a hydrangea petal.

Loves to do her nails in funky designs.

REALLY easy to scare. Do not scare her, she WILL cry.

Her main symbol/motif is a butterfly!

★彡

GAAAAH I FINALLY MADE IT!!! I’m really proud of her drawing, it’s only my third time attempting to mimick twst style and I think I did good. Sorry this is so long 😭

Tagging! @gimmeurmoneyagh @babyghoul138 @jadenui @taruruchi

@amai-sakura-chan @day-dr3aming @buttholesparkles @mirioho @cheerleaderman

@theolivetree123 @h0neybane @angelwishess @fell-e @tsubomisno1fan

@screamintoad @crystallizsch @skibidibabygirl @moonyasnow @beneathsakurashade

@boopshoops @the-rini-rush

[zylphiacrowley]

(From @stalwart-spirit) For the DT questions!

What was their opinion of the culture of recycling souls and the use of regulators? Did this change as the story progressed?

WoL/OC Dawntrail questions!

12. What was their opinion of the culture of recycling souls and the use of regulators? Did this change as the story progressed?

The idea of recycling souls was something that deeply unsettled him the second he learned about it. He's smart enough to know that something like that can't happen without some sort of huge sacrifice or exchange, so when he learned how the process really worked he wasn't surprised but he was horrified that his hunch was essentially right. It made him even more uncomfortable when he caught himself considering how things might've been different if the people he's loved and lost would've had access to technology like that and how maybe they would still be around if they did… He is still firmly on the "I do not support this" side of it, but the fact that he even considered the idea of his loved ones being brought back at the cost of the souls of others troubles him deeply.

Thank you for the ask! ~♥ (I actually want to go back probably on my alt so I can more thoroughly absorb the lore surrounding this tho tbh so my apologies if anything seems lore-weird about my answer).

[silentscrying]

🏀 buzzer beater | chapter NINE.

nba!gojo x manager!reader

summary: you thought you'd gotten rid of arrogant NBA star satoru gojo when he left the curses after your first year in basketball management. but when your contract is up three years later, you find yourself working with him once again as the manager for the sorcerers. as you navigate playoff season alongside long-time friend ieiri shoko and the sorcerers' insufferable star player, you start to realize his sudden departure from the curses may not have been what it seemed, and maybe gojo isn't exactly the person (or player) you thought he was, either.

warnings: language, mentions of neglectful parenting/abandonment, TENSION, steamyyy, self-worth issues, implied sexual content. || mildly nsfw. 5k words.

YOU'RE NOT SURE you’ve ever seen Satoru Gojo play a bad game of basketball.

Until now.

The Samurai are kicking ass, and it’s not even funny. Gojo playing so—so off means the entire chemistry of the team is unbalanced. Something about his sudden lack of obnoxious confidence is throwing even Kento, even Ino. Megumi storms up to him halfway through the quarter and says something low and sharp that you can’t hear, and Gojo throws his arms up like what the hell do you want from me?

The Samurai are playing subs you’ve never seen on the court before. Miguel is a valid threat, yes, and Larue plays for almost a whole half, but then Gakuganji puts on Rin Amai. He’s like the equivalent of Junpei to the Samurai—a fresh draft, a young player who hasn’t had much time on the court this season. Eventually, Gakuganji’s just sitting there letting the assistant coach, Ijichi, call the shots.

It’s not malicious, not like they’re trying to mock you, but it feels like that game against the Phantoms, where you were so far ahead you didn’t even have to try.

It’s not like Gojo isn’t scoring. Even at his worst, he’s a good player—but he’s not playing well by his standards and the whole team can feel it. Even Nobara’s stopped being optimistic by the third. It’s a twenty-point deficit, and while it wouldn’t be unheard of for a comeback, nothing about the expressions on the guys’ faces says they’re winning today.

It’s horrible.

Yuji’s making a valiant effort to rile the team back up, and it works a little—he’s scoring like crazy, and Megumi is making a real effort to pick up Gojo’s slack. Kento is steady as ever, at least on the surface, but it’s not enough.

It’s not a hard-fought kind of loss, like the first game in the series was. Nitta gives you a strange look across the court—even she can see that something is blatantly wrong. You’re thinking of Geto, of Gojo, of the convoluted feelings roiling around in your gut.

You feel sick.

When it’s over, the team files out of the gym in near-silence, and you make a beeline for your office without speaking to anyone, even Ieiri. You need to fix this, you need to do something, you need to—you don’t fucking know.

You need to be alone.

The door practically slams behind you, and you whip out your laptop so aggressively you’re surprised it doesn’t break. You’re going to drown yourself in work and stop thinking or worrying or feeling anything at all.

It doesn’t last long.

It’s maybe been a half hour before Megumi steps into your office without prelude, not bothering to knock, and kicks the door shut behind him.

“Uh. Hey?”

He doesn’t sit down, instead pacing back and forth in front of your desk, pensive.

“Fushiguro. What?”

He stops, turns to face you. “You and Gojo,” he says. “Whatever this fucking issue is, you need to figure it out before it costs us the series.”

You stare at him, at a loss for words. Because this is Megumi Fushiguro, the last person you’d ever expect to confront you. The last person to chew you out, the last person to walk into conflict if he doesn’t absolutely have to.

You remember his sharp words to Gojo on the court, inaudible but aggressive. Wonder what they were.

“So what is it?” he prompts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is he keeping something from you? Is that it? Is he shutting you out? Are you shutting him out?” He plants his hands on the desk, leaning over you—not threatening, but weirdly earnest in a way you’ve never really seen him before.

“Listen. I owe Gojo my life. I don’t know how much you know, but I know you’re at least aware that he pulled me and Tsumiki out of a really shitty situation. So I know you know he’s not a selfish piece of shit, even if he wants everyone to believe it. I also know that he cares about you, okay? And he doesn’t do that. Not outwardly, at least. Not in the way he cares about you. So whatever it is he did, or whatever it is you did, can you go do something about it? Because we are not going to beat the Curses if you and Gojo can’t figure this out.”

There’s no this, you want to say. Even as the thought half-forms in the back of your mind, you know it’s a lie.

This is maybe the most words you’ve ever heard Megumi speak at once, and you’re pretty sure every single one of them was true.

It’s like he took all the words in the room, all the ones the air had space for. There are none left for you, and you’re just staring at him over your laptop screen, grasping at straws.

Finally, after a too-long silence, you nod.

“He’s a good person,” Megumi says quietly.

“I know,” you whisper, looking down, wringing your hands in your lap. “I know.”

—

You work late.

At least, you stay in the office late, well after everyone else has gone home. You brushed off Ieiri’s concerns, dodged Nobara’s questions. You finished everything you had to do ages ago. Now you’re just sitting and staring at your keyboard, wondering how the hell to work this thing out with Satoru.

It should be straightforward. It should be easy. You’re not going back to the Curses. He needs to trust you more.

Except it’s not easy, it’s not straightforward. Because he makes your heart beat backwards. He turns all the words on your tongue into ash. He makes you feel things you haven’t felt in a long, long time, maybe ever, and that terrifies you. And you can’t explain why you won’t leave, why it matters so much that he trusts you, if you can’t tell him how you feel.

But you don’t know the first thing about how to start.

You’ve only just buried your head in your hands when the door opens again. No knock, no voice. You can tell just by his presence that it’s Yaga, and you wonder if you’re about to lose your job.

“I talked to Gojo,” he says, and you make yourself look up at him, hoping he can’t tell how near you are to tears.

“Oh.” You don’t have anything else to say. You thought he left hours ago.

“Look.” He doesn’t sit down, but somehow even when he’s towering over you his presence isn’t daunting. You respect him. He respects you, you know that—so why do you feel like he’s about to tear your world apart? “I need to know if they’ve extended you a serious offer, or if this one of Geto’s mind games.”

“No,” you say immediately. “No, it’s—it’s not an official offer. Even if it was I wouldn’t go back. I don’t know what Geto wants from me.”

“I don’t think it’s what he wants from you, champ.” You blink, and Yaga sighs heavily. “I know they didn’t treat you right over there, don’t lie to me. You’re a great asset and you deserve better than Geto and his band of asshats. Satoru knew that. That’s why he pointed me your way in the first place.”

“What?” You sink back in your seat. “What do you mean pointed—wait. Okay. How’d you…?”

Yaga blinks, drags his palm down his face. “Oh, damn. I thought you knew.”

“I—what? What did I know?”

“Gojo—he requested we recruit you. Talked about you so highly from your time with the Curses we couldn’t say no. Don’t get me wrong: I’d have hired you regardless. You’re damn good at your job. I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m over here doing Gojo favors or some shit. He just gave me your name, and you did the rest damn well on your own.”

You can’t think, can’t speak. Gojo, who you couldn’t stand when you worked for the Curses, couldn’t stand when you arrived here, either. He wanted you to come?

The implication here, if you’re reading Yaga’s words right, is that Geto knows that Gojo wanted you here. That it would bother Gojo if the Curses got you back. That he’s going after Gojo with one of his stupid little mind games, not you.

That Gojo cares about you to an extent that could potentially hinder his playing ability? No. That’s insane. But… you just saw it happen.

“Gojo,” you echo, a little numb. “I—Gojo recommended me. Satoru Gojo.”

Yaga nods, and you cuss under your breath. Because Satoru, it turns out, has maybe never been the man you thought he was, when you made a snap judgement all those years ago. Not even when he was with the Curses. Not even when you… when you hated him.

“Listen. I’m not saying this is entirely his fault, but Geto knows Gojo. My guess? Mei Mei’s exploiting that.”

“Mei Mei?” You gape. She’s the manager who took your place. She’s a mogul; you can’t imagine why the Curses would ever want to replace her.

But if she sent Geto here to lie to you, to gamble, to ask you to come back so that Gojo got so into his own head that the Sorcerers lost…

“Oh,” you breathe. “God. That’s… messed up.”

Yaga only nods. “Look,” he says eventually. “If we’re going to beat Suguru Geto? We need you and Gojo on the same page.”

He’s right. God. Of course he’s right. Geto plays mind games. You and Gojo—Satoru—need to be a united front against those games if you’re going to win this one.

You need to find him.

—

Jujutsu Arena is a whole different beast at night.

You’re used to squeaking shoes and cheers and blaring buzzers, whistles and cameras and fans and action.

Tonight, it’s quiet. Open. Hollow, maybe.

In regular season, the team doesn’t always practice here. You’re no stranger to nighttime gymnasiums, but this one in particular feels so wide open it could be haunted, or it could be blessed.

It’s the only place you could think of where he’d be hiding out, not answering his texts. The only reason he’d have his cell shoved in a bag somewhere rather than tucked in a jacket pocket. He could have just been ignoring you, but you know Satoru, and you know he’s petty enough to leave you on read, to make you know when he’s ignoring you. So here you are.

He knows you’re here. You make no effort to silence your footsteps as you slip through the open doors. He’s got that headband on, hair pushed out of his face, and he’s only wearing gray sweats and a T-shirt. For some reason, you feel like this might be the most unmasked you’ve ever seen him.

You know he’s registered your presence because he dunks in a stupid, showoffy flourish, but he doesn’t look at you. Ball’s in your court, apparently.

“Satoru,” you say. He turns to face you and it’s like the words are just falling out of your mouth. “Why are you—what are you doing here so late?”

“Practicing,” he says. “I—every night. Most nights.”

You think you might know why. A lot of things are starting to make sense about this man, and a lot of them make you angry, and a lot of them make you—you don’t know. Not angry, but a different kind of heated. “I think we need to talk.”

When he doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t object, you cross the court to him. “I think there are things about each other we don’t know,” you say. “And I think we can’t beat the Curses with this—with this wall between us. And I want to fix it.” Your voice is soft, and it seems to have him easing up a little on whatever this show of indifference is. He sighs.

He passes you the ball.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

The ball feels good in your hands, like an old friend. You really haven’t had the chance to just shoot baskets in a while, what with the insanely busy job taking up most of your free time. For all that you’re around basketball, you don’t really get to play a lot of basketball.

You bounce it a few times, trying to figure out where Gojo’s mind is at. His eyes are following the trajectory of the ball, not you.

“You’re upset,” you say, just to say something. And then you make a shot from where you’re standing. Gojo’s hand shoots up and tips the ball, and you run for the rebound and make a lay-up. “Tell me why.”

“Geto,” he says, diving for the ball before you can get it back. “He’s playing with you. To play with me.”

You’re honestly kind of surprised by the straightforward answer.

“I see,” you say. “I get a shot and you answer a question, is that it?”

“Yes,” he says, smirking. Then he scores on you. “My turn.”

“You didn’t—”

“That was a question, was it not?”

You can turn it back on him. “Yes,” you repeat. “It was, and that was my answer.”

You forget sometimes how much you love this sport. And so you figure you can do this, have your long discussion as you dart and block and shoot, because that’s when Gojo’s mind is at its best, and he can dodge your questions like your attacks. Or not.

Faking right and then diving past Gojo’s left side, you score on him again.

“Okay, so Geto,” you say, catching the rebound. “Why does he still bother you so much?”

“Because he knows me.” Gojo steals the ball right out of your hands. He’s fast. “We were best friends. In college, in San Diego. We knew everything about each other. So he’s using what he knows about me against me, instead of playing the goddamn game on a fair court. And that pisses me off.”

You. It goes unsaid. Geto is using you against Satoru.

He shoots long, his shirt riding up as his arm rises above his head, revealing his stupidly toned abs. You shake your head as the ball swooshes through the far net without even hitting the backboard. You might’ve played D1, but you’re no NBA star.

So now this game of yours, it goes both ways. He looks at you for a long moment before he starts down the court, and then you’re running to get to the ball before him. His legs are so stupidly long. “If you got a job offer right now, a better one, would you leave?” he calls as you sprint.

When you grab the ball before he does, you know he’s letting you.

“Define better,” you say, holding the ball hostage. He frowns.

“Higher paying. Better hours. I don’t know, NBA admin? WNBA?”

You consider, tapping your fingers on the uneven surface of the ball. “For another team, no,” you say truthfully. “Even with a pay raise. I like it here.” His relief is palpable, and you know he’s letting you see it—he could hide it, if he wanted to. “Maybe for a higher-level management position, something with the league. But not for the Curses.” You make sure he’s looking right into your eyes when you say it. “I wouldn’t leave this for them.”

I wouldn’t leave you for Geto.

Taking advantage of his distraction, you shoot while he isn’t standing between you and the basket. He chuckles.

“I don’t understand, though,” you insist. “If you were friends, why—I mean, I know what he did to Megumi. With the draft. But he’s—it’s Megumi. How can someone hate him? Why? He never did anything to Geto.”

Satoru sighs as you go to retrieve the ball. “It wasn’t Megumi.” He closes his eyes like he’s weighing whether he should say something. “It… was his dad.”

“What?”

“Toji… wasn’t a good guy.” You don’t miss the past tense, the forced evenness of his tone. “He, uh. He was a coach, actually. For a bit. When Geto and I were in school.” He shakes his head. “Not head coach or anything, but he was around. And god, he was a shit dad. I mean, left Megumi and Tsumiki to fend for themselves the second she turned 18. Even when she was…”

“I know,” you say, and he looks up in surprise. “Not about their dad. But Tsumiki… told me what you did for her. For Megumi. About the bills.” His eyes go wide, and you clear your throat, for some reason feeling like you’ve confessed something. Thinking about Tsumiki, so sweet and so young, about Megumi, trying to help her on his own… it makes your blood boil, knowing their father could have supported them and just—chose not to. “So what did their dad—Toji, what did he do to Geto?”

Gojo’s laugh is short and humorless. “Left.”

You pass the ball to him. A peace offering, maybe.

“Suguru and I always had very different views on the sport,” he says, dribbling idly. The use of the first name is jarring. Thinking about Geto and Gojo being that close. “How it operated in our lives, I mean. For me, it was—I mean, it’s my livelihood, but it’s not my life. It can’t come before—before people. It can’t take over.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, grabbing the headband and pulling it off, then shoving it into his pocket. His hair falls wildly into his face.

“You know, it’s funny. It used to be the other way around. I was all for the game, nobody mattered. It was different for him.”

“Different,” you echo. And your echo travels—the sheer size of this place is overwhelming when it’s empty like this, like it’s a whole planet and the two of you are the only people on it.

“In college it was more of an escape, I think—he had kind of a fucked up life, before. But he just got so obsessive. And Toji encouraged it,” Satoru explains. “It became his whole life, he was training with him all the time, and Geto didn’t even like him. Hated him, actually.”

He passes it back. You dribble the ball between your legs, relishing the sound of the quick bounces on the waxed floors.

“Toji was awful. Relentless. Refused to recruit his own kid, even when he found out what a good player Megumi is. Didn’t do jack even when he knew Tsumiki was sick. I hated him. Hated him. And I was mad at Suguru for even tolerating the guy.”

Gojo makes a run past you, and you dive to keep the ball but miss, and he steals it. “But Suguru just kept training with him, day after day after day. And it started interfering with his relationships, his friendships. And he was becoming this different person. I couldn’t handle it, he wouldn’t listen to me, and then Toji just up and left.”

He bounces the ball off a wall. “What he does best, I guess,” he says bitterly. “No explanation, no resignation, just gone. Turned up in a prison in Asia a few months later, and that was the last we ever heard of him.” He shrugs. “Except when he kicked the bucket.”

“Shit,” you murmur.

“Suguru wasn’t the same once he started training with Toji, but he got a little better after he was gone for a while. I mean, it wasn’t good, but he was starting to come back to himself. And I thought I’d gotten through to him, maybe. Thought I’d gotten him to understand that Megumi wasn’t his father. But he just wanted nothing to do with them. No Fushiguros, he said. Blacklisting Megumi was the last straw. Sometimes… sometimes I think he did that more to get back at me than anything.”

“And this,” you say quietly, taking a step toward him. “Me. Trying to get me to leave. That’s to get back at you, too?”

Satoru doesn’t respond, but that’s all the confirmation you need. You leap to block as he shoots from a few feet to the right of the hoop, but you’re not tall enough—not enough to block 6’3”.

“Do you hate me?” he asks.

You stop, hands slapping your thighs as you let them fall to your sides. “What?”

But he just looks at you, doesn’t repeat himself. And the expression on his face—it’s almost nervous.

“I don’t hate you, Satoru.” The ball rolls toward you and you let it come to a stop between your sneakers. “I—do you think I would be here if I hated you?”

“Did you used to? Before?”

You want to ask, before what? But you think you know.

“That’s two questions,” you whisper. He throws the ball into the net without looking. Asshole.

“I… I don’t think so,” you say as he catches the rebound. “I thought I did. I thought… a lot of things about you. I didn’t like you. But I also didn’t give you a chance. It was a snap judgement based on a lot of assumptions, Satoru.”

He smiles faintly, dribbling the ball idly, spinning it on a finger. “I like it when you call me that.”

You dart forward and slap the ball from his hands, turning beneath his arm to dribble to the other end of the court. You catch him so off-guard he barely makes it in time to block you, but the ball goes just over his fingertips and swishes through the basket regardless.

“Why did you think that?” you ask. “That I hated you.”

“Because you should’ve,” he says. “You had—you have every reason to. I made it that way.”

“What?”

“You, uh,” he starts quietly. “You should know that—I mess things up. I mess people up. I push people away and I say mean things and I argue and I make things hard for people. I always have.”

He retrieves the ball, still talking. “I get cocky and I act like I know everything and I pretend I don’t need anyone else. It never ends well. When I do. It was different with Megumi and Tsumiki. It just… he reminded me of me, a little. And I just tried to help, and then it all just happened. But everyone else—god, every team I’ve ever been on, the Curses, Suguru…”

He swallows once, hard. “I don’t have a reason, either. I grew up in a good home. I had a family. I don’t have excuses. I just—I got really good at one thing, really young. And everyone always treated me like I was more of an asset than a person. And at some point it just got easier to be like that, to exist as some caricature, some—some basketball icon, I don’t fucking know. It’s just—I don’t make it easy to like me. Or know me. Or be around me. I make it easy to hate me. And I wouldn’t blame you if you did, still.”

He scores again.

“I want you to be sure,” he murmurs. “Do you—”

“No,” you say fiercely. “No, Satoru. You know what? You know how you just said you push people away? You’re doing it right now. You’re doing it right now, and it’s not going to fucking work this time. Because guess what? I do know you. I know you’re here every night practicing by yourself because you don’t think you’re good enough, even though you’ve been the best player in the fucking NBA for years. I know you don’t tell anyone when you’re struggling. I know you didn’t leave the Curses for some petty fucking reason, you left because Megumi—because he needed—Satoru, you took Megumi and Tsumiki under your wing and never even told anyone, you endured all that bullshit from Geto and never even ratted him out, you got me this goddamn job—”

“What—did Yaga tell you?”

“It doesn’t matter!” you cry, hands coming up to grip Satoru’s forearms. “Because you do care, Satoru. Because you’re a good person. And I’m sorry,” you say, softer now, “I’m sorry I ever made you feel like you weren’t.”

You aren’t sure when his face got so close to yours. His breath is warm, ruffling the loose strands of hair that have escaped from your loose ponytail. “And it surprised me, too,” you murmur, refusing to break eye contact, still holding him by the arms. “But yeah, Satoru. I see you, and I know you. And I like you.”

He wiggles his eyebrows at you and drawls, “Aw, Alley, do you like-like me?”

“Satoru,” you warn flatly. He chuckles, but then his expression melts back into that serious, searching gaze. He pulls one of his arms away, takes the ball from you, moves back just a little. He shoots it right over your head. You don’t move.

He smirks as the ball drops into the basket with a faint swoosh. Neither of you move to grab it as it bounces across the floor, the rubbery THUNKthunkthunk echoing in the empty arena.

“Your turn, then,” you say, and it sounds a little strangled, a little thready. You don’t know when your heart start moving faster than your mind.

You blink and he’s in centimeters away from you, and he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yeah, I got one,” he whispers, voice gruff. He takes a step forward and you take one back. Not away from him, just—he’s so close, he’s…

“Can I kiss you?”

There is no stadium.

There are no empty seats, no baskets, no hoops. The moonlight streaming in from the skylights is secondary, the feel of the court beneath your feet irrelevant. There is only you, and Satoru, and the very, very thin space between your faces.

You have no words, not for this.

Your hand drifts up to the back of his neck, and you pull him toward you, and his lips slot into yours like they were made just for this, just for you, and you’re warm everywhere, from your gut to your fingertips to your toes to everywhere his hands on your body, moving, shifting, holding, and you feel like you’ve lost the knowledge of where you end and Satoru begins.

“I liked seeing you in that shirt,” he breathes, hands slipping beneath the fabric of the one you’re wearing now, his warmth on your back. “But I’d like seeing you in one of mine more.”

Whatever the game is, you lose.

It’s the fact that he wants you, maybe, that this isn’t a one-time thing, that he wants his clothes on your body. The implication that it’s more than just now, than tonight. That whatever this jumble of knotted feelings in your gut has been all this time, he’s got it too, you’re not crazy. You don’t realize you’ve stumbled back, that he’s moving with you, that you haven’t broken eye contact since he spoke.

“Satoru.” His name comes out in a gasp, and you feel your shoulder blades hit the cool-to-the-touch mats that guard the gymnasium walls, your knees nearly buckling as he moves his lips down to your neck, your collarbone. You’re not cold, you’re so far from cold, but goosebumps scatter themselves across your skin. You can’t stay still. You want his skin on yours, everywhere.

“Say that again,” he says against your skin, lips warm. “My name.”

Oh, he doesn’t get to have all the fun.

“Gojo,” you tease, and he grabs you by the chin, breathing into your mouth.

“No.”

“Six,” you whisper.

“No.” His voice is guttural.

You grab him by the forearm and shift your weight. In a blink, he’s the one against the wall, and you know he’s yours.

“Baby,” he whispers. It sounds like a plea, or a confession.

“Satoru.”

He kisses you again, desperately, his tongue slipping into your mouth, and you practically sink into his touch. “I’ve wanted to do this,” he breathes, kissing a trail down your jaw, “for so fucking long.”

“Oh, yeah?” Your composure is long gone, gone with the reality of the empty stadium around you, maybe you never even had it— “How long?”

He grabs your face in his hands, his long fingers reaching into your hair. “Since the second day you worked for San Diego,” he confesses. “You yelled at me.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips through your lips, remembering your second day of work. Satoru had not shut up, even as you tried to get to know each of the players, get your footing in this new position. You turned around and snapped at him, told him to go take a lap if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut or something.

“You’re into that?” you tease. And the the gravity of what he’s saying hits you. That he’s wanted you for that long. For years. “Since…”

“I’m into anything when you do it,” he whispers in the shell of your ear, and shivers run down your back as he reverses your positions again, your back pressed to the wall. He grabs you by the hips, his hands moving over your skin, and before you know it your legs are wrapped around him and he’s holding you against the wall, kissing the daylights out of you, like he’s been starving for five years and you have every answer he’s ever wanted.

“Satoru,” you get out through gasps as he kisses a line down your collarbone before capturing your lips in his again. He hums against your mouth, acknowledging you, and you pull away just for a second, and it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done, maybe. “We can’t—do this here.”

“This?” he teases. His finger slips into your waistband, taunting.

“Toru—” You don’t mean to say it like that, but you’re short on the breath and the first part of his name gets lost in the air.

“Oh, well, when you ask so nicely,” he murmurs, setting you down, but not letting go of you, like he’ll die if his hands aren’t touching you.

“Hey, sweetheart?” You look at him through lidded eyes, every cell in your body on fire. You’ve been struck by lightning. You might be dying. If this is what dying feels like, you’re ready. “I’m not gonna make it back to my place,” he says lowly. “Or yours.”

Your grin is wide and slow, and genuine.

“Good thing,” you say, pulling him back toward you, “I’ve got an office down the hall.”

directory. || prev. || next.

jjk taglist open: just send me a message!

@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan @theclassbookworm @lilactaro

a/n: okay, team: this is a PSA that this is not really a cliffhanger as much as a fade to black. the sexual content is very much implied and you can do with that what you will, but i do not write smut! only a few more chapters left ahhh

[amai-kurusu]

Pardon?

You don’t have Twitter so I assumed you were a zionist I’m sorry

???????

[starcunin]

@caniasfire sent: [ STRADDLE ] : while sparring, sender gains the upper hand and pins the receiver in place, straddling their waist in the process.

Astarion moves with practiced grace, the dagger in his hand a natural extension of his body as he circles Amay, eyes gleaming with predatory intent. Sparring had never been his preferred pastime; there was no thrill of true danger, no satisfying conclusion of blood spilled, but Amay had asked, and that, somehow, made all the difference. The rogue had agreed, though his motivations ran far deeper than the mere act of honing skills. He wasn’t here for the sake of practice; this was about keeping Amay close, manipulating desire, weaving his web of control with every lingering glance and fleeting touch. Yet, something unexpected has shifted between them.

Astarion doesn’t quite realize when his mind begins to wander during their exchange of blows, but it happens. A flash of Amay’s determined expression, the heat of his blood pounding through his veins, and the smell of sweat and life so close——it all blurs together for a moment. And in that moment, Amay moves faster, sharper, and suddenly, Astarion’s back hits the ground. His breath catches, but not from the impact. Amay’s thighs, strong and unyielding, press into his sides, holding him firmly in place. He looks up into Amay’s face, a wicked glint sparking in his crimson eyes. The dagger is at his throat, the blade cool against his skin, but there’s no fear. Only amusement. Desire, even, perhaps?

How very unexpected.

Astarion’s lips curl into a smirk, a slow, dangerous thing that twists with knowing amusement. His voice, soft and taunting, drips with innuendo as he speaks, utterly unbothered by the precarious position he finds himself in.

❛ Did you really need practice, ❜ he begins, his tone rich with suggestion, ❛ or was this just an excuse to get close to me again? ❜

His voice lowers to a purr, and Astarion leans up, just slightly, just enough to close the distance between them. His face is so close now, his lips hovering just a breath away from Amay’s. The faintest brush of air passes between them, and he can feel the heat radiating from the man’s skin, the intoxicating pulse of too hot blood just beneath the surface. Astarion’s smirk deepens, and his eyes flick up, meeting Amay’s gaze with a look that is all hunger, all invitation.

❛ Darling, ❜ he murmurs, the word slipping from his mouth like silk, ❛ you don’t need an excuse for that. ❜

He lets the moment hang between them, the weight of it heavy, charged. His pale, slender fingers brush lightly against Amay’s thigh, tracing an idle path that speaks of promises unspoken. The dagger remains at his throat, but Astarion’s posture is relaxed, as if they are merely having a pleasant conversation and not locked in a sparring match where the line between play and seduction is all but obliterated.

His smile, sharp and wicked, remains in place, and for once, Astarion isn’t entirely sure if the game he’s playing is still entirely within his control. Something unfamiliar stirs in his chest, something easy to ignore, yes, but not easy to dismiss entirely. Not when Amay is so close, pinning him down, their bodies pressed together in this unexpected, delicious moment of tension.

And in the back of his mind, beneath the flirtation, beneath the manipulation, there’s a flutter——a small, irritating thing that he can’t quite name.

[amai-kurusu]

NO ONE SHALL BE SPARED OF THE BOOPS!!!