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sixeyesonathiel · 4 days ago

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free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

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

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

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

playlist | other works here.

satoru hates being late.

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

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

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

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

“excuse me.”

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

“i need you to model for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you must be so down bad.

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

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

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

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

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

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

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

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

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

and maybe he is.

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

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

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

not want. need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and he sees it.

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

…ugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he should be bored—but he’s not.

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

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

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

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

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

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

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fix your posture.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“that’s just my natural aura.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so he keeps coming back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you start talking more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts talking more, too.

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

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

“listen, it was a short fall.”

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

and then you laugh.

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

he wasn’t expecting that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

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

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

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

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

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

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

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

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

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t even hesitate.

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

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and he’s used to you, too.

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

so he stays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

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

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

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

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

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

so it turns into a game.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

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

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

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

“…you sure?”

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

“what’s with the interrogation?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t stop there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

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

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

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

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

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

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

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

because you’re routine now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“was it?”

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

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

but then—

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

the change is immediate.

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

oh. oh, no.

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

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

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

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

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

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

the crowd erupts.

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

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

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

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

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

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

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

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

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

the timeout huddle is a mess.

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

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

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

or rather, someone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you shouldn’t be this invested.

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

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

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

the other team is beyond frustrated.

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

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

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

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

the crowd gasps.

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

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

or rather, at you.

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

the reaction is immediate.

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

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

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

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

satoru freezes.

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

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

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

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

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

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

the game is already over.

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

his next move is straight-up cruel.

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

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

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

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

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

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

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

the final seconds tick down.

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

final score: 112-39.

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

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

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

he doesn’t find you right away.

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

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

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

there’s a pause. a long one.

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

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

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

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

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

“yup.”

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

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

his expression crumbles.

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

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

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

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

his brows lift.

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

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

his lips twitch.

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

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

then—slowly, teasingly—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t look away.

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

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

he doesn’t answer right away.

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

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

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

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

and then, there’s finals.

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

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

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

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

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

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

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

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

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

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

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

he doesn’t reply right away.

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

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

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

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

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

[10:56 PM] okay.

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

then, one evening, it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"“huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

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

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

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

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

you don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

his eyes narrow.

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

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

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

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

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

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

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

he won’t let you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he notices.

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

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

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

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

“it’s private.”

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

“no.”

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

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

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

a challenge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tonight, though, you’re running late.

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

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

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

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oh.

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

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

his stomach does something weird again.

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

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

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i was drawing!—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

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

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

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

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

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

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

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

you don’t answer.

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

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

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

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

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

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

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

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

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

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

doesn’t want to.

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

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

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

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

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

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

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

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

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

but this time, you don’t walk away.

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

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

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

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

“no.”

“cold.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

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

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

“my beloved!”

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

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

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a lot of:

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

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

“no way. no actual way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

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

“yeah, but still.”

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

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

“no.”

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

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

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

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

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

“yes. all.”

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

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

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

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

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

“obviously.”

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

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

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

you shove his face away.

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

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

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

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yandere-daydreams · 8 months ago

Text

Title: Going Live.

Pairing: Yandere!Nanami x Reader (JJK)

Word Count: 7.6k.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Camgirl!Reader, Kidnapping, Physical Intimidation, Long-Term Stalking, Obsessive Behavior, Delusional Behavior, Slight Exhibitionism, and Panic Attacks + Disassociation. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

You were a lot of things to Nanami Kento – his world, his light, his love – but above all else, you were the reason he looked forward to getting home.

Calling it ‘infatuation’ would’ve been a disservice to the depth of his feelings for you. It’d been love at first sight; instant and wholehearted, a shackle snapped shut around his neck that he had no will or desire to escape. His eyes were on his watch as soon as he crossed the threshold, his coat shrugged off and abandoned along with his tie in the doorway. He didn’t bother turning on lights or taking off his shoes, doing anything to make his empty apartment seem more lived-in, his focus solely dedicated to reaching his home office with as few disruptions as was possible, with Gojo and the higher-ups still attempting to contact him about the curse he’d finished exorcising less than an hour prior. They could wait. You wouldn’t.

He was smiling by the time he collapsed into the leather-cushioned chair, his laptop still on his desk from the night before – the last time he got to see you. The motions were automatic, practiced to the point of reflexivity. One hand glided over the keyboard while the other found his phone, silencing it in the same motion as he tossed it haphazardly onto the desk, out of his view. He checked his watch one more time; 6:59. Good. He was early.

His grin brightened, as did his laptop. Your stream flickered to life a second later and with it, your smiling face. The relief was instant, pure warmth accompanying it. The bittersweet tinge – as subtle as it was prodding – came only a moment later, but Nanami did his best to ignore it.

You were the sole reason Nanami Kento looked forward to getting home. The center of his world, the sole light in his otherwise bleak life. The person he loved more than anything, more than everything.

It was only a shame, then, that you had no idea he existed.

One of his favorite things about you had always been your meticulousness. For tonight’s show, you were splayed out across the foot of a queen-sized bed, surrounded by pastel pink satin sheets and a fleece comforter of the same shade, a matching dormant hitachi vibrator (Nanami’s favorite and, guessing from how often it made an appearance in your shows, yours too) nestled between your thighs. Your outfit was aesthetically pleasing – a set of lacey, baby blue lingerie with white, knee socks – but paired with your set up, casual enough to give the impression that you hadn’t realized the camera you were posing in front of was actually on, as if you weren’t entirely prepared to be seen by a thousand or so strangers just yet. The fact that you didn’t start talking right away, only humming as you idly toyed with your hair, only added to the nonchalance of it all. You would make a good actress, if you ever decided to pursue something more, for lack of a more applicable phrase, legitimate.

Nanami’s attention drifted from you to your chat, slowly starting to fill with impatient viewers. Despite himself, he felt his absentminded smile waver, an irk of irritation momentarily tainting his bliss. He knew you weren’t entirely real, that he didn’t have any right to be possessive over a performer, but he loved you. It would’ve been difficult for anyone to watch someone they loved be exposed to so many prying eyes.

user34333: fuck she’s hot

hotbox420: looking good y/n!!!

lostandconfused: why does she still have her clothes on?

The only silver lining was how oblivious you seemed to it. Another minute passed before you straightened, yawning slightly as you pushed yourself up, legs hanging over the foot of your bed. “Welcome home,” you started, with a quick stretch and a playful wave towards the camera. “Everyone’s already put the kids to bed, right? I’ve got a very special surprise I want to bring out a little later, so nobody’s allowed to leave early.”

Your tone was light, melodic, saccharine. Already, Nanami could feel his cock beginning to harden against his thigh, straining at the material of his pants. You were always mobile during your shows, prone to flitting from one position to another, but tonight, you almost seemed antsy as you pulled your legs back onto the mattress, tucking your knees underneath you and bowing your head, your neutral smile taking on a shy undertone. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” you admitted, speaking quickly enough for the words to blend together. Then, with more composure, “Who wants to get us started?”

Nanami’s hand was already on his keyboard, waiting for your cue. Somehow, he was still too late.

blueeyeswhitedragon sent 150 credits!

blueeyeswhitedragon: Bra first, pretty please.

You giggled as you raised your hands, leaning forward to give the camera a better view of your chest as you undid the clasp at the nape of your neck. Nanami’s breath hitched as the thin fabric fell away, revealing the soft curves of your breasts and your pretty, perfect nipples – already hard, already enough to make saliva pool underneath his tongue. The lower clasp was next, undone with more effort and more bouncing than what seemed absolutely necessary, but Nanami couldn’t complain, not when he was struggling to undo the fly of his dress pants without ever looking away from you. There was another giggle as the article fell away entirely, then a third as you cupped your chest with both hands, groping gently. “I used to be so shy about taking my top off on camera…” You trailed off, batting your eyes. “But, you guys think I’m pretty, right?”

Your requested affirmations flooded the chat in an instant. Nanami grinned, slumping back in his chair. He could compliment any part of you earnestly, but aside from donations, he rarely let himself participate in your chat. Speaking to you so openly, being one of a dozen people whose username you’d glance over in a second – that wasn’t what he wanted. Anonymous adoration wasn’t the shape his affection took.

Eventually, you collapsed back onto your bed. “Okay, okay, that’s enough,” you went on, as Nanami wrapped a fist around the base of his cock. “What next?”

There was another offer – 300 credits for your panties, 400 if you took them off with your back to the camera. You obliged, bent at the waist, inching the silken fabric down your thighs at an almost sadistic pace. After you finished, you seemed ready to move onto the main show, but another donation cropped up in your chat.

user34232 sent 75 credits!

user34232: for the socks pls

That, as far as Nanami could tell, seemed to catch you genuinely off-guard. He could see you blushing as you leaned towards the camera – or, he supposed, the laptop you had positioned underneath it, as if you’d misread something. “…my socks?”

Nanami stifled a grown, tightening his hold. With his free hand, he reached for the keyboard,

n. kento sent 200 credits!

n. kento: Don’t take them off.

You played your part perfectly, sighing as you let your head lull to the side. All it took was you batting your eye lashes while letting out the sweetest murmur of “Well, I don’t know if that’s fair, but…” for your chat to dissolve into a bidding war, donations ranging from five credits to five hundred. If you were making any earnest attempt to keep track of which side was winning, you clearly had no motivation to call it too early on – pulling your legs onto your bed and kicking your feet out playfully towards the camera. “Some of you guys ask for such weird stuff,” you went on, rolling your left ankle. “If someone doesn’t tell me what to do soon, I think I’m just going to have to change into another outfit.”

Nanami let out a breath of a chuckle, only half aware he was typing.

n. kento sent 1,750 credits!

n. kento: You look beautiful. Keep them on.

You laughed, and this time, Nanami chose to believe it was sincere. “I get it! We’ll move on.” You were already leaning back, rolling onto your stomach, giving your viewers a perfect view of your ass as you reached for something off-screen. “Normally I’d ask for a suggestion,” you said, as you brought what you’d retrieved back into frame – a pale pink rabbit vibrator, the penetrative half of the forked wand ribbed. “But I have something I’m kind of looking forward to. I promise, I’ll try to get past the boring stuff quickly.”

You thought too little of yourself. Arousal drooled from Nanami’s flushed tip as you positioned yourself on the edge of the mattress, legs spread wide and slick, glistening pussy fully on display. You were already wet, but he knew you would be. It was something you joked about often – how sensitive you were, how something as minor as a wet dream would have you soaking through your panties. Normally, he would’ve figured you were just playing it up for the sake of your viewers, but it was hard to deny the evidence in front of him.

A whimper slipped past your parted lips as you eased the head of the toy past your entrance, stretching yourself out on its bulbed tip. Now, now, he started to move his hand, pumping his fist over the length of his shaft in short, slow strokes, matching your tempo as you rocked your toy into your pussy. A dull hum fills the room as your thumb finds the switch built into the handle’s underside, and your expression immediately goes from dazed to pained, your tongue peaking out from between your lips and your eyes fluttering shut as your hips bucked against the vibrator. “It—It feels—” Your thighs threaten to twitch shut, but you hold them open, determined to give your audience the best possible view of your pussy clenching around your toy. “I really—I wanna get some bondage gear soon, so that I can—”

Whatever you might’ve said was replaced by a bubbling moan, and just like that, Nanami was fucking his fist without restraint. He knew how pathetic it was, but it would’ve been impossible not to imagine it was his cock sinking into your dripping cunt rather than an inanimate toy, not to wish it was your pussy clamping down around his length rather than his own fist. He wondered what you smelled like, if you wore perfume, what it would be like to have his face buried between your thighs. He was aware, vaguely, that your chat was the most active it’d been all night, people trying to catch your attention with donations and tips and compliments, but they didn’t matter. They weren’t watching you, not really, not the same way Nanami was. He knew you, well enough to know that you couldn’t think once something had been stuffed inside of your cunt. He loved you, enough to wish he was the one making your mind go so euphorically blank.

There was more moaning, more failed attempts to speak, but you didn’t let yourself cum. You were visibly trembling by the time you switched the toy off, and it took agonizing seconds to ease the wand out of your disappointed pussy – seconds Nanami watched with rapt devotion. More out of sympathy than anything else, he lets go of his cock entirely, gritting his teeth and attempting to ignore the pulsing ache forming in the pit of his stomach. What was next was better. What was next was worth waiting for.

You took a few panting breaths, your voice still airy by the time you managed to speak. “I have a—” You paused, grinned. Nanami smiled too. “I have a surprise for all of you, tonight. I think I mentioned that already, but— oh, right.” You perked up, playing excited. “We have to move to the floor, for this next part.”

You slipped off-screen, and a second later, the camera shifted to follow you – falling onto a corner of your room less staged than your bed, but just as pristine. Abstract, pastel tapestries obscured the walls, but the dark floorboards were left bare. On one side, most of a dog kennel was visible, decorated with string lights and clearly meant for one of your more niche shows, and on the other, he could make out the bottom corner of a poster – not for anything kinky, or sensual, or in any way suggestive, but an underground band, a local band. You probably hadn’t realized it was in the shot, let alone meant for it to be. You were usually more careful about giving away anything even remotely personal, but Nanami couldn’t be mad.

After all, it’d been that poster that’d let him find you.

He could still remember the first time he ever saw you – actually saw you, not through a screen, but in person. After he knew that you lived in the same city as him (the same district, even), it’d only taken a few more days to find your name, your age, your address. Still, he put off visiting you for weeks, telling himself that it didn’t matter, that you wouldn’t recognize him, that you wouldn’t want to see him. And, in the end, you hadn’t seen him at all – you hadn’t needed to.

That night, he’d watched your show from the rooftop of the building opposite of yours, straining to see you through a bedroom window left carelessly open. Even now, the guilt was almost tangibly agonizing, the shame practically unbearable.

Almost as unbearable as the temptation to go back.

But, that part would come soon enough. You were on screen, again, holding something he recognized.

“I have some exciting news,” you chirped, as you kneeled on the floor, holding a pitch-black dildo, a suction cup attached to the base. Despite its color, Nanami could make out defined veins running down the silicone shaft, a noticeable girth to the base. A perfect mirror of the cock currently pulsing for attention in his lap.

He felt himself grinning, as you went on. “I got my first real fan gift!” You held up the toy to your cheek, like a child showing off their first stuffed animal, before planting it on the floor between your thighs. “It’s so big, too,” you said, showing off its size, where the blunt tip rested well above your navel. “Everyone say thank you, Daddy Kento!”

Your chat was instantly flooded with predictable responses, but Nanami couldn’t look away from you. You were enjoying yourself, clearly. You must’ve thought you were so smart, renting out a P. O. box, going on and on about how grateful you were to your dedicated fans when he reached out to ask if you accepted physical donations, and you were smart. It was only a shame that Nanami loved you enough to look past all of your attempts to keep him away.

As you began to move onto your knees, he allowed himself one more intervention.

n. kento sent 3,000 credits!

n. kento: Take it to the hilt.

It was cruder than he usually cared to be, but as your eyes flickered towards your monitor, your lips quirked into a slight smile. You didn’t respond verbally, but you nodded, and sunk down onto his cock.

Immediately, his hand wasn’t enough, but he tried to make do – matching your agonizingly slow pace, imagining what it would feel like to have you lower yourself down onto his real cock, rather than a cheap imitation. Trails of iridescent slick dripped down the dark silicone, your camera positioned strategically to catch every bounce of your breasts as your breathing hitched, to provide the optimal view of your pussy stretching around the tip, then the head, then the shaft as you lowered yourself slowly. “It—It’s so big,” you repeated, bringing a hand up to your stomach while the other remained on the floor, keeping you stable. “I mean, I knew it would be, but—fuck—” Another inch, Nanami’s fist moving over the same part of his cock. You let out an airy laugh. “Just be thankful I’m so tough.”

“I am,” Nanami muttered, his voice echoing off the bare walls of his office. “You’re perfect.”

“I really wanna cum on this one, too – to, like, christen it, or something. Been keeping myself pent up all day for it.” With a pitchy keen, you brought yourself a few inches higher, then dropped. Your free hand shot away from your stomach and back to the floor as you continued to bounce on the toy’s length, getting just a little deeper each time. “Welcome it to family, y’know? Maybe make it a regular, for you sadists out there.”

Nanami stiffened at the thought of you fucking yourself on a replica of his cock in front of thousands of people twice a week; drooling and panting as you told your viewers how big he was, how good he felt inside of you. With his restraint brought to its limits, he fucked his fist carelessly, his attention fixed on the steady movements of your hips as you rode his toy. Your eyes didn’t flutter closed, this time – they clenched shut, and you couldn’t seem to keep your voice under control, little mewls and half-conscious whines bubbling up from your chest as you struggled to take that much more of him with every thrust. When you did manage to speak, your voice was uneven, whiney, so sweet it made him want to dig his teeth into something and tear. “I’m so close,” and then, as you brought yourself back down, so close to bottoming out, “I wanna cum!”

“You will,” Nanami whispered. He knew you couldn’t hear him, but it was true – you would, and if he’d been able to, he would’ve made you. He would’ve let you fuck yourself on his cock whenever you asked, would’ve woken you up every morning coming undone on his tongue and made sure you fell asleep with his cock buried inside of you. If you were with him, you’d never have to think again, never have to feel anything but pleasure – any time you wanted it, every time you wanted it. He’d make sure—

You didn’t moan as you reached the toy’s base, you screamed. One of your hands moved to the space between your thighs, two fingers rubbing quick circles into your clit as you nursed yourself through your orgasm. Nanami didn’t stand a chance, still chasing his fantasies as he spilled over his hand; searing hot cum pooling on his lap, soaking into the material of his shirt, spilling onto his desk. He didn’t stop moving his hand, though, not until you went limp – bending at the waist, bracing yourself on the floor. Finally, you managed to raise your head, flashing that brilliant smile towards the camera. Of course, Nanami smiled back.

In a daze, he watched you ease yourself off of the toy and wrap up your stream, so familiar from your script that he would’ve been able to recite it with confidence. Even after you signed off, the screen going black, he didn’t move, only letting his head roll to the side with a shallow sigh.

It was pathetic, just how much he loved you. It was painful, being so far from someone who made him feel so irrationally happy.

He could only count the days until he wouldn’t have to limit himself to only watching from a distance any longer.

There was a man in your apartment.

A man you didn’t want to be in your apartment, just to be clear. You’d heard the front door open, seen a bulky silhouette moving through your living room, and now, you were listening to him riffle through your bedroom as you hid in the en suite bathroom – crouched in the smallest corner you could find with both hands locked over your mouth, trying to stifle the sound of your own breathing. The door was locked, but that didn’t matter. You didn’t want to find out how much a thin sheet of wood would do to protect you. You didn’t want to give him a reason to acknowledge you at all.

As far as you could tell, there was only one intruder. You could only hear one pair of muffled footsteps, with second-long gaps between every little movement. The air caught in your throat as you heard him edge closer, closer, then pause. There was a dull clack, the sound of metal clashing against plastic, and you relaxed, sighing into your palms. Your filming equipment. It was expensive, but nothing you couldn’t replace. If you were lucky, he’d take what he could carry and leave.

And that was what he seemed to be doing, too – more rustling interrupted every so often by a few moments of heart-wrenching silence. Soon enough, you heard the intruder start to move again, his footsteps edging closer to the bathroom door as he moved to leave your bedroom entirely, and—

“(Y/n)?”

Fuck.

You didn’t say anything, holding your breath and digging your nails into your cheeks, willing yourself not to move, not to think. You didn’t make a sound, you couldn’t have, and yet he kept talking.

“I know you’re in there. Please, come out.”

He couldn’t know. He couldn’t know. You’d kept the lights off, and you hadn’t moved in minutes, and—

He tried the knob, and something cracked deep inside of your chest. There was an airy sigh, then a dull thud, like he was leaning against the door frame. “Please,” he repeated, sounding more exasperated than angry. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“Y-you can take whatever you want,” you stuttered, your voice unsteady, just a touch louder than it really had to be. That was fine. You didn’t have to pretend to be brave, so long as you made it out of this alive and uninjured. “I won’t call the police – I can’t call the police, I left my phone in the kitchen. You can take it, too. I… I don’t have a lot of cash, but my camera, it should be worth—”

“I don’t want your camera, love.” If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought he sounded wistful. “Come out, or I’ll break down the door.”

Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to you that he could.

It took a second to pry your hands off of your face, and another to push yourself to your feet – your legs shaking as you struggled to stand. Almost mechanically, you moved towards the door; unlocking it in the same motion as you pulled it open. Light from your bedroom spilled into the entryway, revealing—

God.

He was taller than you’d expected him to be.

Six feet at least, with a build to match. The sleeves of his dress-shirt were rolled up to his elbow, showing off arms so muscular, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d planned to tear your door off its hinges with his bare hands. He had a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, visibly full, but you could still see your equipment standing untouched behind him, and you couldn’t imagine anything else he would’ve wanted to take. His blonde hair was swept back, out of his eyes, and he was holding a butcher’s knife in his right hand, the blade wrapped in leopard-spotted fabric. Surprisingly, though, his weapon wasn’t what concerned you the most.

He was smiling. No, actually, that wasn’t right.

He was beaming.

“(Y/n),” he said, again. You didn’t let yourself wonder why he knew your name. “I—I’m sorry, I should’ve introduced myself earlier. I might’ve gotten a little carried away – I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

“…it’s okay,” you managed, your voice barely audible. “Are you going to kill me?”

His expression dropped. “No. Of course not.” And then, after a brief lapse, “I’d never hurt you. I…” You saw his right hand flex around the grip of his knife, and thought you might black out. “I’m a fan.”

Instantly, you felt the blood freeze in your veins.

Fuck. Fuck.

You knew you should’ve gone into accounting.

“I… You’re a fan?” You tried to smile, but it might’ve come across more pained than relieved. “I’m sorry, I’m not used to meeting people who’ve caught my stream. Should I know what to call you?”

And just like that, his grin was back, any momentary tension assayed. You wished he would’ve put down the knife, too, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Kento,” he said, and for the first time, you noticed the pink hue creeping over his cheeks. “Nanami Kento.”

You grit your teeth as you struggled to place him. After a second, it came to you.

Kento. Right. The dildo guy.

Somehow, knowledge provided little comfort. Still, you soldiered on. “It’s really nice to meet you, Nanami.” You clasped your hands behind your back, rocking gently on your heels. “I—I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting any guests. If you want to step out for a couple minutes, I can change into something more comfortable, and show you how appreciative I am for your—”

“I’m not an idiot.” He cut you off, still grinning. “You’re coming with me.”

You didn’t let your smile waver, either. “And, if I didn’t want to go with you…?”

“I’m afraid this isn’t about what you want, anymore.”

You meant to say something – opened your mouth and everything – but nothing came out. Your heart tightened in your chest, a not inconsiderable portion of your mind screaming for you to run, run, run. And yet, when he took you by the wrist in a feather-light hold, leading you through your own apartment and out into the hall, it was all you could do to smile and follow after him.

The first thirty minutes of the car ride passed in silence. Nanami – because you couldn’t stand to keep thinking of him as ‘that guy who bought you a dildo shaped like his own dick and paid you thousands of dollars to ride it live on stream’ – kept his knife in his lap, his hand falling away from the wheel and onto its hilt whenever you so much as took a deep breath. Eventually, your eyes fell to the clock built into his dashboard, and you broke through your paralysis with a nervous laugh.

“It’s a little funny,” you started, for lack of anything else to do. “I’d actually normally be getting ready for my stream, around now.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him swallow, his jaw tensing. “I know.”

Great. Okay. Whatever. “I don’t mind, y’know,” you managed, before you could let yourself fully consider what you were going to say. “If it means we don’t have to go through with the whole kidnapping thing, I really wouldn’t mind sleeping with you – you can even take pictures, if you’d like that, or record, whichever you’d prefer.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I haven’t tried a lot of hardcore stuff, but I wouldn’t mind if that’s what you’re into. We don’t even have to go back to my apartment, you could just pull over, and—”

“That’s not what I’m interested in.” He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone left no room for protest. “I’m not going to… I’m not going to just fuck you once and leave you by the side of the road. I’m doing this for your sake.”

As if you’d willingly climbed into a maniac’s car. “I… I’m not following, Kento.”

“It’s for your own protection. Once I thought to look, it took me hours to find out everything about you.” He spared you a quick glance, that same uncanny smile. One of his hands left the wheel and, rather than moving to his knife, found your knee, squeezing gently. It took everything you had not to scream. “Imagine what someone could do with that kind of information. They could blackmail you, if they found your full name, or track you down if they pieced together your address. It’d be a miracle if they were only a stalker. It just wasn’t safe to let you keep going on that way.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to him. “They could even break into my apartment and abduct me at knifepoint.”

His gaze narrowed, but his smile only softened. Neither of you spoke for the rest of the journey.

After far too long and not nearly long enough, you reached your destination: a housing complex, leagues nicer (and more expensive) than your own rundown building. Calling them apartments would’ve been a disservice; they were more similar to free-standing condos, or miniature villas slotted just outside of the city’s more metropolitan districts. Without a word, you let him guide you into a relatively generic home, its only notable feature being the absolute lack of evidence of meaningful life within it. You wouldn’t have been surprised if it was a rental, leased exclusively to give him someplace to do… well, whatever he planned to do to you. It’d be more off-putting to know that someone actually lived someplace so vacant.

He led you through the empty halls and up a flight of stairs, keeping you in front of him and in his line of sight at all times. Finally, you reached the door he seemed to be looking for and, with a nod by way of instruction, let yourself inside.

Before you stood, puzzlingly, your own bedroom.

Or – the parts of it you could make out on camera, at least. The bed was the same size, the same model, made with the same sheets and littered with the same pillows, but the floor was covered in a harsh white carpeting, the surrounding walls soundproofed with suffocating black foam. Camera equipment identical to your own had been set-up at the foot of your bed, but an unfamiliar silver laptop replaced your own sticker-covered monstrosity. You didn’t see any chains, whips, or shock collars, which was good. You still didn’t know what the fuck was going on, which was bad.

Confused, you turned to Nanami as he crossed the threshold and rather conservatively, shut and locked the door. “There are clothes on the bed,” he explained, with a tone that made it difficult to tell whether or not he knew how weird this was. “A script, too. Memorize as much as you can.”

So he still expected you to stream. Or, that was what you hoped, at least – considering the only alternative was that he was planning to make an extremely elaborate snuff film. “I’m not used to using scripts.”

“You’ll manage.”

You didn’t bother trying to argue, only moving towards the bed and attempting to forget he was there entirely.

The ‘clothes’ he’d left for you turned out to be lingerie – the nice stuff, too, white and lacey and bridal with a babydoll cut. You glanced over his script (which, disturbingly, didn’t exactly not sound like you) as you got dressed and fixed your hair, doing the best you could without any of your usual supplies. You wouldn’t be able to reapply your make-up, but you’d put some on earlier, and—

You almost laughed at yourself, stifling a chuckle.

You’d been kidnapped, and you were worried about your make-up. If you got out of this alive, you swore, you’d never touch foundation or a ring light or a camera ever again.

He didn’t have to tell you when it was time – you would’ve known by instinct alone. With Namami watching from an armchair pushed against the opposite wall, you clambered onto the bed and took your usual position, kneeling in center frame. He’d never asked for your credentials, and yet, when you glanced towards the laptop positioned just underneath the main camera, you found that your own profile was already pulled up, a miniature timer in the corner of the screen counting down the seconds until you went live.

As it reached thirty seconds ‘till, it occurred to you that you were in a soundproof room alone with the man who’d kidnapped you and was currently holding you hostage, and that no one could’ve possibly known where you were or, more importantly, who you’d been taken by.

As it reached fifteen, you realized you were being held captive and being forced to wear bridal lingerie that your kidnapped must’ve picked out with the occasion in mind.

As it reached five, for the first time that day, you thought you might actually start to cry.

And, as it reached zero, you put on your biggest, brightest smile and hoped beyond hope that you’d stop thinking entirely, eventually.

“Welcome home!” Skipping over your normal grace period only felt right. You didn’t think you’d be able to survive sitting in silent, motionless suspension for another second, let alone a full minute. “Sorry if I seem a little nervous tonight – to tell the truth, I kind of am. I’ve got a major announcement, and I just can’t put it off any longer.”

Reflexively, your attention drifted first to your own feed – you looked perfect, as always – then to your chat, moving quickly despite your sudden start. You caught a few of the longer messages in your peripheral.

secretary.lover: Is it just me, or does she seem kind scared lmao?

blueeyeswhitedragon: yeahhh i thought her room looked kinda weird too lol

justheretowatch: fuck ur pretty

rapidfire: let me guess, another fake dick?

“I know I probably should’ve given you guys more of a warning,” you went on, fighting the temptation to break, to yell for them to call the police, to give up entirely and make a run for it. “But…”

You forced yourself to laugh, to beam, to clap your hands together in front of your chest like a schoolgirl – excited to tell her friends that she’d gone through with her first ever confession. “I’m getting married!”

You didn’t have a ring to show off, but you tried your best to preen regardless, to not let any amount of fear or discomfort or hesitation show on your shining expression. After a show delay, congratulations and well-wishes filled your chat (some genuine, others more reluctant), and you did your best to go on without letting the sizable knot slowly gaining mass in the back of your throat smother your voice entirely. “This is going to be my last stream – for a while, at least, until we get settled in. And…”

You tried to remember what’d been listed next in Nanami’s script, but your conscious mind was bogged down by a thick layer of buzzing static, your sense of improvisation dulled by a heavy dose of anxiety. Your eyes flickered to where Nanami was sitting behind your equipment, only to find that the chair he’d formerly occupied empty. You didn’t have time to panic before the edge of the mattress dipped under a new weight, and you remembered what you were supposed to say. “My husband actually wanted to cameo on my send-off show. I was a little hesitant—” Another dip in the mattress, this one much closer than the last. “—but he insisted. I thought you all deserved a chance to meet him, too.”

As soon as you finished, you felt a large hand on your shoulder, a sudden presence at your back. Your gaze fell back to your feed, your own image now accompanied by that of your captor – on his knees behind you, one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip, the framing positioned so that his head was cut off just above the mouth. The lower half of his face was covered with a black surgical mask, and you had to stop yourself from frowning. You hadn’t expected him to be stupid enough to show his face on camera, but still.

Your heart dropped into your stomach as you felt his hand fall away from your shoulder, slipping underneath the lace camisole of your babydoll. You tried not to move, not to flinch, but you couldn’t stop yourself from jerking forward as you felt his hand slip under your bralette, the angular ridges of his knuckles visible through the thin silk. Despite everything he’d said about not hurting you, about doing this for your protection, he made no attempt to be gentle – the calloused pads of his fingers pressing into the curve of your breast with enough force to bruise. You bit back a whimper, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sincere reaction. If you wanted to go home, you had to put up with this. He’d never said anything about pretending to enjoy it.

(In the back of your mind, you knew he hadn’t said anything about letting you go home, either. Still, you didn’t let yourself dwell on such discontinuities).

You should’ve known better than to think he’d attempt to follow the normal flow of your stream, and yet, it still caught you off-guard when his unoccupied hand found its way to the waistband of your panties, then to your clothed sex. You weren’t overly sensitive, despite how you might’ve acted in front of your viewers, but you were still on edge, still panicked, and while the adrenaline being held at knifepoint might’ve sparked was beginning to fade, having your kidnapper grope you on camera was enough to bring on a fresh wave. Reflexively, you pressed your back into his broad chest as his thumb traced over the length of your slit, pausing only momentarily to press into your clit with a dull, oppressive sort of pressure, biting down on your bottom lips to stop anything vulnerable and pathetic from escaping. If Nanami was affected by your stoicism, it wasn’t enough to stop him from pulling the flimsy material to the side entirely and slipping two fingers into you, your now-slick cunt providing humiliatingly easy access. In the same motion, the heel of his palm pressed into your clit, the friction immediately too harsh, too much. It would’ve been too much if he wasn’t touching you at all. It would’ve been too much if he was still sitting alone in his dark, empty house – getting off to the idea of degrading someone he claimed to care about so publicly.

It didn’t help that you were wet. Not dripping, sure, but wet enough for there to be an audible, slick clicking-type noise as he pumped his digits into you, never taking the pressure off of your clit. You could feel his cock pressed into your ass, already hard, already too familiar not to be nauseating, but he didn’t seem to be in a rush to move past your exhibition; his pace measured and experimental, his fingers prone to spreading apart and curling inside of you. To distract yourself, you moved your attention back to your chat, trying to pick out the longer messages between donation notifications.

user84343: girl i call dibs when you’re done with him

hotbox420: no seriously y/n are you okay???

bunnygirl69: still can’t believe you’re leaving us for him </3 can’t say i don’t see why tho ToT

absolutely.soaked: Blink twice if you’re in danger lmaoooo

“G-guys, I’m totally—” Your breath hitched as he forced another finger into you, the stretch now a touch past ignorable. His other hand kneaded at your chest, blunt nails scraping against tender flesh, and momentarily, you wondered if it really would’ve been so bad to take your chances and let him kill you right away. “I’m totally fine, I’m just—” His nails bit into your skin by way of warning, and you allowed yourself a single, stilted moan. “I’m just so happy that I finally get to—to—”

You didn’t know what you were supposed to say, but it didn’t matter. Nanami’s hand dropped from your chest to your side, his arm locking over your midriff and hauling you that much closer. You couldn’t stop yourself this time – whimpering as the tempo of his fingers sped up, as tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes. You glanced around the bedroom, searching for anything familiar, anything you could use to stabilize yourself, anything that you could start to find comforting. Instead, your eyes landed on the duffle bag he’d carried out of your apartment, the zipper now partially undone. You couldn’t see much, but you could make out the handle of a pink hitachi. It wasn’t difficult to guess what the rest of the bag’s contents looked like, what he’d spent so long riffling through your possessions to find.

It wouldn’t been pointless to try and hold back the crooked, ebbing sob that leaked past your lips. This time, when you turned to face your camera, it was with tears just beginning to spill and absolute terror written across your expression. “Call the police,” you managed to spit out, making no attempt to be subtle. “I—I don’t actually know this man, and this isn’t my apartment, and—“

It happened too quickly – like he’d been expecting you to do something so obviously short-sighted. You processed that he was pulling out of your cunt as you felt his fingers entangle themselves in your hair, and then your face was being shoved against the mattress, your body folding over itself as he forced you down. You tried to yell, tried to scream, but your voice was muffled by your own fucking comforter as you heard fabric shifting behind you, as you felt something warm and stiff and leaking align with your entrance. You refused to put a name to it, but that didn’t help. Nothing would’ve helped.

His palm pressed into the back of your head, his body slotting against yours as he leaned down, lowering his head so that he could speak directly into your ear. “I’m doing this for your own good,” he whispered, his voice muffled but still painfully audible. “I’m doing this because I love you.”

You didn’t have a chance to response. He was already inside of you – his cock filling you to your breaking point.

You weren’t sure if your viewers could hear you, but you hoped they could. It would’ve been a pity to sob so loudly for the sole entertainment of the sick, sick man currently rutting into you, grinding into your cunt from behind with a kind of animalistic desperation – all desire and no control. It was a struggle to stay on your knees, not to go entirely limp underneath him, but you doubted it would’ve made a difference if you hadn’t, that he wouldn’t have fucked your limp body just as enthusiastically. Out of the corner of your eyes, you could just barely see the monitor – the miniature image of Nanami’s body moving on top of yours, his blond hair still obscuring the other half of his face, and then next to it, your chat. If you’d been thinking more clearly, you wouldn’t have let yourself look, wouldn’t have let yourself fully acknowledge that there were still thousands of people watching you, but you weren’t thinking at all, and you would’ve given anything for someone to say something that made you forget where you were, just for a second.

sniper727: so the bitch likes it rough? hot

callmeanonymous: FINALLY!!! I’ve been waiting for some cnc rp for actual years.

blueeyeswhitedragon: hey i think i might work with that guy

hotbox420: yeah no i’m calling the cops.

Predictably, your efforts were grotesquely unsuccessful.

Nanami didn’t seem as bothered. The weight on the back of your head disappeared as his hands found your hips, pulling up as he straightened his back. For anyone else, it might’ve been an awkward position – holding up your uncooperative form while bouncing you on his cock – but no amount of unpleasant technicalities could’ve stopped him from burying himself to hilt with every stroke, keeping you in a constant state of mind-numbing fullness. You tried to talk, again, to call for help, but fractured mewls and pathetic whines drowned out whatever you might’ve said, and even those were put to an end as Nanami took you by the jaw, turning you to face him as his lips crashed into your – his mask either pulled down or discarded entirely, you couldn’t be bothered to check. The kiss itself was messy, rough, brutal, his tongue raking over yours as you sobbed unabashedly into his mouth – your connection only growing more chaotic as his hand once again found your clit and ground two fingers into the sensitive bundle of nerves. You knew what he wanted. You knew what he was trying to do.

And you couldn’t do anything to stop him.

With a ragged sob, you came undone around his cock, any strength you might’ve once had flooding out of your body and dripping down his shaft. Nanami groaned into your mouth, drawing back just far enough to bury his face in your neck and mouth meaningless nothings into your throat as he chased his own climax. He thrusted into you again once, twice, and then you felt pure heat pour into you – a new kind of torture that rendered you entirely senseless. You didn’t try to scream, again.

You were distantly aware of him moving, shifting, pulling something out of his pocket as he muttered a mix of ‘you did so well’s and ‘I love you’s into your skin. When you did finally manage to raise your head, you didn’t think to look toward the remote in his hand or your tattered lingerie or the cum slowly leaking out of your entrance. Rather, your attention landed on the same thing it always did during your streams – your monitor.

You’d never know why, but for whatever reason, you could feel your heart break in your chest as you realized that the screen had already gone black.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jjk imagines #yandere nanami #yandere nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader

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beloveds-embrace · 3 months ago

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DukeDom Poly!141

So, in one of the things (Simon and pleasure), you mentioned boudoir paintings…

OMFG I CAN JUST IMAGINE HIM MAKING ALL OF THEM DO ONE, I bet you he hangs them in his room. OH OH OH! also, I bet Simon can draw skjsudisndh 😭😩! HED SIT DOWN WHILE ONE OF THE OTHERS IS GOING AT IT WITH THEIR DUCHESS AND JUST DRAWS IN HIS CHAIR ON THE SIDE 😩😩. Reader laying on her back or ass up in the air, all sweaty and glowing while one of the boys goes at her in bliss and Simon just drawing her from the side lines… 😫🤭😩

Also, can I be 🪭 anon?

Dukedom 141 masterlist

God, Simon painting them himself? Absolutely yes.

He’d do sooo many paintings of you, it’d be concerning if you could actually think past the pleasure that clouds your mind. He has you in so many different lingeries, things that make you turn warmer than a furnace and your men’s eyes darken with want; silks and laces that snag around your soft skin, garter belts that frame the length of your thighs, custom panties with nothing more than a neat, glowy string of pearls to line your cunt with a matching jewelry set.

Simon dresses you himself, and none of the men say anything against it; he is in his element, drawing the stockings up your legs and kissing your ankles along the way, big hands carressing your calves. He takes his time lacing up your corsets and bras, kissing up your spine, cupping your tits in his big, warm hands and kneading and groping until your nipples are stiff enough for his liking, for what he needs to do his painting, and you have that lovely, desperate and needy expression on your face.

Simon may do the painting, but to him, the scene itself is art: you, you, you. Face down and ass up, bared to his gaze and brushes while Kyle keeps your hips up with a hand under your belly and three fingers pumping in and out of you, your noises, sweet moans and cries, a background melody with Kyle whispering praises into you ear until Simon can see how well you cream around those thick fingers.

Art, that’s what you truly are. No painting will ever truly capture your beauty, but still, Simon tries-

And that means he also has you in so many different poses. Another day, another lingerie sets, teeth marks indented over your body, your ankles and calves, while Johnny keeps you pinned and spread with his body. Simon focuses on your straining muscles, your pretty painted nails raking down Johnny’s back and leaving behind angry red lines that don’t compare to the way he pistons into you, your pretty cunt stretched around him and your combined cum drenching the bed. Your legs, adorned in heels Simon specifically got for you, shake and tremble, your pleasure visible and audible to all.

And John… Simon doesn’t think he’s ever seen a better seat for you than his face. You look perfect, twitching and whining, your hair and makeup a mess of a canvas, John’s hands around your hips like unbending snakes. He’s made you cum so many times, your nub swollen and sensitive under his heavy tongue, you’ve soaked his beard, his face, his neck- and yet he doesn’t stop. A queen has no reason to leave her seat, no? And yet it’s your expression that has Simon fixated, the way you look around, look at him as if you want to beg him to save you or join you. Maybe both.

Simon paints each and every one. Moments frozen in his paintings, never comperable to the real thing, and yet adored all the same.

(And you stare at the finished paintings with awe, in spite of your blush. The way he’s drawn you… you never knew you were seen so beloved.

You turn back to Simon, bejeweled fingers wrapping around his cravat, and pull him close to kiss the corner of her lips. Your men continue to admire the paintings, but you are focused on the painter.

“I want one of you and I, Simon my love.”)

First time writing smut (if this can even be considered that 💀😭)

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allophonicmess · 8 months ago

Text

Too Sweet

Logan Howlett x fem!Reader

Act 1

Remember that inspo I posed the other day? I coudn't let it go and decided to write a three part fic based on it.

Warnings: spoilers for Deadpool& Wolverine, descriptions of a panic attack, angst, implicaded age gap

word count 2k

No beta and English isn't my first language

there will be fluff later on but sadness first:

Too Sweet

Logan felt a great mix of emotions since he had followed that red-ass clown Wade into this universe. Most of it was anger, confusion, rage… But In that moment as he was sat on the black beat-up couch among Wade’s friends… He was overwhelmed.

Not by sensory overload, although that casserole that blind Al had made did stink up the place with garlic-

He was overwhelmed by the feeling of happiness, joy and companionship of the people around him. He hadn’t felt that way in ages if he ever did at all. He never felt that way with his team before everything happened.

He liked them, sure. But this company of weirdos shared a Kinmenship he never got to experience.

“Hey, Peanut! Are you angrily staring off into space to allow for good exposition?” Wade had plopped down on the couch right next to him. His jeans-clad thigh rubbed right up to his. At this point, Logan had given up on trying to keep him out of his personal space.

The older man frowned and stared at Wade next to him. His beer was getting warm but he didn’t feel like giving up his spot on the couch.

“The fuck are you talking about?” He huffed, taking another sip of his beer. But Wade just clicked his tongue, scooting even closer to Wolverine.

“Aww, you know what I mean! You are big and gruff and don’t talk that much… It’s kinda hard to capture you in writing you know. There are only so many words in the English language to describe your grunting and-“

“Are you done?” Logan sighed, finishing his drink. He was starting to regret coming with Wade. Getting drunk in some shit hole of a bar sounded better than listening to Wade's babbling.

“See! That’s what I mean. Sigh is nice, sure but it doesn’t quite capture the nature of those beautiful noses you make, big boy.” Wade petted Logan's thigh, which the older man quickly pulled away as he stood up abruptly.

“Jesus fucking- Can’t you annoy someone else? You got all of these muppets to talk to. Stop bothering me god damn it.” Logan placed the empty bottle down on the couch table. He scanned the room, looking for someone else that Wade could annoy to death. His eyes landed on the brunette… Vanessa… He knew that something had been going on between Wade and her. He never told him the details but from the pining look Wade gave her and the sad as fuck sighs he made, it was clear that the motherfucker wasn’t over her.

“Go and talk to the girl for god's sake. She might be the only one here to appreciate it.” He grinned at Wade, enjoying how his stupid grin faltered even for just a second. He leaned down on Wade's level, whispering to him in an overly joyous manner. “It might even get you laid.”

They stared at each other for a hot minute. Both men tying to provoke the other into action. But Logan was getting bored so he pushed “I might try if you don’t have the balls-“

“Fine!” It came out way too loud. Wade got up quickly trying to keep up his jolly attitude. “Fine, I will. But not because you said so.”

“Or threatened you.”

“You didn’t threaten me.”

“Sure, if you need to believe that” Logan got back onto the couch, now stretching out lazily across it. He closed his eyes, pretending to snooze.

There was no witty comeback, which surprised Logan. But it only came to show that Wade was serious for once.

Logan would never tell but he warmed up to Deadpool. He respected the man, despite his annoying and borderline brain-rotting bad humour. But he had principles. He cared for those around him, loved them dearly and would do anything to protect them. He did in fact. Logan spread out on his worn leather sofa is proof of it. He hated to admit it but Wade was the better man of the two. He didn’t let those he loves down, running away like the drunk asshole Logan is. Wade would have come to help her, would have-

The obnoxiously loud ringing of Wade’s apartment doorbell ripped Logan out of his self-deprecating talk. He blinked against the bright ceiling light and watched as Wade sighed softly. He had just started his conversation with Vanessa and it seemed to be quite a good talk from the looks of it. He seemed frustrated to be ripped away from it. Wade nodded softly, towards Vanessa, excusing himself but he was stopped by Colossus.

“No please Wade, I get it. You seem to be engaged in an interesting conversation.” The 7’5’’ metal man said, touching Wade by the shoulder to turn him back towards to woman. Logan huffed, he wasn’t the only one trying to get Wade laid.

The giant stomped towards the door, turning the doorknob that looked comically small in his silver hand to let the latecomer in.

“Hi! I’m so sorry for being late. I still had to finish some work. It’s the end of the semester, you know how it is.” A sweet voice called from outside.

Then two things happened at the same time. It was like a push and pull.

Ellie, Yukio, even that odd taxi driver… they all turned towards the door in excitement. Smiling and wooing at the woman that just entered the apartment with a cake carrier tucked under her arms.

Logan on the other hand? He felt like he couldn’t breathe. He sat there, staring as Colossus pulled her into a big hug, lifting her off the ground before taking the container off her hands to allow the others to greet her. She was smiling, laughing at some joke Ellie had cracked at her.

She looked younger. Maybe she was, who knows how time worked in this universe. Or it was the lack of stress she had to face, no heartbreak, no constant rejection from a bastard that couldn’t see that the best thing was right in front of him.

“Ah, there you are! We were starting to miss you!” Wade pulled her into a tight hug. He seemed to be content. And the older man cursed himself for even caring about it.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, or so he hoped. Maybe she didn’t know him. It would be for the best.

“Yeah, I already told Piotr, I had to finish some lesson planning at the academy before the school year is over.” She replied as she greeted Vanessa and the rest of the group.

“Oh right. You are the only one that actually knows what she’s doing at that school.” Wade joked, earning a playful remark from Colossus.

So she also studied at a human university before starting at the school, Logan noted. He was still stuck on the couch, feeling unable to move as he kept staring at her.

“You know her?” The sudden comment coming from right next to him made Logan flinch.

“Whoa, relax man. I just noticed you staring at her for like 5 min straight. And you don’t seem too happy about her being here.” Ellie stood next to him, casually watching the scene just as he did.

“None of your fucking business.” Logan managed to spit out. While he did get startled, the interruption helped him to finally feel able to move again. And it happened just at the right moment. He needed to get the fuck out of there.

Ellie just huffed, watching Logan get up on shaky legs. It could just be from the constant level of alcohol in Logan’s blood, making his knees weak, or the age. But she suspected that there was more.

Yet Logan’s attempt at a quiet escape was hindered by Piotr, calling him to come to the kitchen to introduce the two.

“Come to kitchen! I want you to meet my good friend Y/N. She also works at the school. You will like her”, the man sounds proud. He should be.

Logan ignored him, pushing his way through the small crowd with shaky steps. Why was he sweating for god's sake?

“Logan!”

“No” He called, breathing was getting harder again.

“Logan!”

“I’m good! I’m-“ He finally reached the door, rattling the doorknob and cursing that his fucking fingers got shaky. Everything was too loud and too hot and too-

“Wade, it’s fine. He doesn’t have to.“ She tried to stop the two men next to her from calling the man over. He was clearly in distress and it hurt her to watch him fumble on his way out. There were only so many people that were scared of her outside the battlefield.

She had met “their” Logan, but only briefly at some anniversary event. They had simply mismatched their time at the school. He left shortly after Y/N started working and they hadn’t met much. She wondered what the other her must have done to him to cause such a reaction.

Finally. Fucking finally. The door opened and Logan simply burst into the hallway, rushing down the steps to feel the air rush back into his lungs. A fucking embarrassment. That is what he was. The Wolverine scared shitless by a woman that doesn’t even know him.

But the other one did and it killed her.

“Logan, what in the ever-loving- fuck was that?” Wade had run after him. He just couldn’t leave it alone, could he?

“Fuck off.” Logan breathed weakly. He felt tears prickling in his eyes and it made him hate himself just a little bit more.

“You just running off? Scared of a girl?” Wade kept pushing, following Logan as he walked down the familiar street towards his bar of choice. That being the cheapest and quietest he could find in the city.

“Scared you can’t get one off? I don’t wanna make predictions but man, I think she is into the dark brooding type” he kept pushing “ Or you know what? If I can’t get Vanessa laid I might try with her, I mean she is quite-“

That made Logan snap. Turning around and impaling Wade against the closest wall. Both sets of claws out and push into the other man's torso. He only groaned in return.

“Don’t you fucking dare! Don’t you fucking-“

“Okay, okay, whoa ow… man-“ Wade coughed, lifting his hands in surrender. “ I was only joking man. Unfair. Fuck. I am unarmed-urgh”

Logan retracted the claws letting Wade drop to the floor. He knew the man was joking, he should. But it was all too fucking much too soon. He wouldn’t let it happen again. And how to best prevent the inevitable heartbreak? Don’t even let her get close, to begin with. She didn’t deserve it. She never did in the first place and he would do anything in his power to stop it from happening to her.

“So, you are just leaving me hanging? It’s your party too, you know.” Wade got up, inspecting the bloody holes that stained his new shirt. He cursed softy. “Damn, it was brand new. Ruining a perfectly good shirt for the exposition”

“Don’t wait for me,” Logan said, turning away from Deadpool. A cheap bottle of whisky was waiting for him to calm his nerves and forget about that fucking stunt. He won’t see her again, not even talk to her or talk about her. It’s for the best. She would agree if she knew, Logan was sure of it.

New requets for being added to the list via comments on the Masterlist post, please. That helps me to keep things organized :)

Do comment here for feedback and spreading some love ❤️

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan x reader #deadpool wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool #x men #fanfiction #x reader #reader insert #angst

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kurooh · 8 months ago

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HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY 🔥🥰

I truly love your work I was wondering if you can do more MHA men and how they would be like if fem reader was famous (model, actress , artist etc) have a great rest of your day❤️❤️❤️

BEGGIN’ ON HER KNEES TO BE POPULAR ! — BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA

⊹₊˚. you’re his celebrity crush. (still, even after you started officially dating)

⟡ feat. aged up! midoriya izuku, todoroki shōto, kirishima eijirou, kaminari denki, takami keigo.

⟡ warnings: 18+ content (mdni), f! reader, some fluff, all characters & reader are 25+, quirkless/modern au, different au’s for each character, brainrot post.

⟡ xoxo, juno: omg nonnie this req is absolutely brilliant. thank you for the birthday wishes!! 💓

being a dancer/performer means your limbs are always a little achy or tight, and that’s where izuku comes in to help you stretch out. in other words, he fucks you in every position possible until you’re melting beneath him. he’ll attend all your performances and cheer, the loudest in the audience.. he’s almost gotten kicked out a few times. izuku’s always observing you, especially when you dance, and so he sweeps you into his arms after dinner, then slow dances with you.

shōto poses nude for you and sits pretty as you paint him onto your canvas, meticulously capturing the slopes and curves of his body. you’re the artist, and he’s your muse — even after years of painting him clothed or nude, he still gets hard from just your eyes on him. after a painstakingly long time spent correcting and coloring, you finally stand and give his drooling cock the attention it deserves.

denki’s a renowned singer, and you’re his groupie. despite the rumors of all the women he’s been with, you’ve come to learn that they were untrue. the second he saw you in the audience cheering, he decided to invite you backstage. then he started giving you free concert tickets to every show; it only progressed from there. so many of his fans are jealous, but he doesn’t care. if he could, he’d fuck your brains out right in front of them. denki helped make you famous by recording your voice and your moans in the studio, then he added them into his songs.

eijirou’s friends are tired of hearing about you all the time— all he does is rave about his beautiful model girlfriend and show pictures of her. he loves to participate in your social media posts and monitor the comment sections, etc. sometimes eijirou leaves one too many marks along your body (your boss hates him), or fucks you until you can barely walk just because. occasionally your instagram posts and sfw rating amps up when eijirou takes your phone and posts something a little suggestive about you two.

your most popular movie received worldwide attention, and even more when the truth about you and your costar, keigo, got out. you couldn’t escape the relationship questions all over social media or in interviews once everyone learned you’d hated each other behind the scenes, yet had unmistakable chemistry on screen. unbeknownst to the audience, you’d only maintained the chemistry with him because of some quick fucks before and after shooting. of course, it’s not like the sex stopped after filming and production— you’re still secretly seeing each other, practically dating now. your fans often ignore or wonder about the blank instagram account that likes to call you theirs in comments below your posts in response to others.

#kurooh #mha smut #bnha smut #bnha x reader #mha x reader #denki smut #denki x reader #hawks smut #hawks x reader #kirishima smut #kirishima x reader #todoroki smut #todoroki x reader #bnha headcanons #mha headcanons #deku smut #deku x reader #midoriya x reader #midoriya smut

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readwritealldayallnight · 1 month ago

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I am obsessed with your page and EQUALLY excited for part two to the coffee-place-stalker-fic !!!

I saw your requests were open and was wondering if I could request Simon with a teacher!reader? Maybe he’s helping her with crafts for Valentine’s Day or hes back from deployment and surprises her at school?

Just something wholesome and fluffy?

Thank you🩷

Part two of the coffee place stalker fic

~~~~~

“Well, what should we do-”

“It doesn’t look like he’s got anything with him-”

“Definitely not any parent I recognize-”

“Do we go into lockdown? Or safe school-”

“He hasn’t done anything wrong, I mean he’s just standing there-”

“Yes, but why is he standing there-”

“Hi ladies.” You murmur, walking into the staff room you notice a group of your coworkers huddled up around the window, peering intently outside at something

It’s not often that anything going on outside of the staff room during recess could be important enough to pull their attention away from the food they have 20 minutes to scarf down before they’re back to caring for other people offspring, those issues are precisely why the board hires lunch monitors

But apparently whatever is happening outside in the school parking lot is interesting enough to have nearly half a dozen of your colleagues poking their heads between the blinds to catch a glimpse, pre packed lunches and yesterdays leftovers forgotten

“There’s some weird man standing in the parking lot.” One of the younger teachers says, pulling the dusty blinds back for another not so subtle peek

“What’s he doing?” One of the schools educational assistants asks, having come in just behind you

“Nothing. Just standing there, this whole time.” The math teacher shrugs, never moving her eyes off the window

“Well how long’s he been out there?”

“Mrs Ashton says she first saw him almost a quarter of an hour ago, just before the bell rang.”

“We’re sure he’s not a parent?” One of the newer student teachers poses the question

“Well, no. But he certainly doesn’t like any of our parents.”

“He’s not done anything wrong, technically. Just odd that he’s lingering like that.”

“You don’t think the mask is odd as well?”

At that last remark from your colleagues, your head perks up, glancing towards the gaggle still gathered by the glass

“Has anyone told the vice principal yet? Maybe we should-”

“That’s aright, actually.” You say with a sigh, peering out the window for the first time and confirming your suspicions. “That one’s mine.”

You’re pulling your jacket tighter around yourself as the wind whips your hair all about, shaking your head in playful disbelief, but the smile stretching across your face cannot hide your delight in seeing him as you walk closer

“Okay, no more mask when you drop off my lunches from now on.” You tease, finally stepping near enough to see the slightly crinkled paper bag sat in the passenger seat of his truck

“Well maybe if someone didn’t forget her lunch, wouldn’t ’ave to be in this situation, would we?” He teases right back, both of you knowing very well that Simon lives for these small, mundane moments when he’s off from deployment, able to drop you off and pick you up from work, bring you lunches, have dinner ready when you get home, the small things that might seem tedious and boring to others, he lives for, knowing he gets to do them with you

“Well maybe if someone didn’t keep me in bed for an extra half hour this morning and had me rushing for work-”

“Don’t remember hearin’ many complaints this mornin’ about that extra half hour you spent bouncing on my c-”

The sound of the school bell ringing cuts him off, the both of you letting out small chuckles before you’re standing up on tip toes, reaching to give him a quick peck on the cheek over his mask, his large gloved hand giving your waist a slight squeeze before he tells you he’ll be around to pick you up soon as the dismissal bell goes off

You tell him that if he makes your favourite for dinner tonight, you might have dessert ready for him back in bed afterwards, an idea which the glimmer in his eyes tells you he’s more than okay with

You’re still grinning to yourself, walking back towards the front doors with your sack lunch held tightly in hand, when you send a quick wink to the now even larger crowd of colleagues watching you from the window

———

Thank you so much for the sweet words and the suggestion! I hope you’re okay with the way I took this lil prompt

I’m hoping to have stalker/fluff Simon posted by the end of the week, I’ve changed and edited that story more times than I can remember now, I just really want it right before it’s out there!

- M 🫶🏻

#asks #readwritealldayallnight #call of duty #call of duty fanfic #call of duty fic #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #cod fanfic #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost fanfic #call of duty ghost #simon fluff #cod simon riley

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santaeofficial · 7 months ago

Text

Week One Kickstarter Recap: Fully Funded In 28minutes, SIX Stretch Goals Achieved, Official Dino-Pet Reveal, Newest Pet Name Reveal and A Huge Thank You to our Beautiful Community!

We are officially at our 1 week mark into our Kickstarter Journey, and what an incredible journey is has been so far. Our absolutely wonderful community never ceases to amaze us! Thanks to the outpouring of love and support, not only were we fully funded in 28 minutes, we have officially unlocked SIX of our stretch goalsand are closing in on the seventh! We can hardly believe the momentum, and we are beyond grateful to every single one of you for making this possible. Santae is truly coming to life in ways we never imagined possible this soon, all thanks to YOU ALL!

We’re also excited to announce that we’ve added another new stretch goal! At the $65k mark, we will be unlocking a Dynamic Animated Weather & Seasons Systemthat will transform the world of Santae. This feature will introduce animated weather changes as well as animated seasonal effects that directly influence gameplay and provide a stunning immersive experience. Imagine your adventures under sun, snow, or rain—each weather change will bring new events, bonuses, and challenges, making Santae feel even more alive! (We also, as with our current animations, will be adding the toggle feature to turn any animations off to only showcase the static images for any players with sensitivites.)

And now, for a formal reveal… the completed Velotra! You’ve all been eagerly awaiting this, and we are thrilled to present the completed pose and rendering of this dino pet species! The Velotra is officially Santae's first dinosaur-inspired pet, and we couldn’t be more excited to see it roam the world alongside your beloved companions. This is a huge milestone, made possible only by the continuous overwhelming support from this incredible community. We can’t wait to see which pets will join the Velotra next!

Speaking of new pets, the most recently unlocked pet species will be revealed soon, so stay tuned! We are excited to announce the Official Name of this newly unlocked pet species has been chosen: Zephera, which will become our 27th Pet Species to come to the ever growing world of Santae!We know you’re all eager to meet this latest addition, and we promise it will be worth the wait. Keep an eye out for updates as we get closer to the official reveal.

As always, we are eternally grateful for every kind of support, from backing the campaign, being a part of our community to sharing Santae with friends and family. You all have made this journey something truly special, and we couldn’t have done any of this without you all. We are also excited to share that many more gifts will be coming your way, as well as an exciting adventure in our next upcoming newsletter from The Santae Team, so be sure to watch out for that!

Thank you once again for being the heart and soul of this project. With your endless love and support, we’re creating something truly magical together

With Love and Gratitude, ~The Santae Team

#santae #rpg #pet site #virtual pet site #pokemon #animal crossing #adventure

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wholoveseggs · 1 month ago

Note

Could you possibly write something with Elijah and boudoir??

I had the idea of the reader being best friends with Rebekah and Rebekah brings up the idea to her as a gift for Elijah and reader agrees. When she gets the photos back she ends up slipping them to him randomly during the day to get him worked up,, like at the breakfast table, while he’s reading, while he’s in his study working, ect ect. And finally he ends up snapping and he ends up punishing her for getting him all worked up… maybe with some spanking?? Then she gives him the photo album and he admires all the photos while cuddling?

If not,, that’s totally fine, please don’t write anything you’re not comfortable with!! I love your writing!!

Polaroids

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!reader} Hidden in his suits, tucked in his ties. Each scandalous polaroid Elijah finds drives him closer to the edge… until he finally snaps.

♡♡ Thank you for the lovely request darling anon!!! This is a late valentines day gift to you && all my beautiful followers ~xo ♡♡

4.8k words - Warnings: smutt, teasing, sexual tension, lingerie kink, boudoir photography, Elijah losing his legendary patience, spanking, an awkward family dinner, Rebekah being mischievous, Elijah's walk-in closet (a sacred space), && a dirty limerick ...

Elijah is a man of many layers, secrets within secrets, locked away behind centuries of careful control. He valued privacy, he valued discretion, and most of all. He valued you.

You had been dating for years now. He knew you inside and out. Or at least, he thought so.

It was almost Valentine's Day, and you had a special surprise planned.

It was a bit unusual for you to be so open about these kinds of things. You were private. More private than him, even. He never would have asked you to do something like this, not in a million years. And that’s why it was the perfect gift.

Rebekah had sparked the idea, encouraging you to go all out. Professional makeup, high-end lingerie, lighting, everything. She insisted on being the one to take the photographs, partly because she was better at it than any photographer you could hire and partly because she was the only person you trusted enough to see you in the state that you would be in.

At first, you both couldn’t stop giggling. It was awkward, playful, and you kept messing up every other pose. But soon enough, with Rebekah’s expert guidance, the session took on a sultry rhythm. By the time it was over, your cheeks burned from more than just laughter.

You were a little apprehensive when the prints came back. The images were intimate, and you knew that the moment you slipped the polaroid's into the pockets of your boyfriend’s suits, you would be signing him up for the most torturous few days of his life.

And it would all be worth it.

So, so, so worth it.

Elijah’s sense of fashion and style had always been immaculate. From the moment you met him, you had been drawn to the way he dressed.

The way he would take his time picking out his suits. The way his fingers skimmed over fabric, thoughtful, methodical. You thought it was cute that he liked to match his pocket square to his tie and his socks. It was the little things that made him endearing.

Which was why you had to wait until he was out to sneak into his closet. The one place no one but him was allowed to enter.

You felt like a teenager, sneaking around. His closet was locked, but you knew where to find the key. Hidden in his underwear drawer.

With shaking hands, you unlocked the door and stepped inside, exhaling softly at the sight before you.

His closet was nothing short of opulent. Dark mahogany wood gleamed under the soft recessed lighting, every shelf, drawer, and rack meticulously arranged. The rich scent of cedar and his cologne lingered in the air. A lush rug stretched across the floor, muffling your footsteps as you wandered deeper inside.

Your fingers trailed over the polished surface of the central island, where rows of ornate, vintage cufflinks sat nestled in velvet-lined drawers, each one a tiny work of art. You knew Elijah had collected them over the centuries, tiny fragments of history locked away in his closet like the rest of his carefully preserved past.

You could have spent hours just admiring the contents of his closet, marveling at his taste in clothing and accessories. It was like a museum of men’s fashion, every outfit an exhibit.

But today, you had a mission. You had spent weeks planning it, and now that it was finally here, you were equal parts nervous and excited.

Slipping your hand into the silk pouch you brought with you, you pulled out the first polaroid .

It was one of your favorites. Your body stretched out on the bed in nothing but the sheer, lacy red set Rebekah had picked out, soft lighting casting shadows over the curves of your thighs and the swell of your breasts. Your lips were slightly parted, eyes half-lidded as if waiting for someone. Waiting for him.

Smiling to yourself, you wandered over to where his suit jackets hung. Your fingers ghosted over the smooth lapels. A charcoal gray, a deep navy, a crisp black. Every piece, tailored to perfection.

Your eyes scanned the row, searching for the perfect jacket. You settled on one of your favorites. A midnight blue with a subtle herringbone pattern woven through the interior fabric.

Elijah wore this one often, and the idea of him wearing it again while the photo sat tucked safely away made your heart flutter with anticipation.

Carefully, you slid the photo into the inner breast pocket, smoothing out the fabric so there was no trace of it.

Next, you moved to his drawer of perfectly folded trousers. You slipped another polaroid into the pocket of his favorite charcoal slacks. This one of you kneeling on the floor, your hands behind your back, wearing nothing but a thong and an expression of pure obedience on your face.

He was going to lose his mind when he found that one.

One by one, you continued your game, tucking a scandalous little piece of yourself into his daily wardrobe. A black-and-white photo of you reclining in his chair, wearing only his dress shirt. ..Unbuttoned, of course...Went into his favorite black blazer.

Another, of you perched on his desk with your legs spread just enough to tease, slipped into his coat.

Finally, you approached the island in the center of the room, where his drawer of ties sat waiting.

You had saved the most provocative ones for last.

A dark navy tie caught your eye. It had tiny little hearts stitched on the inside fabric. The kind of thing he would wear for valentines day, a subtle touch no one else would see.

You reached out, gently lifting the tie from its place.

This one was special. This was the tie you were going to put the last photo in.

And the final photo… was truly the pièce de résistance.

You were fully bare, stretched across his bed on your stomach, ass in the air, a red heart-shaped buttplug nestled between your cheeks. Your face was turned to the side, biting your lower lip.

You had a feeling this was the one that was going to break him.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you carefully slid the photo into the interior lining of the tie, tucking it away so it was completely hidden. He would most likely find it when he was adjusting his tie, perhaps even in the middle of something important.

Your cheeks flushed, and you couldn't help the giggle that escaped your lips as you imagined his reaction.

For now, all you could do was wait. And when Elijah found them? Oh, he was going to make you pay for it.

Dinner at the Mikaelson estate was, as always, a grand affair, even if it was just a normal day. The dining room was dimly lit by the warm glow of the chandelier, the long mahogany table set with crystal glasses and fine silverware, an assortment of dishes spread elegantly before them.

Klaus was already half a bottle deep into a vintage red, while Kol swirled his own glass with a knowing smirk. Rebekah sat across from Elijah, offering him a look that was just a bit too smug for his liking.

He ignored her.

He had to.

Because for the past five days, he had been enduring your little game. One he was certain his sister was a part of.

He found the first photograph on Monday, tucked neatly into the breast pocket of his favorite suit jacket. A stunning, sinful image of you stretched across his bed, lace barely covering anything, your gaze dark with invitation.

That was the moment he knew he was in trouble.

Tuesday, just as he was leaving for a meeting, he slid his hand into his trouser pocket. Only to freeze as his fingers brushed against glossy paper.

He had been halfway out the door when he dared a glance.

A photo of you kneeling, hands behind your back, lace panties so sheer they might as well have been nonexistent.

Elijah had promptly shut the door, canceled his meeting, and spent the next fifteen minutes in his office. Door locked, tie loosened, cock hard, a photo of you crumpled in his hand, the other pumping his cock as he pictured your face.

On Wednesday, he was convinced he had discovered them all.

Until he stepped into his Italian leather shoes.

And felt something crinkle beneath his foot.

For the first time in centuries, Elijah actually stumbled.

Rebekah, who had been passing by in the hallway, had stopped short, staring as he clutched the doorframe.

"Did you just trip?" she had asked, stunned.

"Hardly," he had responded, straightening immediately. As if his pulse wasn’t hammering in his throat.

He had waited until she disappeared before slowly, cautiously, extracting the latest piece of your torment from inside his shoe.

This one had been even worse.

You. Wearing nothing but one of his ties, wrapped neatly around your wrists.

His cock throbbed at the mere memory.

But he hadn't broken.

He could withstand this.

He was Elijah Mikaelson, and he would not be defeated by a few naughty pictures. He was a man of patience and refinement, and he could endure. He would wait until Valentine's Day, when he would show you what it meant to tease a vampire.

But that morning, as he adjusted his cufflinks at breakfast, he reached into his suit jacket pocket out of habit and immediately clenched his fist around the next scandalous polaroid .

He had been mid-sip of his coffee.

He had not been prepared.

For the first time since the invention of coffee, Elijah Mikaelson had actually choked.

Kol had howled with laughter.

"Blimey, brother, you alright? Coffee too hot?."

Elijah had merely dabbed at his mouth with his handkerchief, offering his most practiced, impassive look. "I'm fine."

He was absolutely not fine.

Now, sitting around with his family and you at dinner, mere hours away from Valentine's Day, he was rattled.

You had been purposely avoiding him all week. Staying at your own place, barely responding to his messages, keeping your distance. It was clear you were waiting him out, playing games.

Well, Elijah was a patient man. He would endure. No matter how scandalous, how sinful, how provocative you were being, he would not falter.

At least, that was the plan.

Niklaus leaned forward, swirling his wine lazily, and said, "So, Elijah, any plans with your lovely y/n on Valentine's Day? You are always so sentimental about the holiday," he teased.

"I have something special planned for us," you replied before Elijah could say anything, smiling mischievously.

Rebekah hid her snort behind a sip of wine and Elijah gave her a withering glare.

"What? You aren't making the plans Elijah? Do you remember... I think it was back in the 17th century... when you were obsessed with this baker girl? Such overtures for a bread maker…" Klaus began, grinning at the memory.

"No, not this story, please, Niklaus, not tonight," Elijah groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You placed a hand on his arm, giving him an apologetic look. But you desperately wanted to know the story.

"He had been sending her these love poems. You know how he was, always so proper, so romantic," Klaus continued.

"They were sonnets," Elijah muttered.

"Anyway, this little baker girl decides to send him one back, but it was rather crass limerick about how she wanted him to take her in the bakery," Klaus went on.

"There once was a baker so sweet, who begged, ‘Lay me down on the wheat" Kol began, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"She said, ‘Knead me like dough. Fill me up nice and slow," Rebekah joined in, leaning forward.

Elijah closed his eyes, wanting to dissolve into the flooring.

"And make sure that I rise with the heat!" the three of them finished in unison, all dissolving into laughter.

You could hardly breathe, you were laughing so hard, tears pricking at your eyes. Elijah looked as though he was going to stab someone with his fork.

"What happened to the girl?" you managed to ask through gasps.

"He ate her," Rebekah laughed.

"I did not," Elijah said immediately, scowling at the three of them. "She died of an infection, actually."

You wiped a tear away from your eye, still giggling, and reached out to stroke his cheek.

"I'm sorry, babe," you cooed, kissing his jaw.

He didn't seem impressed, but his gaze softened as you leaned into his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his.

The rest of the meal was a little less chaotic, and soon enough, it was time for dessert. There was an impressive spread of valentine's themed desserts. Heart shaped cookies, red velvet cupcakes, chocolate-covered strawberries, and a tray of mini éclairs.

Elijah was leaning back in his chair, sipping on his wine, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair. You had been stealing glances at him throughout the meal, trying to gauge his reaction. So far, he seemed unphased. It was clear he had not found the final photograph, and you were a bit disappointed. You had really hoped he would have discovered it by now.

But that was an easy fix.

You cuddled closer to him, reaching out to place a hand on his chest, stroking his tie idly. He glanced down at you, offering a warm smile.

Your eyes met his, and you subtly loosened the knot of his tie and moved it off center.

Just a fraction of an inch.

His eyes narrowed a bit.

But you didn't say a word.

Elijah took another sip of his wine, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer before he fixed his tie. His fingers dipping underneath, tightening the knot again.

As he did, his finger brushed against something. Something stiff, thin, glossy, hidden inside the liner.

His body went rigid.

A sharp, almost imperceptible inhale.

Not again.

Not here, in front of everyone.

Carefully. Deliberately. He curled his fingers around the photo, his movements slow as he lowered his arm and tucked it beneath the table, keeping it hidden against his thigh.

Rebekah watched him over the rim of her wine glass, her lips twitching. She glanced at you and you had to look away before you burst out laughing.

"Valentine’s Day," Elijah said smoothly, raising his glass, as if his pulse wasn’t steadily climbing, as if his fingers weren’t currently gripping the newest piece of your torment. "I propose a toast. To love, and all the beauty and passion that it brings."

"To love," the others echoed.

You smiled, and clinked your glass against his, watching as he brought it to his lips and took a long sip.

"Elijah," you purred, leaning close, "I'm going to go upstairs and get ready for bed, why don't you join me soon?"

He kissed your temple and murmured, "Of course, my darling."

With a wink, you stood, excusing yourself from the table and making your way towards the staircase.

His fingers twitched around the polaroid, burning with curiosity.

Rebekah had the audacity to grin, resting her chin on her hand as she observed him like a predator awaiting the moment its prey faltered.

Elijah refused to give her the satisfaction.

With calculated ease, he lowered his gaze beneath the table, unfolding the final piece of your torment.

And what he saw nearly had him choking on his wine.

Bloody hell.

You. Completely bare. Laid out on your stomach.

And nestled between your ass cheeks… fuckk you were going to get it.

His grip tightened on the photo, so fierce that it nearly ripped. Heat licked up his spine, sharp and demanding, pooling in the very depths of his control.

He had spent this entire week enduring your carefully orchestrated torture.

And now?

Now, you had officially broken him.

You knew you only had a few minutes before Elijah made his way upstairs.

With quick, light footsteps, you changed into the same lingerie you had posed in for one of the polaroids. Giggling as you pulled up the matching thigh high stockings.

He was going to lose his mind.

You went to sit on his bed, when you paused, a delicious idea forming in your head.

His closet.

You quickly grabbed the key and unlocked the door, stepping inside. It was dark, and you turned on the single lamp that was perched on a shelf, casting the small room in a soft glow.

You sat on the island in the middle of the room, crossing your legs and trying not to squirm as the excitement built.

You could hear the sound of him walking down the hall. His heavy footfalls. Then he paused when he entered his room, momentarily confused as to where you had gone.

And then his gaze fell upon his closet door.

You had left it open, just a crack.

He groaned, fuck you were playing with fire, and pushed the door open the rest of the way.

He saw you there, bathed in the dim golden light, dressed in the most lovely sheer lace. He would burn every precious item in this room just to get a taste of your skin.

He took a deep breath, composing himself. He wanted to play this out perfectly. Adjusting his cufflinks, he sauntered in, his eyes dark, hungry, a dangerous smirk tugging at his lips.

"Darling," he murmured, leaning against the island across from you. "I believe we have something to discuss."

You tilted your head innocently. "What's that?"

He stepped closer, bracing his hands on the edge of the table, caging you in. His gaze slid over your body, the curve of your neck, the swell of your breasts, the slope of your waist.

He opened a drawer next to your thigh, pulling out a neat pile of Polaroids, fanning them out so they were all visible. Then he pulled the latest one out of his jacket pocket, uncrumpling it and adding it to the rest.

You swallowed thickly.

"Quite the collection," he hummed, tapping the stack against the palm of his hand. "A beautiful, scandalous display, truly."

He slipped a hand under your chin, tilting your face up so you were forced to meet his gaze. His thumb ghosted over your lower lip.

"Although, I've always been partial to the real thing."

And then he leaned down and captured your lips with his.

A moan slipped from your throat as he pressed his tongue past your lips, the kiss heated and passionate. His free hand slipped down the curve of your waist, grasping your thigh and hooking it over his hip.

"You've been so very naughty, sweetheart. Teasing me all week, putting such sinful things in my clothes, right under my nose," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your jaw, and then another, slowly trailing his lips down the column of your throat.

"Do you have any idea how many meetings I've had to cancel because I was thinking about your perfect little pussy, or those sweet, tempting lips wrapped around my cock?" He nipped at the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder and you whimpered.

His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the island, spreading your legs and settling between them.

"And to involve Rebekah? That's diabolical. What did I do to deserve such a vengeful, cruel lover?"

You grinned, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. "Are you saying you didn't enjoy it?"

His fingers danced over the sheer lace covering your breasts, tugging the cups down so he could cup the soft flesh in his hands, massaging them, kneading them, squeezing until you gasped.

"That's not what I said, darling," he purred, leaning in and capturing a pert nipple between his teeth. You whimpered, your back arching.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he kissed and licked and nipped his way down the curve of your body.

"Elijah," you moaned softly as he got on his knees, spreading your thighs and licking a hot, wet stripe against the fabric of your panties.

He pressed his thumb against the wetness that was already seeping through, and then hooked his fingers around the waistband, peeling the flimsy lace down your thighs, leaving it tangled around one ankle.

"So beautiful," he sighed, kissing the insides of your thighs, his lips trailing higher and higher.

You gasped, your head falling back as his mouth met your pussy, his tongue sliding between your slit, low moan vibrating against you.

Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him close as he feasted on you. He had been dying to taste you all week, and now, he was going to savor it.

"Elijah," you moaned, writhing as his tongue swirled around your clit. Your legs trembled, threatening to give out, but his firm hands held you steady.

He groaned against you, the vibrations sending another pulse of pleasure through your body. He eased two fingers inside you, moving slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world to unravel you. His tongue flicked, teased, circled, building you up only to pull back just before you could tip over the edge.

You whimpered in frustration, your fingers tightening in his hair. "'Lijah, please-"

He chuckled, the sound dark and full of wicked amusement. "Please what, darling? Use your words."

Your body was burning, every nerve alight with need. You bucked against his mouth, desperate for more friction, more of him. "Please let me come."

He hummed in approval, the heat in his gaze almost unbearable as he lifted his head, his lips slick with your arousal. "Good girl."

His fingers curled just right, and his mouth latched back onto your clit, sucking just hard enough to make stars burst behind your eyes. The coil in your belly tightened, wound so impossibly tight you thought you might snap.

"Come for me, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice like silk against your skin. "I want to feel you shake for me."

That was all it took. Your body arched as pleasure crashed over you, a strangled moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm consumed you. He held you through it, drinking in every shudder, every gasp, until you were trembling in his grasp.

Only then did he pull back, his eyes dark and hungry as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh before standing to his full height, his body towering over yours.

"You look exquisite like this," he murmured, tracing a finger along your trembling thigh. "Completely undone. And yet, I fear we're not even close to being finished."

You barely had a chance to catch your breath before he was lifting you into his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. He carried you effortlessly, striding back into the bedroom and laying you down on the bed and turning you over, face down with your ass propped up in the air. Just like his favorite polaroid.

He stood at the edge of the bed, undoing the buttons of his shirt with slow, deliberate precision. "Tell me, darling," he mused, letting the fabric slide from his shoulders. "Was all of this worth it?" His eyes gleamed as he pulled his belt from its loops with a sharp snap. "Because now, I'm going to make sure you remember exactly why you shouldn't play games with me,"

You bit your lip, unable to stop the moan that spilled past your lips as his palm smoothed over your ass, massaging and squeezing. He pressed his hips into yours, letting you feel the hard length of his cock through his trousers.

You pushed back against him, grinding against the bulge, your body aching with anticipation.

Elijah hummed appreciatively, and then brought his palm down sharply against your ass.

You yelped, glaring at him from over your shoulder, the sting making you shudder. His other hand smoothed over the heated skin, rubbing gently before lifting and spanking you again.

You moaned, pushing back into his hand, a delicious thrill racing through your veins.

"Such a needy little thing, aren't you?" he purred, leaning down to press a kiss to your neck. "It's a good thing I have no intention of holding back."

He smacked you again, and again, alternating between each cheek, the sharp crack echoing in the room. He rubbed the stinging skin, his other hand freeing his cock from his trousers, giving himself a few languid strokes.

You whimpered, pressing your ass against his hand, pleading without words.

"Look at you, getting off on being punished," he mused, a dark chuckle rumbling through his chest.

You whimpered, burying your face in the sheets. You could feel heat spreading through your body, desperate and needy.

He leaned down, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. "Tell me, sweetheart. Do you want me to fuck you like this? Bent over the edge of the bed, that's not very romantic,"

You could hear the rustle of fabric as he shrugged off his trousers, and then the firm, searing heat of his cock as he settled between your thighs, the thick head teasing your pussy, coating himself in your arousal. He groaned at the wetness that clung to him, the way your body pulsed with need.

"Please, 'Lijah," you whimpered, rolling your hips.

He tutted, a dark chuckle vibrating through his chest. "Patience, sweetheart."

You cried out as he finally eased inside you, his cock stretching you impossibly. Your toes curled, the delicious sting of being filled too much and not enough all at once.

He let out a low groan as he sank to the hilt, his cock buried inside your tight, wet heat. He gripped your ass, his fingertips digging into your reddened skin, and began thrusting slowly.

"Ohh, yes," you moaned, pushing back into him.

He picked up the pace, his hips snapping against yours, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.

"Fuck, sweetheart, you're so wet," he growled, his hand tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to have you whimpering.

"Please, 'Lijah, I'm close," you gasped, the fire in your belly building.

"That's my good girl," he praised, his grip tightening, his hips picking up the pace, fucking you harder.

You cried out, his cock hitting you deep, a string of moans falling from your lips.

He released your hair and leaned down, bracing himself with one hand, the other reaching to squeeze your ass and give it another sharp spank.

You came undone, a scream of pleasure tearing from your throat as you came, the fire inside you roaring through your veins.

"That's it, sweetheart," he groaned, his hips snapping against yours, driving you further into the mattress.

You shuddered, pleasure washing over you as the world melted away.

Elijah came with a low, feral growl, his hips slowing as he filled you, his grip tightening as he rode out his high. His hands squeezing your hips, holding you against him as he came, the warmth filling you.

He pressed a lingering kiss to the nape of your neck, and then eased out, taking a step back.

You were a mess, the lingerie twisted around your body, hair disheveled, face flushed. He chuckled at the sight.

"Prettier than any picture,"

He scooped you up, pulling back the covers and tucking you into the bed. Your eyelids fluttered as you watched him climb in next to you, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you close.

"I love you," you murmured, cuddling into his chest.

"I love you more," he replied, kissing your forehead.

"I have one more gift for you," you hummed, sleep already dragging you under.

He smiled, his hand running along the curve of your hip, his fingers curling possessively. "And what might that be, darling?"

You shifted a bit, rolling over and reaching into his bedside drawer. Where you stashed a small wrapped package.

"Here,"

Elijah sat up, accepting the gift and opening it carefully, a small smile playing on his lips.

It was a photo album. With a small note taped to the front.

'For Elijah's eyes only,'

He raised an eyebrow at you, and flipped the cover open. He froze. Dozens upon dozens of polaroids. Of you. All of them in a variety of scandalous poses.

"Happy Valentine's Day," you giggled, nuzzling into his shoulder. "Oh, and I have more where those came from."

He let out a low chuckle, and then he was on you. Pinning you beneath him, his eyes burning with need, his cock already stirring against your thigh.

"You," he growled, his lips capturing yours in a bruising kiss, "are going to pay for this."

And oh, what a beautiful, wonderful punishment it was.

#elijah mikaelson #the originals #the vampire diaries #vampire diaries #tvdu #elijah mikaelson smut #elijah mikaelson imagine #elijah mikealson imagine #elijah mikealson #elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah mikealson x reader #tvd #the vampire diaries x you #the vampire diaries x reader #the vampire diares imagine #the vampire diaries imagine #the originals imagine #elijah mikealson smut

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dovveri · 7 months ago

Text

upskill from student to parent

synopsis: one of your students has the most obvious crush on you, but you have the most obvious crush on his mother.

warnings: swearing? maybe idek AHAHA

w/c: 6.9k

a/n: kind of an homage to my fav person on this app @miinatozakiii ‘s first published work the kindergarten teacher sana 🙂‍↕️ happy late one year anniversary babe 🥰

⋆✐ೀ⋆

“alright kids, don't forget i'm seeing most of your parents tonight so if you want to make a good impression, you better start doing your homework because i know most of you don't!"

there are collective groans across the classroom as they pack up their things and leave, thanking you as they head out the door to their next period.

you giggle, recalling the days you were a student in their position, you rarely did your math homework as well.

"ms. l/n?"

you look up from your desk with a smile.

"i- um- i just wanted to s-say- thank you for this lesson. i was really- um- struggling with derivatives when you introduced them last time but you made it really clear this class."

you beam, appreciating the feedback, "that's great to hear hideki! if you have any more trouble in the future please be sure to let me know, i'll be happy to set up bonus small group classes or even individual sessions if you guys need the help."

"t-thanks ms. l/n. that's really nice of you."

"it's my job hideki." you smile, "did you need any help with anything else?"

he shakes his head shyly, hand at the back of his neck, "that was all! thanks again miss!"

"no worries, i'll see you tonight?"

he agrees happily, darting out the door with his cheeks flushed.

it wasn't the first time a student had had a crush on you. it was normally harmless. some of them had tried to confess to you over the years, usually waiting until after they graduated because they thought it’d be okay if you no longer had a student-teacher relationship. some of them would confess while you were still their teacher regardless, those were a little tougher because you had to continue teaching them and watch them pout and lose motivation to do their schoolwork and act awkward around you, no longer wanting to participate in class or ask questions if they didn’t understand something. you’d try to let them down gently, and if you noticed they were struggling with coursework, you’d pull them aside or ask another one of the teachers to check in on them.

most of the time though, they were just simple little crushes that would pass with time or after they moved out of your class. you didn't entertain them but it was cute seeing your students in their awkward teen years discovering feelings for the first time.

you stretch, yawning, but yelp when someone's finger jabs into your exposed armpit.

there's a burst of laughter and you frown, staring at the intruder.

"really nayeon?"

the english teacher rolls her eyes with a cheeky grin, "saw hideki on the way out. did he give you that confession note?"

"what confession note?"

nayeon hops a little, a hand covering her mouth, "oh shit."

you narrow your eyes. "tell me."

she grins, not really apologetic for having accidentally spilt her student’s secret, "saw him decorating a card and everything in english class today. his grammar was a little off so i just helped him correct it a little. oh ms. l/n. how i wish to be able to call you by your first name. how i wish to be able to hold you and-" she puts on an exaggerated romeo-like voice and pose, back of her hand coming up to her forehead.

you stand up, slapping her lightly with a blush, "why did you encourage him?!"

she shrugs with a laugh, "i'm an english teacher. gotta make sure the kids are using the language right even if it's for illicit love notes."

you huff, packing up your desk and getting ready to go to lunch, "can't he find a nice girl his age to be in love with? i'm sure he has so many options since he's the star player of the school basketball team and everything."

"something about you attracts the kiddies y/n."

you scrunch your nose, "ew. that sounds gross. i don't even like younger men."

"women?"

"no preference. just someone in the same life stage y'know?"

"wait should i be offended? how come no student has ever confessed to me? aren't english teachers supposed to be like a gay girl's awakening?"

you laugh, ignoring the woman's question, dragging her out of your classroom and to lunch together before you both have to attend to your kids again.

⋆✐ೀ⋆

you enjoyed your job, but parent-teacher interviews were probably your least favourite part of it. if you wanted to deal with parents all day you'd have become a primary school teacher.

there were all kinds of them, some who didn't show up, some who didn't care, some who cared too much, some who were clueless, and some who thought they could do your job better than you.

you rub your temples, grateful for the little 5 minute break you're afforded in between quick 10 minute interviews that would normally go on for longer than that. you blink around the room, the other mathematics teachers gathered in the same classroom, nayeon was down the hall with the other english teachers. you were the youngest of them all, there was a pretty big shortage of secondary mathematics teachers across the country, so it meant maths teachers were putting off retirement for longer so they can continue to support kids, but it still left a lot of gaps that could be filled to give your students the best education they deserved.

you've dazed off enough that you barely register hideki almost bounding in, still in his basketball uniform from after-school practice.

he grins, sliding into the seat opposite yours, "hi ms. l/n!"

you return the smile, "hey hideki." even though you knew about his obvious crush on you, he was still one of your favourite students, maybe it was because he had the crush on you that he was more eager to follow instructions and to prove himself and ask questions whenever he was confused that made him one of the easiest to teach.

and then a woman in a sleek beige coat next to hideki catches your attention. your gaze flicks over to hers. and it can't seem to break away.

she's the most beautiful human being you've ever laid your eyes on. her hair is dyed an autumn brown, wavy locks tucked behind ears, expensive gold jewelry adorning her neck, ears, hands. her eyes match the colour of her hair, a deep fawn brown you could stare into for hours. she's got the most perfect nose you've ever seen, you almost itched to measure it, find the angle of it, the way it led to her pretty lips, full and parted, inviting, pulling you in. and then you realise they're curling up slightly, and you snap your eyes back up to hers to see a mirthful glint in them.

you cough, blushing brightly, "h-hello mrs. hayashi."

"just sana is fine. minatozaki sana. i never married hideki’s father." her voice is silky smooth, there's a certain drawl to it too, it makes you want to listen to her voice on repeat, teasing out every inflection in tone.

you can feel your blush reaching the tips of your ears, "o-oh sorry! i didn't know i apologise!"

sana laughs, it's bright and airy, you don't think you've heard anything purer. "nothing to be sorry about. we broke up a long time ago. when hideki was still very young."

you nod, deciding you can't continue staring at her or you may just faint, so you look down at your files, shuffling them around with no purpose, just to give your hands something to do.

"so how's hideki doing in class?" you can hear the smirk in her voice, her attentive eyes watching as you fumble around.

"he's um- very good- he always makes sure to ask questions whenever he's stuck on anything, and he's probably one of my only students who keeps up with his homework."

"well that's good isn't it deki? what were you so nervous for?" sana teases her son as he blushes, mumbling something under his breath.

you speak up again, "nothing to be nervous about. hideki is one of my best students, he keeps up very well despite his extra curriculars."

sana snorts, "i wish we could say the same about his other subjects. it seems maths is the only thing he tries in."

"mom!"

"what? you heard what your english teacher said. you need to spend some more time editing your own work than you do shooting hoops."

you laugh, "i'm sure his english is alright. nayeon can be a pretty harsh teacher."

sana looks at you again with an eyebrow raised, you quickly look away. "just wait until you read some of his work ms. l/n. you'll be surprised."

hideki blushes again, deciding he won't be giving you that love confession note he has in his bag after all.

"is there anything else i can do for him then? any particular areas he may be struggling in or any recommendations of what we can implement at home to make sure his maths marks stay consistent?"

"homework really. maths is a very practical subject so the more practice he gets the better grasp he'll have. especially with strange or out-of-the-box questions exams may throw at him; it helps a lot if he's practiced with as many question varieties as possible, most people are going to get those 1 or 2 markers, but the bigger questions that really need you to apply the concepts you learn are where you'll start to see distinctions between the students that just study and the students that really have the aptitude and patience for mathematics."

"never was me." sana jokes.

you smile, still avoiding her gaze, your cheeks pink, "i'm sure you would have been a prize student ms. minatozaki."

"just sana." she has a teasing smile on her face.

"r-right. sana."

it's quiet for a few seconds, hideki looks between his mother and you, squinting a little in confusion.

sana coughs, beginning to stand and holding out a hand, "well it was nice meeting you ms. l/n. i can finally understand why hideki goes on and on about his gorgeous maths teacher."

"mom!"

you blush again, taking her hand, almost melting at how soft it felt against yours, forcing yourself to meet her eyes again to be polite. you have to bring your other hand to hold your wrist when you shake it, to support your jelly-like arm in her presence. "it was nice meeting you too sana."

she tightens her grip, smirking a little, "i hope this won't be the last i'll be seeing you. have a good night."

and with that she's off, hideki whining and complaining next to her about how she's embarassed him. it was a little funny considering their height difference, hideki was a basketball player so he had to be tall for his sport, and sana was just a few centimetres shorter than you, though her aura commanded attention, her posture was perfect, you're caught staring at the slight sway in her hips as she walks away, but you quickly reprimand yourself, blushing even brighter at having realised you were just checking out your student's parent.

god she had your mind a mess, and you had a feeling it wouldn't be the last time for this to happen.

⋆✐ೀ⋆

you were so out of your comfort zone. you barely knew anything about basketball. but nayeon just had to drag you to be co-supervisors for your school's basketball team since you didn’t have the funds for a real P.E. teacher. even worse, the parent volunteer just happened to be minatozaki sana, the parent you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since your first meeting with her weeks ago.

nayeon noticed your odd behaviour immediately of course. so being the annoyingly loveable best friend she was, she made herself scarce, herding the kids away with every opportunity and trying to get you and sana alone as much as possible.

that’s how you were now stuck with the woman of your dreams, sharing a hotel room in the place you were staying for the duration of the games.

“are you sure you don’t want me to get another room? the individual room was originally supposed to be meant for you- i can’t believe nayeon let herself get sick and stole it from you.”

sana giggles, plopping down her weekend bag. “it’s alright ms. l/n. i don’t mind sharing rooms with a pretty woman like you.”

you blushed brightly. that was the other problem with sana. she was a flirt. every chance she got she’d make some sort of teasing remark on the way here, or brush a little too close than what was acceptable for friends, and you were barely even friends.

“j-just y/n is fine. i feel weird if someone my age is calling me by my last name like that.”

“how do you know i’m your age?” she smirks.

“o-oh! i just- i mean- i- i’m in my early 30s and you look quite young and but hideki is already 16 so i just assumed um-“

she laughs again, “thank you for the compliment. you’re right. i had hideki when i was 19. his dad promised to take care of him, provide for us, y’know… all the works. he couldn’t take it and left not even a year into hideki’s life. i ended up having to drop out of university and learn to balance work and a baby. my parents weren't any good either, said it was my fault for getting knocked up so early in my life and that i should've been prepared for the consequences."

you perch on the end of your bed, listening attentively while she unpacks her things, "i'm sorry you had to go through that."

she shrugs, "made me who i am today. and plus i have hideki now. and he'll always have me. what about you? any kids? partner?"

you blush as she turns back to you, copying your stance and sitting on her bed facing you. "no. i’ve always been around kids so there’s not exactly a ton of romantic prospects.” you joke.

sana laughs, “what about nayeon?”

you cringe immediately, “ew gross no. we’re just friends. there aren’t that many young teachers that aren’t already married and who aren’t spread all over the country so nayeon and i easily clicked because we’re similar in age and single. not that it’s difficult to get along with the older teachers there’s just some things that we’ll be able to do that they might not necessarily want to anymore… like drink or whatever.”

“are you looking for anyone then?” there’s a smirk on sana’s face that you know can only mean she’s up to no good.

“u-um- well- i mean- uh- like if it comes it comes i’m not actively looking for it. i’m happy with the kids even if i die old and alone because there’s always going to be more kids to teach so i’m never really going to be alone unless i quit or get fired.”

“i really admire teachers y’know. you can take care of a classroom of kids and offer them knowledge when someone like my ex boyfriend couldn’t even handle one child.”

while you were talking, you didn’t even notice that sana had moved onto your bed, sitting next to you, shoulders touching, eyes peering into yours.

you chuckle awkwardly, “w-well i’m actually not that great with younger kids.”

sana frowns, “don’t do that. bringing yourself down to defend a shitty man are both things i don’t want to hear. from what i’ve seen, you love your job and you really care about your kids. you should be proud of that. teachers don’t get enough of the appreciation they should.”

“t-thank you sana.”

“of course.”

it’s quiet after that, and more than awkward. you have no idea where to look, suddenly conscious of her body pressed against yours, fiddling with your hands, feeling sweat build up.

sana just watches you with a glint in her eye, observing all of your actions.

she breaks the tension that seemingly came out of nowhere first, “how do you feel about me?”

your eyes widen, not expecting such a straightforward question, “s-sorry?”

“you’re nervous. do i make you nervous y/n?”

your blush was pretty much permanently fixed on your face now.

“u-um-“

“it’s okay if i do. i just hope it's for the right reasons." she pouts. it's criminal. "you'd tell me if there was something else right?"

"r-right! yes of course yes-"

"good. so you're nervous because you find me attractive?" her pout morphs into a smirk within nanoseconds.

"um- i-"

"you said you'd tell me if it was something else remember?" and then she's straight back into a pout. it was giving you whiplash, the change in expressions, dizzying you.

"um- i- yes- you are- yes you are very pretty and-"

"so you want to kiss me?"

"um-!"

sana finally lets you go, laughing brightly and moving away to give you some space before you burst or melted.

"just joking y/n. i'm sorry you're just too easy to tease and your reactions are adorable!"

you can breathe again, the oxygen finally reaching your brain now that sana wasn't so close to you, and your lips turn downward, imitating her pout from earlier, "sana!"

she continues laughing, going back to unpacking her things while you collect yourself and think just how you were going to survive the two days away sharing a room with the potential love of your life who also happened to be a massive tease.

⋆✐ೀ⋆

thankfully, the rest of the night was pretty uneventful. you checked in on all the boys, made sure they had all had dinner and weren't planning anything irresponsible like a party behind your backs or anything. you also checked in on nayeon who in your professional opinion, looked absolutely fine, having ordered room service and was in one of the hotel robes with her feet kicked up enjoying a face mask and a bottle of wine all to herself.

sana also didn't try anything else when you retired to your own hotel room after doing the rounds on the boys' rooms again to make sure they were all in bed and getting the rest they needed before their game tomorrow. you're not sure if you were grateful or disappointed she didn't, but you quickly pushed her out of your mind, needing to rest as well before having to wake up early to take all the kids to the stadium.

you're knocking loudly on the last room you were meant to check on, annoyed the boys were taking so long, you were all meant to meet in the lobby 10 minutes ago for your bus to the stadium.

when you sigh, prepared to rap your knuckles against the door again, it falls away, revealing a distressed hideki and his roommate for the trip.

"ms. l/n! i'm so sorry we're late eric had some trouble um-" he looks behind him, "we're pretty much ready now! just got to grab some last minute stuff and-" he leaves the door open, continuing his ramble while you cross your arms, tapping your foot impatiently, watching the boys run around the room collecting last minute things and throwing them into gym bags.

by the time they're almost done, sana's snuck up behind you, peeking over your shoulder.

"deki! what are you doing? are you the one holding everyone up? what kind of example are you setting for your team if the team captain's late?"

you jump at her voice, not having noticed her standing right behind you. you turn, admiring her side profile, she's got her hair up today, but still looks as expensive as the first time you saw her.

hideki blushes at his mom yelling at him, picking up his pace a little and jabbing eric, telling him to hurry up.

sana notices you staring at her and turns with a smile, "hi y/n. missed you this morning."

you fluster immediately, snapping your eyes away, "u-um sorry! i uh- got up early and didn't want to wake you and decided to get breakfast early on my own before making sure all the kids were awake."

she pouts, "you should've woken me. we could've had breakfast together."

"s-sorry i'll remember for next time."

"next time? you planning on waking up next to me again y/n?"

you can hear the teasing tone in her voice without needing to look at her, "i meant tomorrow! tomorrow morning."

sana giggles next to your ear, relenting when hideki and eric finally finish up, slightly out of breath when they come up to you, hideki apologising to you profusely, almost bowing down in the hotel hallway while holding all his heavy gym bags before you stop him, embarrassed enough by his mother watching the interaction closely with a curious glint in her eyes.

by the time you get downstairs nayeon already has most of the kids on the bus, reprimanding the two late boys again before letting them go and telling them to get on the bus as well. she had claimed her sickness was miraculously cured overnight, and that all she needed was a good night's sleep in a hotel room by herself.

she had teased both you and sana, asking sana innocently if she'd want to change rooms again now that she wasn't sick, but sana had said it'd be too much work and she didn't mind sharing a room with you anyway. nayeon elbowed you making an exaggerated show of her eyebrows wriggling around when sana wasn't looking, winking and looking all too satisfied with herself. you ignored her, strutting ahead and onto the bus, crossing your arms and pouting.

sana comes up next, giggling at you and plopping down on the seat next to yours. thankfully, the bus ride to the stadium wouldn't take long this time, the ride here was almost 5 hours long, and sana had taken a liking to sleeping on your shoulder almost the entire way there. you were stiff and couldn't wait to fall into bed when nayeon pulled her sick move and ruined your plans of being able to relax, not possible in the presence of the other woman.

the kids are rowdy and energetic, hyping each other up on the bus. you have to tell them to quieten down a few times but you let them get away with most of what they do, smiling at the sight of them so eager for their game.

when you arrive, nayeon's the first to stand, using her loud voice and commanding attention, her voice that should've been at least a little hoarse from her apparent sickness yesterday.

"alright! remember you're representing your school district now! and you're sharing this space with other people so i don't want to hear you guys as loud as you were on this bus okay? i won't hesitate to bench anyone who fools around too much and that means you won't get to play and you'd have come all this way for nothing understand?"

nayeon really was strict as a teacher, but you knew she loved her job as much as you did.

the kids nod, determined to be good, adrenaline running from the excitement of almost getting to the court.

you step off the bus first, talking to the bus driver and letting them know when they can come back and pick you guys up to go back to the hotel. then the kids are hopping off the bus one by one, and you're making sure they don't run off or do anything stupid while waiting for everyone to assemble.

by the time the team is actually on the court and warming up, you're almost as excited as them, the atmosphere of the stadium hyping you up, sitting on the sidelines with towels and water bottles ready for their breaks. you had tried to study up a little on what exactly went on in basketball, the rules and the basics, the kids may not have a coach but you still wanted to be as supportive as you could even though your job only required you to supervise them safely between the venues and the hotel.

"have you come to a lot of these games?" you ask sana mindlessly, watching as the boys start doing practice shots and drills.

"yeah. i try to go to as many of deki's things as i can."

"that's very sweet. it's really good for the kids, when the parents show up to things they work hard for."

sana hums. "i try."

"he's lucky to have you."

"i think he may appreciate you a little more though." she teases, bumping shoulders with you.

you laugh, "he'll get over it. they all do."

"this has happened before?"

you shrug, "i swear i don't do anything out of the ordinary. maybe i'm just nicer than nayeon."

"so your type obviously isn't kids. what is it?" sana teases.

you blush, "i don't know. i don't really have one i think."

"oh come on. everyone says that. tell me the truth. i won't judge i promise."

you roll your eyes, smiling, "well... i think at this point in my life i just want someone who wants to settle down. i'm not that young anymore and i've already achieved what i wanted in my career so all i really want now is someone to share the rest of my life with."

"boring! c'mon gimme the juicy stuff. like personality, physical attributes." she pokes you with a grin on her face as well.

"fine fine. i guess when it comes to women i tend to like slightly older women, extroverted, good with kids obviously, i don't reaaaally care for all the physical stuff but probably someone around my height i guess."

"stand up for me."

you do as she asks, confused, then she stands up as well, stepping in almost eye-to-eye. you flush immediately. she brings her hand to measure the top of her head, knocking it against your forehead.

then she smirks, "so i'm pretty much your type then?"

you stutter, falling backwards and back into your seat, mumbling incoherently. sana giggles, sitting back down as well.

"if it's any consolation, my type in women tends to be slightly taller, good with kids, a little awkward, gets flustered easily, but loves her job."

you blink at her, still processing her words when the buzzer sounds signaling the start of the game.

sana winks, then turns her attention to the game, cheering on your school's team as they get in starting position. nayeon jogs over to join you both on the sideline bench, cheering as well. you put your muddled thoughts aside to focus on being there for the kids, but sana's confession? was it even a confession? never left the back of your mind.

⋆✐ೀ⋆

your school won. the boys are ecstatic, clapping each other on the back, streamers are thrown, the crowd is wild, loving the game they witnessed.

eventually, the stadium clears out while the boys cooldown. the janitors come and kick everyone off the floor soon enough, the kids still whooping and parading around their championship trophy, taking pictures with smiles all around.

you smile fondly as well, watching them leave the stadium, so proud of themselves. but then there's a cough behind you, and you turn, surprised to see hideki still there, not leading his team off on their victory lap.

"you okay hideki?"

the boy blushes, rubbing the back of his neck shyly, still in his team uniform, sweat running down his body.

"i um- i was actually wondering if we could talk?"

you frown, immediately concerned, "yeah of course. what's up?"

his eyes flit around, making sure the stadium is pretty much empty except for the janitors cleaning up after the game. and then he looks back at you, you're struck then how much he looks like sana, he has her nose, her eyes, you never noticed before but after spending more time with sana, you can start to see parts of her in her son.

he clears his throat again, obviously nervous, wringing his hands out, "u-um- so i promised myself that if we won this game, i'd finally be truthful to both myself and you. so um- ms. l/n... i think i'm in love with you!" he bows deeply with his confession.

you stand there, slightly in shock despite knowing about his feelings for a long time now. and then you feel terrible, having to reject him on what was supposed to be one of the highlights of his high school experience.

you tap his shoulder lightly, non-verbally asking him to straighten up, he flinches at the touch, eyes fierce when they meet yours.

"hideki... i'm sorry. i don't feel the same way about you. you're my student, i care about all of you equally, but never as more than a student."

his face breaks your heart, you see sana in him, it's almost like you made sana cry.

"is it my age? what if i graduated? would you be interested in me after i graduated?" he's desperate, reaching for any possibility where you could return his feelings.

you shake your head, offering a gentle smile, "i'm sorry hideki. i know you'll find the right person for you one day though. that person just isn't going to be me."

his head droops down, hair coming to cover his eyes as he stares down at his shoes, trying to hide his tears. "i understand. thank you for taking the time to listen to me ms. l/n. i'll get out of your hair now." and then he's jogging off behind you towards the exit.

you sigh, turning around, surprised to see sana there, frowning when she sees hideki in tears approaching her.

she looks between him and you in confusion, but hideki reaches her first. she cups his face, asking him what happened, but he refuses to speak, and sana brings him down into her hugging him and patting his back.

she glances at you then, still frowning. your heart sinks, not sure what sorts of conclusions she could be drawing, but knowing right now, it looked like you had said or done something that made her son cry.

she leads him away, you ache to tell her what really happened, but you know you should keep your distance for the sake of your student right now, you just pray sana doesn't think of you any differently.

⋆✐ೀ⋆

the rest of the day goes by in a blur. the boys go out for celebratory dinner. they notice their captain is a lot more down than usual, and they try cheering him up, playing games at dinner, laughing and teasing each other, but nothing seems to be working.

you couldn't help but feel a little guilty, and sana hadn't spoken to you since the game. you're not sure if it's on purpose or if she's just busy keeping the kids entertained and checking on hideki every once in a while, but not wanting to smother him with all his friends around. he doesn't seem to mind though, in fact he only responds to sana, even when his friends try and include him he stays quiet, picking at his food aimlessly.

when you get back to the hotel, you give a speech about how they shouldn't sleep too late even though you could understand their excitement still remaining from winning the championships, they still had to get up early tomorrow so you could take the bus back home. nayeon would normally give the speech since she was a little more threatening than you, but she was also currently wasted, having gone a little too hard on the celebrations with the boys. she was currently leaning on you, almost dozing off as you rattled off instructions and rules before sending them all off to their rooms.

sana's gone with them before you can speak to her, so you sigh, wrapping an arm around nayeon's waist and helping your friend back to her own room, setting her in bed and pulling the covers up, turning off the lights and leaving a cup of water next to her bedside for when she wakes up later.

you feel nervous going back to your own room, unsure of what sana thinks of you now.

you open the door, almost grateful to hear the shower on, indicating the other woman was cleaning herself up.

you anxiously start packing your things up, cleaning around the room a little and grabbing clothes for your shower.

the shower turns off and your heart rate increases tenfold. you still have some time before she comes out though, so you continue to busy yourself, cleaning anything and everything.

"y/n?"

you turn quickly at her voice, almost fainting at the sight of her wrapped only in a towel. you yelp, turning back around just as quickly, "s-sorry!"

sana giggles, padding up to her bed, "it's okay. i left my clothes out here."

you can hear the rustle of her towel being dropped and her starting to dress yourself. your face is burning up, trying desperately to clear your mind of thoughts of a very naked sana standing right behind you, probably watching you make a fool out of yourself.

"i'm dressed." she teases, plopping down onto her bed.

you turn with a sigh, but tense up when you realise her definition of dressed was a very thin camisole and shorts that really shouldn't be considered shorts.

sana smirks at your gaze, crossing her legs and watching the way your eyes follow the movement, drinking in the skin.

"so what happened with you and deki?"

your eyes snap back up to hers at the reminder, the guilt of it all coming back.

"i'm sorry- i didn't- i hope you know i didn't mean to-"

sana giggles, grabbing the towel to start drying her hair, "relax y/n. i figured as much. he wouldn't tell me what happened but i assume it had something to do with his feelings for you?"

you gulp, nodding, not trusting your voice.

"like you said at the game, he'll get over it."

"you're not mad at me?"

she frowns, "why would i be mad at you?"

"well i- i thought you were avoiding me at dinner and- i mean i did just reject your son-"

sana lets out a loud laugh, "i think i'd be more mad if you didn't reject him. and i wasn't avoiding you. were you looking for my attention y/n?" she teases, wringing out her hair.

"oh. i'm glad then. that you weren't avoiding me. i was worried." you mumble, ignoring her question, knowing she was just trying to get a reaction out of you.

she stands up, brushing her hair behind her shoulders, walking up to you slowly. "why were you worried?"

you focus on a spot on the hotel carpet, avoiding her gaze, "i didn't want you to think i was- i don't know- i just didn't want you to think of me differently i guess."

"why do you care what i think of you?"

you blush, "well- i mean- i- you're- you're a parent of my student."

sana hums, still moving closer at a painfully slow pace, "is that all i am to you?"

"uh- well- no... you're um- you're sana."

she giggles, now toe-to-toe with you. "i am."

you almost let out a gasp when her cool fingers touch your chin, tilting your head up slightly to look her in the eyes. her eyes search yours, then they move over your face, tracing your features. you lick your lips unconsciously, the tension between the two of you unable to be explained by a simple parent-teacher relationship, or even a friendship anymore.

"it's funny." her voice is lower now, spoken right onto your lips, there was no need for volume, you were only inches apart. "i almost wonder if my ex would've fallen for you too."

you're dizzy from being so close to her, mind playing catch up. "t-too?"

"yeah. hideki fell for you. i wonder if you could just have my whole family wrapped around your finger."

you gulp, not really following, just letting her do whatever she wanted to you.

she leans in even closer, eyes dropping to your lips.

"what about me?"

"w-what about you?"

"you rejected deki. how about me?"

you inhale shakily, "are you confessing?"

she smiles then, "was it not obvious?"

"no." you breathe out.

"why not?"

"you're too- you're unbelievable."

"what does that mean?"

"i literally can't believe you're real. that someone as perfect as you could exist."

sana giggles lowly at that, "there it is. do you know how long i've been waiting for you to just say how you feel about me?"

"w-what?"

"all that teasing, all the flirting, i paid nayeon to fake sick y'know?"

"you what?!"

she throws her head back, laughing fully now. your eyes follow the lines of her throat.

"deki talked about you all the time at home. i was curious to meet the maths teacher he was so obsessed with. and then i did. and you were just so adorable. i could tell you really loved what you were doing, and you really cared for all the kids. but i didn't want to ask you out in front of my son who has the biggest most obvious crush on you. so i resigned myself to thinking i probably wouldn't be able to see you again. and then you happened to be on this trip. so i tried everything i could to get closer to you, get to know you better, and you didn't disappoint. i can safely say i'm just as obsessed with you as hideki is, dare i say even more."

"y-you are?"

"mhm. and i knew you liked me too. you're almost as obvious as deki is." she giggles, "i was just waiting for you to do something about it. but you're too nice aren't you? didn't want anything that could be between us to affect your job and your relationship with the kids."

you hadn't even noticed sana had paid so much attention to you. she had picked you apart completely, you felt so exposed in front of her now, but it wasn't unwelcome, you were just embarrassed at the way you've acted around her, thinking how many times you've replied dumbly or said something stupid while she knew you had a crush on her. you cringe at the memories.

sana laughs again, poking at the scrunch in your nose, "so can you say it officially now?"

"say what?"

"don't play dumb with me. you know."

you whine, blushing still, but close your eyes, taking a breath again, "i like you sana. i think you're the most beautiful person i've ever seen and your personality and actions are just as consistent with your looks."

sana giggles again, and then all of a sudden, her lips are pressed against yours.

it's soft, sweet, she's curling a hand around your waist and the other around your neck. you weren't the greatest with words, that's why nayeon was the english teacher, but you try make up for it with your actions, pulling her into you deeper and wrapping your arms around her, smiling into the kiss.

sana returns the smile, reattaching your lips, kissing you easily, your lips slotting together with no rush, taking as much time as you wanted to explore each other.

that night, when you come out of your shower, you find sana curled up in your bed, patting the empty space next to her for you to squeeze into, making sure she had enough space so that she wouldn't fall off the edge. you find that she's a big cuddler, not that it should've surprised you, she was always a very physically affectionate person, and you were still getting used to being on the receiving end of all of it, but you adored it.

the next morning, you'll keep to your promise and wake sana up with a gentle kiss on her lips, brushing her hair out of her face and studying her sleeping features carefully, committing everything to memory, still in slight disbelief that such a woman felt the same way you did.

you talk over breakfast, finding yourself much more at ease now that you knew she knew how you felt about her. she still takes every opportunity to tease you though, loving the way you blushed and stuttered around her.

what's hard is deciding what to do after you get home. you still wanted to keep your distance from hideki so that he could get over you, and sana agreed, saying it would be best if the both of you kept your relationship a secret for now. she was almost excited, talking about how it would be exciting and fun to sneak around like kids again, having to hide your relationship.

she's right of course, but being with her specifically probably makes it ten times harder than it normally would. she'd come to your school with bunches of flowers and lunch, acting innocent and surprised when you have to hide her and find an empty classroom for you to spend the lunch date she springs on you. she'll never stop loving to tease you.

you finally tell hideki about 2 months into your relationship. he seems to take it okay, but when you're curled up in sana's bed later, she tells you he complained to her about how she 'stole his woman', and you both end up in a giggling fit, laughing at the turn of events. regardless, you're still grateful, grateful you were able to meet her, and somehow bewitch her into falling for you. you were the luckiest person alive, and only sana would disagree, saying that was only true for herself.

#sana #minatozaki sana #twice sana #sana x reader #minatozaki sana x reader #twice sana x reader #twice x reader #twice imagines #sana imagines #dovveri

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cloudwisp · 10 months ago

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𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 · 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬

contents: fluff. satoru makes sweet promises about the future with you. 800 wc.

“What would you say if I retired today?”

The words left his mouth so easily—like they’re one of the many frivolous musings that comes and goes, an afterthought when the shared laughter and playful teasing had died down a bit. Behind his loose grin, Satoru carefully studies your face as he weighs the question in your mind, as though they bear no consequence and he wants to hear your answer no matter how serious or unserious he’s being.

“Retire…” You drawl thoughtfully, “You mean put your sorcerer work behind you?” You more than readily welcome the idea than you let on, it’s all you can think about sometimes and keeps you awake at night. You knew about the dangers and the shortcomings that his lifestyle posed, but your love for him outweighs the troubles and the fears and the risks that come with loving someone like him—that is Satoru Gojo.

Not the Strongest Sorcerer, the leader of something, just a normal person who has a fondness for the sweeter things and never lets good humor go to waste if he could help it. If he truly decided to retire from now onwards he won’t have to participate in another dangerous mission again, no more of those dreadful overseas assignments that keeps you both apart for long stretches of time, and you could get used to knowing that he gets to come home to you every night.

“Well, okay. I suppose I could become the breadwinner for once.”

Satoru lets out a pleased laugh. His arm that encircled your waist tightens as he squeezes you with great affection, receiving a small oof from you and quick gentle pats of surrender before he crushes your lungs. He’s sitting on an abundance of wealth for the both of you to lead a comfortable life, and you’re cute for worrying about finances in the foreseeable future. Maybe he doesn’t spoil his precious sweetheart far enough, he thinks.

“I guess you’ll need to work triple time in order to afford my expensive taste.” He teases, pinching your cheek between his fingers. “We can be a dynamic duo. You can work while I stay home.” He mutters softly, letting his hand settle against the nape of your neck while his thumb brushes against your cheek. “Would I be a good househusband?”

“You’d be awful.” You were a little quick to say, almost shuddering at the thought. He feigns a hurt expression with the slightest furrow to his brows and an adorable pout lines his lips. He had an affinity for sweets as shown in your fully stocked pantry but navigating the rest of the kitchen would cause quite an upheaval despite his best efforts. “Maybe at first anyway.”

“You think I won’t be able to clean or cook properly?” Satoru complains dramatically, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and shoulder. You attempt to push him away between your giggles as the ends of his hair tickles you and he gently nips away at your skin, but his large build unsurprisingly wouldn’t budge. He lays a light kiss here and there shortly after, his voice lowering into a playful whisper. “Giving up on me already, huh? Too bad, that was your only chance of seeing me in an apron~”

Satoru comes up to meet your gaze and he catches your lips for a sweet taste, the warmth of his body sinking into yours and your arms wrap around him to bring him in a little deeper. “Are you saying I wouldn’t be able to control myself around you if I came home to you wearing an apron?” It was your turn to pinch his cheeks fondly and you consider something. “But it’s a nice thought—you wanting to lead a different life.”

“I want to make you a promise,” he begins slowly, and there’s a beautiful look behind his cerulean hues filled with just pure adoration and love that’s reserved only for you. “When my time comes and I’m ready to call it quits, I’ll retire with you by my side. We’ll move somewhere peaceful and quiet—as secluded as you like. We could even travel the world if that's what my baby wishes, just the two of us.”

“That’s a big promise you’re making me.” You raise an eyebrow at him. But you like the dream that he’s sharing with you, no matter how close or how far out of reach it may seem. And so, a warm smile softens your face. “Just me and you?”

“Yes, Angel.” He grins happily, pulling you closer so his heartbeat matches yours and the sound lulls into one under the moon’s gaze. As long as you keep giving him every excuse in the world to keep you within arms’ reach—forever, then it’s contentment and peace and everything else in between he’ll find with you. If you’re there, then that’s home for him. “Just us and the sky.”

꒰ note ᰔ still coping with everything that’s happened along with ch. 261 so hope you enjoyed this something silly and something fluff for our sweet loverboy satoru. ꒱

#ᨳ ₊˚ 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐩.𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 #gojo satoru #satoru x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x you #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru fluff #jujutsu kaisen #jjk imagines #jjk x reader

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daisiescomelate · 4 months ago

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Collision

Prompt: Unfortunately, Sylus decided to drop by your apartment for a surprise visit the same day Zayne agreed to stay the night.

Content: Zayne&Reader, Sylus&Reader. no proofread sorry.

masterlist

Credits rolled on the screen and you cheered with a round of applause. Zayne followed your lead with his usual lack of intention to show enthusiasm and a stoic face. As the black screen led to a final musical number with all the crew in colorful outfits, you stretched your arms over your head and rolled your neck to get rid of the stiffness of laying on the floor for so long.

The lights were down and the cortines closed to add to the atmosphere. You sang to the tune, following the choreography you knew by heart with exaggerated passion, pushing Zayne’s arm to encourage him to join you. He didn’t, of course. Instead, he straightened his crossed legs and stood with his socks over the sheets and cushions you had thrown over the carpet to get yet another extra layer between you and the cold tile.

You held a high note holding an invisible microphone to your face, throwing your head back and striking a pose. You then motion to Zayne to take the spotlight for the next line.

“C’mon, Zayne! I know you’re a good singer!” You teased him.

“I prefer to keep my talents to myself.” Mr. Too Cool To Party pated over his dress pants to shape them back into their ironed form. “And lower your volume, you’ll get complaints from the neighbors.”

You didn’t let his attitude kill your mood –but you did quiet down a little bit, just in case.

“What time is it?” You asked as the music died down and the screen faded back to black. The sudden pain and tingly sensation that took over when you moved your leg warned you not to try to get on your feet just yet.

Zayne fixed up the sleeves of his shirt, pulling them back down and buttoning them up. He flicked his wrist so he could see his watch properly, then walked to the closest window and pulled the heavy clothes just a small fraction out of the way with one finger. The sky was a dark mass sprinkled with silver dust. The city lights painted reds, whites and yellows as far as the eye could see.

“Twenty minutes ‘till two.” Said Zayne, letting his finger drop and covering the view back down again. And moving to the stitch on the wall to turn on the lights of the living room.

You blinked.

“Wow.” Almost two in the morning?

You invited Zayne over for a movie marathon. It was a plan you had been postponing for a few weeks since his schedule was often messy and unpredictable. You guessed maybe now that you had finally been able to do it you got a little bit over excited and ‘Just one more movie’ turned into this.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize it was this late.” You scratched your neck and felt a tweak of guilt in your chest.

“It’s okay. Tomorrow is my day off. Well… today.” You winced. Zayne rarely had a good night of sleep pulling so many extra hours at work. To top it off, you picked him up from the hospital that afternoon after a long shift and he was too stubborn to take a nap. You didn’t even want to think how long he had been awake by now. He was certainly in no condition to drive.

“Do you want to stay the night?”

The question seemed to have taken him off guard because he stiffed before squaring his back again. He coughed and turned his face to look at you from over his shoulder.

“There is no need for that.”

“You have been awake for too long for it to be safe to sit behind the wheel.”

“I can just call a cab for that.” He pulled his phone from his pocket as if to prove he could.

“How long is it going to be until you get home? Aren’t you tired?”

“It’ll be forty minutes at most.” He typed on his password and set a stubborn hand over his waist. You looked at the side of his profile, and bit your lower lip. If there was one person who was more bullheaded than you, that was Dr. Zayne.

You made an effort to stand and walked to his side, trying to pick your face between him and his phone screen to force him to look at you for a second. He ignored you.

“We had plenty of sleepovers when we were kids, it would be nice to do it again. You rarely come to my apartment if it’s not to pick me up for something.” His expression didn’t show any sign of hesitation. You decided to take out the heavy ammunition. Knowing Zayne’s weak spot for puppy eyes after seeing him give in to his smallest patiences’ trickery, you hucked your hands around his arm and with pouty lips –Zayne’s health came before dignity– you attempted an attack.

“Please? I’m worried about you.”

Zayne looked down and away from the screen when you tugged on his arm. The words he was about to say died on his tongue and after a stuttering couple of minutes, an emotion you couldn’t catch flashed across his eyes. Probably the effect of your inexperienced pleading. God, you were sure you looked ridiculous right now.

I do this for your own good, Zayne.

His expression went from startled to a frown, but you didn’t budget. You could see a hint of internal struggle, which meant that it was working, so you squeezed his arm a little bit closer to your chest and waited.

Finally, the struggle gave way to resignation and you knew you'd had won.

“Fine.” He said in a cold voice. He held the bridge of his nose with two fingers and closed his eyes with exasperation, “but let go of my arm.”

You let a triumphal smile spread across your face since he couldn’t see you and you let go. “Great!” You sang, “We’ll have to find you some clothes for you to sleep on. I’m sure I have some oversize pieces at the back of my closet. Let me look for them.”

You ran off to your room, leaving a distress doctor sighing at your back.

No more than fifthteen minutes later, Zayne was on your biggest (oldest) black hoodie, stretched and torn after so many washing cycles, and a pair of gray sweatpants that barely got to his calf. You had retrieved a back up toothbrush from a dark corner of the cabinet –still in its box–, and he was brushing in the bathroom while you finished picking up the stuff in the living room.

“You are too big for the couch, I’m telling you. And you can’t sleep while sitting down, your neck will kill you tomorrow.” One argument had turned into the next. Now you were trying to explain to a six-foot-one man how tall he was. “And you could sleep on the floor if you wanted, but my bed is big. I don’t know why this is such a big deal for y—”

The doorbell rang from across the room giving you a startle.

Shi—.

“Who rings someone’s doorbell at two in the morning?” You asked, annoyed. What a way to scare the living hell out of someone.

You heard Zayne’s voice muffled from the bathroom.

“Probably some kids playing around.” His voice was followed by the sound of water running as he rinsed his mouth.

You scolded and dropped the cushions in their designated spot over the dining chairs. With angry stumps, you moved to the small screen next to the door. The security camera showed the image of the main door of the building.

Empty.

There was no one in front of the glass windows, not even a shadow under the iridescent light of the streets.

They run off. Rascals.

You prompted both your fits over your waist. “Seriously, that’s just annoying. I don’t see how this would be entertaining for anyone.”

“You can’t take in a joke?” Zayn’s voice sounds closer than before. He had walked off the bathroom and was moving to the kitchen area with that signature faint smirk in his lips.

“Oh, shut up.” You shushed him. You heard a low chuckle and the clinking of glass as he looked for something in one of the cabinets. You turned back to the screen, bent over and squinted your eyes, paying close attention for any sign of movement. Nothing.

Fine. You will let it go this time, but next time you would teach them not to play pranks on a hunter’s house.

You straighten back up and turn around. Immediately, someone knocked on the door behind you.

“What—!” You jumped.

“What was that?” Zayne asked from the kitchen.

“I– A neighbor?” You asked, your voice full of doubt even as you said it. You turned back to look at the door.

Oh, fuck. It was the singing, wasn’t it?

You groaned and covered your face, feeling the blood rushing to your face, making it go hot.

“I told you they would complain.” Said Zayne all coky, seemingly having the same idea as you.

“Be quiet. I stopped singing a while ago, this is probably because you were being stubborn about the couch. They probably hear us screaming at each other from one room to the other.”

“Well, I don’t live here, so this is your problem.”

You sighed. You were regretting your merciful soul. Maybe you should have let him fall asleep behind the wheel so he would learn his lesson by himself. No, you slapped your face with both hands. Leave those dark thoughts. One problem at a time.

Taking a deep breath, you faced the door. You fixed your appearance as best as you could before taking the doorknob into your hand and plastering an apologetic smile into your face. You opened the door slowly, and embarrassingly showed yourself from the crack of the door.

The apology dried down in your lips and your eyes went wide when you saw the person at the other side. The shock was such that you weren't able to hold back the surprise pitch in your voice when a word escape you,

“Sylus?!”

“Lower your volume, kitten. It’s late.” He laughed and held a finger to his lips. He stood there in his whole glory, covered in black leather. His jacket opened to show a white shirt with a small stain of blood close to the hem of his neck and his golden pendant hanging over his chest. His red eyes flickering with the light of the common corridor.

You started with your mouth open and let the expression set, seemingly pleased to have baffled you stupid as he often did. What is he doing at the door of your apartment? Your blood rushed again, this time with a more displeasing feeling.

You held the door tight, narrowing the gap that let him see into the apartment as much as you could without closing it right in front of his face.

“There are cameras everywhere in this building. I told you to stop doing this. What are you doing here?” You whispered between greeted teeth, a mix of anger and alarm.

He lowered himself to be eye to eye with you, placing a heavy hand against the door. Not yet pushing it open, but to at least make sure you couldn’t lock him out. He followed you lead by whispering his next words too.

“I missed you, that’s all.” His eyes flashed with amusement. Great, you gave him a great reaction –that sight of infatuation he liked to trigger on you– and now he was hooked and ready to play you around.

You swallow the come back lingering at the tip of your tongue. Don’t entertain him. You kept your expression neutral but firm when you said,

“Not today, Sylus.”

“What, are you tired? You can go ahead and sleep, I just want to sit with you for a little bit.” He moved closer until your noses almost touched. His whispers turn into soft spoken words. “Some pests have been running around causing trouble lately. They’re sneaky and give me a little bit of a headache. That’s why I haven't been able to come and see you lately. I still need to go back to work, so it will only be for a moment. Is that alright?”

You didn’t answer, running possible excuses for him to leave as soon as possible. While he waited for your answer, something seemed to come to mind. He moved back a fraction and tilted his head to the side, curiosity in his gaze.

“You opened the door quite fast. You weren’t asleep yet?” Whatever look you gave him was enough for him to know the answer to that. He laughed quietly and straightened back up, “Are you misbehaving, kitten?”

Deciding the most efficient way to deal with Sylus was to tell him to get the hell out of there, you opened your mouth to tell him off. He would always listen to you if he saw true displeasure in your expression.

In that instant, a voice came from behind your back.

“Is everything alright?” Zayne’s tone was calm, but also somehow worried and vigilant to your ears.

At the sound of the voice, Sylus’ smile dropped. Red lights swarmed in his pupils, turning to the deepest crimson, as black as blood when you gash out an important artery.

“Who is that?” His tone was sharp as knives. Games aside, he didn’t care about keeping his words a whisper anymore.

“I…”

“Are you asking about me?” Zayne’s calm tone turned into stone.

Sylus’ gaze twitched when he heard it again. His eyes clocked on you, almost threatening. He studied you, running his eyes over you from the tip of your toes to your face, looking for something. You tensed under his scrutiny, wondering why it made you feel so vulnerable. This was the hard gaze Sylus would use with the people he considered rats tampering with his trash and ruining his sidewalk. You weren’t used to those eyes looking down on you.

“Did I interrupt something?”

“If it was the noise that bothered you, we apologize for the inconvenience. We will stay quiet from now on, we were setting on to sleep.” Sylus’ attention moved over your head as if trying to see through the door to the person on the other side. “We can talk about this more in the morning if you’d like.” When Zayne finished his statement, Sylus’ slowly moved back to look you in the eyes. There was a lingering note of danger when he repeated Zayne’s words to you.

“...The noise?”

It was as if the cat had eaten your tongue. Sylus didn’t look alright. The sight of it made your brain immediately try to recall the spare gun hiding in a drawer in the kitchen.

A hand wrapped around your arm and pushed you away from the door.

—

Zayne brushed his teeth with his eyes passively staring at his reflection on the mirror over the sink. Your voice came loud from the end of the hall through the opened bathroom door. His expression remained stoic while listening to you talk some nonsense about waiting to share the bed with him from the living room. He deemed for every word of yours to get in one ear and out the next.

Rather than pay attention to your rumbling, he moved his gaze around over your creams and trinkles next to the tap and over the shelves on the side. Your towels hung on the walls, and the tiles on the floor showed small details coloured in gold.

Your soap scented the room, the air clean, light and sweet.

His eyes returned to his double in the mirror. The hoodie you handed him had gone from black to gray from washing, and the sweat pants had a hole on one side over one of the seams. He felt the softness of the worn down fabric and the scent of the softener in your clothes.

“I don’t know why this is such a big deal for y—”

The doorbell rang. His body flinched, his shoulders jumped sending his hand a little too far into his mouth, almost stabbing his throat with the toothbrush. You cursed between your teeth, the sound softened by the distance.

He frowned. He turned his head around, over the pile of neatly folded clothes lay his watch. He reached for it with his fingers and shifted it his way to look at the dial. Two past seven in the morning. Who in their right mind rings into someone’s house at this hour in the middle of the night?

“Who rings someone’s doorbell at two in the morning?” You asked from the living room.

Zayne put down the brush and held a hand to his neck, coughing lightly to get rid of the sting of pain at the back of his throat. He ran his fingers through his hair, regained some composure and washed the frown from his face.

He went on to turn on the tap as he answered,

“Probably some kids playing around.”

He let the water run to wash as best as he could at the lack of a shower. He blindly reached his hand for a towel and got the water away from his eyes. There was still a lingering line of annoyance at whoever had almost made him choke.

The smell of you on the towel took over his system again and his mind railed back to the thoughts he had been fighting and the alarming sensation of a fluttery feeling over his heart. The echo of your words from earlier and the feeling of your body pressing against his arm flooded him again.

He pressed his heart over the fluff of the towel and closed his eyes.

The sensation of heart palpitations might just be early signs of arrhythmia.

He uncovered his face and sighed. Putting the towel away, he moved his pile of clothes over the lid of the laundry basket and walked towards the hall and into the kitchen

“Seriously, that’s just annoying. I don’t see how this would be entertaining for anyone.” You said while leaning forward with your fits on your waist and annoyance clear in your tone. He could imagine your face scrunched up and the pout in your lips and he couldn’t help the smile that escaped him.

“You can’t take a joke?” He said, stepping into the kitchen door.

“Oh, shut up.” You snapped back and his smile grew wider. He moved to look through the cabinets over the counter. The uneven sets of plates and glasses spoke of your habit of hoarding all types of stuff that called your attention for either being ‘cute’ or colorful. He was looking for a pair of glasses that wouldn’t be embarrassing to drink from while you mumbled under your breath to the camera next to the front door.

You were still so vivid at this hour of the night, singing and dancing and cursing so freely. It made him wonder about your sleep schedule and if you were lying during your check ups about getting proper rest. He was about to make a comment about it when the sound of knocking on the door startled him again.

His hands freezed over one of the glasses, almost making it fall out of the cabinet and into the floor. He heard you hold back a scream and his body tensed.

“What was that?” He asked.

“I– A neighbor?” Your voice sounded as if you were trying to reassure yourself. However the idea made sense. Your vividness had come back to bite you. The scandal had been quite a deal. Maybe it would teach you about not having to stay so late at night in the future.

“I told you they would complain.”

You bikered with him and he enjoyed it. He was usually so inclined to mind his own business and stay quiet since he never had the patience for conflict, but since you two came back to be together he had discovered how entertaining it was to tease you.

He heard the door being unlocked and seconds later yet another scream, “Sylus?!”

Zayne turned to look over his shoulder, listening attentively. The name didn’t sound familiar to him, but your tone let clear you knew who they were. A man’s voice answered, dulled by the distance, but he sounded calm.

After your initial reaction the conversation turned quiet. Since you seemed to know him and there was no other striking reaction after your initial surprise, he felt he should be inclined to think that everything was fine. However, he couldn’t shake the wary feeling on his chest.

He put two glasses over the counter and filled them with water. Your conversation was a steady murmur he couldn’t properly pull apart. And when the buzzing of the refrigerator engine rose, he felt the urge to get closer to the kitchen door to try to catch on any word he could.

You were hunching forward with your head picking out the hall through a small opening in between the door and its frame. You held into the doorknob with white knuckles and your shoulders were tense like wire.

The light sense of instinctive wariness turned into something sharper. Then, he heard a chuckle.

A male’s voice, husky and oddly cheery, came from the other side, making the hair at the end of his neck stand on end and his gut kicked with a warning.

He walked slowly from behind you. All he could hear were the desperation in your whispers talking to the person behind the door.

“Is everything all right?”

There was a beat of silence, and all the cheerfulness had been washed away from the voice when the man. The voice was stone cold when he lashed his next question at you,

“Who is that?”

What kind of questions was that?

“Are you asking about me?” He intervened before you could give this man any type of answer.

Another beat of silence, and there was a layer of threat in the man’s voice when he said his next line.

“Did I interrupt something?”

“If it was the noise that bothered you, we apologize for the inconvenience. We will stay quiet from now on, we were setting on to sleep. We can talk about this more in the morning if you’d like.” This wasn’t a situation he wanted to muse over. You had gone completely still at the door. Zayne couldn’t figure out what kind of person this would be for you to not lash out at them by the tone he was using. He walked in strides towards the door, and he had extended his arm to pull you away by the time he heard the next question.

—

“...The noise?”

Sylus saw you disappear inside the apartment and a second later a tall figure positioned itself in front of him at the door.

He licked the sharp edge of his teeth, taking one deep breath to clear the rampage that had been set on his mind. He wanted to keep steady and not act in a rush. Who would have thought that you were actually out there being naughty while he was retained by the lame games of a sneaky dirty gang.

Sylus’ eyes were set on the man’s chest at the door since he was way taller than you. And when he felt like he had a hold of his temper again, he slowly slid them up to see the man’s face. What he found there made the last of his temper untwine and his posture relaxed. He couldn’t help but arch one of his brows with curiosity.

The doctor.

Sharp jaw, black hair, green eyes, constipated expression. It was a face he could recognize easily since he had got to see it too often in pictures and files Luke and Kieran collected for him. Someone many would call a prodigy. A cardiac surgeon at Akso Hospital, well known and respected by both his teachers and pairs. Level-headed, serious, pragmatic.

And a wimp.

Sylus’ irritability washed away from his eyes and his gaze recovered the glint of amusement.

Granted, this was the first time he met the Doctor in person, but he had seen enough of him to feel like they were old acquaintances. To Sylus’ eyes the cold expressions were nothing but a façade. It might be something that spooked others away from looking for too long in his direction, but to someone like him that wasn’t a barrier of any type. The man was actually a lot more transparent than one might feel.

Kieran had quite the hand for photography, and enjoyed capturing good images with feeling. Sylus had seen a significant amount of pictures of the shy side glance looks the Doctor sent your way when you weren’t looking. His feelings for you were clear as day, and by the light in his eyes, Sylus could tell it was an old type of love.

When he learned you and the Doctor had met when you were children the look made even more sense. It also gave Sylus some reassurance. To him it was obvious: Doctor here had a childhood crush that had rutted too deep into his heart, and after holding it in for so many years, and giving his shy personality, he was probably never going to confess in his lifetime out of the possibility of you saying no.

“We were too enthusiastic about our movie night earlier. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I presume we all have work tomorrow. It would be better to discuss this at some other time.”

With context about who your visitor was, it was clear to him that he had nothing to worry about.

The Doctor’s eyes set on Sylus and discreetly looked him up and down. Should he have known he would come to meet your childhood friend he would have chosen some better clothes. He moved his hand to cover a strain in his shirt from the altercation from earlier with his jacket. A virtuous fellow like him would certainly disapprove of his attitude, and Sylus had always considered first impressions to be very important.

The contempt in the Doctor's eyes didn’t stroke him as a surprise. What a shame, Sylus sighed. He always thought that if he played his cards well he and the Doctor could strike up a good friendship since they were both smart men and shared very similar… taste.

Sylus took a second to assess the situation. From behind the Doctor’s back, you slide him a warning glance. The poison in your eyes made his heart flutter like a teen with his first crush. Biting back a smile, he decided to show some mercy just this one time. The Doctor was not wrong, it was pretty late at night and you should take some rest now.

Leaving your eyes he moved to look straight at the doctor’. With a motion he knew his type would dislike, he lifted up his chin and looked at him from above.

“Well, I’m glad you are aware of your mistake.” His eyes deflected to you so the Doctor would catch it. “My neighbor here was too stubborn to admit it.” The Doctor’ nails pressed against the wood of the frame.

Upon closer inspection, Sylus noticed the virtuous doctor’s clothes and the way his pants barely covered his shin. Well, he had never been offered clean clothes when he stayed at your house. Favoritism games were not fun, dear.

By his expression, Syrus feared the good doctor might decide to start throwing punches. As fun as it could be to help him start a criminal record of his own, he was sure you would scold him for it. So he decided to cut the conversation short.

“Fine. I am tired myself.” He turned on his heels and looked over his shoulder to throw you a wink. “I will discuss this with my neighbor some other day, when we have both cooled down.”

If the man had a reaction, Sylus decided to miss it. The only thing that got to his ear was a muffled sound and your voice whispering the Doctor’s name.

The apartment door closed behind him with a click. He could only imagine the Doctor’s questions for you if he even dared to pronounce them.

His phone ding with an incoming message and he pulled it out of his pocket. Kieran had updates on the gangster’s location and urged him to go back to work. With a heavy sight he stepped down the hall into the elevator. The night hadn’t gone as he had planned it too, but he got to see you at the very least.

He still wasn’t worried about the doctor’s slender, well taken care of fingers and where they might try to stick to, but just in case, because he was a cautious man, he pondered if he should send Mephisto to make sure you didn’t get yourself into any trouble.

#lads sylus #lads zayne #lads #love and deepspace #sylus #zayne #x reader #sylus x mc #sylus x reader #zayne x mc #zayne x reader #🍰 short fic

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