#and when I went in my friend went off to do something and I was sitting in the waiting room getting ready

[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 | other works here.

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 tanned 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’s already won, 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^^

[liminalmemories21]

911 - Ficlet

"You know what I'm really tired of," he says when Tommy answers the door, pushing past him into the house he's only ever been to a handful of times, but whose address he still has saved in his GPS as Tommy (home).

"Please, come in.  Make yourself at home," Tommy says sourly.  "Evan, what are you doing here?"

He makes a beeline for Tommy's fridge, and god he always has such pretentious fucking taste in beer.  Good, but pretentious.  And he's such a prissy bitch when you call him out on it.  He'd loved that about him.  Loves that.

He grabs one at random, hunting for the bottle opener in the drawer next to the sink.  "Maddie thinks I need to learn how to be alone again."  Takes a swallow.  Tommy just stands there in the doorway, staring at him, not moving.  "She's wrong.  Couldn't manage to graduate from college, but I've got a fucking PhD in how to be alone."  Takes another swig, and then pauses to look at the label, but this is actually really good.  "What I need to learn is how to get someone to want to stay.

He looks at Tommy, who's still frozen in the doorway.

"She agrees with you, by the way.  Also thinks I'm in love with Eddie."  Takes another drink and then goes to root through Tommy's pantry for the doritos he knows are there somewhere, because Tommy won't admit it, but he loves them.

Makes a low triumphant noise when he finds them.  Takes a handful and holds the bag out ot Tommy, "You want some?"  Tommy shakes his head mutely.

He shrugs, "Your loss."  Crunches his way though a few.  "You're both wrong, you know.  Even if it would be really fucking convenient for the narrative."  Tommy starts to say something, and he cuts him off.  "Am I sad that my best friend is gone?  Yes.  Am I not dealing well living in his house?  Also yes.  Fucking sue me."  Crunches a few more chips and chases it with a swallow of beer.  "Eddie's house was one of the first places I found where I was always welcome.  He trusted me to take care of the most important thing in the world to him.  I think I get to be upset that he moved back to Texas.  I get why he went.  I don't even disagree with it.  I wish my parents had loved me half that much.  I still get to be upset about it."  Points the beer bottle at Tommy.  "Okay?"

Tommy holds up his hands.  "Okay."

He nods.  Takes the last swallow of beer in the bottle.  "What was I saying?"

Tommy shakes his head.  "I have no idea.  Evan, why are you here?"

He frowns.  "Oh, I came to apologize."

Tommy's eyebrows go up.  "This was an apology?"

He waves a hand.  Contemplates whether he wants another beer.  "No.  I wanted to apologize for what I said, about not having feelings for everyone I slept with.  That wasn't about you, but I realized that probably wasn't obvious."

"No," Tommy says, and finally crosses the kitchen to get a beer of his own.  "It wasn't."

He takes the second beer when Tommy holds it out to him.  He can uber home if he has to.  "I was mad," he offers.

"Got that, thanks."

He snorts without really meaning too.  "I missed this."  Tommy's eyebrows go up.  "The way you're bitchy and mean."  Sits down at the table opposite Tommy.  "I missed you.  I don't know if I'm still in love with you, but I know I'm not over you, no matter how many things I bake."

"Bake?"  Tommy echoes.

"I baked every time I wanted to call you, or thought about you.  I could have opened a bakery with what I made."  Rubs his hand down his jeans.  "With what I'm still making."  Risks a look at Tommy from under his lashes.

"Okay," Tommy says slowly.  "So, if the comment about not having feelings for everyone you sleep with wasn't aimed at me, who was it aimed at?"

He grimaces.  "Everyone?  No, really.  Everyone keeps telling me to get back on the horse, or there are other fish in the sea - and seriously, what's with all the animal metaphors.  It's creepy."  Takes a breath.  "So I did.  I tried that.  Downloaded grindr and hinge, went to a bar.  Hooked up with a girl.  Hooked up with a guy.  Didn't like it."  Rubs his hand on his pants again.  Takes a nervous swallow of beer.  "The thing is, I want it to be true.  I want to have feelings for the people - person - I'm sleeping with.  But the only person I want that with is you.  And you keep leaving."

"Evan."

He closes his eyes at the sound of Tommy saying his name.  "That's not fair?"

"No," Tommy admits.  "It's fair.  I run before I can get my heart broken.  That's my MO.  Doesn't," he lets out a shaky laugh.  "Doesn't seem to be working well when it comes to you."

He puts his hand on the table, palm up.  "Were you serious about Saturday?"

Tommy stares at his hand.  "Yes?"

"Pick me up at 7?  Not," he adds hastily, "Micelli's.  That place has bad karma."

Tommy lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.  He can relate.  "Not Micelli's," he promises.  Then, "I'm not over you either."

He nods.  "Good.  Maybe we can both learn how to not be alone."

"I was always good at math," Tommy says, and finally finally takes his hand.

[riddlesbunny]

Rumors

summary: Mattheo and Theo put an end to the rumors they might be attracted to each other one drunken night, but not in the way you’d expect.

pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader x Theo Nott

word count: 1k

warnings: Explicit smut, Poly!Slytherins, oral (m & f receiving), MLM!!!, p in v sex, creampie, cum eating, squirting, 18+ MDNI

note: for my sweet angel @nemesyaaa <3

There was no denying that Slytherins loved to gossip– you had even found yourself engaged in a rumor or two. However, when it came to your boyfriend having the hots for his best friend, you were taken by complete surprise. You had even yelled at Millicent for implying such a thing. They didn't like each other like that, they couldn't... could they?

At first, you dismissed it. They were best friends, always together, always in sync. But then you started noticing things. The way Theo’s gaze lingered a little too long when Mattheo wasn’t looking. How Mattheo’s smirk softened whenever Theo was near. The fleeting touches, the stolen glances.

And then came that night.

It started as a joke. A drunk night in the Slytherin common room. The rest of the gang were out at Hogsmeade, but the three of you stayed back. You were sprawled out on the couch, Theo sitting beside you, Mattheo lounging across from you both, his usual cocky grin in place.

Someone—maybe it was you, maybe it was Mattheo, you can't remember —threw the idea into the air like a careless spark.

“What if all three of us… you know?”

The air shifted instantly. Theo went still. Mattheo’s smirk deepened, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—held something different. Something darker. Something real.

You expected laughter, maybe teasing. But instead, there was silence. A charged, heavy silence that made your stomach tighten. Then Mattheo leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked onto yours.

“Would that be a problem for you?” he asked, his voice lower than usual, almost testing.

Theo exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. His jaw was tight, his throat bobbing with something unsaid.

And that’s when it clicked. The rumors weren’t just rumors.

You looked between them—Theo, who suddenly wouldn’t meet your eyes, and Mattheo, whose smirk was still there but softer now, like he was waiting for your confirmation.

You had no idea what you’d just stepped into. But you were about to find out.

Now you’re on your knees infront of Theo, nothing new, except now you’re accompanied by his best friend. 

Matty takes the lead, his warm hand wrapping around Theo’s cock. He looks at you, a wicked grin on his lips. “I know how much you like to suck him off,” he states before gesturing towards Theo. That bastard must have been talking about you. Oh well, it didn't matter now.

You lick your lips as you lean forward, sliding your tongue along the tip of Theo’s cock as Mattheo continues stroking him. You wrap your lips around his tip, tasting a bead of precum that forms at the head. Matty guides your movements gently, slowly fucking your mouth with his Theo's cock. Your throat relaxes as Matty controls his pace, salvia pooling out of your mouth, dripping down your chin.

Theo’s eyes flutter shutas a loud groan erupts from his chest, pushing himself further down your throar, causing you to gag. Matty leans into you, whispering, “do you want me to take over?” 

Your heart races and wetness pools at your core as his words register. Nodding, you pull back, leaving Theo slick with your spit. 

Matty smirks at you, “such a good girl,” before taking Theo’s cock deep into his own mouth. His cheeks hollow out as he begins to suck hard, earning a ragged moan from your boyfriend. 

Theo is whimpering as Matty bobs his head, his curls bouncing up and down., you use your free hand to tug at Theo's balls.

Without any warning to Theo, Matty pulls away; a string of saliva connecting the two of them.

"I want to watch you fuck her" Matty tells Theo and you smile at him, wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb as you sit back on your heels.

 "I guess we should give our boy what he wants,” you purr and Theo helps you to your feet, his gaze filled with lust. He takes charge, guiding you toward his bed with Matty close behind. With a gentle push, Theo lays you down, your body sinking into the soft mattres before hiking your skirt up and ripping your panties off.

"Spread those pretty legs for us," Mattheo commands, his voice hoarse with desire. Theo grips your ankles, pulling your thighs apart until you're fully exposed to them both.

Theo leans between your open thighs, pressing his throbbing cock against your slit. 

"So wet already, you like watching him suck me off, huh? Such a dirty girl," he groans, grinding against you, your arousal coating his shaft.

Theo guides his hardness along your entrance, teasing you with a few slow strokes. Then, with one fluid motion, he plunges into you, making you gasp as your body stretches to accommodate him.

Mattheo stands next to you in the bed, pumping his cock in his hand vigorously. Your gaze shifts towards Matty,, his grip tight and fast as he tugs himself. Theo slams into you hard, pushing you further onto the bed.

“Good boy," Matty moans and your eyes widen, “fuck her just like that.”

Mattheo's breathing hitches as he watches Theo slide in and out of you. The wet sounds of his skin slapping against yours fills the room, punctuated by your occasional whimpers of pleasure.

Theo's thrusts become more urgent, driven by an intense need to fill you completely. "Your pussy feels amazing wrapped around my cock," he groans, his pace quickening.

As Theo pounds into you, Matty leans down and claims your lips with his own. Your mouths mash together, teeth clashing briefly as you moan into each one another.

"Fuck, I'm about to cum,”  Theo grunts.

"Cum inside her," Mattheo groans.

As if the sound of Mattheo's voice turns him on, Theo lets out a final guttural groan as he spills into you, his pulsating cock shooting load after load deep inside your pussy.

As hefinishes, his cock twitching within you, Mattheo wastes no time to push him out of the way. Kneeling before you, he hooks your leg over his shoulder, revealing the hot, sticky mess between your thighs.  He dives in, his tongue lapping eagerly at your slippery folds, collecting the combination of your juices and his best friend's seed.

Mattheo's tongue flicks wildly, painting your inflamed clit with Theo's hot cum as he hungrily devours the remnants of your release.

As Mattheo feasts on your swollen pussy, you feel another orgasm coiling inside you.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping it tightly as he licks you. Your hips buck uncontrollably as Mattheo sucks at your clit, his expert tongue sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. You cry out, "Oh god, don't stop!"

The coil within you snaps and Mattheo pauses mid-lick, his eyes widening as he feels the sudden flood between your legs. The force of your orgasm sends warm liquid spurting across his cheek, wetting his face and filling his mouth.

Theo chuckles in awe, you watch him carefully as he gets himself dressed.

“See what a good girl she is?” He asks Mattheo— who is speechless, wiping your cum from his chin. 

[mangooes]

The Great (Unnecessary) Divorce Incident (sylus x non mc!wife reader)

(Name) had seen many things in her life—assassinations, high-speed chases, and even Sylus smiling while he was about to kill someone. But nothing, absolutely nothing, had ever prepared her for what she saw today.

She had been out shopping, minding her own business, when she casually passed by a jewelry store. And there, through the crystal-clear glass, she saw her husband.

Sylus.

Laughing.

With Miss Hunter.

Not just any chuckle, either. A full, amused, joyful laugh.

She blinked.

There he was, leaning close, looking at a ring as Miss Hunter teased him. His crimson eyes crinkled with laughter, his white hair slightly tousled, his expression soft.

She had never seen him that happy in a store before.

And that’s when it hit her.

Sylus must love Miss Hunter.

And honestly?

She thought it was hilarious.

Oh, what a plot twist! I fought off bounty hunters for this man, and now he falls for my best friend?

She didn’t even feel heartbroken. The absurdity of the situation was just too much.

Smirking to herself, she turned on her heel and walked away.

Time to give Sylus what he wanted after all, his freedom.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Name) wasn’t a petty woman.

Okay, maybe she was a little bit petty.

But she wasn’t cruel! If Sylus really loved Miss Hunter, who was she to stand in his way?

And so, being the incredibly mature person she was, she went home and got right to work.

Step 1: She wrote a heartfelt goodbye letter, kinda-

It went something like this:

To my dearest, soon-to-be-ex-husband, First of all, I want you to know I am not mad. If anything, I find this situation absolutely hilarious. You spent so much time chasing after me, and now look at you! Falling for my best friend! Life sure is funny, huh? Don’t worry, though. I won’t make this hard for you. I’ve signed the divorce papers and packed my bags. Be happy with Miss Hunter. Oh, and don’t forget to feed Staryus our little husky boy. He likes his meals warm, not cold. Unlike your now ex-wife. Yours formerly, (Name)

Step 2: She placed all the divorce documents on Sylus’s desk in a neat stack, right in the center.

Step 3: She packed her bags.

Or at least, she tried to.

Because the moment Luke and Kieran saw what she was doing, all hell broke loose.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Luke and Kieran stood at the doorway, arms spread wide, blocking the exit.

"Missus," Luke started, voice filled with pure panic. "I beg you. Think this through."

Kieran nodded furiously. "Boss is going to kill us if we let you leave!"

She sighed dramatically, shouldering her bag. "Boys, boys. No need to be so emotional. Sylus has moved on. He loves Miss Hunter now."

Luke stared at her. "What."

Kieran blinked. "What."

(Name) waved a hand. "Saw them laughing and picking out a ring together. He was so happy. It’s okay, I understand." She patted their shoulders. "You’ll take care of him for me, right?"

Luke looked horrified. "Missus, I think you need to sit down."

Kieran grabbed her arm. "I think you need a doctor."

She wiggled free. "Oh, hush. No need to be dramatic. Now, if you’ll excuse me—"

Luke and Kieran threw themselves in front of the door again.

"Missus, we physically cannot let you leave," Luke said, near tears.

"You can try," (Name) said sweetly.

And then she grabbed the nearest frying pan.

Luke and Kieran gasped.

"You wouldn’t," Kieran whispered.

She smirked.

"Sorry boys. Move, or I swear on Sylus’s secret hoard stash, I will—"

She swung.

And that’s how Luke and Kieran ended up dodging for their lives as (Name) escaped out the front door.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sylus walked into his office, excited to finally surprise his wife.

After all, today was the day he had picked the perfect ring.

Miss Hunter had helped him choose something, as (Name)'s best friend, she knew her more than anyone else. Something elegant yet bold, something that screamed (Name). The entire reason he had been laughing so much in the store was because they had been joking about how dramatic his wife would be when she saw it.

But as soon as he stepped inside—

Luke and Kieran stood rigid, pale, and sweating bullets.

Sylus raised a brow. “What’s with the faces?”

Then he noticed the stack of papers on his desk.

His crimson eyes darkened as he strode over, picking up the neatly folded letter on top.

He read it.

Silence.

Miss Hunter, reading over his shoulder, choked.

“Oh my god.”

Luke and Kieran took a step back.

Then—

His evol errupted

The entire stack of divorce papers disintegrated into red and black mists.

Sylus exhaled slowly, eyes flickering red with rage.

Mephisto landed on his shoulder. Cawing, ready to be deployed.

Sylus’s jaw ticked. “Find her.”

Luke and Kieran saluted. “We’re on it, boss!”

Miss Hunter was already on the phone. “Tara, I need you to do a favor for me, track (Name)’s movements. Now.”

Sylus didn’t wait.

He grabbed his jacket, his keys, and walked straight to his bike.

As the engine roared to life, his gaze was deadly.

'My wife is NOT leaving me over a STUPID misunderstanding.'

And with that—

He sped off to bring his ridiculous stubborn wife home.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile (Name) was settling down in her favourite spot in the N109 Zone. It was their favourite place to visit, (Name)'s favourite coffee shop, stepping in the cafe brought her memories of the amount of time she spent with her ex-husband.

As she order her usual without a partner this time, she sat near the window, sipping her coffee, waiting for her ride to the train station to move out.

'Did i went too far..?...what if Sylus had not care at all?'

She did what she had to do, shaking her head to get rid of her negative thoughts, she smiled to herself. Imagining how she might plan her life in the future even without the man she loves.

When a familiar engine roar made her pause.

She turned her head.

A black sleek sports bike skidded to a stop.

And there he was.

Sylus.

Looking absolutely livid.

She blinked. "Oh."

Before she could even think of escaping, Sylus stalked into the cafe, crimson eyes burning with rage and disbelief.

“(Name).”

“…Hi, Hus- oh i mean Sylus,” she greeted casually, sipping her drink.

Sylus closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if mentally restraining himself.

“Explain,” he said slowly, “why I came home to divorce papers.”

She raised a brow. “Uh, because you love Miss Hunter now? Duh.”

Sylus’s eye twitched.

“Sweetie.” He leaned down, placing a hand on the table, trapping her in place. “Do you know what Miss Hunter and I were doing at that store?”

She smirked, wiggling her eyebrows as if challenging him. “Buying a ring for your new woman?”

Sylus’s eye twitched. Then, without a word, he pulled out the ring box, popped it open, and held it in front of her face.

Inside sat a gorgeous, carefully chosen crimson ruby ring.

For her.

She stared.

“…Wait.”

"This is your ring, sweetie. Did you think i would let you go so easily?" Sylus deadpanned.

She blinked. Looked at the ring. Then at Sylus. Then back at the ring.

"...Oh."

Sylus groaned, dragging a hand down his face, he laughs about the absurd situation in front of him right now.

Then he gently carried her, threw her over his shoulder, and walked out.

"SYLUS—"

"Less talking now, kitten. We’re going home."

People in the café watched in amusement as a laughing kicking (Name), like a misbehaving kitten was carried off by her furious husband.

“SYLUS, PUT ME DOWN!” she shrieked, smacking his back.

He did not.

Instead, he adjusted his grip on her thighs, completely ignoring the stares of the café patrons. Some people gasped. Others whispered. A few even took out their phones to record the absolute spectacle of a very powerful-looking white-haired man casually kidnapping his wife.

She huffed. “You’re embarrassing me!”

Sylus snorted. “Oh, I’m embarrassing you? Sweetie you were about to divorce me."

"Then how was I supposed to think when i saw you like that huh?!?!"

Sylus stopped walking. Then, in one fluid motion, he pulled her from his shoulder, flipped her around, and held her in his arms bridal-style instead.

He leaned in, voice dangerously low.

“And you,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers, “could’ve not written a divorce letter without talking to me first.”

(Name)’s breath hitched.

Damn it.

He always did this—turning the tables at the last second, making her stomach flip, making her feel stupidly in love even after she just tried to end their marriage.

“...Sorry,” she admitted.

Sylus smirked, kissing her temples. “Good girl.”

She immediately scowled.

And then bit his hand.

"Ouch—!"

Miss Hunter’s call came through Sylus’s earpiece.

“Did you find her?”

“Oh, I found her, a stray kitten waiting for its owner to pick up.” Sylus said dryly, tapping her thigh in warning as she kept wiggling.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment Sylus stepped through the door, still carrying his wife (despite her multiple attempts to be put down), Luke and Kieran visibly sighed in relief.

“Missus! You’re alive!” Luke practically cried.

Kieran clutched his heart. “Boss, thank god. We thought you were gonna start a war or something—”

Sylus glared. “Don’t tempt me.”

Both men immediately straightened up.

Meanwhile, Miss Hunter stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a deeply exasperated expression.

“So,” she drawled, “you wrote an entire goodbye letter just because you thought Sylus loved me?”

(Name) crossed her arms. “In my defense, you were laughing together. It looked suspicious.”

Miss Hunter rolled her eyes. “We were laughing about you, (Name).”

She winced.

Right.

“…Oops?”

Sylus sealed his promise to never let his wife go with a kiss on the lips. "You're lucky I love you."

Miss Hunter sighed. "She really is."

Luke and Kieran nodded solemnly.

Sylus sighed. “I swear, next time you pull something like this, I’m chaining you to our bed.”

She perked up.

“Oh?” she teased, smirking. “Kinky.”

Sylus groaned, amused.

Miss Hunter facepalmed.

Luke and Kieran? Died laughing.

Just another normal day in the Onychinus household, well maybe not so normal afterall.

I can't write angst so i write comedy instead haha- anyways i hope this is not too ooc for sylus but this scenario just came up to my head last night and i had to write it

[theodorenmyth]

hi! not sure if soulmates counts as a weird au, but if you’re willing: would you write mattheodore + m!reader where matt and theo are in an established relationship as soulmates then discover you are also their soulmate? maybe people are like how tf do you have two soulmates???

fluff/smut/angst/whatever is good. if not, no problem! thanks

Three Threads of Love

Pairings ; Mattheo Riddle x m!reader x Theodore Nott

Summary ; You wake up with a dark green streak in your hair—proof that you’re soulmates with Mattheo Riddle and Theodore Nott. You try hiding, running, and even dyeing your hair, but they figure it out. After a dramatic meltdown (and an attempted escape), Mattheo and Theodore kidnap you with love—because, like it or not, you’re theirs now.

A/n ; this was so funny in my head while I was imagining this, enjoy!!

Warnings ; none

Word count ; 5.8k+

Soulmates.

The word alone was enough to make your stomach churn—not in disgust, but in reluctant acceptance of a fate that had never been yours.

Everyone at Hogwarts had some kind of soulmate mark. It wasn’t always instant, but by the time you reached your fifth year, you were bound to see at least something. A change in eye color, a faint tattoo-like symbol on the wrist, a string that tied you to another person, or the most dramatic of all—your hair turning the same shade as your soulmate’s.

You had seen it happen all around you.

It was beautiful. It was poetic. It was tragic.

And yet, it had never happened to you.

No colors. No scars. No strings. Nothing.

You were simply you, Y/N L/N, the single yet handsome and endearingly adorable Hufflepuff. The boy who didn’t have a soulmate mark.

At first, people assumed it would come later, that maybe you were a late bloomer. But when seventh year rolled around and you were still untouched by fate, the whispers started.

"What if he doesn’t have one?"

"Does the universe even allow that?"

"Oh, Merlin, imagine being born single. That’s actually tragic."

Even your friends—Cedric, Susan, and the rest of the Hufflepuff gang—joked about it. Not cruelly, but in a way that made you feel like some kind of rare specimen.

"Maybe you’re the universe’s loophole," Cedric had said once, slapping your back in amusement. "The one person meant to roam free."

You had laughed it off. Smiled. Accepted it. Because what else were you supposed to do?

There was no mark.

No connection.

No destined love waiting for you at the other end of a thread.

You were simply alone.

And you had made your peace with that.

Until, of course, fate decided to fuck you over.

─────────

You had always been a heavy sleeper.

So, naturally, it took something extraordinary to wake you up before the sun was even fully up.

This morning, that extraordinary thing was your own shriek.

You had barely cracked your eyes open when something felt off. Like, in-your-bones, gut-wrenching off. It wasn’t a feeling you could pinpoint, but there was a strange tingling in your scalp that made you sit up, groggy and disoriented.

And then you saw it.

A single lock of hair—once your usual shade—was now a deep, almost velvety dark green.

You stared.

It stared back.

And that was when the panic hit.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

Cedric shot up from his own bed like he’d been hexed. “What the fuck?!”

“MY HAIR! MY FUCKING HAIR, CEDRIC!” You grabbed a strand and shoved it in his barely-awake face, eyes wild. “LOOK AT IT!”

Cedric blinked at you, then at your hair, then back at you. “…What am I looking at?”

“It’s green!” You nearly hyperventilated, clutching at your head like you could somehow shake the color out. “It’s not supposed to be green!”

Cedric squinted at the strand, realization dawning on his half-conscious face. “Wait. Wait. Oh, shit.”

You flopped back onto your bed, groaning dramatically. “Oh shit is right! I went my whole life thinking I didn’t have a soulmate, and now I wake up in seventh year with a bloody green streak in my hair?! Who the hell even has green hair?!”

Cedric was still staring at you, now fully awake and fully bewildered. “That—That means something, doesn’t it?”

“No, Cedric, it means nothing—I just suddenly decided to cosplay as a Slytherin overnight.”

“I knew you were hiding a Malfoy obsession.”

“Not the time.”

Cedric bit back a grin before running a hand through his own hair. “Okay. Alright. Breathe. Let’s think about this logically.”

You sat up again, dragging your hands down your face. “Logically? Logically, the only people in this damn school with this specific color of green hair are—”

And then it hit you.

Like an actual bludger to the skull.

Your entire body went stiff. Your brain blanked out.

Because there were only two people you had ever seen with this exact shade of dark green in their hair.

Mattheo Riddle.

Theodore Nott.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Cedric, ever the genius, saw the look on your face and immediately put two and two together. His jaw dropped. “Ohhhhhh.”

Your hands started shaking. “No. No way. That—That can’t be right.”

Cedric was already grinning like a madman. “It is right.”

“I—I don’t have a soulmate!”

“Well, you do now.”

You felt lightheaded. “No. No, this is a mistake. They’re already soulmates. Everyone knows they’re soulmates. You can’t have two. That’s not a thing!”

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “Tell that to your hair.”

You threw a pillow at him.

─────────

Meanwhile…

Across the castle, in the depths of the Slytherin dorms, Mattheo sat up so fast he nearly knocked Theodore off the bed.

“What the fuck—”

Theodore groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Mattheo, if you woke me up to tell me about your dream where you hexed Potter’s eyebrows off again—”

Mattheo wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring at the faint golden shimmer across Theo’s knuckles.

The same shimmer was now visible on his own wrist.

And they both knew what it meant.

Someone else had just been tethered to them.

“…Oh, fuck,” Theodore whispered.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

You were not panicking.

You were perfectly calm.

If anyone asked, you were just casually wearing a hoodie with the hood up in the middle of breakfast, in a warm castle, surrounded by friends who knew you never wore a hood indoors.

Absolutely nothing suspicious about that.

…Except, of course, that you were suspicious. Very suspicious.

Which was why, when you slid into your usual spot at the Hufflepuff table, hands tucked into the sleeves of your oversized sweater, you were grinning a little too wide.

"Morning," Cedric greeted, shooting you a knowing glance as he buttered his toast.

"Morning!" you chirped back, voice an octave higher than normal.

Immediately, Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott—who had been talking about some Charms essay—turned to look at you.

Both of them frowned.

"You’re being weird," Susan said flatly.

Your grin widened unnaturally, almost manic. "Me? Weird? Noooo."

Hannah squinted at you. "Why are you wearing a hood?"

"Oh! This?" You tugged at the fabric like you had just remembered it was on your head. "Uh—new fashion statement."

Susan exchanged a glance with Hannah before looking back at you. "Fashion statement?"

"Yup!" You nodded way too fast. "I decided to—uh, embrace the mystery, you know? Keep people on their toes! Make ‘em wonder what’s under here. It’s all the rage in—uh, France."

"France," Hannah repeated, deadpan.

"Yup!"

Susan folded her arms. "Y/N."

You laughed. "Yes, dear friend of mine?"

"You hate having anything on your head. You complain about hats. You threw a fit last winter when we made you wear a beanie to Hogsmeade."

"Ah! Yes, well, character development! Growth! The arc of my maturity—"

"Y/N."

You flinched at the tone.

Damn Hufflepuffs and their terrifying ability to detect bullshit.

Hannah narrowed her eyes, tapping her fingers against the table. "Did Peeves glue something to your head again?"

"No!"

"Did you fail a spell and accidentally dye your hair pink?"

"Of course not!"

"Did a bird poop on your head?"

"What? No!"

"Then why are you hiding your hair?"

Your eyes darted across the Great Hall, looking anywhere but at them. "Oh! Look! Porridge!" You grabbed a spoon, stuffing a massive bite into your mouth, barely even tasting it.

Susan and Hannah exchanged another look, suspicion written all over their faces.

Cedric, the only one who actually knew what was going on, simply took a sip of his pumpkin juice, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

"You’re lying," Susan declared.

Your spoon froze halfway to your mouth. "I—"

"You are lying!" Hannah gasped.

"I am NOT—!"

"You are literally grinning like someone who just got caught sneaking into the Restricted Section!"

"That is absurd!" You let out a completely unnatural laugh, shifting in your seat. "I am merely a man who enjoys the simple pleasures of life, such as porridge and— OH LOOK, A WINDOW."

You twisted your body to face the stained glass like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

Unfortunately, this only made you look even more suspicious.

"Y/N," Susan started, voice low and accusing. "What did you do?"

"NOTHING!"

"Then why do you look like you’re about to bolt out of the room?"

"I just have a lot of energy this morning!" You were still grinning, voice high and unnatural. "You know, good sleep, nice weather—"

"You slept terribly and it’s raining outside."

"A fine drizzle!"

"You hate the rain!"

"I have learned to love it!"

"Y/N."

You shoved another spoonful of porridge into your mouth, avoiding eye contact.

────────────

At the Slytherin Table

"Alright, spill," Pansy Parkinson demanded the second Mattheo and Theodore sat down.

Astoria Greengrass, seated beside her, gave a more subtle approach, raising a perfectly shaped brow. "Something happened. I can feel it."

Draco Malfoy, sipping his tea, barely looked up. "They probably got into a fight. Again."

Blaise Zabini, on the other hand, leaned in with genuine curiosity. "No, they look… weird. Like, different weird. You two aren’t possessed, are you?"

Lorenzo Berkshire, who had been half-asleep against Draco’s shoulder, finally stirred. "If they are, can we exorcise them after breakfast?"

Mattheo rolled his eyes. "We’re not possessed, Lorenzo."

"Could’ve fooled me."

Theodore, who had been staring at the shimmering mark on his knuckles all morning, finally spoke. "Someone’s been tethered to us."

Silence.

Then—

"I’m sorry, what?" Pansy practically screeched.

Draco choked on his tea.

Blaise blinked in pure disbelief. "How?"

"That’s not possible," Astoria added, looking at them like they had both grown second heads. "You two are already bonded."

Mattheo tapped the golden shimmer across his wrist, the mark still faint but very real. "Yeah, well. Tell that to fate."

"This is insane," Pansy said, eyes wide. "People don’t get two soulmates. That’s—That’s like—"

"Unheard of," Astoria finished, still staring at their marks.

Draco, for once, looked genuinely intrigued. "Have you figured out who it is?"

"Not yet," Theodore muttered, though his gaze flickered across the Great Hall.

"Whoever it is," Mattheo said, smirking slightly, "they’re probably freaking out right now."

Theodore huffed. "You would find this amusing."

"Oh, come on, Theo. Think about it." Mattheo propped his chin on his hand, eyes glinting with amusement. "Some poor bastard woke up this morning with a soulmate mark linking them to us. That’s gotta be terrifying."

"You are terrifying," Blaise agreed.

Mattheo winked. "Why, thank you."

As the conversation continued, Theodore let his gaze wander again, scanning the room.

And then—

There.

At the Hufflepuff table.

A figure slouched in their seat, hood pulled up, looking like they were actively trying to disappear.

Theodore’s lips parted slightly.

Mattheo noticed, following his line of sight—

And promptly grinned.

"Oh. Ohhhhhh."

Draco noticed too, and his brows shot up. "Wait. L/N?"

Pansy nearly dropped her goblet. "You’re joking."

Astoria let out a soft, surprised laugh. "Oh, this is going to be interesting."

Blaise, meanwhile, was just staring at you in utter disbelief. "Him? The guy who’s never had a soulmate mark? The one everyone thought was doomed to be single forever?"

Lorenzo yawned, rubbing his eyes. "I bet he’s panicking."

Mattheo smirked. "Oh, definitely."

Theodore, watching you sink lower into your hoodie, exhaled deeply. "We should talk to him."

Mattheo cracked his knuckles, eyes gleaming. "Absolutely."

────────────

Back at the Hufflepuff Table

You had a bad feeling.

A very bad feeling.

Because the moment you dared to glance up, you found two pairs of eyes locked onto you from across the hall—one dark and intense, the other sharp and calculating.

Mattheo and Theodore.

Staring at you like they had just figured out exactly who their third soulmate was.

You gulped.

Cedric, noticing your expression, leaned in. "They know, don’t they?"

You swallowed thickly. "They definitely know."

Susan, still confused, followed your gaze—only to see two of the most dangerous Slytherins in the school actively plotting your demise with their eyes.

"...Y/N," she said slowly. "What did you do?"

You groaned, shoving your face into your hands. "I think I got soulmated."

Cedric grinned. "Told you fate wasn’t done with you yet."

"Shut up, Diggory."

But deep down, as panic turned into something dangerously close to excitement, you couldn't help but wonder

What the hell were Mattheo Riddle and Theodore Nott going to do about this?

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

Everything was fine.

You were fine.

You were totally fine.

Which was why you were currently walking through the courtyard with your friends, laughing along to one of Cedric’s stories while keeping a firm grip on the hood of your oversized sweater.

Just in case.

Because if anyone so much as glimpsed your hair—if anyone saw that stupidly obvious green streak that had appeared overnight—your life would be over.

Dead. Gone. Vanished.

The headlines would read: Y/N L/N, Hufflepuff Extraordinaire, Found Dead Due to Pure, Unfiltered Embarrassment.

Susan and Hannah still hadn’t stopped being suspicious, but you had managed to redirect most of their attention onto a very detailed discussion about which professor was the scariest.

"McGonagall."

"No way, Snape."

"Flitwick."

"…Flitwick?"

"You’ve never seen him angry. I have. It was horrifying."

You were just starting to think you’d actually get through the day undetected when the absolute worst thing possible happened.

Flint.

Marcus fucking Flint.

One of the dumbest, most obnoxious Slytherins in existence.

You didn’t even see him coming.

One second, you were minding your business, strolling along, successfully avoiding any and all suspicious activity.

The next?

A rough hand yanked the hood off your head.

"Oi, L/N, what are you hiding—"

Silence.

The courtyard froze.

You felt a chill run down your spine.

Oh, no.

Your friends stared.

The Hufflepuffs around you stared.

The entire courtyard stared.

Because right there, in broad daylight, your previously normal hair was now a very, very noticeable shade of blonde—except for the bold dark green streak running through it.

Your soulmark.

That exact shade of dark green.

Slytherin green.

Mattheo-and-Theodore green.

Susan's jaw dropped.

Hannah gasped.

Cedric, to his credit, didn’t look that surprised—just vaguely amused.

But Flint?

Flint howled with laughter. "OH, THIS IS RICH! L/N’S BEEN SOULMATED TO A SLYTHERIN—"

You did not let him finish.

Nope.

Absolutely NOT.

Instead, fueled by pure, raw panic, you pulled out your wand, muttered something under your breath—

And disapparated.

One second, you were in the courtyard, standing in front of way too many people.

The next, you were gone.

Vanished.

Just poof.

─────────

Hufflepuff Dormitory, Five Minutes Later

You were not hyperventilating.

Okay, you were, but no one needed to know that.

You were pacing back and forth in your dorm, hands buried in your traitorous hair, breathing way too fast.

"This is bad. This is so bad. This is—FUCK—this is really bad—"

Cedric walked in, looking entirely unsurprised to find you in full meltdown mode. "You vanished in front of half the school."

"Yes, Cedric, I am aware."

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "So, what’s your plan?"

"My plan?" You let out a deranged laugh, spinning to face him. "My plan is to fake my death, move to a small cottage in the woods, and never be seen again."

"That’s not a plan," he pointed out, far too calmly.

"It is if you commit."

"Y/N."

"What?"

"You could just talk to them."

You stopped pacing to glare at him. "Oh, wow, what an idea, Cedric. Talking. Genius. Brilliant. Too bad I have crippling anxiety and would rather gouge my eyes out."

Cedric sighed. "Okay, so what are you going to do?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

And then—

An idea.

A glorious, absolutely stupid idea.

You turned to your trunk, rummaging through it until you found your wand and one of your old spellbooks.

Cedric raised a brow. "Y/N…?"

You flipped through the pages frantically. "There’s a hair-dyeing spell in here somewhere—I know there is—aha!"

Your finger landed on the page.

"Here! This! Temporary. Quick. Lasts about a day. Perfect."

Cedric blinked. "You’re going to—what? Hide it?"

"Yes."

"With a spell that lasts one day?"

"YES."

He stared at you.

Then sighed. "I don’t know why I expected anything else."

─────────

Back in the Great Hall

While you were busy spiraling, the entire school was losing its collective shit.

The moment you vanished, the courtyard had erupted.

The whispers spread fast.

And within minutes, the whole castle knew:

You, the beloved Hufflepuff, notorious single person, widely believed to be soulmate-less—was actually tethered to two of Slytherin’s most infamous students.

"You have got to be joking."

Pansy, still sitting at the Slytherin table, was staring at Mattheo and Theodore.

"He literally teleported away," Draco said, sipping his tea. "That’s how panicked he was."

Lorenzo whistled. "Damn. That’s impressive."

"We need to talk to him," Theodore said, his normally calm demeanor just slightly off-kilter.

Mattheo was already grinning. "Oh, definitely."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Well, I hope you two have a good plan, because Y/N is probably halfway to Albania by now."

Mattheo just cracked his knuckles. "Don’t worry, Pans. We’ll find him."

And when they did?

You were not getting away.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

You woke up the next morning with a single, hopeful thought:

Maybe it was all a dream.

Maybe your hair was still normal. Maybe you hadn’t accidentally revealed your soulmark to half the school. Maybe you hadn’t literally disapparated in front of everyone like a fucking lunatic.

Maybe.

You slowly reached for your wand on your nightstand, hesitated, then conjured a mirror in your shaking hand.

Then, you looked.

Your heart sank.

The spell had worn off.

The bright green streak was back, glaringly obvious against your blonde hair.

You let out a slow, defeated sigh.

"Fuck."

"Still there?"

You flinched so hard you nearly fell out of bed. "CEDRIC—"

"Sorry," he said, entirely not sorry as he leaned against the doorway. "But considering you screamed like a banshee yesterday, I figured I should check in before you self-combust."

You groaned, pressing your hands to your face. "This is so bad."

"Oh, definitely."

"Cedric."

"What? You want me to lie to you?"

"Yes."

"Fine," he said, deadpan. "It’s completely fine. No one noticed. The entire school is not talking about it. Also, you definitely didn’t magically vanish in front of fifty people."

You glared at him through your fingers. "You’re the worst."

"I am the best. Now get dressed."

"Why?"

"Because if you hide in here forever, Mattheo and Theodore will find you eventually, and you don’t want to know what their reaction will be if you avoid them all day."

You blanched. "Oh, fuck, you’re right."

"Obviously."

"I need to hide."

"No, you need to face them."

"Or I could hide."

"Y/N."

"Cedric."

"I swear to Merlin, if you don’t—"

But you were already flipping through your spellbook again.

"There! Temporary hair-color alteration! Lasts three hours—"

Cedric sighed so hard it sounded like he aged five years. "You’re stalling."

"I like stalling."

"It’s only going to get worse if you don’t talk to them."

"Maybe I want it to get worse."

"You don’t."

You ignored him, casting the spell and watching with relief as the streak disappeared, replaced with your natural hair color.

Cedric just shook his head. "You’re an idiot."

"And yet, a smart idiot, because no one will know—"

─────────

The Great Hall

You walked into breakfast with false confidence.

You were fine.

Your hair looked normal.

Everything was fine.

You sat down at the Hufflepuff table, flashing an overly large grin at your friends. "Morning, everyone!"

"Morning—"

"Why are you so chipper?" Susan asked immediately.

You blinked. "What? No reason."

Hannah squinted. "You’re acting weird."

"Weird? Me? That’s crazy talk!" You laughed, but it was too high-pitched, too forced. "I’m totally normal! Nothing to see here!"

Cedric, sitting beside you, sighed.

Susan’s eyes narrowed. "And why are you still wearing that huge hoodie?"

"Because I like it."

"It’s eighty degrees outside."

"I really like it."

"Y/N."

"What?"

"What are you hiding?"

"Nothing!" You shot her another wild grin, your eyes darting across the room.

Unfortunately, your eyes immediately locked onto the Slytherin table.

More unfortunately?

Mattheo and Theodore were already staring at you.

Your breath hitched.

They knew.

You didn’t know how they knew, but they definitely knew.

Mattheo was grinning, sharp and predatory, like he was waiting for you to run.

Theodore was watching you with his usual unreadable expression—calm, controlled, but his gaze felt heavy, like he could see right through you.

You snapped your head back around, facing your plate with great intensity.

Don’t panic. Stay calm. They’re just people. They’re just—

"Oh, my Gods, you’re definitely hiding something."

You nearly choked on your pumpkin juice. "NO, I’M NOT."

"You so are," Susan said, pointing an accusatory finger. "Your eyes are darting all over the place and you’re grinning like an absolute maniac—"

"That’s just my face—"

"You’ve got that ‘I just committed arson’ look again."

"I do not—"

"Yes, you do."

"No, I—"

"Oh, for fuck’s sake, just tell us already—"

And then—

A horrible, terrible, awful voice spoke up from behind you.

"What’s wrong, L/N? Something you don’t want people to see?"

Your stomach dropped.

Flint.

Again.

And before you could even react.

He yanked your hood down.

Again.

Your heart stopped.

Because this time?

Your fucking hair wasn’t hidden.

The room fell silent.

And just like yesterday—

Every single person in the Great Hall stared.

Your brain completely short-circuited.

"Oh," Blaise said from the Slytherin table, his eyes widening. "Holy shit."

"Well," Pansy muttered, staring. "That explains a lot."

"Oh, wow," Lorenzo added, blinking. "That’s…kind of hilarious."

Draco just sipped his tea, unbothered. "Knew it."

Your breathing turned shallow.

"Welp," you said, voice higher than normal. "Guess that’s my cue to—"

You didn’t even finish your sentence before casting another disillusionment spell—

And disappearing.

Again.

Leaving the entire Great Hall in absolute chaos.

And at the Slytherin table, Mattheo and Theodore just exchanged a look.

Then, simultaneously, they stood up.

It was time to find you.

And this time?

You weren’t getting away.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ───

You had exactly two thoughts as you sprinted back to your dorm at breakneck speed:

1. Flint is a dead man walking.

2. I am so, so, so utterly, catastrophically fucked.

Your heart was hammering in your chest as you practically threw yourself through the entrance of the Hufflepuff common room, ignoring the confused stares of your housemates. You raced up the dormitory stairs, slammed the door behind you, and immediately started hyperventilating.

Think. Think. THINK.

Your cover was blown. Your very obvious, very incriminating soulmate mark had been exposed to the entire school. And, worst of all—

Mattheo and Theodore had seen it.

And they were going to find you.

"Shit, shit, shit," you muttered, pacing like a panicked rodent caught in a trap. "Okay. Okay, Y/N, you can fix this. You just need to—"

You didn’t even know what you needed to do. Hide? Run? Fake your own death?

"Mate."

You whipped around to see Cedric leaning against the doorframe with the most done expression you’d ever seen on his face.

"You cannot be serious."

"Oh, I am so serious," you hissed, wild-eyed. "This is life and death, Diggory!"

"No," he corrected, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is you being insanely dramatic about the inevitable."

"There is nothing inevitable about this," you shot back. "I still have time to flee the country—"

"You do not have time to flee the country," he groaned. "And even if you did, Mattheo and Theodore would just hunt you down."

You flinched. "That’s exactly what I’m afraid of."

Cedric just sighed and crossed his arms. "You do realize that the whole point of soulmates is that you’re meant to be together, right?"

"Yes, well, maybe fate should have consulted me first, because I was not prepared for this," you muttered, gripping your hair. "I mean—two? Who the fuck gets two soulmates?!"

"Apparently, you."

"That’s not helpful, Diggory."

"It wasn’t meant to be helpful," he deadpanned.

You groaned again, throwing yourself onto your bed and burying your face in a pillow. "This is a nightmare."

"This is hilarious," Cedric corrected. "And I would kill to see Mattheo and Theodore’s reaction right now."

At that exact moment—

Someone knocked on the dormitory door.

Your entire body went rigid.

Cedric’s eyebrows raised. "That was fast."

You slowly lifted your head from your pillow. "No. No, no, no, no. That is not them. That could be anyone."

Another knock.

This time, louder.

Your soul left your body.

Cedric smirked. "You gonna answer that, or should I?"

"Neither," you whispered in abject horror. "We ignore it. We pretend we’re dead."

"Pretty sure they won’t buy that."

"Well, I’m willing to test that theory—"

"Y/N."

You froze.

Because this time, it wasn’t a knock.

It was a voice.

A deep, smooth, terrifyingly familiar voice.

"Open the door."

Mattheo.

You squeaked.

"We know you’re in there," another voice added, calm and even.

Theodore.

Cedric grinned. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

You whipped around, eyes wild. "CEDRIC, DO NOT OPEN THAT—"

But the bastard had already swung the door open.

You felt your soul exit your body.

Because standing in the doorway, looking directly at you, were Mattheo Riddle and Theodore Nott.

And they looked very, very determined.

"Hi, boys," Cedric greeted cheerfully. "Come to collect your runaway soulmate?"

Mattheo smirked. "Oh, absolutely."

Theodore just tilted his head, eyes locked onto you. "You have nowhere to run now, Y/N."

You laughed nervously, scooting backward on your bed. "Okay, okay, let’s just—relax, yeah? Let’s be rational about this—"

Mattheo took a single step forward.

You yelped and scrambled off the bed. "I’m very flattered—honored, even—but I think there’s been a terrible mistake—"

"Oh, there’s no mistake," Theodore interrupted, his voice soft but firm. "You are ours."

Your breath hitched.

Mattheo grinned, dangerous and amused. "And we’re not letting you run anymore, sweetheart."

You felt your entire nervous system short-circuit.

And Cedric?

He just sat back, crossed his arms, and grinned like the smug asshole he was.

"Oh, this is so much better than I imagined."

You were pretty sure your entire nervous system had just crashed and rebooted.

Because Mattheo Riddle and Theodore Nott were standing right there—inside your dormitory—blocking the only exit—and looking at you like you were a cornered rabbit.

Which, to be fair, you were.

You were already mentally preparing your last words, calculating how long it would take to jump out the window and debating whether or not you could survive the fall.

"Y/N," Theodore said calmly, taking a slow step forward. "We just want to talk."

"Do you?" you squeaked, pressing yourself against the nearest desk as if it would swallow you whole and save you from this nightmare. "Because I feel like this is less of a talking situation and more of a trapping me in my own dormitory situation."

Mattheo grinned, dark eyes glittering with amusement. "You say ‘trapping’ like we’re holding you at wandpoint, sweetheart."

"Emotionally, you are!"

Theodore sighed. "Why are you running from us?"

"Uh—self-preservation?"

Mattheo snorted. "Dramatic much?"

"YOU SAY THAT LIKE THIS ISN’T A VERY SERIOUS SITUATION!" You flailed your arms wildly, your breathing coming out erratic as your brain scrambled for an escape plan. "I WOKE UP WITH A SOULMATE MARK! NOT ONE! BUT TWO! THAT’S NOT NORMAL! I’M NOT NORMAL! MY LIFE IS OVER!"

"You’re being a little theatrical," Theodore muttered.

"THEATRICAL?" you shrieked, gesturing at your hair like it had personally betrayed you. "I—LOOK AT THIS! I LOOK LIKE A REJECTED HOUSE ELF!"

Mattheo cackled. "Merlin, I love this guy."

"NO YOU DON’T!" You spun on your heel, calculating your chances of breaking through the door and making a run for it. Spoiler alert: Not good.

Theodore sighed, rubbing his temples. "Y/N, we are literally standing here trying to talk to you. You are making this way harder than it needs to be."

"I’M MAKING IT HARDER?" You gasped, putting a hand to your chest like you were about to have a Victorian-era fainting spell. "Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize waking up with my entire destiny rewritten required a casual conversation over tea and biscuits!"

Mattheo smirked. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

"It is a terrifying thing!" you corrected. "You two have been together for years! And now—now I just suddenly appear in the equation?!"

"You didn’t just appear," Theodore said, calm and steady as ever. "You were always meant to be a part of this, Y/N."

"THAT SOUNDS LIKE A LOAD OF COSMIC BULLSHIT!"

You twisted your body, suddenly darting to the left—

—only for strong arms to wrap around your waist and yank you backwards before you even got the chance to move three feet.

"Oh you little shit—" Mattheo laughed, tightening his grip as you kicked and flailed like a deranged cat. "Did you just try to run?"

"CEDRIC DIGGORY, YOU HELP ME RIGHT THIS INSTANT!" you bellowed, desperately reaching out toward your dormmate, who was watching the entire scene unfold from his bed with an expression of sheer amusement.

Cedric raised an eyebrow, unbothered. "Nah, I think I’ll sit this one out."

"TRAITOR!"

"Oh, calm down, sweetheart," Mattheo grinned, leaning down to murmur in your ear. "You act like we’re about to kidnap you."

"YOU MIGHT AS WELL BE!"

"You are so dramatic," Theodore muttered.

"THIS IS A JUSTIFIED REACTION!"

"You’re flailing like a fish," Mattheo added. "It’s kinda adorable."

"STOP CALLING ME ADORABLE, I AM STRUGGLING FOR MY LIFE!"

"Oh my god," Theodore sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Y/N, just breathe. You’re not dying. You’re not being held hostage. You’re just ours now. That’s all."

"THAT’S ALL?!" You gaped, struggling even harder. "‘That’s all’?! You’re acting like you just told me my schedule has changed, not that my entire FATE HAS BEEN TIED TO TWO OF THE MOST TERRIFYING SLYTHERINS IN EXISTENCE!"

Mattheo smirked. "Terrifying, huh? I like that."

"SHUT UP, RIDDLE!"

"You know," Cedric interrupted, tilting his head thoughtfully, "for someone who’s been single his whole life, you’re really bad at handling affection."

"I HAVE NEVER EXPERIENCED AFFECTION BEFORE, CEDRIC! THIS IS UNPRECEDENTED TERRITORY!"

"So what I’m hearing is," Mattheo grinned, "we just need to get you used to it."

"NO—"

Before you could scream in protest, Mattheo spun you around, forcing you to face them as Theodore took a step closer, his gaze softer now.

"Y/N," he said, firm yet gentle, "you are ours. Whether you accept it now or later, that fact won’t change. You belong with us."

"That sounds dangerously like a threat," you muttered.

Mattheo chuckled, tilting his head. "More like a promise."

Your stupid, traitorous heart stuttered at the way they were both looking at you.

You took a deep breath.

Then promptly threw yourself onto the floor.

Mattheo blinked. "Did he just—?"

Theodore sighed deeply. "Yes. He did."

Cedric snorted. "Oh, this is gold."

"I’M DEAD!" you announced from the floor, sprawled out dramatically. "You cannot claim me if I'm dead!"

Mattheo just laughed. "Oh, darling, you have no idea what you’ve just gotten yourself into."

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

You were still on the floor, arms spread out like a tragic hero, contemplating your life choices as Mattheo and Theodore stared down at you.

Mattheo was smirking, his arms crossed, while Theodore looked half-amused, half-exhausted, like he had already aged ten years dealing with your antics.

"Y/N," Theodore sighed. "You cannot just lay there and pretend you’re dead."

"Watch me," you muttered.

"You are so painfully dramatic," Mattheo cackled, nudging your leg with his foot. "C’mon, sweetheart. Get up before someone steps on you."

"I am the floor now. The floor and I are one. I have embraced my fate."

Cedric, still sitting comfortably on his bed, chuckled. "So, is this just how you’re planning to handle your entire soulmate situation? Just...playing dead?"

"YES!"

"That’s not a bad plan," Mattheo mused, stroking his chin. "Bit flawed though. ‘Cause y’know, we’re not leaving you alone, sweetheart."

"You say that like it’s a good thing!"

"It is," Theodore said, deadpan. "And you’re going to have to accept it eventually."

You made a pained noise, covering your face with your hands. "I don’t know how to be a soulmate! I’ve been single my whole life! I was mentally prepared to be a lone wolf forever! The universe did not prepare me for two soulmates, let alone you two!"

"So what you’re saying is," Mattheo grinned, "you were ready to be miserable forever, but now that you actually have soulmates, you’re just freaking out instead."

"YES!"

Theodore let out a long, suffering sigh, like he was praying for patience. "Y/N, you’re acting like we’re asking you to perform some kind of ancient ritual. You’re our soulmate. That’s it. You don’t have to ‘be’ anything except yourself."

You peeked at him between your fingers. "But you two already have each other. What if I just—mess everything up?"

At that, Mattheo’s smirk softened, and Theodore’s eyes turned gentler.

"You won’t," Theodore said, calm and steady, like he was stating a fact rather than a hope.

"We wouldn’t be bonded to you if you weren’t meant to be ours," Mattheo added. "The universe is a bitch, but it’s not wrong."

You groaned, kicking your legs against the floor like a toddler. "You guys are making this too real! Let me have my panic, dammit!"

Mattheo laughed, and before you could protest, he scooped you up off the ground, hauling you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

"WHAT THE HELL, RIDDLE? PUT ME DOWN!"

"Nah," Mattheo grinned. "You had your fun. Now it’s our turn."

"THIS IS LITERAL KIDNAPPING!"

"Nope, just soulmate bonding," Theodore said smoothly, walking beside Mattheo as if this was completely normal. "And considering how much you’ve avoided us, we have a lot to catch up on."

"CEDRIC, CALL THE MINISTRY! I’M BEING TAKEN!"

Cedric just grinned, waving lazily. "Have fun, Y/N."

"YOU’RE THE WORST, DIGGORY!"

"Love you too, mate!"

You screamed dramatically, kicking your feet, but Mattheo just laughed, tightening his hold on you like he was never letting go.

And the worst part?

Despite all your protests—despite your chaotic, overdramatic panic—

There was a small, traitorous part of you that didn’t want him to.

[svelish]

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

Summary !! - Billie had troubles sleeping, though she loved some actual natural pillows especially when it was yours that she slept better.

Billie can't sleep. It's been months since she's had a good and decent amount of sleep, in fact she can count on one hand how many times she had a proper 6 hours of sleep. And those times where when she slept with you. Literally, slept in her best friend's bed and did nothing more.

She's sure that if the opportunity arose, she would've done something but each and every time she intended to do something while they were in bed, she was so exhausted and she just fell asleep the minute her head touched heavenly pillows, not just any pillows, but your pillows. She had even bought the same brand of your pillows but it hasn't worked yet. She also tried sleeping in your bed while you were doing night shifts at the hospital, but to no avail she couldn't sleep.

She didn't want to try pills.

She did try all the natural recipes that their friends suggested but again, nothing worked.

Nothing but you and your own natural pillows.

I mean your breasts.

Billie tossed and turns for the 10th time that night and enough is enough. She throws the covers off, feeling too hot to the touch. She feels the couple of drinks taking effect now and she's sure as hell that now that her inhibition is gone that she could shamelessly seek out what makes her sleep.

Truth to be told, and if she's really going to be honest with herself, she not only yearns to sleep but yearns to be with you in every way possible.

Why was it so hard for her to do it sober? Maybe someday she will get the courage.

Tonight? Tonight she only wants to sleep so that the impending headache she will have in the morning is not the only thing that will make her grumpy and insufferable.

So she paces in her room for a while before finally deciding to take a leap and go to your room.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You heard groans and soft whines thru the wall. Seems like your best friend is having another sleepless night. You wished so much that you could help.

You had before, you know you can do it again but they haven't spoken since Billie went out a couple of hours ago without inviting you and then coming back drunk announcing it so.

They've been tiptoeing around their feelings ever since Billie fully slept the first night. Your chest providing the perfect opportunity for the so much needed sleep that was lacking in your best friend's life.

And it wasn't just the fact that Billie practically fell asleep on you but the way that she clung to you that night and that morning where mandatory morning cuddles were more intimate than what she had with her ex-girlfriend, it told her that there were feelings in between.

Then it happened again, and again and by the fifth time that it happened whenever you wanted to bring out the subject Billie would be in such high spirits for finally having a decent night sleep that she hadn't had it in her to crush such a good mood.

You were so engrossed into thinking about your best friend and the situation they have found themselves in that you almost got a heart attack when Billie enters your room and instantly you could see the drunken state of your best friend.

"Can I borrow a pillow?"

"Where are your pillows?" You asked with a laugh. Billie fidgets in her spot and scratches the back of her neck to come up with the perfect explanation, but she's too drunk to think of one, so she shrugs.

"You specifically bought a matching set of pillows identical to mine." You chuckled and grabbed one of your large pillows on the other side of the bed while Billie approaches you and then stops you while she drops herself on the bed and cuddles you. Billie wraps an arm around your waist and rests her head in your neck and part of your boobs and sighs contently.

Billie smiles against you and you cracked up. "Billie, my boobs are not pillow."

"Shhhh, you're offending them. They're the best pillows ever." She purrs and her hold tightens and you couldn't help but blush and hopes that your friend is too drunk to notice your elevated heartbeat or the fact that somehow your nipples were stiff and they're visible enough in your white tank top.

"They're not." You giggled and the fact that Billie was so wrapped around you. You felt Billie wrap herself even futher with her whole body.

"They so are. I can write a thousand sonnets about your boobs." She knows Billie can but right now you were too focused on the way that Billie sneaks a peek to your chest, smiles and drips a kiss at the top of them.

"How much did you drink?" You feel the content sigh that Billie lets out at the top of your breast and you can't help but to let one of you're own. Right now you're pretty content too.

Billie lifts her head enough so both of you could stare at each other's eyes. When they meet everything makes sense.

"Enough to still think that I want to stay here forever."

You give her a smile that Billie returns before she places her head back down her 'pillows'.

"I'm fine with that."

"Hey y/n?"

"Yes?"

"Don't let me froget about this in the morning?"

"What? The fact that you told me my boobs are heavenly pillows and that you could write sonnets about them or the fact that you-"

"That I love you."

"Why would you forget it?"

"Because you haven't said it back." You feel Billie's heart quicken and beat loudly and you won't ever let her forget. "I love you too."

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You didn't need to make her remember. Billie does it on her own and she grins against the heavenly pillows once she wakes up and fully rested.

"Slept okay?"

Your voice cuts throught the comfortable silence.

"I told you they're the best pillows ever."

Yeah, she remembers.

[vainvenus]

mind games. | ln4 | pt.5

Pairing: Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: You finally tell Max what's been going on and despite your current state and despite being a bit skeptical he believes you.

Includings: Dark!Lando Norris, gaslighting, breaking and entering, paranoia, controlling + obsessive behavior, belittling, petnames, this is so short i'm sorry 💔

An: I've got a Dark!Charles x Tennis Player!reader in the crockpot rn...

@eclipsedcherry @slutforvoldy

The Uber was quiet except for the hum of the engine and the faint sound of the radio playing something neither of you were even remotely paying attention to. Max tapped his fingers against his thighs, glancing outside the window before he looked back over to you like he was trying to put a puzzle together with a few missing pieces.

"Okay." He said, exhaling sharply. "What was that back there?"

You inhaled, clenching the fabric around the hem of your dress as you stared down at your shoes. You almost didn't know how to explain all of it, the small things he had been doing to mess with you, how it was so obviously him who had been in and out of your house, shuffling things around so that only you'd notice. You shook your head. "I don't know how to explain it. It'll...I'll sound crazy."

He crossed his arms over his chest, raising his brows as a silent sign for you to carry on. "Try me."

You sighed. "He's...messing with me. Like in my apartment things have been moved, not enough to be a problem but enough so I know. Putting my shoes in a different order, rearranging my perfumes, putting my keys on the hold instead of the counter. Small things." You had explained and he nodded along, his brows furrowing a bit.

"Then stuff started going missing. Like my perfume and ring. And he...he was wearing it, Max. He was wearing it tonight, my ring just for me to see it so he could fuck with my mind like he's been doing all week. Like the press conference when he made me seem like I was crazy for saying he didn't defend in that face."

Max had just stared at you for a while as you finished explaining all of what Lando had been doing. The silence was almost more suffocating than when you first caught a whiff of your perfume when Lando was close enough. It made you swallow the lump in your throat.

"Say something, Max."

"I honestly don't know what to say. Do you really think Lando is capable of doing that?"

Your brows furrowed. "Do you not believe me?"

He quickly shook his head, putting his hands up and waving them in attempts to calm your own nerves when he saw how your mood had shifted. "It's not that I don't believe you, Y/n. It's just..."

"It's just what?" You spat.

"It's just weird, okay? How is he even getting into your house without a trace? No signs of breaking in or anything?" He questioned and your brows furrowed. You never really thought about that until now. Never a broken lock or glass, it seemed like he just effortlessly went in and out as if he lived there.

"I... don't know." You mumbled and Max seemed like he was trying to figure it out, bouncing his knee a bit.

"Does he have a key?"

The question through you off a bit, your brows furrowed. He shouldn't have a key, the only people you had given a key to your apartment would be Max, your best friend and that was about it.

"Weird."

"I know. Just...please. I need you to believe me so I don't feel like I'm crazy and it's all in my head."

The Uber had come to a stop and you almost forgot it wasn't just the two of you in the car. You have Max a pleading expression, your eyes searching for any bit of closure. One person. You just needed one person who believed you, one person who didn't make you feel like you were losing it.

"I believe you."

You let out a sigh of relief, feeling like some weight had been lifted off of your shoulders. You unbuckled your seatbelt and got out, leaning against the car door. "Can you at least stay?"

"Y/n. Nothing is going to happen to you, he can't get in without a key, right?"

"No, but-"

"Look, I can't stay. If he comes to the door, call me then the police." He stated. It was practical and logical and maybe you would have found comfort in his words if it were under other circumstances but right now you couldn't.

"Just...Just check the apartment with me,” You said, your voice quieter now. “Please.”

Max sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He was tired, confused and still trying to wrap his head around everything and he was just ready to get back to his apartment. But the way you were looking at him—like you just needed this one thing—made it impossible to say no.

“Alright,” He muttered. “Let’s check.”

You let out a breath of relief and unlocked the door. Max followed you inside, flipping on the lights. The place was silent, undisturbed. Still, he went through the motions.

Checked the kitchen. Empty.

Checked the bathroom. Nothing.

Checked the bedroom, even looking in the closet because he could tell you were too nervous to do it yourself. Still nothing.

You stood in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped around yourself. “See? He’s not here,” Max said, trying to keep his voice even.

You nodded slowly. “I just had to be sure.”

Max exhaled, giving you a small nod. “I get it. But you’re fine. Lock the door behind me, alright?”

You hesitated. “You’re sure I’ll be fine?”

“He’s not gonna break in,” Max assured you. “If he shows up, call me. I’ll come right back.”

You didn’t love that answer, but you knew pushing wouldn’t do anything. So you just nodded again. “Okay.”

Max lingered for a second before turning for the door. “Goodnight,” He said over his shoulder.

You locked the door the second it shut behind him, standing there for a moment, listening.

Silence.

Forcing yourself to relax, you went through your usual routine. Makeup remover, cleanser, moisturizer—the same steps you always took, letting the repetition ground you. By the time you stepped into the shower, the tension in her shoulders had started to ease.

The hot water helped. So did the silence.

By the time you were done, wrapped in a towel, you felt like you had washed most of your worry away.

But the second she stepped into her bedroom, you froze.

Lando was there.

Sitting on the edge of your bed like he belonged there, fingers idly picking through the things on your nightstand. He turned a small bottle of perfume in his hand, rolling it between his fingers like he was trying to commit the shape of it to memory.

His head tilted slightly when he heard you.

"You started using this one when the other went missing." He murmured, holding it up for you to see. "I like this one a little bit better, less gourmand."

Your grip on the towel tightened. "Lando—"

"You took your time, love." He set the perfume back down, finally looking at you. He smiled, slow and unbothered. "Did it help clear your mind? Use that new body scrub you got the other day?"

Like this was normal. Like he belonged here.

You kept a tight grip on your towel and your gaze on him to keep track of any and all of his movements. "You need to leave. Right now."

"Or what? You'll call the police? Only for them to tell you it's nothing?" He questioned before continuing.

"Or maybe you'll call Max? He's known from the start." He scoffed, placing the perfume bottle back on the little shelf for all of your scents and upon hearing that you could practically feel your heartbeat in your head.

"He's..what?"

"He's known from the start. He was so good at playing along I definitely thought he would blow it at some point. Playing dumb and going along with everything especially the press conference this morning."

"No."

"Yes." Lando mimicked how dramatically you had said it, shaking his head a bit as he kept his gaze on you.

"I honestly thought you would be smart enough to put the pieces together. He showed up so conveniently tonight, he's the only one with access to your bag where your perfume mysteriously popped back up."

"So why did you let me leave with him tonight?"

"Why not? It gave you a false sense of security. You don't even know who to trust now, do you?"

He was right. Max was one of your closest friends, even beyond the team. You and him just had this undeniable connection that made everything feel effortless. The bond between you two was something you cherished, and if anyone were working with Lando, Max would be the last person you'd even consider accusing.

"You just can't seem to catch a break, baby." Lando questioned, his tone fueled with fake sympathy as he pouted at you and you could nothing but glare at him, one hand bunched around your towel and the other at your side.

Lando tossed the something at you and you didn't even bother catching it. You heard the metal clatter onto the floor before you looked down at what it was and it was a copy of the key to your home. You looked back up at him, watching as he crossed one leg over the other, watching your reaction with a kind of intensity that made your stomach sick.

"You can give that back to him. I've got a copy now." He said as if this were the most normal thing he had done and he tilted his head at you as he watched how all of this was starting to settle in your mind.

"You should just make this easy for the both of us. There's nobody you can call that'll believe you." He stood up from his spot on the bed and grabbed his keys from his pockets. You glanced over at them, seeing one that looked exactly like your house key.

"Get dressed. We're gonna go for a little ride."

"I'm not going anywhere with you, Lando."

He chuckled, releasing a small sigh as his smile lingered. "Do you really want to test me right now? Every odds stacked against you, and yet, you’re still making dumb choices?"

His tone and gaze reduced you, making you feel like a child failing to understand something simple. He spoke with quiet authority, his eyes fixed on you—both possessive and assured, as if you were his to claim, his to control, without resistance or complication.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your grip on the towel tightening—of course, he noticed. The slight tremor in your hands, the way you chewed the inside of your cheek as if he was feeding off your fear.

"Get dressed."

Me bc I actually hate this chapter

[tiramiiswu]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ indomitable

⋆⭒˚. invincible x green lantern!reader ⭒˚.⋆

✦ masterlist || next ✦ imagine: local delinquent girl acts as the one and only green lantern of earth and who just so happens to have a distinct disdain for a certain half-viltrumite she has the displeasure of meeting ✦ pairings: mark grayson x reader ✦ warnings: n/a ✦ a/n: reader is a sort of magical girl inspired green lantern in the sense that i keep picturing her hero costume to be reminiscent of the pretty guardian sailor moon sailor senshi outfits, specifically sailor jupiter’s since she’s already green. her personality is bit of a mix of makoto kino from pgsm and kyoko sakura from puella magi madoka magica when it comes to inspiration because i love my bastard daughter, but i think it definitely evolved in a way that doesnt really align with that as well anymore ✦ originally this was meant to be longer but im not super used to the like? headcanons bulleted list style of formatting this imagine is in and i tend to like ramble and get off my initial thought so hopefully this cut version is readable enough, i might make multiple parts to this just to get some of my other headcanons out because i did really like some of the extra ones i just didn’t think they fit that well with the main ones (i also just want to write about gl!reader and her beloved punching bag ^^;; )

edit: I FORGOT THE OTHER HALF OF MY DRAFT FUCK.

✦ mark grayson was a fucking loser

✦ that was something you were sure of

✦ he’s some stupid dweeb with a dorky interest like seance dog who’s not even worth looking at over the gum stuck to your shoe

✦ you’ve known him since you were kids, when he was an annoying little boy with a gap in his teeth

✦ your parents trying to set up playdates with him and his family after moving into the neighborhood some time before you developed your powers

✦ before everything went to shit

✦ at twelve you were sought out by the green lantern’s ring, unsure as to why it chose you or how you were considered worthy

✦ maybe it was due to your childish belief that evil could be thwarted by the power of love and justice, like the pretty guardians and magical girls in the boxsets your mother let you read with her and the old vhs tapes you watched sitting in her lap growing up

✦ maybe it was your stubborn resolve when it came to protecting your friends on the schoolyard from snotty little boys who tried to pick on them (you were sent to the principal’s office due to your quick response to slug your tiny little fists at some stupid brat’s mouth enough to be on a first name basis with them, much to your father’s dismay)

✦ whatever it was, you were over the moon with your newfound abilities

✦ through sheer willpower you were able to construct anything your imagination thought of, you could fly, and (most importantly to your 13 year old self) your ring could create any hero costume design to anything your heart desired, complete with a dazzling transformation sequence to boot

✦ at first it was everything you ever wanted, days at school spent wanting to do nothing but go out and fight the forces of evil with your totally awesome magical powers (sort of)

✦ for a while you even wondered when you’d get your own team (all magical girls had a team comprised of their friends to fight off evil, so obviously you would get one eventually, right?)

✦ you spent a lot of time in class doodling what you thought your team would be like, which of your friends were bound to be chosen next and join your side (in the back of your notebook you even had some little doodles of you and some masked phantom thief type character that you could no longer pin who your kid self was thinking of at the time when you stumbled upon your old notebook)

✦ but of course, life wasn’t that simple

✦ you never got that team of magical girls, or other lanterns to come to your aid and help you fight off evil

✦ you didn’t have a moment where a kind older teammate you picked up along the way reassured you and comforted you when your body ached from being thrown around like a rag doll by some super powered freak trying to destroy a city block

✦ no one else was there to help you when your ring faltered and your constructs fell apart because you were just a little girl fighting for love and justice against real monsters, bad guys who wanted to break your bones or worse, ones who couldn’t be magically defeated with a magic tiara or a special transformation power-up

✦ it was you who had to do all of that

✦ it was you who had to choke back tears and lick your wounds just to push all of that fear down into the pits of your stomach and pull yourself back onto your feet to hit the bastard who broke your rib ten times as hard

✦ your constructs were tougher, brighter even, they no longer shattered after one heavy hit against the body of a big bulky target

✦ but it wasn’t your courage making them stronger—

✦ it was the unwavering resolve that you were going to punch and claw your way out of each hell you got into and survive, even if you had to die trying

✦ at some point you quit sticking your neck out for other people

✦ you stop searching for fights to start and to prevent crime before it escalates with regular patrols of the city

✦ you only ever came to the aid of civilians when danger was making itself present in big conflics, it gives you more time to be a regular girl and live your life

✦ by eight grade you had had to switch schools for fighting other students

✦ mark noticed that before your expulsion you seemed to have quit picking fights to protect your friends (friends who gradually started to drift away from you late seventh grade) and now you seemed to just be starting fights out of nowhere

✦ you needed to let off steam from your hero work, taking it out on some annoying boy in class was the closest thing you had to a goon or grunt

✦ he didn’t see you again until late into high school

✦ or, really he didn’t see you until he ran into eve after getting his powers

✦ because you saw him immediately after transferring back to the same school district and getting enrolled in the same high school as him

✦ somehow the world couldn’t be smaller

✦ you saw him the first day of senior year

✦ how could you forget, you punched him in the jaw at your parents’ funeral nearly four years ago

✦ you basically ignored him as much as you could

✦ i mean really he’s the same as he was as all those years ago as a stupid kid— dorky and innocent

✦ it was almost insulting the way he didn’t recognize you at first, but to be fair you gave him the cold shoulder and pushed past him in the halls whenever you could

✦ he often saw you smoking under the bleachers during breaks

✦ you still got into fights sometimes, he’s seen you throw a mean right hook whenever one of the other students were bothering you, so he generally he keeps his distance (still, he found himself looking at you over his shoulder every time he did notice you, something about the bad girl delinquent vibe gave you an allure of some kind)

✦ so now imagine being you, taking a night off for once from beating crooks bloody and waiting for civilians to get into trouble before swooping in to save them (again), loitering around Burger Mart and using your lantern ring to make a lighter to light a cigarette (you left your lighter at home— a nice vivienne westwood that belonged to your mom)

✦ you’re minding your own business when you see a familiar face come out from the back of the restaurant

✦ your brows scrunch up identifying the boy in uniform as your least favorite regular human on the planet as he’s hauling two trash bags over to the dumpster

✦ you groaned at the sight of him and rolled your eyes, going back to lighting your cigarette when you see him fidget with the bags for a moment before fucking chucking one of them into the fucking stratosphere

✦ you just sort of stare at him from where you were sat with wide, furious eyes

✦ because no way this loser gets powers out of fucking nowhere

✦ no fucking way you have been busting your ass for years getting stronger, learning how to suppress your fear and push yourself to be stronger, faster, more durable, everything to survive when you’re doing your rounds as Earth’s only green lantern

✦ and mark fucking grayson gets to throw massive heaps of trash into fucking space like it was nothing

✦ if there was a God somewhere, you were sure he’s laughing right at you

✦ you’re there when mark— sorry, when invincible makes his debut as a hero, during the initial flaxan invasion,

✦ you’re exceptionally more irritated than usual

✦ the others chalked it up to your usual grouchiness, but atom eve (your one and only friend) caught onto your ire rather quickly with just how aggressive you seemed to be that day

✦ when mark approached eve in the halls at school afterwards you didn’t do anything to hide your scowl, appearing behind her like a shadow

✦ it took him a second to notice you and he’s not all to proud to say your sudden arrival made him jump a little

✦ scared for a second that he was talking loud enough for someone to have heard him reveal his identity when he remembers you as one of the heroes who he fought beside during the flaxan invasion

✦ you’re annoyed when eve offers to lend an ear to mark, call it jealousy or just you being territorial of your only friend, but there was no way mark grayson gets one rocky start as a hero and immediately gets to be reassured by someone

✦ he gets his powers without needing to prove anything, he gets support from the get go by another hero like eve as soon as he doubts himself, it made you sick— HE makes you sick

✦ from then there on you just couldn’t shake this guy off you

✦ you ran into him more often at school, or at the store, hell you were getting put on the same assignments by cecil

✦ you’re sick of him

✦ sick of his stupid face and that dorky grin of his

✦ how he’s always checking in on you when you go down during a fight and how his voice sounded a bit softer when he spoke to you

✦ the way he makes your face heat up and made your stomach flip when he looked at you—

✦ oh…

✦ oh hell no.

✦ you needed to hit something and you needed to hit something hard (preferably mark)

✦ you were already pretty standoffish and kind of mean when you had to interact at school, but now?

✦ whenever you’re paired with him for missions half of it is spent barking at him and calling him stupid for not being careful enough

✦ he doesn’t even really know what gets you so heated sometimes but he’s getting better at dodging your punches when you start wailing on him post fight

✦ you hate how much effort you have to put just to keep up with him sometimes

✦ he makes you put in the work when he’s barely breaking a sweat

✦ you want to hit him with your hardest construct sometimes just to see him get skipped like a stone. he’s durable, he’ll live

✦ seeing you in action is something else

✦ your costume hasn’t really changed since you were younger (really the sailor scout uniform was just too good to switch up)

✦ but the duality of the cute bows on your leotard and the short pleated skirt compared to the sight of you slamming a heavy green mallet over some poor supervillain’s head always draws his attention to you

✦ you fight so effortlessly in mark’s eyes, you’re quick on your feet and there’s a unique power behind your punch that make him feel the earth beneath his feet shake when he sees you clock someone in the jaw

✦ you always looked so cool with your stoic, determined expression and he admires how ✦ you seem so put together, you barely stagger between attacks, it’s as if you’re just going through the motions

✦ watching you ring-sling is such a sight to see

✦ you’re so quick to adapt your light constructs he can’t imagine how fast you must be thinking for you to be able to switch as naturally as you do, almost like breathing

✦ he’s seen you combo your ring-sling constructs with your raw strength, hitting them with a green baseball bat before the same light construct stretched into a tether or a lasso to yank them back into your ring bearing fist— which by then had some brass knuckle or gauntlet wrapped around it to bust up their jaw

✦ you do surprisingly well at keeping up with him, you’re nowhere near as fast or durable as he is after he starts getting deeper and deeper into being invincible, but your willpower wasn’t something to laugh at

✦ he admired your courage and strength, even if he was at the end of some of those punches

✦ the two of you were such a strange pair

✦ both of you seemed oblivious to the way you looked at each other

✦ maybe it was the goggles on his costume but mark never seemed to realize that the scowl on your face wasn’t the same as your usual resting face (though he found the scrunch of your nose and the furrowing of your brows very cute)

✦ and you (despite your observational skills and general common sense) couldn’t tell that the sheepish puppy dog look on his face when he talked to you wasn’t just how his stupid face looked

✦ you also didn’t seem to realize that thinking about him as consistently as you did wasn’t something you’re supposed to do about someone you claimed to despise

✦ eve is at her wits end with you guys, especially since she was most often the one left to mediate between the two of you

✦ rex tried to do that once, but seeing as you were strongly aligned with eve and hold grudges longer than anyone else you still weren’t giving him any civilized response that didn’t involve chucking him into a lamppost ever since eve confided to you about him cheating

✦ also he used your spare lighter as ammunition once and he was still feeling the pain in his arm from when you broke his wrist after that

[captain-hawks]

suna rintarou x f!reader — 18+ only, 1.3k, piss kink, fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie, roommate!suna, perv!suna, based on this drabble

Rintarou wants to laugh at the irony of it—what’s currently staring back at him from your laptop screen.

He covers the bottom half of his face, hot breath curling against his palm as he lets out a ragged exhale of disbelief. 

The thing is, he’s found plenty of things that have left his cock twitching eagerly with interest since he adopted this fucked up habit of perusing your incriminating porn tabs of choice whenever you forget to close out your silly little incognito browser window.

It’s like a game of roulette, the way his thumb hovers over the touchpad before clicking over to the next tab to see what else could have possibly contributed to draining your vibrator battery last night.

Spitting in her mouth!!!

Anal sex (no lube just SPIT)

I choked him and he came untouched??

If Rintarou was a good roommate and friend, he would have immediately closed the browser window full of filthy porn tabs the first time he went to borrow your laptop and found them staring back at him.

hot wet messy snowballing

Edging her till she’s begging for it (three orgasms)

Or at the very least, he wouldn’t have made a goddamn habit of it.

FIRST TIME SQUIRTER HUGE MESS!!!!!

But it's been fun, all of these little discoveries. The things he’s learned about you through clicks and keystrokes. Because Rin’s seen the guys you’ve brought home before—

—and he’ll bet his own goddamn balls that none of them has ever grabbed your face and made out with you after busting a hot load of cum in your pretty mouth. 

Amateurs. 

But this—

This.

This is…

Rintarou weakly rubs his fingers over his eyes, like it’ll somehow change the one and only tab that was waiting for him on your screen today.

And in the back of his mind, idly, he wonders if you closed out all the rest and forgot to dispose of this final piece of evidence.

Or if this video alone was enough to get you off that quickly—

(And it’s dangerous, that thought.)

He slowly closes your laptop.

—-

Rintarou’s calm, mature decision to turn over a new leaf and stop fucking his fist like a pervert to the knowledge of what gets you off lasts approximately four and a half minutes.

Four and a half minutes, and he’s in his room with his boxers discarded somewhere between the bed and the door, flushed, leaking cock gripped tightly in his fist. 

Two strokes and his balls are already seizing up.

Suna Rintarou’s dick is twitching between his fingers on a hair trigger—

and you—

you—

—you have a piss kink.

His mind is already far beyond the memory of the two faceless participants in the video you’d been watching. Miles and miles past SHE PISSED ON MY DICK (huge cumshot!!). 

Rin doesn’t give a single fuck about whatever else he missed out on in the remaining five minutes of the video that he promptly closed out of. 

Because all he can think about is you.

You and those flowy sundresses you like to wear as soon as a hint of warm weather hits the forecast.

You and those lacy little white panties that you sometimes forget in the corner on the bathroom floor after showering.

You and your abysmally small bladder.

Rintarou’s mind is caught in a hazy fantasy, one that finds two of you making out in his bed. You’re wearing that yellow dress that he really likes, and the thin material slips up your thighs like butter when he grasps your waist and pulls you on top of him.

Your lips slide against his, soft moans slipping up your throat as you straddle him, his sweatpants doing absolutely nothing to obscure the sheer amount of blood that’s rushed to his cock in the time since the two of you hit the mattress. 

And then you giggle, murmuring something shyly against his lips about how wait, wait, you have to pee.

Logically, because you live together and you share a bathroom and Rin knows you, he should offer you a slightly dramatic, put-out sigh, hands resting behind his head as he waits for you to return. 

But Rin’s so goddamn hard and your cunt feels so warm grinding against him, even through your underwear. And he honestly doesn’t really care about these sheets or this mattress. 

Rintarou doesn’t give a fuck about much of anything besides the thought of how it wouldn’t just be warm, but hot if you—

“Just go.”

You laugh, gentle and amused. Like he’s joking.

Like he didn’t just ask you to piss on him.

“Rin—”

He pushes up the skirt of your dress, exposing those white panties and the obvious wet spot of arousal that’s already soaked through the material that hugs your swollen folds.

You blink down at him, breath hitching in your throat.

“Rin, I really have to—”

He brushes a finger down your slit, featherlight, not missing the full-body shiver that courses through you.

You whine.

Hooking a finger in your panties, he tugs them aside to expose your cunt.

“You have to what?” he asks calmly, pressing his thumb into the puffy, throbbing button of your clit. 

You exhale silently, eyes falling shut for a moment like it’s taking everything in your power to keep holding it in.

“I have to pee.”

Rintarou uses his free hand to push down his sweatpants and boxers, letting his cock spring free. He stares up at you.

“Prove it.”

Your eyes go a little wide, bottom lip getting caught between the trap of your teeth as your thighs tremble slightly.

“I can’t—”

Rin traces your fluttering entrance with the pad of his middle finger, and your hips stutter as you bite back a moan.

“Why not?”

He slides a finger in, and fuck, fuck, fuck you’re so wet for him.

Your pussy clenches around the digit.

“We’re in your bed. It’ll…it’ll make a mess…” 

Rin smiles, because this is just some fucked up fantasy he conjured, and he can buy a hundred goddamn beds for you to piss all over if he wants to.

“And?”

Two fingers.

“Rin I’m—”

A warm trickle slides down his knuckles. He slowly pumps in and out of your pussy.

“Do it.”

More drips out.

He pulls his fingers out of you and rests his palm flat over your bladder.

“Oh—”

Rin pushes down at the same moment that he slides his hard cock lengthwise down your wet slit.

And all at once, you release.

Hot piss floods out of you, spraying all over his cock.

And Rintarou groans, gasping at the sensation, at the feeling of it coating his cock and dripping down his balls. 

You’re still pissing when you start grinding your cunt against his dick again, desperately, frantically, whining like you’re about to—

You come hard, shaking and sobbing his name against his chest, and Rin’s already halfway to stroking his piss soaked cock to his own completion when you gasp, “Fuck me, Rin. Fuck me. Please fuck me.”

It’s obscene how wet you are, how easily he pumps his cock right into your dripping hole. Rin flips you over onto your back, fucking into your pussy with uneven, shallow strokes because it’s all he can manage before blowing his load.

And because Rin’s a filthy pervert—

“That’s all?” you weakly laugh into his shoulder as he collapses against you afterward, softening cock still nestled in your cunt.

Rin mouths at your collarbone.

“Just say it if you want it.”

You sigh.

“Rin.”

Hand drifting to the base of his cock, he rubs his fingers against the place where it meets your fucked out folds.

He lets out the slightest dribble, just enough to have you gasp with awareness.

“Rin please.”

He shifts, mouth slotting against your lips, tongue lazily sliding into your mouth as a hot flood of piss floods your cunt. 

(You’re a filthy, wet, needy mess of cum and piss when he’s finished finger fucking you over the edge of another orgasm.)

–

Rintarou wakes up to the sound of the heavy front door to the apartment closing, your shoes clicking across the laminate flooring down the entryway.

His hands are sticky with dried cum, sweatpants damp and soaked through with more than just his seed as they cling to his thighs.

He's already hard again.

"Fuck."

[mattsmedusa]

✎ 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 ✮ 𝐜.𝐬 『 +𝟏𝟖 』

ⓘ best friends? ᚐ sexual tension ᚐ blowjob ᚐ etc. + intended lowercase. 𝐰𝐜. 𝟐.𝟐𝐤

it had been an overall good day for you. you were out with a friend of yours, having gotten your nails done and now eating lunch with her. your friend started to talk about her recent little hook up. it wasn’t anything unusual, you were used to hearing your friends talk about stuff like that, but today... something in you was more curious than ever.

your friend went on and on about how good it was and how more guys should be like the one that she fucked at that party two days ago. she suddenly nudged your arm and leaned in to whisper in a hushed tone. "he was huge, like, quite literally choked me with it—it was definitely an experience." she laughed, immediately switching to a different topic but you couldn’t shake off the sudden flicker of curiosity.

blowjob. you had never done it before and all because you were intimidated by the idea of having a dick in your mouth. now though, the intimidation was gone, only leaving curiosity behind. the curiousity was persistent enough to keep lurking in the back of your mind, even as you stepped foot inside the triplets place later that day.

chris, your best friend, was sitting on his gaming chair—his back facing you—when you walked into his room. he was so concentrated on his game that he didn’t even notice you at first. you shrugged it off and immediately plopped on his bed, sprawled out like a starfish as you closed your eyes, relaxing on his bed like you owned it.

after a few minutes, chris stretched, taking off his headset and stood up to probably get something to drink and that’s when he noticed you. his eyes widened and he recoiled, putting a hand over his heart, not having expected to see you—or anyone in that matter—on his bed.

"kid- you fucking scared me, when did you even get here?" he shook his head, laughing despite his initial surprise. "laying on my bed like you own the shit, get up." he walked over to you with a silly grin, probably plotting something, but you sat up right as he approached the bed, making him jolt in surprise at your sudden movement.

"what’s wrong with you toda-" "how do you give someone a blowjob?" chris immediately paused, mouth still agape from the word he was about to say before you cut him off. he stared at you blankly and you stared back at him, determined. a part of you regretted your words, but you were too far gone into the curiosity to take it back. "what does it feel like?" you pressed on, leaning forward towards him.

"what did you say?" chris blinked at you, not sure if he heard it right or if he was just hearing shit. "did you just- did you seriously just ask me how to give someone head?" he burst out laughing, plopping on the bed beside you as he lost his shit—not believing what he was hearing.

"you didn’t just ask me that." he said in disbelief as his shoulders trembled with laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners. but when he saw that you weren’t laughing along, he realised that you were dead serious. his laughter subsided, surprise flickering in his expression since you never brought something like this up—never sounded interested when he did.

"wait for real? you really wanna know?" he gave you a teasing grin, his eyebrows rising. "well, it’s not like i’ve sucked dick before so i can’t really tell you how, but i have gotten a blowjob before..." he trailed off, his grin widening as he leaned closer. "you want me to teach you or something?" he joked, but the joke fell flat as you nodded your head.

his eyes widened by a fraction before he let out a small chuckle, leaning back on his hands. he didn’t expect you to actually say yes, and well, why would he refuse? it’s nothing serious—or so he thinks.

chris swallowed down the worries and what if’s and slowly nodded, muttering a bit too breathless "alright" as he adjusted his position on the bed, watching your wide-eyed expression with a small smirk. "you wanna learn or no?" he teased putting a small pillow that he had on his bed on the floor in between his spread legs.

you blinked, staring at him for a good minute, not expecting him to actually go through with it. after a few seconds, you slowly stood up and walked towards him until you were right in front of him before kneeling down on the pillow. looking up at him, you noticed the way his pupils seemed slightly more enlarged than usual.

"you’ve a hairband or something?" he leaned back slightly, casually, trying to hide the fact that your proximity got his breath hitching. "so your hair won’t get in the way." he explained, watching as you leaned to the side to rummage through your bag, pulling out a hairband and tying your hair in a low ponytail with it.

"alright now..." he cursed internally at how breathless he sounded. he spread his legs wider, almost unconsciously as he felt his dick swell at the imagery his mind created of you sucking his dick with those doe eyes looking up at him. he was already half-hard and you hadn’t even done anything yet. you were just sitting in front of him looking so edible...

what is he thinking?

chris cleared his throat, finding his voice hoarse and undeniably needy. "you gotta, uh, get me fully hard first." he said. "don’t worry, i’ll guide you through it- just do what feels right." he reassured. he was starting to finally understand the gravity of the situation, but as per usual, he pushed the thoughts away.

you tentatively touched his boner straining against his sweatpants and your breath hitched at the warmth and hardness. your gaze flickered up to watch his reaction as you palmed his dick, swallowing thickly when you felt him swell further under your attention.

chris helped you pull down his sweatpants, his cock springing free and slapping his stomach before standing upright, precum already gathering on the tip. he stared down at his dick, then back at you, a small chuckle escaping when he saw your heated glance at his cock.

"staring at it like you wanna eat it." he mumbled with another chuckle. "huh?" you snapped out of your small trance and looked up at him. "you’re staring at my dick like you wanna eat it." he repeated, giving you a knowing smirk—which earned him a slap on his thigh, causing him to giggle.

"so do i just... lick it?" you questioned, ignoring the comment he made, tentatively reaching out to wrap your fingers around his base and feeling how girthy he was. he was big and long, causing you to feel that primal need to be filled. you shifted slightly, trying to will your body to behave, but fuck, he was easily bigger than any of the guys you’ve slept with before.

chris nodded subtly. "yeah... lick it like you would with an ice cream cone." he gently guided your head closer to his cock, the tip almost pulsing as a fresh bead of precum formed on the slit before slowly sliding down his shaft and onto your fingers.

you leaned closer and slowly licked up the underside of his length, from the base to the tip, with your tongue flattened—all while looking up at him with those doe eyes of yours. chris’ dick jumped in your hand, his breath hitching at the sudden warmth and wetness of your tongue. the way you were looking up at him so prettily got him feeling all types of ways.

you saw his reaction and interpreted it as you doing a good job and started to slowly become bolder, moving your hand in a twisting motion up and down his shaft while you kissed and licked his tip.

"f-fuck--" chris moaned quietly, his eyes closing briefly at the pleasure shooting through his whole body as your mouth focused solely on the head of his cock. his hand left your head to clutch onto the sheets beside his thigh. his hips twitched and jolted when you wrapped your lips around his cockhead, swirling your tongue around it.

you knew some things about a blowjob. the knowledge came from hearing about it from your friends, porn and some freaky reels you got recommended while doom scrolling on instagram. it’s not like you were completely innocent—you just hadn’t tried it out on anyone. but you were nervous nonetheless, seeking approval from him as you kept gazing up at him.

chris’ eyes snapped open when you took him deeper in your mouth. "wait- fuck, you sure this is your first time?" he breathed out, completely in awe at how good you were doing. he barely held himself back from rolling his eyes back when you hollowed out your cheeks and sucked up his length, letting it go with a wet pop.

"y-yeah, is it bad?" you asked panting softly, feeling insecure about your inexperience. your hand halted its motion on his dick, waiting for his reply.

chris quickly shook his head, "no, fuck no, you’re so fucking good at it... that’s why i asked," he explained, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, dick twitching subtly in your hand. he licked his lips subconsciously, eyes silently pleading with yours to keep going.

you let out a quiet sigh of relief and went back to what you were doing. getting bolder the more chris reacted. every small moan, whine or groan made your stomach flip. your panties were now uncomfortably wet, clinging to your pussy as you eased one more inch of his length into your mouth, gagging slightly before pulling off to pump him with your hand.

chris was so close to the edge already, finding it difficult to stay coherent so he simply stuck to letting you do your own thing as he leaned back on both hands. his head was thrown back, brows knitted together in pleasure and lips parted as soft moans fell freely from it.

you watched as chris’ breathing grew increasingly shallow, his hips jerking upwards and thighs trembling ever so slightly. that’s when you understood that he was about to come undone. the sudden realisation left your stomach doing somersaults and you immediately redoubled your efforts.

"wait, fuck- i’m gonna cum... if you don’t want—mmfhh—if you don’t want me to cum in your mouth then pull off." he said urgently. his breath hitched more frequently now as the bands in his stomach grew more and more taut.

you didn’t pull away though—you went faster, bobbing your head more enthusiastically as your hand took care of what you couldn’t fit in your mouth. you hollowed out your cheeks, sucking insistently before slowly going down and taking as much as you could.

that’s when chris suddenly held your head still between his hands, his hips giving a sharp thrust up and burying himself completely in your mouth as he came, eyes rolling back in ecstasy as breathy moans and profanities left his mouth. you felt his cock twitch and spurt out warm cum right down your throat.

chris’ hips jerked against your face, slowly riding out his high. he didn’t release your head until you slapped his thigh repeatedly, coughing as you tried your best to swallow down his release. he quickly let go of your head, mumbling a breathless "sorry" before slumping back on his bed. his chest heaved and body shuddered with aftershocks.

it took him a good minute to recover and when he did, he sat up, pulling his sweats up and looking at you like you had grown a second head. you simply chuckled at his surprised expression, wiping your mouth with a tissue from the tissue box beside his bed.

"you’re fucking insane." chris suddenly said. he was in disbelief that his inexperienced best friend just gave him the best blowjob he has ever received... and mind you, he has had his fair share of heads so when he thinks it’s good—it’s really fucking good.

"was it good?" you gave him a small grin, knowing the answer but not wanting to sound too full of yourself. your words made chris stare at you like you just told him something ridiculous.

"was it good?" he repeated your question with a laugh. "c’mon, you’re really gonna ask me that after making me moan and cum in like 2 minutes?" he teased, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he helped you stand up from your kneeling position in front of him.

"so, anything else you want me to teach you? ’cause i’m more than willing to be your personal instructor if you’re gonna do that good." he grinned shamelessly, laughing softly when you shoved him to the side.

"kid, don’t even try anything with me." you rolled your eyes, even as a small smile formed on your lips. you didn’t respond to his question, changing the subject as if nothing out of the ordinary happened, but you knew something shifted between you two after that. every little touch felt more than just a touch.

it’s probably just your imagination... right?

୨୧

✩ ˙˖˚᮫ ⁱˢᵃ ᮭ ᮭ.ᐟ i apologise for taking so long, hope you enjoy this nonetheless anon<3

[𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬�� 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞!]

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @chaossturns @mels4ngel @lypsiiii @sydneyylainn @sturniolozbae @hearts4werka @strnilolover @matts-sidepiece @hearts4sturniolo @ivysturnss @bumbl3b34 @sophand4n4 @sagesturns @gwennybenny @whore4mattsturniolo @sturns-mermaid @il0vey0um0st @summersturni @ashleysturn @unknvhx @natesfavoritehoe @lizzymacdonald06 @sleepiibunniiii @plrlvssnz @patchy-icey @greekgirldreaming @moosegirl96 @sllutty-sturniolo @rinnsgalaxy @urfavvbilliemunch @pasteldreams @heartsonlyforchris @jas06sposts @elizabeth8483 @starkeysturniolo @chrisissobabygirl @emely9274 @matts-wife @courta13 @p1nkm6tter @jocelyncsblog @bamsblooming @malsmind

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧

[kawhh]

i’ve had a horribly bad week and i just need dark quinn to tell me that i don’t need anything else because it’s obviously making me upset and he’s all i need

(this is some sort of coping mechanism)

May or may not be sneaking this in. My ask answering blurb MIA time is almost over. This might be more than you wanted, but my brain went here.

Warnings: he's not exactly asking permission to keep you from stress. Pretending to be you, thought threats about locking you in a room.

I feel like he'd be 100% on a mission to stop every problem for you, to make you see sense when it comes to fully relying on him.

He's been giving you slack, letting you do everything you want to do. He hasn't complained about you looking after yourself. Hasn't complained about you wanting to cook for yourself, spending time by yourself, stressing yourself out.

He's kept his mouth shut not wanting to push you, but he's truly had enough.

You're crashing and burning in front of his eyes and he refuses to stay on the sidelines any longer. You need a stricter hand guiding you. You need someone to stop everything. You need to be able to turn your mind off.

He's taking control of everything immediately. He doesn't care to hear any protests, isn't interested in arguing with you. If you could've fixed it yourself, you would've.

No matter how small the task is, he's doing it. He's not afraid to force you either. Some physical restraining encouragement if you don't let him.

Any responsibility you have? He's forcing you to stop for a week. Texting on behalf of you, emails, anything he can do to make sure it pauses.

He can't have you worrying about needing to be somewhere, needing to do something. He doesn't care if it's important. You're the only thing that's important to him and he's the only person you need.

You don't need to stress about having other people in your life. He can be everything for you. A lover, a friend, a walking, talking sex toy. Anything you could possibly need in your life.

You don't need money. There's nothing he won't buy for you. He won't have you stressed about that. He's buying you groceries before you can even think about it. You mention it once? He's not above locking you in a room while he goes shopping for you. He can't risk you doing it yourself.

It'll just be some extra nap time for you.

He's doing some retail therapy for you, buying you clothes he knows you'll like. He knows your exact size and taste. Every single measurement. He'll use it as an excuse to keep you away from everything - he's bought them for you, he needs a fashion show.

He's making you breakfast even if he'll be late to practice. He won't have you cooking for yourself. Every single meal he can provide for you, he's doing it. If he can't he's getting it delivered for you.

He's keeping you in a bubble with him. He's protecting you. He's shielding you from every single thing that could have a negative influence on you.

[syntheticavenger]

better off - two

Senator! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: More world building, language, heavy angst.

If you want it to hurt, listen to Ariana Grande’s “we can’t be friends”.

Summary | Keeping busy is something you know how to do well, especially after the publicized break up with your ex. As his political fame rises, so does the need for you to focus on yourself and keeping your walls up for self-preservation. If only it was that simple.

Sam adjusts his tie, looking at the stylist who is examining his fingers tightening the knot, most likely making sure that it looks perfect. 

That’s the way of press events. Followed around by cameras, publicists and officials, making sure they can spin an innocent offer of friendship into something they can use for later. 

He’s all but banned the usual suspects, his own chief of staff rolling her eyes at the fuss over his choice of outfit. It’s a simple white shirt and black tie with black slacks, matching socks and shiny black shoes. He’s taken to rolling up the sleeves, especially since today of all days it’s hotter than usual.

”Wouldn’t you like to have the sleeves rolled down?” the stylist offers, taking a step closer as he puts his hand out.

“I like them the way they are, Hannah,” he quips, seeing her give a quick nod. 

Inside the green room, he has two Secret Service agents at the door, a little overkill he thinks without verbally saying it. It’s stocked with everything he likes, a throwback to remembering how you had managed to slip his favorite case of beer into the fridge when you had told him to help himself at a barbecue once before. These little touches make him smile as he takes a handful of peanut M&Ms and tosses a few into his mouth while he studies his speech.

It’s a quieter affair but one near and dear to his heart. It’s a veteran’s brunch for them and their families, a simple yet touching thing you’ve decided on to raise awareness for veteran’s rights. Your non-profit, while still new, has received some heavy donations after your outreach work was highlighted by Joaquin Torres. The Vice President was nearly moved to tears when he saw your ribbon cutting ceremony after creating housing for homeless veterans. He’ll be in the audience, running late for another event but he wouldn’t miss this for the world.

“We’re almost ready for you,” Camille, his chief of staff reminds him. “Mic check went well, there are several vets out there who would like to thank you personally, Sir.”

He isn’t sure what to say to that. He’s a veteran, just like them, fighting for them and every other person in this country. It’s a quiet affair, no cameras allowed to cut down on the unnecessary noise and stress. A place for them to just be, without ravenous reporters begging for a soundbite or quick picture. 

He’s pleased you put your foot down to keep it family and friends only.

“I should be thanking them.”

Camille gives him a smile, handing him a mirror as he balks at it.

”You really want to give a speech out there with peanut and chocolate in your teeth?”

He smiles widely, inspecting his teeth before he’s satisfied, popping a mint in his mouth.

“You know those are my favorite,” he says with a wink, heading toward the door.

”We’ll make sure to pack them for the drive back,” she promises.

-

You picked the wrong time to break in your new heels. As cute as they are, you find yourself gritting your teeth with every step, cursing the fact that you forgot to bring the bandaids for the back of your ankles. Thankfully, you can play it off, surveying the scene in front of you, counting each table one more time to make sure you have a proper count.

Rea snaps a picture of a family with their camera, her smile wide with appreciation before another calls out to her to take another picture. There’s a shred of anxiety that you probably should have brought a professional photographer to take pictures but you’d surveyed the families and they wanted a chance to be in their element - alone and without distraction. What matters is that you’re close to funding another complex to be turned into housing and being so close to your goal is what continues to motivate you. Your track record with job pairings is double what you had originally estimated and it still feels like you aren’t doing enough.

”You’re up,” Rea whispers, watching you jump in surprise. “How’s the feet?”

“Miserable but I’ll make it,” you promise her. “I owe him so much, Rea.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, he could say the same about you,” Rea counters. “I remember those first speeches when he was running.”

You ignore her, heading up to the podium. Nerves ripple in your belly but you swallow them down. This isn’t about you and your fears of public speaking, this is about a proper opening speech. You’ve written them countless times.

“Good morning,” you begin, seeing hopeful faces looking up at you. “I am incredibly pleased and humbled to be here with you today. As you know, this non-profit started off with small but noble intentions. It was to ensure that those who have served shall be cherished and never forgotten. I am so thankful to have you all here to celebrate such a tremendous occasion. This afternoon is about you and your families, to provide a sense of calm in an uncertain world. It is important to me that I express my adoration and utmost respect for your service and for you as individuals.”

Heavy handed clapping breaks through as you nod in response.

“As you know, our efforts have been recognized by none other than Vice President Torres and also, President Sam Wilson, who is here today to share a message with you all. Please join me in welcoming him to the stage.”

Applause breaks out, people standing as he appears, waving to the crowd as Camille looks on, giving you a thumbs up. Sam embraces you warmly, heading up to the podium as you head back toward Rea.

“Couldn’t tell if you were in pain,” Rea whispers, handing you a glass of water. “Can you believe the President is speaking at our brunch? How on earth did you pull this off?”

“Because she’s a genius,” a voice interrupts, both you and Rea turning around.

It’s Jules, who is decked out in a couture navy pants suit and red pumps. She always looks immaculate and you’d tell her so if your heart wasn’t suddenly beating out of your chest at the thought of where her boss may be.

“He’s not here,” Jules says quickly, almost as if reading your mind. “He doesn’t know I’m here. You think I would miss this?”

You’re unsure of what to say, Jules nodding toward the door as Rea stays put inside the hall. You follow her, Jules pushing the door open, giving you enough clearance before it closes.

“I’m proud of you,” Jules continues. “I wish it was under better circumstances but I couldn’t have him coming here if I didn’t know the status of where you were both at.”

“There is no status, Jules.”

“I figured as much. I hope you liked your flowers.”

You’re silent at her comment. The hardest feeling is wondering why he isn’t here and being thankful that you don’t have to face him.

“I did. Thank you.”

“Even his?”

You scoff at Jules’ question, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I gave them away, actually.”

Jules sighs, shaking her head in disbelief.

“You’d think you’d both be past this by now. I know it ended badly but it doesn’t have to be so… final. I came to tell you that I’m really fucking proud of you. Quitting your corporate job and starting a non-profit isn’t for the weak but you did it. I never had any doubts but… it just meant a lot to me to make sure I told you so.”

“I appreciate that.”

She blows out a breath at your comment, gripping her purse.

“Don’t go Ice Queen on me. It’s me, you’re talking to, remember? You don’t have to shut me out.”

You won’t let her get any further, checking your watch quickly.

“I appreciate the kind words, Jules. I appreciate the flowers from you as well. I need to head back inside.”

You don’t wait for her to say anything, opening the door with as much strength as you can muster, leaving her behind, right as Sam is finishing up his speech, Rea wiping her tears away.

-

Bucky notices the way Jules sits in her seat, shifting back and forth, shuffling through her papers to find the right one, muttering to herself as he downs a bottle of water. His workout lasted longer than he realized, missing two of her calls before she had politely demanded for the doorman to let her knock on his door.

He’d looked at her like she was crazy as he slung the towel around his broad shoulders, letting her inside as she muttered to herself, only to open her bag and start working.

“Everything okay?” 

She doesn’t look up from her papers, his question not registering until he clears his throat.

“Huh?”

“You’re distracted,” he tells her, seeing her wrinkle her nose in response.

“I am not. I’m trying to find this itinerary that I swore I had but I bet you it fell…” she trails off, going silent as he raises an eyebrow.

“Fell where?”

“Somewhere. It’s not important. There wasn’t anything confidential on there anyway. I can start over.”

“Jules. I was trying to get a hold of you most of the afternoon and you were MIA and now you’re all over the place. What’s going on?”

Bucky’s tone gets her attention as her shoulders slump forward.

“Sam spoke at an event today. The VP was there too. A brunch honoring veterans and their families. That’s where I was.”

“Is that why you’re so secretive? I would have gone with you if you needed back up. I would have sent the security detail with you.”

She hesitates slightly at his words.

“No. You couldn’t have gone with me. I shouldn’t have even gone.”

“I don’t get it.”

Jules covers her face with her hands, letting them draw out her features as she drags them down.

“It was her non-profit.”

They exchange a long glance, Jules popping up from her chair as she points a finger at him.

“And she’s cold, Bucky. The Arctic is warmer than she was.”

His confusion only sends her into more of a tailspin, watching her pace back and forth.

“She dismissed me. Me! And what’s worse, I let her do it! Like I’d gone soft or something. I wanted to congratulate her. Her non-profit is thriving, Bucky. She’s doing some really good shit and helping people. The minute I approached her, it was like she had seen a ghost. Is that the way it is between you both? Just harboring some weird grudge that you both can’t get over?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going there?” Bucky asks, her eyes lowering at his question.

“Because you would have wanted to go.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“You would have had worse treatment, trust me.”

-

It’s late when you finally get home, your heels kicked across the floor haphazardly, a glass of cherry juice in your hand while you make your way to the couch. You’d drink if it could mean you wouldn’t have to face yourself and the impending thoughts that snake their way into your mind the next morning. For now, this sleepy girl mocktail will have to do, your phone somewhere on the table, far away from reach so that you can just be.

There’s a part of you that wallows in the idea of sitting in your apartment alone in the dark, even if it’s by choice. You’ve already shed tears for the way you treated Jules, aware that the interaction has reopened a wound that you had thought had been sutured shut months ago.

“They’re outside,” Jules said, sitting next to you amid the small mountain of used tissues. “You don’t need to go, you know. Say the word and I can have them gone and everything scrubbed from record.”

She didn’t do well with your silence, the tears running down your cheeks as you took everything in for the last time. It was weird to think you wouldn’t see the same black and white picture of his childhood home in the black frame near his bedroom anymore or the picture of him and Steve from so many years ago.

“I’ll go out the back,” you told her, your body unwilling to move as your brain leapt into action. It was the fight or flight, the latter overtaking you to move, to leave and never come back.

“He’ll be back soon,” Jules promised, her voice near pleading. “I think you can work this out. He loves you.”

“Loves me?” you questioned her words with a dark stare. “Is this how you treat someone you love? Ending it without even a second thought?”

You never used to question it, never had to worry if his career was ahead of you. Your worst fears were realized, seeing him shield you from the cameras, closing the blinds and skipping workouts so that he wouldn’t be hounded by the press.

You had become a liability.

“How does this all work?” you questioned her. “Do I have to sign something to say I won’t ever talk to him again?”

“There’s no NDA,” Jules replied sadly, seeing you pluck around tissue out of the box. “I know he thinks he’s doing the right thing but I disagree. You’re the best thing to ever happen to him.”

“God,” you drawled you, forcing yourself to stand, your knees nearly locking in place. “I’m going to be fine, Jules. I appreciate that you think he loved me but we both know his career was going to take a hit and I’ll be damned if I take the fall if his entire career is about our relationship. You have to hand it to him though. Bucky is a shrewd man when it comes to optics.”

“You know that isn’t true. He’s thinking of you and how you’re portrayed in all of this,” Jules defended, seeing you grab the tissues and toss them into the trash.

Anger replaced hurt, the emotion had soothed over you like an icy balm. It was easier to be angry than crushed, you could at least leave with what shreds of dignity you had left.

You’d ignored Jules’ call when you’d gone down the steps unceremoniously, your phone vibrating in your pocket that you’d tossed on the table on your way out. 

You were done with all of it.

With shaky fingers, you bring the glass up to your lips, forcing the memory away as your eyes close, tilting your head back on the sofa.

-

He gets a reprieve for at least a week now, Jules cancelling his engagements to give him the space to breathe.

To rest.

Instead he looks up at his ceiling, pressing the button to hear his own apology on the phone you had left behind, going still as he can still remember the words he spoke. The memory is clear as day, right down to the gritty details of the sounds his shoes made on the wet pavement.

“I’m making the biggest mistake of my life,” he said, the rain pouring down as he left the umbrella to run to the car. “Don’t you fucking leave, okay? Stay there so that we can talk this through, so that I have a chance to explain. Jules should be there now. If there’s press, stay inside okay. Just… just don’t go.”

The phone call ends abruptly, right at the time he was ushered into the car, away from the threat that had made the news. He wasn’t supposed to be there, a quick detour to campaign for Torres until someone had decided to call in a threat. Credible or not, he was ushered off to a safe place, laying low until it was safe to do so.

Where he was didn’t matter. The lack of communication that he was going to stop to campaign was the issue, leaving two days prior after the breakup. He called it giving you space to guard his own shattered heart.

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night, Bucky finding himself looking through old photos of you both, including the way he carried you over the threshold after he had asked you to move in with him. He swears he can still hear your laughter, right down to the way you held your head back as he spun you around.

Memories of the past, meant to be tucked away for later and not right now.

The phone still technically belongs to you, given to you by him in case of emergencies. It was the one you left behind that day, not looking back when Jules had simply said you had left. The finality in her voice had spurred him into action, searching for you until he got the hint that you simply didn’t want to be found.

So far removed from your life, he wonders what you’re doing right now, if you’re having trouble sleeping or if you’re curled up on your side with a pillow, lost in slumber. He hopes it’s the latter not the former, spending many nights watching you stare mindlessly at the television, your mind going a mile a minute at the ‘what ifs’ and what was to come once you stepped foot outside the door.

Still, you always found comfort in his arms. You soothed him as much as he did you and for a moment, he allows himself to remember what it felt like when you held him close, your words spoken softly against his skin like a spell that kept him enraptured with everything you said. He doesn’t want to admit how lonely it is without you. How mundane his world is without you in it. 

Stating that fact seems like it would kill him if he spoke it out loud.

Instead he lets himself dream of what could have been, drifting off to sleep, still holding the phone in his hand.

[alwritey-aphrodite]

hii ! can i request this prompt « my ex doesn't understand it's over, so I tell them I've already got someone new » with sirius or remus ? tysmmm

I went with Sirius, I hope you enjoy!!

Sirius is sitting at the table, peeling an orange and methodically removing any of the “stringy bits”, as you call them, so you won’t have to go back and do it yourself and ruin your freshly painted nails, courtesy of days and days of bugging on Sirius’ end. You’re washing dishes, and clearing your throat over and over like you have something to say.

“Just spit it out already,” Sirius gripes, still cleaning off the orange, after you clear your throat only to stay silent for what feels like the millionth time.

“I have a favor to ask,” you say, somewhat uncomfortably, drying your hands on the dish towel before turning to face him, leaning your hip against the counter as if you need the support.

“Shoot,” he replies, not bothering to look up at you for more than a glance, determined to get the orange spotless.

“It’s kinda a lot,” you cross your arms around your middle, and from your tone Sirius knows you’re practically crawling in your skin, so he finally puts down the orange and gives you his full attention.

“I’d do anything for you, you know that.” He tells you, voice dripping in sincerity, and his heart practically glows when you smile at him in response, a soft, shy thing as if he hasn’t seen you dancing on tables and stumbling home and lounging around in your rattiest, comfiest pajamas for a junk food and movie marathon. Sirius is your best friend, and even though you know you can come to him with anything, the fact that he’s your best friend makes your favor slightly more than a little awkward.

“Can you take me out on a fake date on Friday?” You ask, jumping in without providing any sort of context so you don’t chicken out.

“Darling, I’d love to, but what the fuck does that mean?”

Pushing off the counter, you sigh, all big and dramatic as you make your way over to where Sirius is sitting at your kitchen table and throw yourself into the chair next to him.

“So, you know Henry, right?” Sirius’s nod is accompanied by a rather exaggerated eye roll, but you plow ahead anyway, “Well, I saw him when I went out for a walk yesterday, and it seemed like he didn’t really understand the fact that we’re broken up for real.”

“What do you mean?” Sirius asks, suddenly more alert than he was moments before.

“Nothing, really,” you attempt to quell his fears, knowing exactly where his mind went the second the words left your mouth, “just that he kept asking me to go out and do things together that seemed pretty couple-y, and he’s nice enough, but I broke up with him for a reason.”

Pausing in your story to take a breath, you see Sirius nodding along, but can tell he’s not really sure where the whole fake date situation comes into play. The fact that he’s even listening, even entertaining this bizarre idea of yours, makes your heart seize up, just a little, with affection and all sorts of things better left unmentioned and unnamed. 

“I just really wanted to let him down easily, so I said I couldn’t because I have a boyfriend, and he asked who and I could have made up a name but I was just thinking about you, because I had just bought the stuff for that salad you told me about, so I said you.” 

Unsure of what to say, Sirius just tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, and you plow on ahead.

“And I said we had plans on Friday and he asked where so I said that Italian place you like and apparently he works there.”

‘Well, I could have told you that,” Sirius says, his first contribution to the conversation since you started your little rant.

“I’ll buy you dinner and it doesn’t have to be anything too weird, we’ll just walk in holding hands and maybe a kiss on the cheek and we’ll just look like we’re in love if he happens to walk past us,” you’re practically pleading now, taking Sirius’ unusual silence for proof that this is one favor that’s too much, too awkward. 

“Please, I’m not that awful,” he slides the plate with the orange, now split in half, over to you, “I’ll pick you up at six and pay for your meal because I’m a gentleman.”

“Thank you, really, I owe you one,” you say, picking up your half of the orange as Sirius does the same.

“Hell yeah you do,” he responds, as if going out to dinner, out on a date, with you is some big chore he has to do, and not something he’s been thinking about for months now.

[bubbbii]

First Time

title : First Time

genre : bts smut, Jungkook smut, kpop smut, 21+ content, Frenemies to Lovers

pairing : Jungkook x Reader

warnings : doggystyle, spitting, choking, virginity - loss, cowgirl, missionary, name - calling, multiple orgasms, very dirty content

Summary :

“Never really had, practice .. i would like to see how this goes”

[Been off schedule, school’s been busy for me but I’m back on board! Every other saturday :)]

[ya’ll want a part 2 to Mr. Cocky?]

!PURELY FICTION! !NOT REAL!

do not steal story or idea without permission thank uu :)

Legoo

_________________________________________________

Y/N got out the car, walking up the 2 steps that led the walk way to the modern house. She took a breath before walking the walkway and took a breath before ringing the doorbell. Y/N looked around nervously, heart beating at the thought of becoming face to face with- “Who would’ve known, Jung Y/N would be knocking at my door” Y/N went out her thoughts, facing the tall man who was smirking down at her.

She cleared her throat, shaking her nerves as she pushed her shoulders back to show no weakness. “Unfortunately .. is Hoseok here?” Jungkook opened the door further for her to come inside to see her shirtless brother coming out the kitchen. “Hey lil girl, what you doing here” “Nothing just checking on you, guess who tried to become aggressive today” “AGAIN?!” Jungkook’s voice echoed in the large living room as the siblings faced him.

“Yes .. but it’s fine guys-“ “No Y/N i’m sick of this shit now! Didn’t he learn from the last time!?” “Kook calm, we’ll talk to him” “I’m doing more then talking, he’s not getting away with this shit I hope you know that” Jungkook said, looking at Y/N. She sighed, pushing her hands in her pockets. “Better to tell you then to find a mark or something” “HUH!?” “JUNGKOOK” Jungkook huffed at Hoseok’s shout, rolling his eyes. “Are you ok?” “Yes I’m fine” Y/N responded to Hoseok’s soft concern as he walked himself towards the big table.

Y/N grabbed the strength to turn to Jungkook and say the words she’s been wanting to say. “Jungkook, i need to talk to you” Jungkook faced Y/N’s nervous state, raising his eyebrow. “What?” “It’s important!” Jungkook sighed, feeling the energy as he slowly walked towards the coat rack and swung the puffer coat on him. “Come on” Jungkook responded softly, going out the door and Y/N looked at Hoseok who sat down on the couch, smirking at the two.

“Go get em sista” Hoseok teased, chuckling as Y/N rolled her eyes and went out the door following Jungkook. They both got inside, sighing as the two looked at each other. “You wanna tell me what was so important” “I didn’t think you’d wanna hear it .. now i gotta grab the courage” Jungkook hummed, turning the heater on low as it was cold. “Well while you learn how to stop being a scaredy, i wanna know .. when are you ever gonna get another man” Y/N got caught off guard, gulping at the question.

“Well, i’m leaving him just so you know. I’m not sure when God will grant me another man, but i’m not rushing. It’s not necessary” “I can’t tell .. from the looks of it you gon be the 60 year old with 10 black cats” Y/N glared at the laughing man beside her as she pulled out a chuckle herself. “Whatever … and that’s not gonna happen. I’m just .. waiting patiently” Jungkook hummed, admiring her beauty from the side.

Jungkook was going through it.

“Well .. I offered to hook you up with one of my friends you didn’t want that” “Because he’s a HOE! He messed with almost every single damn girl in the area! Including MY FRIENDS! I don’t want that” Jungkook chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “I hear you” “And besides .. no one’s, gentle these days” Jungkook’s eyebrows furrowed, eyes darting towards Y/N as she looked toward nervously.

“Gentle?” “I-I .. don’t believe anyone in the generation is gentle.. you know, gentle” “No, i don’t know. Elaborate” Jungkook knew exactly what he was doing. And Y/N couldn’t stand it. “You know what the hell I mean” “I’m not sure, that’s why i said elaborate” Jungkook was enjoying this. “Gentle .. sex, gentle” Jungkook hummed, his expression softening. “Well .. what makes you say that?” Y/N grabbed every ounce of confidence in her body and faced Jungkook.

“Do you have - I don’t know - .. experience?” Jungkook raised an eyebrow at the question, clearing his throat. “Well, unfortunately, I do. Very, young age. I rather not open up about that but , it’s nothing i’ve enjoyed” Y/N’s face loosened, humming as she felt for Jungkook. “I’m sorry .. you ok?” “Nah yea i’m cool, just I haven’t really enjoyed .. ‘Sex’. Didn’t really get a chance to feel it” Y/N hummed, catching herself from staring at the man.

Y/N felt something in her, this raging fire that wanted to pounce onto Jungkook. She’s never seen this vulnerable side of the man, knowing they were this thing called .. Frenemies. And she loved it.

“Well .. would you, enjoy? Having someone to enjoy it on?” Jungkook eyed Y/N, a heating sensation raising inside of him. “And how would that happen?” “U-Uhh .. well, I came to you because I was wondering if you would .. teach me, how to have sex” Jungkook’s mouth parted as the two individuals looked at each other. Jungkook was shocked. “You want me to take your first time?” “I-I mean yea! Why not you know - listen you were the only one I thought of .. look if you don’t want to that’s fine-“ Jungkook got a hold of her thigh, stopping her from leaving.

“Look at me” Y/N followed, looking into the hungry man’s eyes. “You trust me?” Y/N slowly nodded, not breaking eye contact. “You want me to take it” Y/N nodded again. “You’re gonna behave?” “I’ll t-try?” Jungkook looked at her, making Y/N gulp at the intensity. “Y-Yes .. i’ll behave” Jungkook hummed. “Alright” Jungkook faced her fully. “You know how to kiss?” “N-No” “Just try alright? No tongue .. just follow the flow” Y/N nodded and they both leaned in, slowly connecting their lips together.

“Gentle alright?” Jungkook said through the kiss, making her hum in understanding. They kissed for a while before slowly breaking it, having Y/N wait impatiently for feedback. “H-How did I do”’Jungkook didn’t know what to say, in shock at what just happened. “D-Did I not do good i’m sorry-“ “Wait wait wait .. this you’re first time?” Y/N was token back, nodding at the question leaving Jungkook speechless. “O-Ok .. you wanna try tongue?” Y/N nodded once again, and they both did a round two, starting gentle but quickly picked up the space.

“Ok enter” Y/N entered her tongue, feeling Jungkook’s inside of her mouth causing her to moan softly at the contact. They did it for a while before breaking it leaving Jungkook speechless once again. “Was that good?” Jungkook, again, was speechless and had nothing to say. He was going crazy.

And he, was going crazy as well.

“You sure this is your first time?” Y/N blushed, shying away as she nervously nodded, chuckling at the same time. “I’m guessing .. I did a good job?” Jungkook hummed to himself, turning the heat off. “Upstairs” “Huh-“ “Y/N” Y/N immediately got out the car, going inside the house as Jungkook got out the car as well. He sighed, thinking to himself as he went up the sidewalk.

“First time my ass” Jungkook whispered to himself as he went inside the house. “So-“ “Dont ask no question and don’t knock on this damn bedroom door” Jungkook interrupted Hoseok as he went up the stairs and into bedroom .. and almost stripped.

And i mean when I say, almost stripped at the sight he saw.

Y/N looked at the big mirror in front of her, naked as she admired every curve, looking at herself with beauty in her eyes. Jungkook was shocked. “Wow” Y/N looked up to see Jungkook admiring her as she cleared her throat. “I-I’m sorry I was just -“ “No .. you’re beautiful” Red rushed to Y/N’s cheeks, thanking him as Jungkook got closer.

“All of this .. you sure this your first time?” “Why would I lie about that Jungkook?“ “People lie Y/N” “You think I would lie about this Jungkook” “Ok ok” Jungkook connected their lips, hearing the soft moans coming from Y/N as he picked her up and laid her on the bed. Jungkook kissed every piece of skin, creating love marks and skin stopped at the heating hood that was just begging for attention.

“P-Please?” Jungkook up at her, smirking at the begging as he kissed the inside of her thighs, teasing her. “D-Don’t do that .. don’t do that please” “Oh you don’t like that? You don’t like me teasing you?” “No .. no I don’t like it , please” Jungkook kissed it, feeling her shudder and body jolt at the little pleasure she received.

“I’m gonna be gentle with you ok? Just tell me to stop when you’re uncomfortable” Y/N nodded and Jungkook pulled her closer to him by the thighs and slowly licked around her, gently eating her out.

Y/N was in paradise.

“O-Oh my god! Fuck .. daddy” Jungkook stopped, looking up at her as Jungkook’s body turned hot at the nickname. “Oh i’m sorry .. I’m sorry-“ “I’m gonna enjoy this more than I expected” Jungkook applied pressured, catching Y/N off guard at the movement as her eyes rolled at the back of her head. “F-Fuck! it feels good .. daddy fuck!” “You like that? You like that daddy’s mouth” “YES! I feel like .. I feel like i’m going to release something” Jungkook was excited, fastening his pace.

“Release it baby, let it all out for daddy. You wanna cum for me?” “Y-Yes! Yes I’m getting close - fuck!” “You got it baby, you got it good girl” that nickname did something to her, releasing all over his face as her legs became half-numb at the orgasm. “Good girl, good girl keep going baby” Y/N couldn’t stop, soon after stopping she breathed heavily at the experience. Jungkook cleaned her up with his tongue, hovering over her. “You ok?” “That .. that was amazing” “You feel good” “Yea … but i’m still horny” “You’re not alone babygirl, turn around for me” Y/N flipped over, feeling Jungkook’s hands caress her body, as he kissed all over it.

“Ok i’m gonna stick it in alright? You know what to do when you feel uncomfortable” Y/N nodded, arching her back as Jungkook slowly stuck it inside her. He hissed at the tight feeling, his cock being squeezed by her insides as he pushed it all the way. “O-Oh god! I’m so full, fuck!” “That’s my good girl, take it all for me” Her eyes rolled at the back of her head, feeling every inch of Jungkook inside her. “It feels good .. move? Please?” Jungkook circled his hips, hearing Y/N’s moans fill his ears.

“Fuck, you’re wet … overly wet. I can’t hold it” “D-Don’t, fuck me please” Jungkook didn’t waste no time, putting all his pressure into Y/N. Probably the whole town could’ve heard how loud Y/N was as Jungkook fucked her guts out. “F-FUCK! It feels so good, so fucking go-good!” “You feel that cock huh? Feel that cock in and out of that pussy? That wet drenching pussy you’ve been hiding from me huh, you’ve been hiding that pussy away from me i’m offended baby girl, very offended” Y/N’s pussy clenched at the dirty words Jungkook drilled into her head.

“Just for y-you daddy, i’ve been waiting for th-this .. i’m sure you’ve noticed” Jungkook chuckled, stopping his movements and turned her around. “Eyes on me” Jungkook started up his movements, fucking her deep as Y/N rolled her head back against the pillows below her. “You’re so d-deep!” “That’s the point, now listen here,” Jungkook started, snaking his tatted hand on her neck and they made eye contact. “You’re gonna remember this night, this moment. Every moan, every yell, how you made feel … haven’t felt like this in a very long time, and you think you’re gonna leave out here? Baby your mind, you belong to me. You understand?”

“Y-Yes daddy, i’m just for you .. i’m just for you daddy fuck!” “I want you to cum on my cock, cum on this hard cock for me ok?” “Y-Yes! Yes i’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum daddy please? Let me cum for you” “Cum for me baby, cum for daddy” Y/N got louder, her body tensing and heat rushing over her body and soon released everything she had, squirting on his cock. “There you go that’s my good girl, that’s my good fucking girl keep going, keep going for me” Y/N’s eyes disappeared from her sockets, still squirting all over the place.

She came to a place where she was finished, catching her breath as she regain her consciousness. “Looks like i left someone out” Y/N said softly, reaching for Jungkook’s cock and started stroking it hearing Jungkook’s moans that turned into soft whimpers. “First time my a-ass. Fuck, i’m getting close” “I .. practice? Just for you, cum on my hand” Jungkook didn’t hesitate to cum all over her hand and arm, letting it all out before Y/N took her hand and licked all the cum out as she made eye contact with him.

“Dirty girl, you dirty girl” Y/N smiled innocently at him as they both smiled at each other. “You know what this means right?” “Yes .. I do, and i don’t need to tell you, what this means” “I know exactly what this means, and we don’t tell Hoseok until it’s been a 2 weeks” “I ALREADY KNOW DUMBASS!” Jungkook huffed, throwing his head back as she laughed at her brother’s voice. “I love you” “I love you too .. how you feel about round 2?” “Oh you don’t gotta ask me twice” “YALL ARE JUST NASTY!”

[sanyu-thewitch05]

Yandere Fairy/Fae x F! Human Reader

A/N: I had so much fun researching Beltane for this.

TW: Breeding kink, non-con, dub-con, spanking

Kofi: Ko-fi.com/cherie47467

You hated that he managed to trap you in his world. But, what you hated even more is that for a whole year, you had tried to escape this place before breeding day arrived. Instead, you're hiding in a closet, hoping your forced husband doesn't find you.

Damn! Why did I have to step into that fairy circle?!

It would've been fine under any other circumstance, but with the fae population declining, the current monarchy had decided to follow their old traditions again in an attempt to raise the rate of children being born before they went extinct. Which meant you were one of the many human women trapped in the fairy world.

"Sundrop, where are you? We need to get going and leave for the Beltane festival," Rae says, walking into the room, his aquamarine wings and golden skin glittering in the light. "Sundrop?"

You keep your head down, hoping he won't notice your hiding spot, only for the doors to open.

"There you are, Sugarplum. I thought you were over hiding from me. Anyway, I brought you the cute white uniform that the human women wear," Rae states, his purple eyes shining as he pulls you up and unbuttons your pajamas. "I'm going to hold back until it's our turn to jump the fire, but you can play with your little human friends at the Maypole."

Your uniform was a short, white, and lacy babydoll negligee that barely covered your ass and white lingerie. It felt nauseating to see Rae look so happy in such an outfit.

"You look amazing. You'll look so beautiful next to the other women," Rae muses, gently taking your hand and guiding you outside.

You sigh as you walk outside and see the rest of the human women with their partners wandering around as the festivities start. That's when you see your best friend making a flower crown. You sit next to her and start making a flower crown.

"So, how is it with Rae?" She asks, attaching more flowers to her crown.

"I tried hiding from him today. He found me like all the other times," You say, accepting the crown B/F/N gives you. "I know there's a way out of here. We just need to know where."

"Y/N, we've been here for a year already. It's breeding day, and at this point, they're going to fuck us. We're going to get pregnant and be stuck here forever. We might as well enjoy the festivities," B/F/N replies, finishing her flower crown.

"We can at least try."

You finish your flower crown and place it upon your head as you go with the others to the Maypole. You grab a ribbon and begin to run around with the other women. Your feet are covered in wet grass, and for once, you feel joy as you run around wrapping your ribbon around the pole. As the last of the ribbons are wrapped around the pole, your partners, pregnant women, and other fae cheer.

"You looked like you enjoyed yourself, Sundrop," Rae says, kissing your hand. "I brought some food for you. Do you want to eat it-"

"I'll eat later. I have to go to the bathroom," You say, walking away from your husband.

After walking out of the bathroom, you meet your best friend again and smile at her. You see the open woods nearby, and as the sun begins to fall, your chance for freedom begins to slip away. You grab your best friend's hand, taking off into the woods. Your feet are covered in dirt as you jump over thorns and bushes full of shiny berries. That's when you see a tree with a glowing base, and you hope that's your ticket out. The dark night covers the forest, making everything look less mystical.

"We're almost there!" B/F/N exclaims, holding your hand tighter.

You feel your body stop moving, then, you're flying backward until you hit something hard.

"I'm sorry my Sundrop influenced such bad behavior for your mate. I'll make sure to discipline her properly after we jump the bonfire," Rae says, turning to a tall, buff man with light blue hair, blue skin, and silver wings.

"Don't feel so bad. I'll be disciplining mine as well," He says, carrying your best friend away.

The two of you return to the village and line up with all the other pairs. With every couple that jumped the bonfire, they scurried off to their homes, ready to breed. As you got closer to the bonfire, the flames seemed like they were growing higher and higher as you neared the moans and mumbles of the other fae and human pairs in their nearby homes. Everything seemed to be closing in until you saw your best friend leap over the bonfire with her mate. He carries her to the noble fae housing where you live, and you see the look of utter defeat on her face. Then, it's your turn, and your heart drops as you're high in the sky as your husband holds you in his arms, the flames drying the mud on the soles of your feet.

When he lands on the ground, he flutters off to his quarters, his hands gripping your ass like there's no tomorrow. The halls are filled with moans and screams, and all you can think about is how your husband is going to discipline you. He locks the door, then places you on the bed.

"Your feet are so dirty. I don't want anything but me staining our sheets on our first breeding session," Rae says, wiping your feet with a moist washcloth.

You don't respond, and once he's done, you pull your feet away. You hear Rae sigh as he sits on the bed, then you feel him take your hands.

"Be good, and don't move while you're over my lap," Rae states, holding your back down with his forearm so your stomach is on his thighs. "I'm sorry I've been such a bad mate. If I had disciplined you more, you wouldn't have acted out tonight and dragged your dear friend into your bad behavior. Well, tonight, I'm going to fix that mistake for good."

Rae starts to knead your ass, sighing as his hands roam and grope your butt as if he's making a difficult decision. You feel a sharp sting on your left cheek, making your legs kick into the air.

"Ow!" You scream, making Rae frustrated.

"Didn't I tell you not to move? Gods, you're such a piece of work!" Rae rants, spanking you harder than before. "Don't move, or else your punishment will get worse!"

You sniffle and hold your legs as still as possible while Rae continues your punishment. He moves your negligee up a bit more, and he spanks you harder and faster.

"Do you know how embarrassing it was to lose my mate right before the bonfire? Do you know how humiliating it was to have someone else's partner tell me that you had run off with his mate into the woods? How dare you embarrass me like this! What part of there's no going back home without me do you not understand?!" Rae shouts, the intensity and speed of the spankings increasing with every word.

His hands leave you a tearful mess, sobs coming out of your mouth every couple of seconds. Eventually, he stops and you feel him lean over your back.

"I'm sorry, Sundrop, but I had to. You were out of control, and I had to punish you," Rae whispers, kissing and nibbling on your ear. "I'm almost done, so do me a favor and count for me."

Rae spanks your ass again, but this time he rubs the spot he hit almost as if to comfort you.

"One," You whimper, gripping the bed sheets.

"Good girl, you're taking it so well," Rae praises, stroking your neck and back.

Rae hits you again, and you say two.

"Three!"

Smack!

"Keep going."

Smack!

"Four!"

Smack!

"Five!"

"You're almost there, Sundrop."

Smack!

"Six!"

Smack!

"Seven!"

Smack!

"Eight!"

Smack!

"Nine!"

"One more to go, Sundrop, and you're done."

SMACK!

"T-Ten!"

"You did it. You got through your punishment," Rae says, rubbing your red ass. "All you needed was a firm but gentle hand to discipline you. Now you receive your reward."

Rae rubs your clothed pussy with fingers, enjoying the feeling of your moistness. His fingers circle your lips, occasionally pressing your clit, until he slips two fingers inside your panties, fingering you at a steady pace. You cover your mouth to prevent moans from slipping out, making Rae slap your ass again.

"Remove your hand from your mouth, or else I will tie your hands to the headboard," Rae states, fingering you faster.

"Ah-ah..yes-s, Rae," You moan, removing your hand from your mouth and placing them on the bed sheets. "Shit, I'm-"

"Good girl. Ah, I'm so happy you're finally starting to submit to me," Rae replies, taking your panties off and pulling out his cum covered fingers. "Now then, shall we get to the main event and have a successful breeding day?"

"Wait-" You exclaim, only to have your person stripped naked within seconds.

Rae strips his loose white clothing and pulls out his golden cock. Its aquamarine tip has precum flowing out, and it's twitching with anticipation. Your husband pulls open your legs and bends them until you're in a mating press. He quickly inserts himself, shivering from pure delight.

"I've saved myself for this day ever since you became mine one year ago, and now I can finally release all my seed into you," Rae moans, thrusting his dick into you. "Ha...ah...ahh...gods, your pussy is so good."

You hold your legs in the mating press position, moaning just like all the other fae and human mates in the noble hall. You don't know if it was fae magic, the magic of the holiday, or something they put into the food and drinks, but you feel like an animal in heat. You moan as Rae moves inside you, his golden skin shining with sweat.

"Faster, Rae!" You moan, feeling a coil of pleasure form in your stomach.

Rae uses his inhuman speed and thrusts his hips so fast it feels like he's rearranging your guts. His purple eyes roll into his head while his folded wings shake as he feels his orgasm nearing.

"Oh..fuck...I'm going to breed you so well-" Rae moans, his orgasm bursting through his body and causing his wings to unfold and burst open.

You feel Rae cum inside you and cum on his dick, your toes curling at the feeling.

"Oh...oh my..." Rae softly moans, spurting a year's worth of semen into you while slowly thrusting to ride out his orgasm. "You look so lovely beneath me."

Rae loudly gasps, and he falls on top of you, his wings drooping to his sides. You relax your legs and wipe a wet piece of hair from your face. Eventually, your husband comes to, his wings lightly fluttering, and puts a sweaty hand on your cheek.

"Happy Breeding Day, my Sundrop," Rae coos, pulling out of you and placing some sort of small cloth over your vaginal hole to keep his sperm from spilling out.

Rae kisses your lips, sweat rolling down both of your faces. He grabs the drinks you two got from the festival, smirking at you.

"You didn't think we were done, did you, Sundrop? Everyone breeds till we all fall silent with exhaustion. We don't care whether that's tonight or well into the next morning. So drink, and enjoy the most pleasurable hours of your life," Rae says, drinking from a cup.

You smile feeling your thighs close and rub together with anticipation of his next move. He takes another sip and kisses you, letting the drink go down your throat. Your legs wrap around his waist and the two of you become another sex-crazy couple within the village.

[saltcxrcle]

girls i've never tried ── . ✶ jo harvelle

summary: the two of you were just best friends, right? but then why did jo want to kiss you every time she saw you?

pairings: bi! jo harvelle x bi! reader, jo harvelle x fem!reader, mentioned prev dean x reader, slight implied deanjoノ wc: 4.4k warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, no use of 'y/n', best friends to lovers, jealousy, making out, smut, lots of praise, oral (both receiving), fingering, slightly dom!reader and sub!jo, pet names (baby, honey, pretty girl, good girl, baby girl)<- mostly used by reader, title is a lyric from naked in manhattan by chappell roan which the fic is loosely based on, kinda edited; all mistakes my own a/n: its a crime that there isn't more gay fics for jo so here i am doing my due diligence and providing you guys some jo smut for all of my bi girlies (gn) and lesbians that love jo lol also idk how not yap in my fics lmao but enjoy! jo harvelle masterlist

JO WANTED TO KNOW WHAT IT WAS LIKE BEING WITH A GIRL. 

More specifically, she wanted to know what it would be like to be with her best friend, you. It was a thought that always crossed her mind, even when she was younger, and the two of you were messing around in her room, giggling at something you guys were reading in a magazine. 

You were her best friend ever since her father died, and your parents had shown up at the Roadhouse to offer their condolences to Ellen when they heard the news. You were a bit older than her but shot her a kind smile that made her stomach flip when you told her that you liked her Sleeping Beauty shirt. 

You practically grew up with Jo and Ellen, and your parents would leave you with her as they went on hunts, so the two of you stuck by each other like glue. Ellen called the pair of you “two peas in a pod.” 

Jo loved how quick-witted you were and how willing you were to teach her about hunting (even if her mom hated that your parents started taking you on hunts when you were just sixteen). But she saw less of you as you went on hunts with your parents before you started to go on your hunts after they had retired. 

You would stop by the Roadhouse occasionally when you could or when you were passing by, never failing to fill Jo in on the hunts you went on or which monsters you had killed in the time that you hadn’t seen her or Ellen. 

She remembers the time right before you stopped coming by as often, telling her how you lost your virginity to this guy named Dean, who had these bright green eyes and plush lips that felt so soft against yours. You mentioned that he was another hunter, and Jo had to bury the little green monster that she felt clawing at her chest as you detailed the experience. 

Jo didn’t know why she was jealous that guy got to be your first, but she chalked it up to not having been able to lose her virginity yet since everyone else around her was, including her best friend. 

But her jealousy almost always took center stage when you came around the Roadhouse and slept over, telling her about the men and women that you would hook up with on the road. Jo would have a fake smile plastered on her face because, apparently, she was a masochist when it came to you and asked you if you had met someone while on a hunt. 

It was only when she saw you flirting with a girl at the bar when you were helping Ellen and Jo out for the night—pouring and serving drinks to the patrons in the Roadhouse. 

God, I wish I was her. Jo thought as she saw you send the girl you were flirting with a sultry smile before the realization hit her like a bolt of lighting, 

Jo knew that she liked men. She just didn’t realize that she also liked women until she saw you wrap your arm around the girl’s waist, sending Jo a wink before the two of you sauntered out of the place once it was closing time. 

Now, it had been a couple of months since she had seen you, and the Winchesters were like a tornado, storming into the Roadhouse and effectively taking you off of her mind. Jo thought she was getting somewhere with Dean even though something about him seemed familiar to her, but she ignored it as she talked to him and refilled his whiskey. 

The door opened to the Roadhouse, and Jo didn’t look up from wiping down the bar, but Dean did, a smile appearing on his face as he saw you walk through the entrance. 

“Well, I’ll be damned, Winchester, didn’t think you knew this place.” You smirked at the sight of the Winchester brothers as you walked over to the bar. 

Jo’s eyes snapped up from what she was doing, her gaze trained on you as you gave Sam a quick side hug as a greeting. 

Dean grabbed your waist and tucked you into his side.  “It’s a small world for us hunters isn’t it?.” Dean joked as he squeezed your arm. “The only reason we come back is because the service is great here.” Dean winked at Jo. 

Jo’s eyes were lasered in on Dean’s arm around you. The familiarity of the gesture wasn’t lost on her. 

You chuckled at Dean’s words.“ You aren’t wrong there Dean.” 

You turned to face your best friend. “Hi Joey!” You greeted Jo with a bright smile. 

“You know the Winchesters?” Jo asked instead of saying hi back to you. 

You nodded, noting the bluntness of her tone, but you would talk to her later. “Yep, ran into Dean a long time ago, but ran into these two on that hunt with the revenant I told you about a while back.” 

Something clicked in Jo’s brain. This was the Dean that had taken your virginity all those years ago. The same Dean she thought she was interested in. Fuck. Of course, out of all people, it had to be him. God must hate me. She thought as she swallowed hard. 

“Ah, I remember now.” She sent you a tight smile. “Did you want your usual?” 

You looked down at your watch. “Not all that into day drinking, I’ll take a root beer though.” 

Jo nodded and went to the mini fridge below the bar to grab the root beer that you only drank when you weren’t feeling up to alcohol. She ignored the rush of relief that went through her when you finally pulled away from Dean’s side as you sat on the barstool in between Sam and Dean. Jo also ignored how her heart rate picked up when your fingers brushed against hers as she handed you your drink. 

The four of you fell into a conversation, but Jo barely participated. Witnessing the rapport between you and the Winchesters made her skin crawl as comfortable exchanges of touches between you and Dean made her burn with jealousy. Jealous of who? Jo could barely tell anymore. 

Sam noticed how quiet Jo was and how she was staring intently at you and Dean. He didn’t know what her problem was today. Still, regardless of her sudden silence, he tried to involve her in the conversation as best he could. Still, she gave short answers, which made you raise an eyebrow at her. 

But before you could question her attitude, customers started to file in, and the evening rush began for the Roadhouse. You decided to help out, hopping behind the bar and making drinks for the boys and other patrons. You had tried to talk to Jo in between serving and making drinks, but she managed to avoid you by going around, taking orders, and going to the kitchen. 

You huffed but let it go, figuring that something else earlier in the day had set her off. Sam and Dean left right before closing, promising you that they would text you if they needed help on their next hunt. Soon after they left, you made the last call before the Roadhouse closed. 

Once everything was cleaned up, Jo was nowhere to be seen, and you sighed. That girl was moody, and you were going to find out why. 

You quickly made your way to Jo’s room and found her sitting at her vanity, already dressed for bed and beginning to pull her hair up. 

“So, are you going to tell me what crawled up your ass and died?” You asked Jo as you leaned against her door frame. 

You heard her scoff. “It’s nothing.” 

“It doesn’t sound like “nothing”.” You kicked off of her door frame, toeing your boots off before walking further into her room and sitting on her bed. “Come on Jo, talk to me! You barely spoke to me today.” 

Jo said your name tiredly. “It’s just been a long day.” 

“Then it’s the perfect time to talk about it.” 

“I’d rather not right now.” Jo’s words came out clipped as she stood up from her vanity, aiming to go to the other side of her room to pull out socks from her dresser. 

But before she could, you grabbed her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. You stood up from the bed and tried to meet her eyes. 

“Jo, please, talk to me.” You pleaded softly. You could tell something was bothering her, and you just wanted to know what it was. “Is it because I didn’t check for a while?”

She shook her head, looking away from you. Jo debated on what to tell you. “Why didn’t you tell me that Dean Winchester was the guy that took your virginity?” 

“What?” Your eyebrows furrowed. “I didn’t know you guys knew each other until today. Besides, why does that matter? That happened so long ago.” 

Jo couldn’t look at you, biting her bottom lip. She didn’t want to admit to anything she wasn’t ready to face head-on. She ripped her wrist from your grip. 

“I told you it’s nothing. Can you just leave it?” Jo went back on her path towards her dresser, but you blocked her from even taking a step. 

“No, because I’m trying to talk to my best friend but she won’t even give me the time of day right now.” 

“And that’s my problem!” Jo’s outburst shocked you, your stomach dropping to your ass. 

A tense silence settled between you and her. 

“What do you mean?” You whispered. 

Jo sighed. “You’ve always been my best friend. But seeing you with Dean today, set me off.” 

“I-i do you like Dean? Is that why you’ve been acting short with me?” You swallowed thickly. 

You’ve always liked Jo ever since you realized that you like both girls and boys but kept that hidden from her—never once getting the vibe that she swung both ways. You liked Dean, but he was like your best friend, and you both had agreed that the first time was fun, but that time would be the only time the two of you would hook up. 

“No. I don’t think I do. All I know is that I was jealous that Dean got to have you and I-” Jo shut her mouth before she admitted her feelings for you. But the damage was already done. 

“And you what?” Your heart started to pound in your chest. “You cannot leave me hanging here Jo.” 

Jo bit her bottom lip, your gaze straying to her lips before you met her brown eyes once more. 

“I wished that I could have you in the same way Dean did.” Jo’s words were quiet, but they sounded deafening to your ears. 

You couldn’t help the smile that grew on your lips. “You could, you know?” 

“What?” Jo’s head was spinning at your words but also at the sight of the sly smile on your face. Her breath hitched as you stepped closer to her, your warm hands landing on her waist. 

“I’ve liked you for a long time Jo. If you wanted to sleep with me, you could have just asked, you know?” 

Jo’s heart felt like it could escape from out of her chest cavity. “I like you too. I wasn’t sure if it was in a friendly way or not.” 

You smiled at her as you leaned closer to Jo. “Well I’m glad it isn’t. Can I kiss you pretty girl?” Your breath was fanning over her lips, rubbing your nose against her as you saw her pretty brown eyes flutter. 

“Yes.” Her voice was breathy and filled with want. 

You wasted no time pressing your lips against Jo’s. Her lips were so soft and pliant as they moved against yours. You couldn’t help but push your lips against hers harder, pouring all of the years of secret yearning into it. 

Jo moaned against your lips, wrapping her arms around your neck as you pushed her backward until her knees hit the edge of her bed. Jo fell backward, breaking the kiss the two of you were sharing. She shuddered at the sight of your dark eyes, filled with desire, as you drank in the sight of her slightly swollen lips. 

Jo was dressed in some pajama shorts with a tight, long-sleeve shirt, and you could tell that she wasn’t wearing a bra, her nipples showing through the thin fabric. You internally groaned at the sight, but you crawled on top of the bed, making her crawl up it until her head hit her pillows. 

You hovered over her, cupping Jo’s face with one of your hands as you took in how the warm lighting from her lamp highlighted her features. “You’re so pretty.” You breathed out. 

Jo blushed at your praise, making you grin at the sight of her reddening cheeks. You leaned down and kissed her again—wanting to feel her soft lips against yours once more. Her kisses were addictive, and you were so sure that the taste of her would have you hooked on her indefinitely. 

You took the lead, swiping your tongue at the seam of Jo’s lips and groaning softly when you felt her tongue shyly dance with yours. Shit, she was so sweet, and you were going to have fun with her. 

Your free hand started to roam, cupping her breast through her shirt, squeezing it slightly. She let out the cutest squeak against your mouth, making you chuckle. 

“Is this okay?” You asked when you pulled away from her now swollen lips. 

“Yeah.” Jo answered with a small pant to her words. 

You ducked your head down, planting small kisses on her jaw before trailing down and nipping at the soft skin of her neck. Jo’s hands grabbed your biceps, squeezing as she let out the softest moan like she was afraid to be loud. The sound sent a wave of arousal through you and made you nip harder at her neck. 

“Don’t be afraid to be loud. Wanna hear you, honey.” You murmured into her skin, and you made your way to her collarbone, moving your hand from her breast and pulling the collar of her already low-cut shirt to suck at her chest. 

Jo continued to let out breathy moans, but they were louder this time around, and it was like music to your ears. The hand that was on her cheek moved to play with the hem of her shorts, but she grabbed your wrist. 

You looked at Jo, pulling away from her chest to look at her, her eyes wide and filled with nerves. 

“I-I’ve never been with a girl before.” 

Something inside of you purred at her words. This was a little archaic, but you were glad that you were going to be the first girl that she’d have sex with. 

“S’fine. Just relax, I’ll take care of you pretty girl.” You promised. 

Jo swallowed thickly before nodding. You kissed her softly, your hands tugging at the hem of her shirt. She got the memo and raised her arms up as you took off her shirt, exposing her bare chest to you. 

She resisted the urge to hide from your reverent stare. “God, you’re gorgeous Jo. So, so pretty.” You couldn’t help but praise her—pressing soft kisses down her chest and stomach before your lips hit the hem of her shorts. 

“Can I take these off?” Your fingers were hooked on the waistband of her shorts. 

She nodded again. But you shook your head. 

“I need words baby.” 

“Yes, you can take them off.” Jo’s words were rushed, clearly eager—any previous shyness dissipated as arousal flooded her veins. 

“Good girl.” You said before pulling her shorts, along with her underwear, down her legs, exposing her cunt to the cool air of the room. 

“Fuck.” You cursed at the sight of Jo’s bare center. There was a small patch of dark blonde hair at her pubic bone, and it was the most amazing sight you’ve ever seen. 

You settled between her open legs, your gaze on Jo’s cunt. Jo saw the hunger in your eyes, and she felt like you could devour her whole. She shivered in anticipation as your hands gripped her thighs. 

“Always knew you were going to have a pretty pussy. Bet it looks as good as it tastes.” You pressed teasing kisses to Jo’s inner thighs. She almost squirmed at the feeling—her hands grabbing at her sheets, wanting to feel your mouth on her. 

You leaned in closer to her pussy—it was practically glistening in the low light as you blew cool air on it, making Jo’s cunt clench around nothing. You laughed lightly at the small squeak that Jo made. Her hips canted forward—Jo wanted, no, needed to feel your mouth devouring her. 

“Did you need something baby?” You looked up from her wet slit to meet the pleading brown gaze of Jo. God, you hadn’t done anything, and she already looked fucked out. 

Jo whined. “Please.” She whispered. 

“Please what?” You knew you were being a bit mean, teasing her like this but it was too hard not to. “I need to hear you say it baby.” 

“Please put your mouth on me.” 

You grinned against her inner thigh, planting another kiss there. “My mouth is on you baby. You gotta be more specific.” 

Jo almost growled in frustration, her hand moving from the bed to grab the back of your head and shove you closer to her leaking cunt. “Need your mouth on my pussy.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” You said before licking a wide strip from her slit to her clit. 

Jo let out a pleasured sigh from the feeling of your tongue finally on her aching cunt. You softly licked at her, swirling your tongue around her sensitive clit before wrapping your lips around it, suckling at the bundle of nerves softly. 

Moans left her pretty mouth, her noises spurring you on to continue your mission to get her to come around your mouth. You ate her out messily, uncaring of her slick getting all over your chin and mouth. She tasted so good. A mix of tang and musk flooded your senses as you licked at her slit, your nose buried in the soft hair at the top of her mound. 

Your dominant hand left her thigh as you pulled away from her. A little whine left her mouth in the midst of her moans. Your hand made its way to run through her wet fold, slicking up your fingers. 

“That feels good honey?” You nipped at her thigh, rubbing at her clit with your slicked-covered fingertips.  

“Uh huh.” Jo nodded furiously, her hair mussing up from the action. 

You slapped at her clit lightly, making her hip twitch at the sensation. “Words.” You reminded Jo before prodding at her entrance with your middle finger. 

“Yes! Feels so good, please.” Jo didn’t know what she was pleading for. All she knew was that she wanted to come. 

You didn’t respond, letting your finger slip into her warm pussy and feeling her gummy walls contract around it. Your mouth sealed around her clit again as your finger slowly moved in her. It didn’t take long for Jo’s moans to fill the room again. You could feel your underwear sticking to your absolutely drenched cunt, but you kept your focus on Jo, wanting to wring any and all bit of pleasure out of her. 

Your middle finger was soon joined by your ring finger. “S’tight baby. Can barely move my fingers with how hard you’re clenching around them.” 

Your words filled Jo’s lower belly with heat as her hips moved in tandem with your fingers, meeting your slow thrusts. 

Jo could feel the familiar burn building through her body when she thought of this very moment with her own fingers buried in her pussy alone in her room. 

“You’re close aren’t you? Can feel you clench around my fingers, you gonna come for me?” Your fingers found the spongy spot that she could never find herself and made a come hither motion, brushing against the spot each time your fingers moved in and out of her. 

Jo’s moans became higher and more frequent, and she was so close to cumming. But she was still missing something, and you could tell. You sealed your lips against her swollen clit and sucked hard. Jo let out a moan that almost sounded like a wail as she clenched around your fingers, gushing all over them and your face as heat filled her body and stars danced behind her eyes. 

You worked her through her orgasm, removing your fingers when her walls stopped clenching around them, and your tongue gently moved through her sensitive folds. You pressed one last kiss to her clit before trailing your lips up her soft skin, hovering over her and petting at her hair. 

“There she is.” You said before dipping down and kissing her tenderly. Jo thought it would be weird to taste herself on her lips, but if anything, it spurred her on. She pressed her lips hard against yours as her hands pawed at your shirt, wanting it off. You laughed at her eagerness and broke the kiss to help her take it off. 

Soon enough, you found yourself naked and in Jo’s position—on your back as she was hovering over you and squeezing at your breasts as she kissed you. You moaned in her mouth as she pinched at your nipples before she tore her mouth away from you and moved down your neck and chest. 

Jo made her way down your body, the lust-fueled confidence slowly ebbing away when she was in between your legs and staring at your bare center. There was a hunger in her brown gaze, but it was overshadowed by nerves and hesitancy. 

“Hey.” You called at her softly, sitting up and cupping her face. “Do whatever feels right.” 

“But what if-” 

“You’ll do fine, baby.” You cut her off. “I’ll guide you if you need it okay?” Your thumb swiped at her cheek before kissing her softly as reassurance. 

Jo melted into the kiss before you broke it. You sent her a tender smile before laying back and moving your hands to her hair, pushing the blonde strands out of her face. 

Jo took a deep breath before settling in between your legs. She decided to mirror what you did to her, pressing kisses to your inner thighs before reaching your clit and kissing it. A quiet moan left your lips, spurring Jo on. 

She pressed a more demanding kiss to your clit before her tongue darted out and licked at it. Another moan left your lips, and Jo decided to go for it, using her tongue to swipe through your slit and taste you fully. 

“Ah, doing so well Jo.” You praised as she sucked at your clit, her doe-like eyes looking up at you sent another bolt of pleasure straight to your pussy. 

You could tell that she was inexperienced with her tongue, but she made up for it in eagerness. Your hands were wound in her hair, nails scratching at her scalp—making her moan against your cunt. The vibrations felt delicious against your cunt, and you couldn’t help but grind against her face. 

“Jo baby, use your fingers like I did.” You ordered breathlessly. 

Jo complied, bringing her slender fingers to your spit–slicked entrance and slipped one of them in. 

“Another one baby, please.” You were wet enough that you didn’t need to be prepped. Jo slipped another one in you, and you sighed at the feeling of being filled by her fingers. 

“Okay, use your pretty mouth on my clit and move your fingers like this,” You directed Jo, simulating the motion you did for her. 

Jo nodded and started to put your instructions to use. She sucked and licked at your swollen clit and moved her fingers inside of you. You were letting out moans and whines, praises spilling from your lips. 

Jo keened at the praise, doubling down on your pussy. Her ministrations were enthusiastic, a little uncoordinated, but it was still bringing you closer to the edge. You would let Jo practice on you whenever she wanted. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me come.” 

Jo really wanted to make you feel good as you made her feel. She shook her head, moving her fingers faster, brushing against your g-spot. 

“Shit! Doing so well f’me baby girl, keep going. So so close.” You moaned out, pushing her face further into your cunt. Jo kept at her pace, feeling your walls clenching and twitching around her fingers. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You came hard around Jo’s fingers and mouth. Jo continued at her pace, working you through your orgasm, and you had to push Jo away from you as she continued to move her fingers inside of you and licking at your pussy, bordering overstimulation. 

“Come here.” You beckoned, sitting up and meeting Jo in the middle, pulling her into a filthy kiss. 

“Did so well baby girl, haven’t come that hard in a while.” You praised her as you pulled away and caressed her sides. 

Jo flushed at your praise and smiled at you. She kissed you again before worry flared up inside of her. 

“This isn’t a one time thing for you is it?” Jo asked as she broke the kiss. 

You pulled her down to lay beside you. You were facing her, your hand resting on the side of her neck. “No it’s not.” You reassured her. “M’not letting you go now that I have you. Is it for you?” 

Jo breathed out a sigh of relief before shaking her head. “No, never was.” 

You sent her a dazzling smile, making her heart almost skip a beat. Jo couldn’t help but smile back at you before you kissed her, but the two of you were still smiling so wide that it could barely qualify as a kiss. 

The two of you never wanted to leave the blissful bubble of her room. The rest of the night was filled with soft caresses and quiet conversation about your hunts—a warmth settled in both yours and Jo’s chest. Everything felt right. and Jo couldn’t help but think she wanted to stay like this with you forever. Little did she know you were thinking the exact same thing.