#but it is probably a sign that the thing is probably not obviously objectively bad if you actually read the criticisms

[sixeyesonathiel]

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.

it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head

tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.

he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.

now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.

and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.

“excuse me.”

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic ^^

[weepingtalecowboy]

Doll shenanigans are creepy by default

Fanfic prompt : Legend but he accidentally lost his hylian body somewhere in hytopia after he got his two dolls

And never bothered with finding it again because he doesn’t feel any pain in his bones ,… if he simply doesn’t have any bones.

And the joints can always be fixed or oiled to keep working and even be replaced in worst case scenarios

He certainly has the money to repair magical things and stuff

After link between worlds he also had someone who had experience with magical artifacts and could potentially fix them ,

… if not he still has another doll in his basement somewhere

Ravio considered himself the luckiest man alive to be both able of studying such a genius construct …

And also a house with no rent ,

A hylian citizenship AND a life partner ,

An opportunity to set up a very close to illegal shop (his weapons are NOT overpriced he swears on link's right arm ‘that he can replace with no problem’)

A legal business on creating Prosthetic limbs (no way is he going to let his knowledge of Link breaking off legs for stupid reasons NOT turn into a new business … he has way too much experience)

And even the favor of the princess

His life can’t be better and all because Link has been breaking limbs enough to get a permanent 50% off deal from the sheer knowledge of building prosthetics that Ravio got from rebuilding him over and over again when he stumbles back with half his body missing and face torn off…

(It was a horrible first experience to say the least)

When Ravio went on to go join the war of ages he was the go to guy to get perfectly functional… but ungodly overpriced prosthetics

He was not at all ashamed about being in love with a doll (nobody quite got the sentiment of that)

Wars was very much ignoring that

Tune for odd reasons kept snickering when Ravio spoke about how great his (probably not real) husband was

During linked universe Warriors and legend still bickered until …

Warriors after his night watch: *goes to check the pulse of the person closest to him just to be sure*

Warriors realizing that legend has no pulse , no signs of breathing ,no body warmth , no movement or twitch implying any signs of life : *starts aggressively trying to resurrect him … chest compressions*

Warriors obviously failing at it : “cries*

Legend hearing it : *opens eyes just to realize his brother broke his non self repairing rib cage*

The entire chain (minus Sky) was awake and ready for a fight

Just to see Warriors crying in relief and holding Legend (bro was reliving trauma that moment)

Afterwards he was really having a bad time with his bent rib cage and unfortunately being examined by a field trained soldier, a healer and then dragged to a doctor in the nearest village

But obviously they would have never assumed that Legend is a doll with full body mobility ,a sense of self and metal joints

They concluded that legend is overachieving with every new breath he takes and probably is about to die because of his weak heart beat ,

His very cold and rough skin in some places (fake magic skin is expensive … he can’t replace it every single time)

His very minimal breathing

The sheer horror Warriors felt when he realized the dent in legend's chest is simply not healing from when he broke the ribs by accident

Means that now everyone is convinced that legend will evaporate if they turn their eyes away

And Hyrule and Warriors are feeling horrible because they can’t fix it… or just make it slightly more bearable

NOTHING WORKS on him (it’s twilight's injury all over again)

It only got worse when legend told the chain that he has been having such problems since his last three adventures already (telling people he is an object never turns out well)

The chain became overly affectionate

The sheer amount of relive they felt when Ravio somehow fixed the dent

And the most intense anger when they realized that they were worrying for literally nothing

The chain finding out that Ravio fixed the worst damage: …. : ) finally he good

The chain when they realized that Legend was Ravio's doll in question: >:(

The chain reaction when legend admits he lost his body somewhere as if it is something acceptable to say : :o

The chain : how did you lose your body

Legend : accient :) silly mstke

[th3-c0ll3ct3r]

Mildly warm take, Tommy does NOT owe his entire career to Dream

Because, YES the dream smp help propel his career as a content creator, but it does not constitute to everything you've done to make himself and his brand better

Did dream write all the jokes? The vlogs? The books? The MCC wins? The friendship formed before and after? The smp's to follow later? Origins? The comedy? Twitch con?

Because if you say That Dream did all of that for Tommy then I'm going to assume Dream Is Crawling into his skin and piloting his body

Saying dream owns Tommy's as well as other people's careers, is like saying that if I were to bake a cake it wouldn't be my cake it would be the person who made the ingredients. I still baked the cake, put the ingredients together, bought them, got the recipe and just because I didn't grow the wheat or milk the cow it doesn't make it not my cake.

The smp did objectively help his career there is no fault in that and even Tommy acknowledges it, but you can't attribute every single thing that he does now to Dream.

And you can also argue that dream was a bad person, because he was. Regardless of allegations and other people's experiences, dream intentionally seeked out a 14 year old streamer, made him sign a legal contract, took every single bit of credit, got into fights with him on a regular basis, a made him feel so bad you will slamming his head against the desk.

That's not normal. None of that's normal.

And then in an alternative perspective dream didn't do us much for the smp as he claims. The only things he did was bring the content creators together, start the server, and play as his own character.

I do not get me wrong there is credit in that and he did do those things that allow the server to operate, but those with the only things he did.

Wilbur (as much as we hate him) wrote the scripts, and alot of Tommy lore. Will stopped writing the Script after he died canonically, and then later came back because in his own words " lI had to write myself back into the narrative [...] I didn't like where it was going. Not to see dream is a bad writer, but we had different ideas". That's him putting it nicely, the worst bit for the smp realistically was when dream was writing the lore.

And I'm not saying that it was bad but what I am saying is that the majority of people found it bad, so bad in fact that they had to bring Will back.

Dream did not write his own story.

And to the other content creators, on the server they will their own lore. And they acted it out themselves, dream was no part of that yet they still had to sign contracts because it was still on the physical server.

Ranboo and Technoblade in particular had some of the best story writing and telling, and they did it all themselves.

But there's only one thing in common, that makes sense but I think we all missed, dream was in every single person story or had planned to be. And I get it it's his server but on the other hand they could have had amazing stories without his input. Ranboo could have replaced Dream with a mysterious unknown character in his lore, and the outcome and affect would have been the same story-wise. Dream didn't need to be Puffy's son, but he was. Technoblade and Philza could have skip to the side plot of saving dream and instead it needed to return a favour to someone else.

The storytelling within the server is a amazing but if you subtract dream and put someone in his place it's still would have been the same story. It's like he was made to be sandwich in everyone's story. And yes he was a great character in most stories, but in others he was unnecessary.

Put with the overall fact that he had to be in every single story obviously ties back to the server being his, but it's also a reflection of his own ego. He probably still to this day believe that every single person has a career because of him and do not because of who they are now. He definitely helped but it's not all him.

And I would say George, Sapnap and Dream, have the same issue with ego. You see the way dream behaves with over people, he dominated people's careers for many years and had it done by fear.

Sapnap, he would swear and curse every single person, to the point where Scott said he was the most difficult person to put on a team because no one wanted to play with him (I have a different post about MCC). There were many offensive and situations in which the pair of them actually ruin the game for a lot of people. If you were not a person who watched MCC back in the day then I can tell you from now they had to change so many rules, Scott had to start making applications because of the amount of times that they would bail or not communicate with him or simply people didn't want to play with him and wanted to avoid him, and due to their obsessive behaviour in needing to the practice the maps so much that when the game was chosen some people didn't even try because they knew who would win.

They're talented don't get me wrong but there is an extent in which that their Talent crosses with ego and makes the whole game unplayable. This is without mentioning the amount of people who were scared to play with this team or against this team. No one had a fun.

And even in the smp, some people purposely avoided Sapnap, because he didn't know how to manage himself.

And George you could argue also has a large ego because of the people he surrounds himself by and he's a success. He is an objectively/ conventionally attractive male, and there have been many instances including in recent times and in certain develop it situations that he used it to his advantage. He doesn't behave his age and he treats people cruelly.

And most importantly, the fans. Yes YOU. You heavily contributed to the success of the server and to the success of the creators. But the level of obsession people would have regarding these content creators is something that will always baffle me.

And alot of people asked them to speak out, especially Dream. And he didn't. Dream actually encouraged his audience by selling sketchy merchandise and a USB stick with his baby pictures on it. He enables his radical audience because they are what keeps him going. Realistically without the radical side of his audience he would not be as successful and financially well off as he is now.

Additionally those people attack literally anyone that set something bad about him, and at first he tried to downplay it, then he assured people he would manage it and tell them to start, but then along the way he must have realized that these people a Ride or Die for him and that if he drives away these people he drives away a lot of money, free advertisement and a defense system against his brand- and I say this because these people would defend him in any circumstance

So then he doesn't stop them, and now you've got a 19-20s yr old with an unfortunate amount of mental health issues, some people who continue to jab him with needles anytime he's upset.

And it's sad. Is far beyond something that his parents can protect him from, yet he hasn't found the resources to protect himself. He's not happy with himself. He used to be scared to stand with someone successful even though he's successful.

And I'm genuinely proud of how much Tommy has grown. He is and continues to be a dedicated, passionate and nice person regardless of circumstances, he continues to be real with his audience and tries not to waste thier time. And none of that was taught to him by Dream. He taught himself how to be himself. If I see one person saying that he's a clout chaser I'm gonna have to tell you that you're wrong because he's done so much for himself to the point where you can't even count it yet you can count the things dream did for him on a Post-it note.

Tommy did well

[tobeabatman]

From what I know (and I’m no expert (but neither are probably you)) all research and studies on fat people and bodies is based on bias.

We didn’t start studying fatness and fat bodies without any assumptions or biases. We started studying fat bodies because French biologists decided that fatness was a racial sign, and everything snowballed from there.

Yes, nowadays research on fat bodies is usually not focused on race. But we are still making the same assumption of fat being bad the old French eugenics and every researcher who came after them, has made.

When did we ever observe fatness without a lense of bias? Literally never. Fatness as a medical concern started because of racism and fat people nowadays are quite obviously treated worse than thin people, so there is automatically a lense of bias in all research of fat bodies and people. There is no neutral research on fatness.

And sure, not necessarily all biased research is false (and some might say all research is biased, although in this case we are talking of much more bias than what most studies have). But when we live in a biased society, any research can be used to justify further bias, and it doesn’t help when almost all of the research is written by biased thin people sponsored by biased thin people published on biased platforms.

There is no true objectivity when it comes to research, but to me it seems like the people who research fatness don’t even try to be unbiased (very unscientific).

Researchers make biased assumptions in their research that they don’t back-up with their own study or other people’s research: they just assume that well-known assumptions must be right. Researchers also use biased language (when has any fat person said that they prefer the term obese, even if it’s technically medical lingo). Researchers also just straight up forget to take into account things like how discrimination of fat people might affect their study results, even if that’s massively relevant to their study.

Sure, I’m just a random person who doesn’t work in the research field. But I’m also a random fat person unlike many of the researchers, and I would like an ounce of respect from studies that might be used to oppress people like me (this happening shouldn’t even be a concern in the first place).

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

On occasion, I swear I get undertones from the side of the fandom that liked the season 5 finale that “if you didn’t enjoy it, you must not be smart enough to understand it”…

But… that’s kind of a really stupid argument?

Is this not a TV show intended for 5-12 year olds? If the writing is too complicated for a grown adult to understand, then they have failed at writing a good kids show. Point blank period.

You can write a good kids show that has elements that go right over the kids heads, but those elements should be subtle bonuses that mildly improve the story. They should not be a key part of the overall message. A great little example is this scene from Bluey where the titular character finds an obnoxious "lost" toy hidden under the sink in the laundry room:

Adults and older kids watch this scene and immediately get why the toy was under the sink, but little kids probably miss it. That's not a problem because the sink thing is just a bonus joke that is not vital to the message of this episode. If the sink joke was vital to understanding the message, then the writers would have failed at their job because they wrote something too subtle for the intended audience.

That's why I'm so critical of everything Miraculous is doing. Even if there's ultimately going to be an amazing story here, they've failed to tell it in a way that the intended audience can engage with and that makes the story objectively bad no matter how good it is for older viewers. The lessons should be obvious. The jokes should be obvious, too. There should be no question about what the message is.*

The season five ending is a perfect example of why Miraculous is objectively bad for its intended audience. Lets say that season six is going to address all of the issues with Gabriel and tell us that he was an abusive monster. How powerful is that lesson going to be to the five-year-old who grows out of the show in the year between season five ending and season six airing? What about the kid who obsessively rewatches seasons one to five in the hiatus between seasons and internalizes the happy ending? Or the kid who only watches the show casually and doesn't remember most of the early seasons by the time their issue are addressed?

Obviously those kids won't walk away with a great lesson, which is why shows aimed at kids usually make their morals clear by the end of every episode. Complex morals told over seasons are a bad fit here. Kids in the show's intended age group are only just starting to really learn about the complexities of the world. They generally don't have the life experience to question the show's morals.

That's not to say that shows for kids can't have cliffhangers. The cliffhangers just need to be about the story, not the morals. Season four was a good example of this. While I don't think it was a great final, it did have a clear message. It ends with Ladybug stating what she'd supposedly done wrong - even if season four didn't actually have her do what she said she did - and the question was only what would she do now. There was no moral ambiguity about what happened. Every episode of Miraculous should feel that way, but the show often fails at this. There's way to much ambiguity for a kids show. The fact that many adults can't tell if Gabriel was evil or not is a terrible sign!

*I will note that even perfectly clear messages can be twisted into baffling shapes by viewers of all ages and people will read into things in ways that leave even talented writers scratching their heads. The pigeon thing comes to mind as a good, Miraculous-based example of poor media literacy. So I wouldn't go so far as to say that a kids show is always bad if adults misinterpret things. It depends on how widespread the misinterpretation is and how logical the misreading is. The season five ending is a good example of a true issue because it's played like a happy ending. It's not weird that some people took that at face value while others are waiting for the other shoe to drop. Only time will tell which side is right, which should not be the case when we're dealing with content like the widespread manipulation of an abuse victim in a show aimed at children. That should be presented as unequivocally wrong. Instead, the lies lead to a kiss and happy smiles.

[vivalgi]

This post is primarily meant for all the doubters, naysayers and people in denial who ganged up against me when I first declared my suspicions that wannabe Malfoy revealed on @candlelightgames' Instagram post might be AI generated.

I will point out some of the most obvious signs of AI usage after the break but first I want to quote Owen Wilson: "Wow!" Usually half the AI image detectors fail to do their job, but never before have I seen such a unanimous decision - all 7 out of 7 online tools that I managed to find are saying that the Project Spellstruck's first character art is most likely AI:

Now, onto the analysis. People are still expecting clearly visible errors from generated images, such as irregular amount of fingers or something going through another object, but AI has come a long way and it's becoming harder to point out obvious signs without focusing hard. It's even able to create a vague resemblance of symmetry and repeating elements. AI generated art isn't often published "straight out of the oven" either. Artists-prompters make the AI do a lot of inpainting and add their own little touch-ups until the images are more or less presentable. A character has 16 fingers? Just mark the problematic area you want to be regenerated, maybe even make a rough sketch over it and then have the program do its job again. Even Bardick's design evolution, CL has demonstrated, looks very similar to the typical AI-assisted workflow I just described:

It's hard to put into words what makes art feel and look AI, but don't worry, doubters, I can also point out some strange elements that strongly hint at this character art being largely made by AI.

Below is the highest quality image I could get, so you can come back to it and zoom in if you want to see the clean version without my scribbles:

The coat's lapels

In the corner of the left lapel there's this triangular piece:

Whatever it's meant to be, it's a single solid object and not nearly as incoherent as what's happening on the opposite side:

The triangular shape seems to be made up of 3 disconnected sticks and the ends of the golden protruding lines that flow into that corner, become intrusions, although they don't line up very well either. Try to explain what the artist was attempting to do here. It's a very clear example of AI making up some fuzzy incoherent details. No need to find any further evidence really, but let's move on.

Occasional double vision effect around the edge of the golden hem, creating parallel running lines (a typical thing I've noticed image generators tend to do):

The pants and belt

That wobbly dotted line is the edge of his pants:

I've also traced the lines of the belt buckle, so you can see exactly how much it makes sense upon closer look. Not a lot, right? Also, the prong melts into the buckle, doesn't even go through the belt's hole and there's more fuzzy scribble around it.

Shadows

The shirt's collar creates shadows to both sides of it:

The lighting source seems to be behind the guy as the corner of the collar is further from the viewer than the shadow it casts:

Some other shadows are suspicious as well but not so obviously bad to confidently demonstrate them.

This is not an attempt to turn anyone against AI, but merely an analysis to show the most obvious signs that this dude was probably more or less generated by AI. If you like this kind of artificial art and are fine with Candlelight or any other studio/artist using it, then I won't stop you from enjoying it. If you have a hard time recognizing AI art then I truly envy you, ignorance is bliss as the saying goes. However, please don't come to proudly demonstrate your ignorance and argue with me or even worse, try to make fun of me because you think I'm wrong in saying that this character art was generated with AI. As I've now proven, it most likely is. It's too early to turn into an overprotective fangirl over a project we still know barely anything about.

[nalyra-dreaming]

COMMENTS on 2x04 - SPOILERS ahead, obviously^^

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

God that play is really…. and to see the joy just leave Claudia

And the foreshadowing with her soul leaving her body!!!!!! Holy shit.

Louis’ face mirroring the disillusionment.

Lol, Santiago getting a BJ while getting ready and bitching about the play. 💀

Armand and Louis in Dubai saying different things about that time…

Armand’s notes threw😬 me - and to call her lack of enjoyment of this play after 500 performances sabotage? Definitely a choice.

Ah, I see that is where that Santiago outfit comes in^^ - I would not have expected it to be Claudia there. I so feel for her there, it is so bitter. And Santiago having her back there and challenging Armand (and his relationship with Louis) damn. Also, Louis being so… IDK. Happy to ignore the warning signs now??? Ouch.

The coven going at each other, lol

That discussion “after”. And Louis’ “inner Lestat” commenting on it all - bitter

“Do you notice how hot the room gets”!!!!! FUCK

“I try to find the vulnerability in the object.” DAMN

The laughter. And Louis calling himself out there lmao.

They didn’t like Daniel changing track that’s for sure^^.

Santiago and Claudia 😭 - god I wished. And his warning her… damn.

Oh…. so THAT is where the “tender” comes in. Ouch again.

Madeleine and Claudia

The mimicry at the banquet. Ohhhhh it’s going to go SO BAD

But it’s nice to see that when Louis snaps… he snaps^^. Canon, baby, canon.

I felt so bad for him at the photography evaluation…

The fragility comment re Armand.

The photographs mixed in!!!! Holy shit. What is going on there - has been going on there????

“This is a Stein”. LOL Armand… “Probably Rashid”. Yeah, sure.

The body in the plastic!!!! Oh we are going full horror next episode, aren’t we.

Louis letting his “inner Lestat” criticize him. Aw sweetie. “I end up eating them”…. yeah.

The laughter again. And ”Lestat” mocking Armand as being “barely Balthasar”. 💀 Oh Louis. (I do feel bad for Armand. He wants love so badly.)

Madeleine’s story. One of many I would think. I … liked how they did it.

The Louvre.

“Vintage Lioncourt” - and then his “inner Lestat”!!! That expression, lol. And also the “ha” later… that is interesting.

In sync. “Okay” Argh.

HOLY SHIT! I KNEW THEY WOULD GO FULL IN AND DARK. AND THEY ARE 😵‍💫 OHHHH DAMN.

The coven abandoned by Magnus(??). And “Lestat” shaking his head.” Interesting.

I ALMOST thought we would get a Memnoch-type event!!!!! Damn, I wanted them to go there :))))

Armand threatening Claudia -.- . And letting her know. Talk about making things clear.

The thing about Santiago’s maker again...

Practicing the fire gift I see. Ah yisssss. *rubs hands*

“manipulative gremlin” LOOOOOLLLL LOUIS HOLY SHIT

God that scene with Claudia. Me and you, indeed.

“Bad decisions”. “Love makes you stupid”. “The wilderness that is our daughter”. 😭😭😭😭

Louis trying to say goodbye to Lestat there… heartbreaking. “An elicit couple out for the cheat”. Yeah. No double meaning at all. NONE. Their theme.The initials stitched in. Letting the rain pour down. Summoning Armand. “Mutiny brewing”. 😭 God Louis, why didn’t you just leave. “I used to be real good at running things”. Louis geeeeeeeeezzzzzz you are playing with FIRE. (Yes, I know, foreshadowing.)

And Santiago and the others using that moment to get the evidence they “need”. 💀

“You sure about that, Arun?” “Yes, Maitre.” Ohhhhh fuck. So fucking dangerous. “He is Louis’ creature indeed.” DAMN. Louis dammit you beeeeep Sorry, but honestly, that was… STUPID. You make your only protection look WEAK.

And them arguing in the bedroom. Louis probably having done that himself??!?!!!

Daniel using the time to go through the material - and remember. Oh the FORESHADOWING

And cut.

So in total:

Loved it, lots of very bitter foreshadowing once more. Loved all the little flashback hints. Knowing where the “tender” as a description for them comes from is… 😬. Louis trying to let Lestat go - I KNEW that would be a breakup scene, but I had guessed it would be another one that came later in the book^^, loved this change though. Unfortunately we already know it won’t quite work… Louis deciding to (try to) let Lestat go (which we know won’t work), and trying to take the “bull by its horns”… god. I mean. I get him. But that made my teeth hurt I clenched them so hard because that is literally… like, I said it above, but ARMAND calling HIM “maitre”? When the coven is already plotting? Oh boy. Not good in the long run. Not good.

So yeah. Loved it. So much in it!!!

And... my heart breaks for Armand.

__

And the EPISODE INSIDER. Spelling it out once more: (A gag order definitely dropped away^^)

“Lestat is just ruining Armand’s and Louis’ romantic evenings together.”

“He almost takes on the Lestat role in his relationship with Armand.” 😬

“Louis’ relationship is a response to his relationship with Lestat.” “Armand is a rebound. A rebound that lasts for 70 to 80 years.” 💀

“I think Louis knows he can get away with more.” “Like Armand is maybe a bit of a pushover. He realizes he can manipulate that relationship a little bit more.” (LOOOOOOL JACOB)

“Ghost Lestat [] is also like Louis’ doubts about Armand.” “He tries to accept Armand the way he is.”

“Armand will always see a little bit of Lestat in Louis.” “His paranoia is all encompassing.”(!!!!)

“It’s this really sad aspect of his life.” (indeed.)

And last, but not least:

“But it’s also seeing Louis slip faster with Armand than she had planned.”(!!)

HOLY SHIT. 💀

[boypussydilf]

i can’t really inflict gachiakuta propaganda on my followers via the standard method of rbing other people’s posts about it because there aren’t that many posts about it. so i’m taking it upon myself to make a post straight up telling you to read gachiakuta

gachiakuta is a shonen action manga about a 15 year old boy who lives in The Bad Part Of Town™️ until the day he is falsely accused of murder and sent to The Abyss - the giant hole they dump all of their trash in, except it turns out there’s been people living there for centuries.

it uses the concept of imbuing a Soul into an Object by taking care of it for a long time to come up with incredibly fun creative weapons, like switching through different prosthetic arms that have different abilities due to being associated with different times in your life, among a lot other more spoilery concepts. the way weapons are designed and used is one of the places the soul eater inspiration really shines through too (the creator, kei urana, was actually an assistant to atsushi ohkubo!)

the protagonist, rudo, is special - obviously, being the protagonist, but especially because his abilities revolve around him having strong personal sentiment over Trash and using trash for everything, because he finds the concept of being abandoned and treated as useless so relatable. a major part of the story is him learning how to connect with people and make friends now that for the very first time he’s surrounded by kind people he feels he can trust. the Power Of Friendship had to come in somewhere and it builds itself on a very strong foundation in gachiakuta.

not to mention the character design really rules sometimes 💚

it’s on a weekly release schedule with 127 chapters to date and no sign of stopping - it’s absolutely full of mysteries that have yet to be solved and characters we’re only just starting to understand. plus we’re getting an anime adaptation (flash warning) this year - no release date yet, but we’re supposed to get news at anime expo at the end of march :)

i should warn for some of the heavy stuff - some self harm, and human trafficking/offscreen sexual assault is a major part of a character’s backstory, and there will probably continue to be topics like these in it in the future. most of the time though there’s genre-typical blood and not much else 👍

i like gachiakuta a lot, i think it’s a great story about feeling broken and about trying to reach out to people even if you don’t know how, with interesting worldbuilding and a giant cast of characters both tragic and deeply silly. so if any of those things are things you like as well why not consider reading the manga or keeping your eyes out for the anime.

my concluding message: look at my favorite weirdos ⬇️. these could be your weirdos too. imagine.

[thenightdayblogger]

6, 22, and/or 31 for esmetega keeses 👀

esmetega keeses, just for you glitchy 😌

1.7k words all together, somehow, totally unbetaed. PG-13 basically, although some insinuations because its ortega, obviously, lmfao.

Kisses ask game here

6. Slow kisses (458 words)

“Ricardo,” You mutter, when it’s been ten minutes and he doesn’t show any signs of letting you off the couch. You could punch him, but you’re feeling charitable after last night, so you elbow him in the ribs instead. Gently. Really more of a love tap than anything. “I have a job.”

“No, you don’t.” He mumbles into your lips. His weight is on you, warm body against warm body. Pinned down securely, and for once you didn’t mind the feeling. Hand on hip, fingers teasing under layers, the other testing—angles. Gestures. Touch. Who said you were the only one who liked to test your theories. “I have a job. You steal money and fight people on the street.”

“Disingenuous when that’s their job.” You immediately object, swatting away the hand trailing up your jaw, attempting to turn your mouth wholly toward him. Then he pulls himself up to attempt it, so you lean back. You’d say your piece, damn it. “And if you’re enough of a fucking rookie to have an easily identifiable patrol route, then—”

“Esme,” He huffs, voice wavering with horribly suppressed laughter, and you huff in turn, letting your head fall back onto the armrest. You were right. You both knew it. He carefully readjusts his weight, shuffling himself upward to gently touch at the lower divot of your mouth. “Just let me kiss you, corazón.”

“I do have to go.” Your voice softens reflexively, as you very slightly lean in. His fingers span, bringing up his warm palm that you press your cheek against. Your hair had never been frizzier than these last few months, which you don’t mind in the slightest. “I have appointments. And no, you can’t come.” You say before he can ask, although the image of Catalyst showing up to a business meeting with Charge on her arm tempts you. A lot. Probably smarter to make it a hard boundary, you could be swayed just by imagining the look on Rina’s face.

“Fine,” He mutters, not quite understanding but yielding; the awareness, you suppose, of these things being bigger than you. Either of you. He didn’t ask, and you didn’t tell. He rallies quickly, though, because it’s him, incorrigible to the last. “One more kiss.”

“This isn’t a negotiation.” You might be late already, if traffic’s bad. But you make no move to disentangle yourself, and Ortega’s brief flash of smile assures you that he notices it. His hand splays across your jaw, waiting, and your huff has only the barest pretense of annoyance. Even you knew you were a terrible actor. “Fine, one. Make it count.”

“Oh, I will.” He says, with a smile that doesn’t quash triumph in the slightest, and draws you back down to him again.

22 Kisses on head. (878 words)

You’re no Mirlene, it’s true, but the diagnostic tech you could rustle up in your base wasn’t too shabby. Right now, it whirls and hums around you, spitting out reams of paper that you draw out and examine, the markings and records spilled out in black ink. Ortega is splayed out on your bed, dozing; normally an opportunity you wouldn’t pass up, but right now you had a mission. Figuring what the hell was happening. On the floor next to the bed, paper filling up your lap, you sort through the shuffle until something catches your eye.

“Christ almighty,” You mutter to yourself, pulling the output records closer to examine. If you were reading it right—and of course, you were always right, barring maybe a couple rough gos of it—the energy given off was substantial. Interesting. “Bastard could heat my base.”

“I hope that’s not directed at me,” Ortega’s voice reads amused, even thick with sleep—when you look up at him you see he’s rolled over to face you, sheets pulled tautly around him. He touches his hand to his chest, feigning scandal. “I’ve been keeping your bed warm, Mae—“

“You steal all my blankets.”

“—Keeping your bed warm, and this is how you treat me. Trying to hook me up as a human furnace. I’m turning you in to Chen.”

“Might want to put on some clothes before you do that.” He only grins at that, stretching out languidly—utterly unselfconscious in the doing, in the sheets slipping down to reveal his bare chest. Not like there was anything to be ashamed of. But that track of thoughts only led one way, and you were nothing if not goal-oriented. You hold up the papers. “I’m running diagnostics.”

“And your expert opinion?”

“Hamster.” You deadpan, just to watch him choke on his next words, indisputably something dirty that will force you to tackle him in bed. On the principle of the thing, obviously. “Little wheel where your wrinkled old man appendix should be—”

“Okay—“

“—And it is running, Ricardo, it’s got a little carrot on a string in front, and you should honestly be embarrassed you didn’t notice earlier—“

“Shut the fuck up, Esme.” He hooks an arm around you and yanks your head forward; any violence of the movement stymied by his hand, carefully preventing your forehead from bumping into the side rail. He presses a kiss directly to the top. Central sulcus. Pulls his fingers idly through your curls. “Do hamsters eat carrots?”

“I don’t know.” You admit. It’s not like you’d ever had a pet, and, astonishingly, the Farm did not think this was pertinent information to include in your decanting. Your words are a little muffled, said as they were into his shoulder, but you trust he understands you. He always did. “You should probably figure that out.”

“Because of the hamster in my lower abdomen.”

“Obviously because of the hamster in your lower abdomen.”

“Fine.” He huffs into your ear. “But you have to name him.”

“Sharkavalanche Nine.” You say without hesitation, and he chokes back another laugh into the crown of your head. You turn into it, his arm, feel the corded muscle draw you closer.

“Okay, fine. I’ll find out what hamsters eat, and in return, you will rejoin me and Sharkie—no, don’t start, I get nickname rights for the hamster in my stomach—in bed, because it’s,“ He squints at your clock. “One thirty in the morning and I’ve got a press conference tomorrow at nine.”

“So you’ll be showing up at ten forty five with coffee.” You says, but unwind yourself from your crouching position, hauling yourself over him. Or at least, you try to. You’ve gotten a leg over him when his hand yanks out whip fast to send you sprawling across him, which you definitely don’t shriek about. “Christ, you son of a—”

“That was such a great point that I’ve changed my mind.” He says, smiling benignly up at you. His hands trail up, anchoring your straddle to him and inching higher. “If we’re both up, there’s a couple things that don’t fucking put that pillow on my face you bastard—mph—“

“Shut up, Ricardo.” You command, as you remove the pillow from his face, tossing it to the side once you’re satisfied your point was made. Thank God he had made you buy more then one once he’d started staying over regularly. It almost made his whiny bougie ass bearable.“We’re sleeping. Don’t encourage bad habits.”

“You are knowingly being a hypocrite to piss me off.” He mutters as he reluctantly lets go, letting you haul yourself across and into the mattress, giving way under your weight. He’s not very good at sticking to it, though, an arm snaking around you the moment you’ve gotten yourself comfortable. Another kiss, this time at the crown, as he gently smooths an errant lick of hair back into place. “I’m not falling for it.”

“You’re absolutely falling for it.” You yawn, and honestly, that should have garnered you a pinch, but he gently kisses your head again, and you finally relent, tucking your head into the give of his shoulder as your eyes drift shut. You’d win this argument tomorrow morning.

31 Neck kisses. (417 words)

Esme is kissing you. That’s not something that you’ve got any incentive to complain about, obviously, you’re enthusiastic as she is in kissing back. And you normally wouldn’t, save—

“That was a dirty move,” You mumble best you can without breaking the contact between you, rattling the handcuffs for emphasis. Arms bound, not uncomfortably but securely chained to the chair you were in. Shoulders drawn back, civvies, no skin suit underneath. She’d gotten you on the back foot and taken full advantage, and if you were going to be honest, that sort of double-crossing made her hotter in a way that you wish you had your hands free for. Not that she was ever going to let you out of these handcuffs, or hear the end of it if you told her that.

“Oh, please,” Esme breaks the kiss with a small snort, mouth twitching in a way that has you leaning back in. She doesn’t take the bait, presses your mouth back with the pads of her fingers and withdraws them before you can do anything with that. Smart. You’d had a lot of ideas right about then, and most involved turning the tables. She straightens, two steps back, arms crossed and tossing her head. Her hair had gotten longer, dark curls falling to her upper arms. Eyes, equally black, struggling not to laugh. She never succeeded. It was one of the things that made you love her. “Like you’re above a cheap fucking shot.”

“Guilty,” You admit. Enough of them had been directed at her to know. Even now, where fights were more play then anything, they lost none of their edge between the two of you. Too competitive by halves, fire matching fire. You don’t have your hands, but you tap-tap your heel against her ankle, willing her closer. She drifts a half-step in your direction—but there’s an amusement in her face that makes it obvious she feels like she’s humoring you. You’d see how long that lasted. “You’re just not the patient type, mi luz. I’m surprised how many breadcrumbs you scattered.”

“I’m a villain.” She murmurs, bending down, warm breath ghosting past your ear. “And I had incentive.”

“Incentive being?”

“The look on your face.” You can hear the smile, the rustle of her hair as she tilts her head and presses her mouth to your neck. Just below the jawline, the pulse thundering in your ears as she breaks it to whisper. “What should I do with you now that I have you?”

Thank you for the ask glitchy! I have no idea what possessed me. i do Not Write romance lmfao but god i love all of these. so glad that esme is being normal in canon and definitely gets to have sweet romantic moments with ortega instead of ghosting him 😌

[blakbonnet]

AUTHOR OF THE WEEK: @adhduck

Please give it up for the nicest and one of the most creative writers in this fandom: Duck! I'm just such a fan because not only does Duck manage to write the softest, gentlest, loveliest Ed and Stede (both together and apart), their fics somehow perpetually keep me looking like 🥹 all the time ough. And they were very very nice about sharing their writing process with me:

What's your writing process like? Do you start with the beginning or the end? Do you write in order or as the scenes come to you?

Mostly it’s the Taika “look at a document for 8 hours and then close the document,” honestly. I’m a very slow writer and lose motivation very easily, so I mostly get by on the muse’s fire hydrant and forcing myself to write those fifty words even when every single one feels so bad.

I go moooostly beginning to end because even though I’m generally an outliner, I always end up with little details that will affect later scenes and I don’t wanna lose continuity or have to rewrite a bunch. However, I do definitely let myself do a [finish this scene later] and move on to the next scene because otherwise I will get really fucking stuck, and sometimes I’ll write a line or a paragraph I thought of that sounds really good and tuck it away for a later scene.

Favourite trope or headcanon you like to explore while writing?

Ooooooooh, I don’t know if this is a trope but there’s just nothing I love more than huge feelings contained in mundane stories, of feelings so big you can’t actually express them and so they’re this constant hum throughout the story. I also love writing about touch for both of them, how Ed gives casual touch to hide the deep well of desire for intimate touch, how Stede is so unused to touch and craves it so deeply. (Can you tell I just really like subtle yet overwhelming emotions? Maybe it’s the aroace in me idk but that shit hits HARD.) Oh, and I love a fuckin’ allegory or object to discuss all those big feelings, whether it’s monsters or gardening or peaches or what the fuck ever (I have used all of these lol).

Whose voice is easier to write - Ed or Stede? Why?

I think Ed’s voice comes to me faster because the way I personally speak is closer to Ed’s voice, but it also means I’m sometimes double-checking myself to make sure I’m still deep in his voice, not my-voice-but-Ed. Stede isn’t necessarily harder for me, I’m just doing all that double-checking to make sure I’m not slipping into Ed voice or, god forbid, Aziraphale-lite voice. So, idk! I love writing them both, the little details of each of their inner dialogues are SO important to me (Ed’s tangents and his pshh-I-don’t-care moments, Stede actively avoiding thinking about things he doesn’t want to face, etc etc etc).

Your personal favourite thing you've written that you'd like more people to read

For the longest time it was There is Love That Doesn’t Have a Place to Rest, mostly because it was posted the day before another fic and, while I find them to be siblings and equal quality,  the other one got way more attention. That fic is about the time between signing the Act of Grace and getting to the academy and I think I really nailed where the two of them are at.

However! (And I know this is cheating okay shh.) Nowadays the one that I wish people read the most is Not Only the Sugar, But the Days. It’s the sequel to my “offscreen 30 year slowburn friends to lovers finally get together” fic and I put my whole fucking heart into it, honestly. The two boys basically go on a bunch of dates to live out the teenage experiences they never got together and work through the biggest feelings and I just! Really want people to see it! (It also can be read as a standalone, which I didn’t advertise super well lol.)

What is the one word that you think you use a lot?

Unfortunately it’s probably “just” or “a little” or filler words like that. Also obviously if the word fuck counts then, yeah, that. Maybe warm? Or something about yearning??? If I have a classic word please tell me I’m fascinated by this idea.

Do you have a beta reader? Have they made you a better writer?

The person who beta’s for basically all my fics is Owen @trans-top-stede and they are sooooo fucking helpful and incredible. So good at catching all the little things I miss, making sex scenes make sense, reminding me positioning in general is a thing, cheerleading me on, etc etc etc. My fics are so much better for their help.

Why OFMD 🥹

Ed and Stede just fit so fucking well into all sorts of AU’s (they try to invent their own AU’s in canon, even) while also having so much fun space to explore within canon. Their range is also perfect perfect perfect for writing fics—they can be in the wells of misery and fluffy as fuck and obnoxiously cheesy and realistic all in the same fic, if you want, and it’s completely accurate to their canon selves. It’s also helped me to embrace being silly and cheesy and earnest because life is about being yourself and finding your people and feeling deeper, feeling bigger, feeling more authentically without fear of being too much. Fuck I just really love these boys. (Also they’re so pretty and the whole crew’s so pretty we WON.)

Please head over to @ofmdlovelyletters (who also made the header) and send your love to all your favourite authors (and authors of the week 😈 watch that blog for some special letters coming your way)

[asses-to-ashes]

Longass post about some problematic aspects of 2000-2010 fandom, and why antis are not the solution for ongoing problems.

When people my age talk about 2000s-2010 fandom, they usually talk about it with rose-colored glasses as if it was the Golden age of fandom. I've done the same thing in some of my posts at times, and I don't necessarily see a problem with it, especially when you're discussing it under the context of the current climate of censorship and community harassment, but it's important to look back at the past objectively. When I say old fandom in this post, just know that I'm referring to 2000 to 2010.

There is a happy medium that needs to be reached between holding people accountable in fandom and avoiding censorship. The "anti" mindset goes way too far and polices how people explore fiction, but Old Fandom had its own problems with extremely poor behavior. In this essay I'm going to be exploring these problems in old fandom, the causes and solutions, why media censorship is never the answer. It's important to recognize and reflect on these things especially for people who weren't around to experience it. History repeats itself when Forgotten.

My point is not, and has never been that old fandom was worse than new fandom. My point is not that old fandom is bad at all. My point here is looking at problems, the solutions that have been made for those problems, and why they don't relate to censoring fiction at all.

I want to reiterate that I know things I'm about to discuss still happen. You do not have to comment. But it's important that we start looking objectively at Old Fandom as a wonderful, accepting but sometimes problematic (real problematic not the way antis nave coopted that word) space.

Keep in mind that this is an opinion piece. While I do provide statistics, I'm not trying to make any objective statements. My experience is probably different than yours. The experiences of my friends and my sources are probably different than yours.

With that in mind, let's get into it. Click read more for the meat of this essay

Cosplay Is Not Consent

Consent and sexual harassment have always been a huge issue within the cosplay community, there have been countless stories of women dealing with unwanted sexual advances such as touching, cat calls, kissing, and groping in convention spaces. At conventions in 2000, consent was never mentioned. With such a severe problem, the Cosplay Is Not Consent movement began.

This has been a notion that has been around for a while, been posted at some small cons as far beck as 2012. but it really only became a popularized sentiment at New York City Comic-Con 2014, where the phrase "Costumes Are Not Consent was posted publicly in the convention apace, along with a clear anti-harassment policy.

Even though research shows that most sexual harassment goes unreported, the amount of sexual harassment reports had more than halved in the first year of the visible anti-harassment signs and movement. The amount of sexual harassment cases at NYCC remained steady at "about a dozen" per year even as the number of attendees has increased from 151,000 in 2014 to more than 200,000 in 2023- A testament to the increased awareness of sexual harassment within fandom, an ongoing movement to protect attendees with anti-harassment policies.

A policy is only as good as the structure set up around that policy. An increasing number of conventions have a policy, display their policy prominently, define harassment, explain consequences, let guests know how to report harassment, and give separate protocols when convention organizers are responsible for abuse.

Now, instead of an unspoken "look the other way" policy, congoers are more likely to notice sexual harassment, come to someone's aid, and speak out. People who harass women are more likely to be kicked out of conventions and sexual harassment is more likely to be reported.

Obviously, sexual harassment and assault is still a huge problem in convention spaces, but with an increase in awareness around the issue, it's not as prominent as before.

Subsection: Yaoi Paddles, Glomping, and dangerous conduct

Reportedly first sold in 2002 at Otakon, yowie paddles are a wooden paddle with the word Yaoi burnt into the paddle end used for spanking people. They were a huge problem at conventions and caused a lot of people to be injured as a result. There were countless stories on forums about people being hit by random passerbys using a yaoi paddle, and people begged for it to be banned.

Glomping Is a running hug action that's a mix between a hug and a pounce. It was very popular in fandom, specifically around 2005 in the anime and furry fandoms. It was mostly younger people doing this and it caused a lot of people to be injured as well. Glopping incidents sometimes even included biting or groping.

Both of these behaviors were considered very poor etiquette, but were still very common in conventions. They were common enough so that even saying the words yaoi paddle or glomp to a cosplayer my age is like activating a sleeper agent. Your life flashes before your very eyes. Obviously I'm being dramatic here but it was very annoying.

Inappropriateness with Actors

In general, poor etiquette around celebrities is still a thing now. I haven't seen etiquette getting any better, so this point is less about a problem with old fandom and more about a current issue that still needs to be addressed. I'm going to be talking about real people, fan fiction and the blurred lines between characters and actors.

I'm not here to debate the ethics of "real people fiction." For those of you who don't know, RPF is a genre of fanfiction that involves real people. These people can be actors, politicians, historical figures, youtubers, really anything like that.

The problem comes from involving real actors in your fiction about them. What I mean by this is sending the actors your explicit fan fiction, or asking them inappropriate sexual questions. This is more of a problem from the early 2000's. While this does still happen now, it was really prolific in the early Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter fandoms.

Actors would frequently be invited to fan sites that had explicit RPF fanfiction. I've seen cases where actors were asked to sign copies of RPF, actors were mailed RPF, and were showed these fanfictions at meetups and conventions.

RPF never died off, and it's still a very popular genre. Between 2016 and 2017, fanfiction about real K-pop stars. Increased 10% on Tumblr. In 2015, Larry Stylinson was the number one ship on Tumblr according to Amanda Brennan, senior content insights manager at Tumblr.

Celebrities have been harassed for not following a fandom script, online shipping has led to the real life harassment of celebrities. For example, Lili Reinhart reported that her castmate was sent death threats because her character was getting in between a popular ship. This happened in 2017 and represents an ongoing problem in fandom.

Nazism and the Anime Boston Incident

I distinctly remember going to conventions when I was younger and seeing Nazi cosplayers walking around sometimes. They could be from Indiana Jones, Captain America, or whatever movie allowed them to wear that.

It wasn't until 2017 when Rose City Comic-Con updated a change to cosplay policy outlawing Nazi cosplayers including satirical or ironic cosplays which use Nazi paraphernalia or gear. Other conventions have also enacted similar cosplay bands in response to incidents such as the hello Kitty SS uniforms (yes, this is real) and cosplays of other fictional Nazis such as old school Hydra and red skull.

The most memorable incident that I distinctly saw on the internet in 2010 was the Hetalia Anime Boston Incident. For those of you who aren't familiar with hetalia, it's a series that came out in 2009 and initially took place in WWII, and each character is the humanization of a country. There is still debate on the characterization, especially regarding the character Germany- Poor guy was the cause of this specific controversy. The Italia fandom had exponential growth since 2009, and at anime Boston 2010, there was an incident regarding a hetalia photo shoot where cosplayers decided to do a Nazi salute as a joke. Even at the time, the sparked controversy on the Hetalia fandom on livejournal which is why I remember this incident so specifically. There were incidents like this beforehand, but this garnered enough attention online so that lots of photographers made it very clear that no Nazi imagery or posing was allowed.

With more restrictive policies and increased awareness, these types of cosplays became a lot less common in the west. The band are usually around Nazi iconography and symbols such as salutes and uniforms. You still see these cosplays today, such as an example from Hong Kong at Ani-com that took place this month, July 2024.

Where do antis fit in here?

I want to make it super clear that none of these major issues that I brought up here have to do with fiction. The points that are related to fiction, such as cosplaying a Nazi character or sending RPF to actors are entirely based on people's conduct in real life.

People never stopped liking characters like Red Skull, people still write about him and draw him. People should be allowed to write about characters like Red Skull and people should be allowed to like him, the issue arises when you wear a Nazi uniform in a public place.

People never stopped liking Yaoi. Little fan girls never stopped reading exactly the same stuff that I was reading at their age. The difference comes from behavior in real life.

Universally, the vast majority of fandom regardless of the time are able to separate fiction from reality. The problems were never caused by fiction, but rather people's behavior.

In order to stop people from cosplaying Nazi characters, the solution was not getting rid of all Nazi characters in media and harassing people who write about them. The solution was, very simply, to ban this kind of iconography at conventions and hold people accountable for their conduct.

Regardless of the space and the fandom, there are always going to be people who can't behave properly. There are always going to be people who don't know how to treat others. That's just the reality of looking at a group of people, some people don't have common sense. It is not the fiction that causes people to behave this way, but rather having a large group of people in a relatively new scene that hasn't established proper regulations and etiquette yet.

Allowing people to create, consume, and appreciate fiction that is not personally tasteful to you, or appropriate for some audiences, is an important part of society. It's extremely valuable to protect these freedoms, as censorship is a slippery slope.

My next essay will be about censorship in the Cold war era, McCarthyist homophobia, and why comic books were censored for having "anti-american" ideas.

Keep an eye out for that.

[shieldfoss]

Reading Trump's Executive Order 14183 so you don't have to (It's the "trans people in the military" one you may have heard of, some of it is in court right now being fought back against.)

link

If you want to reblog this, feel free.

If you tag me in your reblog to be sure I see your opinion, I will probably block you. If I don't already recognize your name, you cannot believe how much I don't care about your opinion.

===

I am obviously going to be paraphrasing some - if you wanted to read the thing itself, you could just click the link above.

Prioritizing Military Excellence and Readiness

Starting from the order's title... Mr. President, your military is already the most powerful in the world. If you wanted to fund it as much as China + Russia + EU combined, you'd have to reduce the military budget.

Anyway, moving on.

Paragraph 1+2

Boilerplate, followed by: US military is war fighting organization, and that mission "cannot be diluted to accommodate political agendas." I'd quibble here, but close enough.

Paragraph 3

Fnord Fnord, then essentially "we can't have soldiers that need so much medical care they can't do soldier work."

Paragraph 4

Donald Trump providing evidence that he isn't writing this EO to help the military:

Consistent with the military mission and longstanding DoD policy, expressing a false “gender identity” divergent from an individual’s sex cannot satisfy the rigorous standards necessary for military service. Beyond the hormonal and surgical medical interventions involved, adoption of a gender identity inconsistent with an individual’s sex conflicts with a soldier’s commitment to an honorable, truthful, and disciplined lifestyle, even in one’s personal life. A man’s assertion that he is a woman, and his requirement that others honor this falsehood, is not consistent with the humility and selflessness required of a service member.

I will get back to this at the end of the post.

Paragraph 5

Political bluster

Paragraph 6

We can't do trans healthcare in the military, and also you are a liar if you don't jive with your assigned gender.

Paragraph 7+ to the end of the EO

Procedural stuff for how to get this implemented. Here we also rescind the pre-Trump EO 14004. Maybe it was bullshit? Biden did sign a lot of bullshit - but I have not read it and it doesn't matter to my point.

===

Getting back to paragraph 4

There's some broad categories of reasons to do things when you hold power:

Public good reason

Private good reason ("trust me on this right now")

Malice (Unfit for duty)

Stupidity (Unfit for duty)

Recklessness (Unfit for duty)

Donald Trump, as a serial bullshitter, does not qualify for "trust me on this," (though let's be real basically no politician does except perhaps those leading a country in a defensive war) so they collapse into:

Public good reason

Unfit for duty

I have this funny tic where I have a hard time calling people stupid - I would almost always rather believe they are simply evil, that feels much less insulting. (Stupidity is objective but if I think you're evil that's just. like. my opinion man.) so:

The true reason to implement this order is a desire to hurt trans people.

Though bear in mind - It is possible that DT hurt trans people with this order because he

doesn't want to hurt trans people as a goal but does so anyway for other reasons - maybe he just wants better approval ratings and has decided that an EO hurting trans people will help him

is too incompetent to avoid it

just likes signing things and expends the power of the presidency without consideration.

So it rephrases to:

The true reason to implement this order is, or is at least as bad as, a desire to hurt trans people and whatever reason it was the order shows that he is unfit for public office.

But there's some reasons you can think of that maybe don't fit in that list? Some "Public Good Reasons?" No there aren't - they're either not the true reason or, if they are the true reason, DT is so unfit for his duty that it becomes its own grave moral failure.

Actually I remember that Trump loves trans people (insert 2016 campaign image of Trump waving rainbow flag) but we can't have sick people in the military and that's the true reason, not a desire to hurt trans people.

This is the explanation that comes almost the closest to a good reason. Yeah it sure would suck to train somebody to operate e.g. Aegis defense batteries and then they're in for surgery exactly when the Chinese move on Taiwan. Unfortunately, it leaves some incredible gaping holes. Let's try some:

One hole is: The worlds militaries are probably the organizations that are best at dealing with people suddenly disappearing because that's the job. The cause is typically "got hit by mortars" and not "planned it months in advance" but it's an extremely known issue.

Another is: There is already a recruitment problem! Turning people away, and throwing people out, trades a minor reliability problem (if one exists, which I do not grant) into the exact worst-case scenario where they all fail at the same time and never get back

Also: "Why does this ban post-op trans people then?" or why are various other medical issues waived? Is it that there is something special about transgenderism? Like, for example, Trump wants to hurt them?

There could be some hidden military-only issue that the EO doesn't bring up, but remember that this EO 14183 follows on the heels of EO 14168, "Defending Women from Gender Ideology Extremism and Restoring Biological Truth to the Federal Government."

If DT signed this order, with all of its bad consequences, to solve a readiness issue caused by medical issues, he is not competent to be president.

God Damn it the pronoun thing is real, I don't want to be forced to lie about people just because they're delusional and the soldiers defending me shouldn't either. Trump signed the order to clear this up for the military

You know what, if you actually have that issue I do feel bad for you - I don't have the same issue but I've got enough similar issues to put myself in your shoes and it does truly suck to be forced to play some social game other people are inventing. However: Our issues are not universal. There are probably other people like you in the military and their issues do not determine personnel policies for the entire rest of the organization.

You can be forgiven for not thinking this all the way through and considering the military as a whole because that's not your job. It is Trump's job. If Trump has signed this order because he made this mistake, he is not competent to be President.

God Damn it the pronoun thing is real, I have a hard time remembering reassigned pronouns if they don't match the person I'm looking at. Trump signed the order to clear this up for the military

The military enforces language conformity all the time, and it enforces it exactly about forms of address. At no time in the history of ever has any successful military cared about what you want to call other people. This man was assigned Captain at the MCCC and if you insist on calling him Lieutenant because that's the title he was introduced with 2 years ago, you are going to get NJPed once as a warning, and it is going to escalate fast from there if NJP doesn't fix your attitude. Also the M10 Booker was clearly assigned Light Tank at Birth, but the US Army insists it isn't a tank and you shouldn't call it a tank.

If Trump has signed this order because he mistakenly considered the military's language culture through civilian eyes, he is not competent to be President.

God Damn it the pronoun thing is real, changing that stuff up is lying and Donald Trump cares about lying just as much as I do!

Don't be an idiot.

God Damn it the pronoun thing is real, changing that stuff up is lying and Donald Trump cares about lying just as much as I do when it happens to him! Sure, he lies all the time but he doesn't want the military to lie to him, That's why he signed the order.

Like the trans surgery stuff above, this is an explanation that almost reaches believability, yeah? "The simple reason is that Trump doesn't want his military to have liars in it and he thinks the pronoun stuff is dishonest."

Nobody believes that. If somebody tells you this is the reason, they are simply running cover for him. But I'll tell you why I don't believe that: Because it would require Donald Trump to believe that this is a reasonable way to improve the honesty of the reports that he gets from the military and lmao let's be real here. Increased funding for investigative efforts? Nah let's ban pronoun choice. Consequences for lying recruiters? I'm thinking a pronoun ban (btw this will make recruiters lie more to meet quota). Instituting a Commissar Corps to align commanders with the White House? Nope. Pronoun ban.

If Trump signed this order to improve the honesty culture of the military he is delusional and needs to be removed from the red button today.

===

So. Yeah.

The reason he has given in public is not good, he does not have the reputation of honesty necessary to be granted the benefit of doubt, that leaves "unfit for duty." You can't tell what kind of "unfit for duty," he may be stupid, malicious, reckless, fucked up on drugs, beginning stages of dementia, but he is unfit for duty.

At the end, it's really about base rates here. There may be some very narrow shape of personality you could invent that just exactly manages to find a reason to sign this EO in a spirit of good will and patriotism. Donald Trump is not that person.

My own personal guess is that DT signed because he is a psychopath that doesn't really care about trans people. He doesn't want to hurt them, but he has instead been happy to sacrifice some group of people here to get him other benefit there. Approval rating would be my first guess, but it could also be the great feeling of having people kiss his ass (and those asskissers would then be people who do want to hurt trans people. Maybe Elon Musk is trying to get back at his kid? I have seen no evidence but I could be convinced)

[asher-agere]

I, once again, have no extra text to add before my request. There needs to be more interesting things happening in my life that aren’t very dreadful…

Request time!! Can you share some thoughts on caregiver Shirase with a little who tries to ignore their regression as much as possible because they hate not being useful. Of course, as usual with most of my requests, no specific character in mind ^_^

You say most of your requests have no second character in mind right after we did that little Stormbringer character series- But either way no worries! Don’t need a second character for simple headcanons hehe

Caregiver Shirase + Little Neglecting Regression

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

✮⋆˙ Shirase can be a selfish guy. He’s not necessarily rude or anything! But let’s be honest, he knows how to put himself first. He thinks that everyone works that way! So when he starts taking care of a little one that pushes off their own needs just to make his life a little bit easier? He’s confused to say the least. Obviously he wants his little one to take care of themselves! Neglecting your regression isn’t good ( ｡ •̀ ᴖ •́ ｡ )

✮⋆˙ For awhile Shirase lets it go. It’s perfectly reasonable that they just haven’t felt like regressing! He doesn’t want to make them feel bad about not regressing or push them into it! But overtime he’ll notice signs that they really need it. Spacing out, fidgeting with stuff a lot, maybe talking less. He’ll notice! It might take him some time… But he will notice eventually! Once he’s onto what’s going on he can be relentless!

✮⋆˙ Shirase tries talking about things calmly. He’ll just ask his little one “Sooooo why haven’t I seen my baby in a while? I miss them a lot y’know?” If they hesitate to answer he’ll shower them in praise, explaining how much he loves his baby and misses them, then once they’re nice and flustered he’ll ask again! Hopefully this works, they’ll admit the problem, and they can talk it through! Shirase will explain that he loves taking care of them of course! It’s a comfort for him too, remember? But sometimes a little one can be stubborn. Insisting that they’re fine and walking off. Shirase moves onto phase two!

✮⋆˙ A stubborn baby gets a bit more forceful treatment! He knows that they need to regress, even if they’re denying it. So he’ll help them get there! He’ll walk up behind them and tackle them with a blanket! He’ll pick them up so they can’t run away! Baby is quickly wrapped up in a swaddle and carried to the couch! Shirase will put on some cartoons for the little one and bounce them, cooing at them and placing a pacifier in their mouth!

✮⋆˙ If the little one is stubborn enough to insist they don’t need to regress then they’re probably stubborn enough to object to obvious babying treatment. However! Shirase can be even more stubborn. Anything the little one says to object Shirase just nods his head and hums as if they’re babbling. He doesn’t speak baby! He soothes any thrashing as if it’s a tantrum, gently shushing them and rocking them side to side “Calm down now bud… Want your paci? Look at the super cool cartoons! Oooo I love this episode, settle down so we can watch”

✮⋆˙ The little one can object all they want, he’s getting them to regress forcibly. Then whenever they’re out of headspace (Usually after a nice nap) He’ll actually talk about things! Ask them why they don’t wanna regress, why they’ve been avoiding it. He’ll explain that he loves taking care of them too! They think he’d do something he doesn’t like? They must not know him very well then. In fact the little one is very rude for not letting him do his favorite activity which is taking care of them! He’ll punish them with a tickle attack!

✮⋆˙ Obviously that self doubt isn’t the kind of thing that’ll disappear over night though. He gets that! So he’ll encourage them to regress constantly! He’s always keeping up with cartoons (He gets emotionally invested in the plot), he’ll buy any cute plushies he sees, and whenever he’s bored he’ll just go and baby his little one. An adorable little baby will surely cure his boredom! If they object he’ll beg them with puppy dog eyes, his childish behavior may not seem fitting for a caregiver, but he’s so playful! It encourages a happy drop session!

✮⋆˙ Constant reassurance! It’s like. Daily for him. He’ll give his little one a hug and say how much he loves them, send them silly stuff saying it reminded him of them and he’s looking forwards to next time he gets to watch the cute baby, he makes sure that if he’s complaining (Which he does a lot) he mentions how it would be so helpful to just take care of someone else. Tiny things, he tries not to be too pushy! But the constant reassurance can help a lot

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Sorry I haven’t posted today ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა We had no power and no WiFi and no water and I was trying to conserve my battery and not waste data? But like I also didn’t really… It was very frustrating and I’ve been on the verge of a tantrum all day (>﹏<) But I got at least one post in today! There’s also a Comic Con this weekend where I’m selling my first wig… Very busy times! I’m also going both days so I get to use both of my cosplays :0 But yeah a lot- Sorry for the yap hehe. Have a lovely day/night everyone!

[rdiowx]

Kinktober day six

Breeding with puppy frank iero

Warnings!: breeding obviously, knotting, trans male reader, rough but whiney frank.

This comes from my wanting of a cunt guys

Not proofread

Franks ruts were your favorite days, especially when you could convince him to knot you like you planned on doing today. You were at work all day today, having to leave frank alone and you felt so bad. You knew he was probably aching right now, you’d be surprised if he wasn’t. Walking into your house you were met with whines and the smell of sweat. “Im home frank!” You announced, taking your shoes off and putting them by the door. It wasnt long until you heard frank making his way towards you, his movements rather rushed as he greeted you. His shirt was off and he was covered in sweat, you could see his cock strained in his shorts and you frowned. You took his hand, taking him to your bedroom before sitting him on your guy’s shared bed. You started to take your clothes off, frank getting too excited and began to help.

It didn’t take frank long to start attacking your chest as soon as it was free, leaving marks all over. You let out a moan as frank took your nipple into his mouth, sucking on it greedily before you even got the chance to take your pants off. “Frank, c’mon im not even all the way undressed yet.” You told him, nudging him off of you causing him to whine before taking your pants off. You sat on the bed as he did so, he decided to leave your boxers on for now though. Crawling up the bed he latched onto your mouth, running his hands up your sides, gripping them in the process. “You gonna knot me today?” You asked, slipping his shorts off. “I don’t want to hurt you..” he replied, his voice shaking as you took his boxers off. You shook your head with a smile before telling him he wouldn’t.

“Okay.” He whispered before slipping his hand into your boxers, his fingers finding your entrance almost immediately. You moaned as he slipped his fingers into you, gripping onto his arms as he finger fucked you, successfully stretching you out for his cock. He got tired of not being able to see all of you and took your boxers off all the way, throwing them somewhere in the room. Frank leaned down between your thighs to press a kiss to your clit, slipping his tounge into you afterwards causing you to whine. It didn’t take him long to get impatient, he wanted his cock in you and you wanted his cock inside of you just as much.

He didn’t take long flipping you over, your lower body now being held up by your knees as you rested your head on the pillow under you. Slipping his cock inside of you must’ve been what set him off because it didn’t take long for him to start using you like you were just a fleshlight, an inanimate object without a pulse. “Fuck!” He whined while you just groaned into the pillow you were using as a muzzle. He felt so good inside of you, the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of you made your brain numb. The only thing you were aware of right now was him and the drool pooling on the pillow from how good you felt. The sound of skin on skin filled the room as well as the wet noises from your cunt.

“S’good, good boy.” Frank moaned still fucking into you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust. You wouldn’t be surprised if there was a dent in the wall after. You didn’t know when you moved your hands, now clenching the sheets in between your fingers as frank held your hips in his, There was no doubt gonna be finger prints on them. You felt frank hands sliding lower before slipping under you to rub your clit making you cry out in surprise. “I want you to cum all over my cock when i knot you.” Frank whimpered from above you,to which you could only nod at, too brain dead to respond with words. You took note of how you could feel his knot against your entrance now, a telltale sign that he was close.

It didnt take long for him to slip it inside of you causing you to groan and sigh after, you loved the feeling of his knot inside of you and you felt all warm as he came inside of you as well. “Good job, good boy.” Frank sighed as he released inside of you. “Breeding you…feels so good.” He melted against your back before helping you move on your side so he could cuddle you from behind with his cock still inside of you. You knew it would take a while for his knot to go down anyways. “Feels good frank.” You whispered, tired from being fucked. “Mmhm.” He hummed, his head now in your neck.

[modelbus]

I’ll beg on my knees for Dream saying I love you for the first time

you can get off your knees now don’t worry <3

Pairing: Cc!Dream x Gn!Reader

Fond Firsts

He says it on accident, a one-off, but you certainly didn’t miss it. Not when they’re the words you’ve been aching to hear—and say—since the moment he first kissed you.

The movie, a horror he swears by, wasn’t one you had ever seen before. Hence the horror movie after Halloween, because spooky season wasn’t just limited to October with him. The first scare was minor, something you had been expecting the entire time. All the other ones? Not so much.

You had jumped for the thousandth time, blushing furiously and rolling your eyes at how Dream had laughed and tugged you closer to him. His arm was settled around your waist, pinning you close to him. Not that you minded. But the laughing stung just a bit.

“It’s not funny! You didn’t tell me there was so much… horror!” You defended yourself, making him laugh harder.

“It’s a horror movie!” He had exclaimed, then dropped with L-bomb with a casual smile on his face. “You jump so much, oh my God. I love you.”

And just like that, your breath was stolen.

You watch as his smile falters as he realizes, his eyes widening as he straightens. “Oh, shit. Fuck fuck fuck.” He murmurs, mostly himself. Panicked.

Was this a bad sign? A good sign?

You open and close your mouth wordlessly before finding something to say. “Are you okay?”

“I didn’t mean it.” Dream blurts out.

Hurt, sharp and roaring, tears up your insides. Claws your ribs apart, exposes your heart, and rips into it like a lion feasting. Oh.

“You… didn’t mean it?” You repeat slowly, like saying it all in a rush would break everything.

The movie, still playing and loud, is forgotten.

“I mean, I meant it, obviously, but I didn’t mean it then. Wait, no, I meant it then but not timing-wise. I just mean that it’s true but I had something planned! That wasn’t meant to happen right now!”

His hands, one along the curve of your waist from previously and the other newly placed on your arm squeeze like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You don’t run, not from him, but his fear is there all the same.

You’ve known him long enough to know the way he’s speaking. The rushed, panicked rhythm. The way he gets louder, higher-pitched. How his words don’t seem to match his brain anymore, because what he’s thinking and saying are two different things with the same objective.

But you’ve definitely never seen him panic over something like this. And there’s definitely no guidebook on what to do if your boyfriend fucks up and accidentally says “I love you” for the first time.

You curl a hand into his hair, soft beneath your fingers, and tug his lips to yours. Dream doesn’t resist, greedily taking in the kiss. He doesn’t pull away completely either, leaving his forehead resting against yours.

“I love you too.” You assure him, then add, “dumbass.”

“I had a plan.” He laments. “I was going to take you to a nice dinner and kiss you Goodnight and say it then.”

The fact you could picture it makes you laugh. Wine and candlelight, because he’s cheesy. It probably wouldn’t have ended with a kiss goodnight—you were both suckers for falling asleep together—but he definitely would’ve still found a way to make it the most romantic confession of love.

And yet, you prefer it this way.

“You can still do that.” You offer, smiling as he steals another kiss from you.

“It’s not the same.”

“I can pretend.”

“It’s still not the same.”

“I’m really good at pretending.”

He laughs, finally, and you’ve won the lottery. “Fine. I’ll surprise you with it.”

Dream pulls away, thinks better of it and gives you another kiss, then resettles to watch the movie again.

“I love you.” You hedge, studying his expression.

“I love you too.” His eyes and smile are soft when he glances at your face. “You’re missing all the good parts.”

“None of it is the good part.”

“Just watch.”

Sighing endearingly, you do as told and tune back into the movie.

[jackdaniel69nice]

Dark shadow is mostly blind that gets worse the brighter it is. It wasn’t as bad when they were younger but their vision has been getting progressively worse over the years. Their eyes are a sensitive area that when hit (both physical and light attacks) actually causes harm and they will need to disappear to recharge. They have trouble reading, drawing, and looking at computers screens but they do these things anyway because they actually like to have fun and won’t let a little pain stop them. They often ask tokoyami to read important things like signs, homework, and even someone’s facial expressions when it’s to hard to deal with.

I know you’re thinking “how can they fight so well then?” Well I think they have the ability to sense the environment around them (sort of like hawks feathers). When DS is disappeared inside tokoyami they can still “sense” what is going on around and hear conversations. The way this sense works could be multiple reasons:

Sensitivity to light means wherever light bounces off of and then hits dark shadow they be able to feel it…this is sort of how eyes work already though so I’m not a fan

Movement and sound causes vibration which they are sensitive to…which is exactly like hawks quirk so still not a fan

Dark Shadow can feel darkness. Light will be blocked where the object is so they can feel it. I like this idea best

In reality it’s probably a mixture of all three of these that gives dark shadow the ability move around so well.

Tokoyami will finally ask Hatsume to make special glasses for Shadow but it will take ages for them to wear them because they are embarrassed. The glasses/goggles will block light as well as enhance the image quality, so basically fancy prescription sunglasses. The only thing unique is that it changes sizes along with dark shadow, who grows in size the darker it is, there is a limit to it’s stretch though. Obviously these are strong enough to protect DS from being hit in the eyes as well.

A final but important point, when Shadow is in a rampage their eyes turn red. This limits their vision even more by literally creating a red haze over everything. They rely heavily on sensing and hearing movement. If you stand still and stay quiet you might live another day ;)

There will be a follow up post about Tokoyami’s vision so stay tuned