Moved –> @satorusgummies !!!

Got another complaint so I’m just gonna post this for reblogging purposes. Feel free to use.

synopsis: sukuna comforts you contents: fluff

You would say you were pretty tough.

But now-

Their words pierced at your body, straight into your heart.

Words, they cut so damn deep.

And you hate that you were crying over some shithead that had no life, no future, but here you were.

"Hey."

A familiar gruff voice rang out through the room, bringing the familiar feeling of comfort.

But you didn't want him to see you like this.

"Come on brat, you have to eat."

"i'm not hungry."

"well thats shitty for you. come on, get your ass up, I don't want to deal with you starving."

"ryo, can you leave me alone for a little bit?"

Sukuna narrowed his eyes, his gaze darting to the way you absolutely buried yourself in blankets, to the way there was a half-empty ice-cream tub and how your voice seemed to shake.

He knew right away.

"Hey."

Sukuna closed the door with a gentle click as he rounded to where you were wrapped up in a burrito of a blanket.

"What's wrong?"

"nothing."

"you know how much i hate lies. spill it."

He didn't want to be gruff with you, but he didn't like to see you sad, see the tears that streamed down your pretty face.

So he'll try to help in whatever ways he can.

Mainly by pissing you off to the point you forget about how sad you were.

Or if he's feeling merciful, attempt to try his hand at comforting you.

When you didn't reply, Sukuna grumbled under his breath and snatched up a blanket, ignoring your muffled yelp of protest.

And tugged the blankets off of you.

"Knew it."

You glare up at him, angrily sniffing as he stares at you dead-on, before sitting down next to you with a heavy sigh.

"Listen. I don't know how to make you better, so if you need me, I'm here. or whatever."

Breathing out a shaky sob, you shook your head with a sniff as Sukuna awkwardly scooted over to you, with a 'why am I doing this' sort of look.

"I'm here."

He slowly wrapped an arm around your still form, attempting to smoosh the spark of triumph that flared up in his body as you leaned into him, the sobs dwindling down to the occasional hiccup.

And all the while, Sukuna had his arms wrapped around you, keeping you warm, making you feel safe, even comfy in his presence.

and all the while, he whispered one sentence in your ear.

"i'm here."

tagging: @no-b10g-here @anxious-chick @aleluvsuu @funky-writes @oneofthesevensins @ladywinterfell13 @kazhyloveslaw @dazaisms @cyb3r-c44t @princessluvz @notherenortherejustaway @okaydokeyyo @iheartamora @haloswrld @churipu @lysaray @olivianyx @desihopelessromantic @kiri1330 @scryarchives

networks: @archive-network

do you have any ocs? do you write about them?

hi anon! first off, thanks for taking the time to drop by to ask about my ocs! i actually really, really appreciate it that people are taking interest in them <33

so i actually have many, many ocs from various different fandoms, and i have written about them :) most of them are in forms of long fics and you can find them on my wattpad, but i have introduced two of my ocs here on tumblr.

if you'd like, you can check out my writing masterlist or my art masterlist, for the more specific characters, to see which fandoms they're from and check them out if you'd like! <3

new profile pic! planning to change my banner soon too ehhehhehe

𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 - 𝐣𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓

seeing that they aren't that different, a middle ground started to form.

masterlist | previous , next !

–pairings: jaime reyes x oc

– warning: fluff, canon divergent, blue beetle movie spoilers

– author’s note: kay so idk if i actually posted the last chapter as a photo post and it'd be so embarrassing if i did, but here's this mess of a chapter :') . fun fact, i also made a bunch of little doodles of drea hehe!! disclaimer: i don't speak Spanish, Nahuatl or Tamil so please do correct me if i am wrong! read more under the cut! :)

“What the heck, Jaime?!” 

Milagro’s voice rang through his head, guilt slowly seeping into his stomach, his conscience reminding him that this was definitely not how he should’ve treated guests, or friends of his sister, in this case.

But she was no ordinary guest.

“Drea?” Jaime knocked as soon as he was out of his family’s view.

Clutter was all he heard from within the locked room, a frown appearing on his face as the water from the tap turned off instantly. In the next minute, Drea’s voice responded, muffled through the door.

“Yeah, uh, give me a minute.”

And so he waited, his back resting against the hallway until the click of the lock pulled him out of the trance, the male standing up straighter unconsciously.

“Sorry, you can use it now,” His guest muttered, pulling the bathroom door shut behind her.

His eyes widened at the faint red patch on Drea’s face and the paint was off, but a shade of pink remained. Simply, he assumed that she must’ve scrubbed a little too hard to remove the pigment from her tan skin. 

He felt strange with suddenly becoming so observant, but the shakiness in her voice was enough to give away how she was feeling. Her gaze was downcast, and her breathing slowed, her nails picking at the skin of her fingertips.

Before anything else was said, she began to walk away, and Jaime’s arm darted to her forearm, Drea’s eyes snapping up to meet his in fear and confusion. The remorse that rose in his stomach lurched into his throat, realising that he never wanted to be the cause of anyone’s fear… even for her.

“No, I just… I want to talk.”

He saw the hesitance in her eyes, and his hand dropped from her forearm instantly.

“Jaime, I’m not really in the mood–”

“I know that my behaviour towards you tonight has been extremely uncalled for, but I would really, really appreciate it if we could talk,” He interrupted, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Then I’m out of your hair when we’re done.”

Contemplating, she pursed her lips, teeth biting her cheeks in thought. After what felt like forever, she sighed in exhaustion, nodding reluctantly. 

“Okay, fine. But I prefer if we discuss it in private, I wouldn’t want to make your family uncomfortable with… whatever it is you want to talk about,” She huffed, her hand running through her ebony waves.

“If I get any sense that this conversation isn’t pleasant, and it’s just one more way for you to prove that I’m not welcome, I’m walking out.”

Quickly, Jaime nodded, hand darting to the back of his neck, scratching the nape nervously. 

“Yep… It’s fair enough,” He muttered before flicking his head in an unspecific direction. “Come on, I got a place for us to talk.”

For the voice to cause him all of this trouble, Khaji-Da was awfully silent throughout the entire interaction, watching Jaime clean up the mess the voice in his head caused with all the little doubts it stirred up.

Despite it all, Jaime was secretly thankful that he didn’t have to deal with the mess he almost caused to his sister’s friendship while silencing the alien’s voice simultaneously, and if anything, now would be the worst time for Khaji to step in.

He glanced back, seeing his neighbour stare at the darkened horizon in awe, her gaze fixated on the neon lights that came from the heart of the city. The corners of her mouth were upturned in the slightest that Jaime almost had to squint to spot it.

“The view you have here, it’s… wow.”

“Yeah, it’s something alright.”

A smile of his own grew, recalling all the times he would run up here when life got a little too tough. His mind darted to his late father, his throat closing up at the fondest of memories he shared, from the biggest of hugs, that were filled with pride and love, to his final heart-to-heart in the garden.

Quickly, Jaime cleared his throat, cutting everything off before it could spill over, like a glass filled to the brim with emotion. He turned to face Drea, the girl humming before sitting herself by his side.

“Uh… What’s up?” He asked a nervous smile on his face only to be replied with an expression that screamed ‘are-you-serious’ plastered across the woman’s face.

“Okay, that was actually pretty obvious,” Jaime sighed, Drea, crossing her legs as she shrugged.

“Just get to the point, Jaime.”

“Right.”

Taking in a deep breath, Jaime quickly exhaled, hands clasped as the woman across him rested her chin in her hand, elbow jutting into her thigh.

“You’re not human, are you?”

Instantly, she perked up, head leaving her hands and the panic in her eyes briefly returned before vanishing. A smile filled with false disbelief spread across her face, eyes suddenly unable to stay in contact with his.

“What? That’s insane, who told you that?”

“I know you’re lying,” Jaime let out softly. “Drea, I studied pre-law. I know when people are lying.”

His brows furrowed deeper, annoyance running through him as the alien in his head started to appear, suggesting various methods of torture to get a confession out of his neighbour. A grumble of annoyance escaped him as the said woman started up her ramble once more.

“And what does that have to do with anything? I mean that’s the most random thing I’ve ever heard. Me? Not being human? That’s… that’s wild–”

“Drea, I know you’re not human, and that’s because you saved me today!” Jaime snapped, and the frustration that bubbled within him finally exploded.

Silence replaced the once-tense atmosphere, and Drea’s eyes slowly morphed from confusion to a dawning of realisation. As the fact that he had practically revealed himself slowly began to hit, Jaime’s eyes widened in panic, waving his hands before him.

“I-I mean, of course, you would’ve saved me, I was in the city today,” A nervous smile grew on his lips.

“No way. By the time I got there, the streets were practically clear and a wreck, and the only person I saved was–”

“Blue Beetle,” Jaime sighed, a sly smile growing on his own. “But on the upside, I got a confession out of you.”

“Excuse me? You just revealed yourself to be Blue Beetle in front of me too!” 

Drea raised an eyebrow, arms crossed as Jaime froze up, hands rushing to slap the woman’s mouth shut. A hiss escaped him, eyes filled with worry. He glanced around left and right, glad to find that there was no one around.

“Don’t say it so loud– I admit it but just… quiet about it. Please?”

His eyes begged for mercy, hand still clasped over her mouth. Slowly she sighed, her own appendages wrapping around Jaime’s wrists. She pulled his hands away, passing a reassuring glance to the man.

“Jaime, it’s chill. I promise to not get you in trouble, but you gotta promise to do the same for me.”

Instantly, Drea lifted her finger up, her pinky hooking around Jaime’s. Initially frowning, Jaime soon interlocked pinkies and then nodded in agreement.

He glanced down at their joining point, the thumb of his hand brushing against the tiles of his roof. The stone tiles suddenly felt so cold against the warmth of her hands, and his hoodie just felt that little bit weaker against the cold of the night.

“A little cliché, but hey, whatever works for you,”

“Real classy, Jaime,” She huffed, pulling her hand away from his.

Instantly, he missed the warmth, the cold feeling much more severe than it did before they touched.

“You’re really warm,” He blurted, face flushing as soon as his mind processed what he’d said. “I mean, personality-wise. Definitely.”

“Spectacular rescue, Jaime,” He hissed in his mind, Khaji-Da’s silence feeling too loud for him to bear.

“Oh… okay, thanks, I guess,” She chuckled, her smile dropping briefly. “But I am warmer because one of my moms is a fire alien. You’re free to ask, just don’t blurt it out. Or I will hunt you down.”

He let out a laugh, a smile breaking out on his face, and it felt like his humour was contagious. Her smile slowly returned, joining him in their little duet of joy.

And there they sat for the next minute, wind ruffling their dark locks as they came to a mutual understanding, calm falling over their once-chaotic misunderstanding.

gif by @rob-pattinson

taglist: @mooncleaver @hoshi4k @mymanjaimereyes @asvterias @tinkerbelle05

< comment/dm me if you’d like to be on the taglist! >

teamwork (makes the dream work...?) pt. 4

Summary:

wc: 1k+

A/N: um hii sorry for updating a lil late 😅 but I got really into writing this esp at the end. We're almost done! As always feel free to comment your thoughts and reactions, or send them to my inbox! Thanks for reading :)

prev. next

Song: It's Only a Paper Moon - Ella Fitzgerald (totally optional to listen while you read, if you like that sort of thing)

The small plastic bag carrying your lunch swung from your wrist as you pushed the door to the counselor’s office open.

"Thanks again for helping me organize around here," said the woman standing beside you.

"No problem, Ms. Keene!"

By the time you stepped inside, Miles was already sitting at the round table in the middle of the room.

The boy spoke first as soon as your eyes met.

"Hey," he greeted you flatly. His stare wasn't too far off from the look of curiosity you get from a stray cat that isn't certain whether you're trying to give it food or not; neither malicious nor particularly excited.

You tilted your head in surprise.

"Hey, you in trouble or something?"

Miles shook his head.

"Ms. Keene lets me have lunch in here."

"You two know each other?" The tall, dark-skinned woman asked. Though she had asked you both, she beamed at Miles as she spoke. He glanced back and forth between you and the woman.

"Kinda."

She clasped her manicured hands together. 

"I'm glad you're starting to make friends again. That's progress. Enjoy your lunch," Ms. Keene said as she spun on her heel to leave, her short bob cut bouncing along with her.

"And put on those glasses!"

Miles rolled his eyes as the door shut with a click.

"Everybody's on your case about these glasses, dude. Just put 'em on," you said as you sat down next to him.

"Don't need 'em."

"Okay," you pointed to the analog clock hanging directly across from him, "tell me what time it is without using your phone."

He scoffed.

"Easy, it's…"

The boy stood, and squinted so hard that his nose scrunched. He heard you laughing through your nose behind him after a minute and soon dropped back down to his seat, hands raised in resignation.

"Alright, you got me. But who's looking at the damn clock all day?"

"Sitting in the back of the classroom with no glasses on is nuts, Miles. What's so bad about them?”

Miles pouted in indignation, "They make me look like Steve Urkel.”

“They can’t be that bad,” you said, grabbing the case from next to him and prying it open. “Lemme see.”

“Nope.”

“Just this once!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Please?”

The boy sighed, then took the glasses from you with a wary expression. He looked at them like they were a moldy piece of bread before finally putting them on.

“Happy?”

Neon green color aside, the glasses were truly not that bad. The thick lenses framed his face and made him look younger. The boy blinked, awaiting your verdict.

“Awww, you look like a little nerd!”

“Don't start with that,” Miles shook his head, a grin spreading across his face in spite of himself. He swiped them off of his face and took the case from you.

“It’s not a bad thing,” you said over a bite of your sandwich, “you look cute in them.”

He froze, a hand instinctively flying up to scratch the nape of his neck before turning his gaze in the other direction. You could still see the impression of his dimples peeking out from the side.

“Don’t get a big head over it, now,” you elbowed him gently. He quickly changed the subject.

“I’m finna tell Ms. Keene that you’re distracting me.”

Miles was now hunched over his notebook again. He had his homework sheet covering one page, but you could tell he was sketching. When you tried to look over his shoulder, he frantically shut it closed.

“Can you not be nosy for five minutes?”

“My fault, bro, damn.”

Miles continued to draw quietly for almost the entirety of calculus, never once allowing you to peek at it. He didn’t pause until you lightly tapped his arm.

The boy flinched at the sudden contact, but you had his attention.

“I’m stuck on this problem you wrote, just this one. Help me out?”

He tapped his pen lightly on the desk in consideration. Finally, he shrugged, closing the notebook and sliding it to the side.

“Sure.”

You placed the worksheet between you and Miles, where your desks met.

“It’s this one. I’m not getting the solution you got,” you explained, placing a finger on the offending equation. 

Miles peered closely at it. His braids nearly brushed the desk as his head moved.

“You gettin’ it wrong because you forgot to distribute here,” he pointed. “Everything has to distribute.”

You nodded as the gears in your head got to turning again. “Thanks.”

-

“Ma!” Miles whined as he took his plate of yellow rice and peas from the table.

“I’m just saying! La chica es muy linda, sigues mirándola. Don’t do anything crazy up there, understand?”

You were far from fluent, but the first bit of the brown woman’s sentence made a shy smile grace your features.

“This looks so good, thanks Mrs. Morales.” you said as you grabbed your own plate, carefully carrying it with both hands. 

“No problem, baby,” the woman replied, gently smacking the back of her son’s head before sending you both upstairs. “Same time as usual.”

“Your mom’s nice,” you remarked once you entered Miles’ room.

“You just sayin’ that ‘cuz she gassed your head up,” Miles laughed.

“Whatever. I’m ‘bout to fuck this plate up!”

“Not on my bed, I hope.”

The boy gave you a warning glance.

“Relax, you see me sitting?” 

You blew on a spoonful of rice before trying it, and the flavor nearly made your eyes pop out of your skull.

“Your momma went crazy in that kitchen.”

“M-hm,” was all Miles could reply as he shoveled the rice into his mouth, already halfway through the plate.

Soon both of your plates had been scraped clean, and you started working after taking the dirty dishes downstairs to wash. All three calculus problems had been completed, but a small squabble broke out over the appearance of the slideshow that Miles had put together.

“It looks so boring,” you complained. “At least make the background a different color–”

“Uh-unh, you gon’ make it hard as fuck to read. I say we keep it simple,” the boy swatted your hand away from the keyboard.

“Make the title dark magenta, and you got a deal.”

He sighed, “Fine. It’s legible, I guess.”

It was still only 7:30 by the time the project was finished, and you didn’t feel like leaving behind the warmth of Miles’ home just yet.

“Can you play some music?” 

Miles spun around in his swivel chair.

“What kind?”

“I dunno, whatever you listen to,” you tilted your head at him quizzically. “What do you listen to?”

“Um,” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small Bluetooth speaker, setting it on his desk. “Just…whatever I feel like. Lots of stuff.”

He carefully laid down on his bed next to you, making sure to maintain at least a few inches of distance.

Old jazz music began to float through the air.

“You like Ella?”

“Yeah,” he said at a near-whisper. “...I do now. Forgot what this song was called.”

“‘It’s Only A Paper Moon,’” you answered. “From ‘The War Years’. Beautiful record.”

Miles snuck a glance at the side of your face while you stared up at the ceiling. He liked the dreamy, far-off way you’d said the title.

“You sound old as fuck right now,” he commented. “Record…”

This made you burst into laughter, and Miles decided that he didn’t mind that sound, either.

“My momma always calls ‘em ‘records’, so I picked up the habit.”

“I like how you talk.”

You finally turned your head and met the boy’s eyes. The small grin playing on his face wasn’t a teasing one.

“‘How I talk?’”

“When you’re not grilling me with questions like a cop? Yeah, it’s nice.”

Not sure what to do with this new information, you turn your gaze back up to the ceiling.

“You’re a strange one, Miles,” was all you could say.

There was a brief pause before you asked,“What did you mean by ‘now’?”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “What’d I say about complete sentences?”

“Sorry,” you rolled your eyes. “You said you liked this song now, you didn’t like it before?”

He was silent for a good, long, ten seconds before answering.

“I used to not be super into jazz. Dad used to play that shit on the radio, driving me to school. I hated having to hear it the entire ride,” he laughed. “I know he’s somewhere making fun of my ass now.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, wondering if you should offer comforting words, or your condolences. Knowing Miles – at least a little – you decided against it.

“I used to listen to Ella songs when the house got too loud, or while I was eating lunch.”

“They let you listen to music down there?”

“Nah, I was eating upstairs with the English teacher after she saw me sitting by myself.”

“You still sit by yourself?”

Shaking your head, you answered, “I usually sit with Tianna, she’s usually my calc partner. This week’s kind of an exception.”

“So if it wasn’t for her, I woulda finished this shit three days ago,” he joked.

You placed your hand over your heart and gasped dramatically. “You mean you don’t enjoy being graced by my presence?”

“Hm,” Miles conceded, “I enjoy it a little.”

“Is this your way of saying we besties now?”

“Whoah, never mind. You killed the moment.”

“That was a moment?”

“Nope, forget everything I just said.”

-

Fun trivia since we're almost at the end: what book do you think Miles and the MC are reading in English class? There's no prize for answering but i'll be really excited about it. Thanks again for reading!

Taglist:

@thisaccountisrandomsstuff

@sizeablysized

@itsnotino

@asteria33

@kissmxcheek

@urmotherswhor3

@mrs-morales

@sukisprettyface

@kezibear

@missusmorales

@mystic60

@milesmolasses

@simp4miguell

@youcantseem3

@scryarchives

@mainvamp

@aki-ham

@v-vampy

@iluvweasleys

@pietromaximoffsbabe

@duckyduck25

@ulovejayy

@laylasbunbunny

@citrusequalsfrogs

@justreadingabooksstuff

@aoibhinnnnnnnnnnn

@euphorichappiness10

@gaychaosgremlin

@p3rf3ct4ng3l

@usoppsstar

@lovefrominaya

@arizzu

@tanchosanke

@animechick555

@ca1ist0

@spo0kypigeon

@theleftkittycollection

@oceean

@edgyficuselastica

@sophiaj650

@inluvwithneteyam

@fennecspage

@stevenknightmarc

@okayiamkassandra

@gwennesy

@kklovess

@hana-1235

@r3d0n33

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

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

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

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

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

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

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

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

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

“excuse me.”

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

“i need you to model for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you must be so down bad.

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

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

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

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

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

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

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

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

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

and maybe he is.

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

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

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

not want. need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and he sees it.

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

…ugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he should be bored—but he’s not.

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

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

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

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

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

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

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fix your posture.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“that’s just my natural aura.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so he keeps coming back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you start talking more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts talking more, too.

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

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

“listen, it was a short fall.”

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

and then you laugh.

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

he wasn’t expecting that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

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

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

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

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

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

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

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

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

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t even hesitate.

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

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and he’s used to you, too.

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

so he stays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

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

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

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

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

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

so it turns into a game.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

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

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

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

“…you sure?”

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

“what’s with the interrogation?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t stop there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

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

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

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

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

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

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

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

because you’re routine now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“was it?”

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

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

but then—

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

the change is immediate.

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

oh. oh, no.

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

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

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

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

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

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

the crowd erupts.

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

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

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

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

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

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

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

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

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

the timeout huddle is a mess.

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

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

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

or rather, someone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you shouldn’t be this invested.

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

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

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

the other team is beyond frustrated.

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

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

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

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

the crowd gasps.

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

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

or rather, at you.

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

the reaction is immediate.

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

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

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

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

satoru freezes.

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

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

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

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

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

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

the game is already over.

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

his next move is straight-up cruel.

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

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

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

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

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

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

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

the final seconds tick down.

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

final score: 112-39.

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

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

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

he doesn’t find you right away.

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

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

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

there’s a pause. a long one.

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

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

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

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

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

“yup.”

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

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

his expression crumbles.

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

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

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

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

his brows lift.

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

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

his lips twitch.

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

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

then—slowly, teasingly—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t look away.

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

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

he doesn’t answer right away.

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

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

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

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

and then, there’s finals.

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

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

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

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

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

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

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

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

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

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

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

he doesn’t reply right away.

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

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

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

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

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

[10:56 PM] okay.

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

then, one evening, it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"“huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

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

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

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

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

you don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

his eyes narrow.

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

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

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

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

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

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

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

he won’t let you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he notices.

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

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

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

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

“it’s private.”

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

“no.”

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

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

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

a challenge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tonight, though, you’re running late.

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

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

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

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oh.

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

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

his stomach does something weird again.

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

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

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i was drawing!—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

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

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

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

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

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

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

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

you don’t answer.

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

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

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

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

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

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

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

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

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

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

doesn’t want to.

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

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

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

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

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

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

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

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

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

but this time, you don’t walk away.

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

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

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

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

“no.”

“cold.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

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

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

“my beloved!”

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

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

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a lot of:

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

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

“no way. no actual way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

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

“yeah, but still.”

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

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

“no.”

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

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

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

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

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

“yes. all.”

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

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

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

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

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

“obviously.”

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

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

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

you shove his face away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DATING MILES MORALES AS A GIRLY GIRL | HC ❥

♡ pairings & aus: miles morales x fem!black!reader (this is HEAVILY black coded bookies, a little self-indulgent lmao) ♡ warnings: miles being a teeny bit of a watcher, him also being a lil' jealous, thats it? ♡ summary: what it's like to date our boy ♡ a/n: i love this boy sm y'all pls ♡ got a request? | masterlist ♡

when miles first saw you, he knew that he was smitten.

you were just perfect with your dark curls and your bright, glowy makeup...the dark pink lip gloss that shone against your gorgeous two-toned lips...yeah, he was done for.

he watched you for a while before mustering up the courage to even talk to you. he'd sit at lunch with a couple of his friends and as they would talk to him, he would be completely zoned out, too focused on the way you looked so pretty sitting at your lunch table with your friends, head drawn back as you laughed at someone's joke

he couldn't help but stare. you were pretty, and he knew this, but he was upset by the fact that other people knew it too. but he couldn't really be jealous because you weren't even his

...yet.

miles was determined to have you 100%.

but he never found the courage to talk to you. he would wake up in the mornings and convince himself he could do it, that he wouldn't embarrass himself, and then go to school and literally not say a word to you.

he knew it was getting bad when he'd ask mrs. morales to go to football games every single friday, no matter how far away they were. she just wanted her son to get out a little so she'd say yes, but little did she know, he was going for you.

you were a cheerleader, so miles would drive however far just to sit in the lop lefthand corner with his sketchbook cracked open, pencil dancing gently against the pages as he drew you in all types of positions-- smiling, cheering, touching your hair-- he'd draw you in any way he saw you move.

eventually, you picked up on the fact that you saw miles all the time, even when you weren't in school. but your own fantasies began to stir when you caught him staring at you one day as you got up to throw your lunch trash away

he was glancing at you, and he was doing it hard. so you shot him a sweet wave and smile, and he immediately shot you one back

he was cute. very cute. and you didn't even know him, but you started to develop a small crush on him

your passes through the hallways weren't by coincident. miles rerouted his entire way to get to each class just so he could see you for five seconds. but those five seconds were so enjoyable and made his heart melt, so he didn't even mind the extra walking

this went on for months. this man had filled up an entire sketchbook with your face, and he knew that he needed to do something because there were only a couple months left of school, and the only thing you guys have exchanged is a wave, a smile, and a spare pencil.

which, when you offered him the pencil in art class, he literally acted like it was his prized possession. it was a baby blue color with a light pink tip, and it actually smelled so much like you. he felt a little embarrassed by how happy he was about it, but he would find himself placing the item under his nose when he needed to focus on something

eventually, more months passed, and you were starting to think that he didn't really want you, he just liked looking at you. looking at your frilly skirts and pink sweaters, your chunky doc martens, your shiny black curls and your pearly dangling earrings. but your mind quickly changed when he came up to your locker one day, palms sweating and voice cracking as he finally spoke to you

"hi...um, y/n, is it?"

he played dumb, as if he hadn't been watching you for months. but you just went along with it and introduced yourself with a smile, and for a minute, he just stared at you and didn't say a word, until you gave him an inquisitive look.

"miles, everything alright?"

"s-sorry, yeah...i just wanted to, um..say hi?"

it honestly comes out like a question, but you giggle at his attempt to charm you

your conversation is short lived until days pass, and miles finds himself growing more and more comfortable about talking to you.

you even invited him over to your table for lunch, which utterly shocked him because the people you sat with were like...random

as in it was a random assortment. some jocks, some art friends, some musicians..

he was grinning from ear to ear when you invited him to come sit directly next to you. your thighs were touching his and he was freaking out inside because your skin was on his, and although it was subtle, he could still feel it and the contact made him happy.

he was infatuated with you. wherever you went he couldn't help but want to follow because your presence was so warm and welcoming

after what felt like years, he finally asked you for your phone number. he became full with greed-- seeing you at school wasn't even close to enough, he wanted to be talking to you or be with you at all times.

you obviously gave him your number by writing it on a pink sticky note, signing your name under it in cursive with a heart drawn at the end. he admired your handwriting, he's never seen someone write so beautiful, and he placed that sticky note in his journal that really was just a museum of you

anything you gave him he kept. gum wrappers, pencils, sticky notes, little trinkets and gifts-- he kept it ALL.

one night, he was up late texting you and literally grinning at his phone so very hard...he just loved talking to you.

miles: You awake?

you: mhm, can't sleep :( why are you still up?

miles: I dunno, can't sleep either I guess. Why are you up?

you: why not?

you replied to a message: and i'm up just thinking about stuff...my mind won't let me fall asleep :/

miles: I get that! I actually can't sleep either because of that reason

you: oh? whatcha thinking about?

miles: You.

his text honestly threw you for an entire loop and a half. he had finally said something to indicate your feelings for you, and you were literally geeking so hard about it

once he knew you felt the same way, your texting sessions became more frequent, and way longer. he eventually got a hold of your social medias and would check them so often it was borderline unhealthy

he snapped you throughout the day, never left you on opened or delivered without reason. unless it was for spider-man stuff...which, you had yet to know about until you both finally planned a picnic date.

you got all cute, hair done up and makeup flawless, clad in a flowy, long skirt and a white crop top with accented sleeves.

you were literally walking out of the front door until you got a text from miles, apologizing for the inconvenience that he wouldn’t be able to make it. you were so bummed out, you found a tear leaving your eye and you walked back to your room, disappointed.

miles was literally crumbled at the fact that he had to miss your date, your first one at that. so he wanted to make it up to you.

he quickly finished up his patrol work and threw himself back into his house, quickly saying hi to his mother before showering and getting dressed, spraying on cologne and grabbing his wallet and keys.

“mijo, where are you going?”

“out! te quiero, i’ll be back!”

mama rio obviously picked up on the fact that he was seeing a girl, but she just kept it to herself as miles flew out the door, running to the closest flower shop, and then apartment and knocking on the door. he expected you to answer, but your father did instead, causing him to literally shrink in his own skin as he said hello to him.

he was scared that your father didn’t know who he was until he said “you must be my daughter’s boyfriend!”

“oh— boyfriend? i-“

he was very quickly dragged inside your home. he conversed with your parents for a while as they welcomed him, and he eventually found himself at your room’s door with your flowers clasped in his palms, which were sweating with anxiety.

you told him to come in, and your sadness was lifted as he gave you a smile and a wave, handing you the flowers. and you were so ecstatic that you kissed his cheek, and he swore he almost died inside.

he took you to a rooftop and you had your picnic there, where he held you in his arms as you admired the night sky, until he pulled one of your curls behind your ear as you laid in his chest.

“y/n…can i…can i be your boyfriend?”

it was so random and unexpected, but you whispered to him with a smile,

“yes.”

tags!: @queenesther996 // @wydney // @rinnyisnothere // @brieryann // @starhrtz // @daisydark // @randomhoex // @solanawrld // @whore4hobie // @tanakaslastbraincell // @simp4miguell // @nyrovi3 // @aziulsworld // @enchantingfoxsparkles // @mancerseedu // @cafehyunji // @personofyou // @mcdvsr // @calliarlerte // @pr0wlerpunk // @tzuyuzzs // @clearskiiiess // @vienreina // @pixqlsin // @stvrgrl // @zerosinterweb // @mookiebut // @urmotherswhor3 // @cumbermovels // @asmobeuses // @yanghees // @popeheywardssecretgf // @mxspiderman2099 // @scryarchives // @rksses // @mmst4rz // @ilyless // @milesmolasses // @laylasbunbunny // @all444miles // @thecoloredpages // @bl00dsuccker // @adoremvney // @anikaluv // @qtdenks // @art-598

CHUUNIBYOU, DELUSIONS, AND LOVESICKNESS !

[ PREMISE ] — IN WHICH a chuunibyou and the strongest are in the same room thus chaos ensues. As the seed of love has begun to be planted.

⪩ FEATURING : teen gojo satoru x chuunibyou male reader ( fluff , semi-crack? )

"Gojo-sensei has (last)-sensei talked like that ever since you two met?" a curious pink haired boy looked at him with eyes filled with interest in his eyes. "Well yeah, as far as I know," yuji eyes widen nodding at this, "then how'd you learn what he says?" gojo shrugs his shoulder turning into a badly drawn chibi, "dont know."

Yuji stares at him as he too turned into a comical chibi, "for real?"

"for real," gojo nodded his head.

Nobara getting curious to the conversation looked at them, "how'd you two meet?"

"oh simple we were just in the classroom and then a wierd kid cames in,"

"like?"

"like,"

—

"Gaze before thy for I hath arrived, I, Prince—" Gojo satoru turned deaf when he first met the wierd boy with an eye patch. Saying things he doesn't understand and could careless to this, satoru gojo truly does not wanna listen to this, 'is he a chuuni?' he thought to himself staring at the male before him.

With how the bandages in their hands even though he doesnt have one, the eye patch, the theatrics like way of talking. Yep, he concluded that he is a chuunibyou. "art thou listening to thy?" you asked at him pouting slightly making the albino haired male looked at you with raised eyebrows and agape mouth looking confused. "What'd you say again?"

A visible tick mark appeared in your forehead as you glared at him, "hmp! how rude, thou does not have any respect at thy! but nevertheless since thou asked listen clear servant! I, (name) (last) is the Prince of condemnation bringing justice to the evil doers that leak on this world for thy hath come on this world to bring peace and happiness to thy's beloved people!"

Gojo stares, shoko stares, and getou stares at them as he did a pose showing off his eyes that isnt on a eye patch having a smug smiling proudly. Then gojo smiles at him, the two of his other classmate eyes looked towards the two male. "are you chuunibyou?" he asked making the two others sweatdrop at his straightforward.

While you only huffed, "what a rude words thou hath said to thy, I'll let it slide for thy is a benelovent prince!" gojo smiles at this walking closer to him, "eeeh? really? your actually cute you know that? are you one of those himedere or oujidere in games? chuunibyou oujidere?" he bombarded the boy in question making him feel his heart warm, as if a panda has hugged his heart. You looked at him pouting pointing your finger at him in a accusing way, your eyes fiery, glaring at him, "do thou not know respect! thou must call thy your highness! and many more etiquette rules!"

"oooh~ your so cute your highness~" gojo smiles at this seeing your embarassed or flustered state smirking as he continues to egg on you making you refute back at him. Getou sigh trying to calm down the teasings of gojo pitying the delusional boy before them, "satoru stop egging on the poor boy," shoko nodded at this agreeing on the black haired male said, "yeah or else I'll report this as bullying,"

"hey dont do that I'm your friend!" satoru whined pouting glaring at them his jewel like eyes looking at them with betrayal. "Shut up shameless servant! thy much prefers these respectful ones over thou!"

"oh cmoon I'm much more better your highness~" gojo satoru doesnt mind having a classmate wierd as you, afterall your just fun to mess with.

—

"oh wow, if I were (last)-sensei I would've punched you," nobara said looking at the gojo clan member with deadpan eyes as satoru only smiled, "now thats just horrible treatment," gojo chuckles as he remembers the many days how he teases the chuunibyou until he himself slowly fell inlove with them.

"oi! hath thou been eaten thy's pudding?!"

The male teacher turned rigged hearing your voice filled with rage as he sweated awkward, "uh oh, bye kids daddys gonna be gone for a while," with that he ran away as you yelled at him accusing him of eating your food.

"deserved." nobara muttered.

Jealousy, Jealousy.

Note: I tried Smth new w howl, pls pls lmk if u like it cuz I was half asleep as I typed this out (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠)

He's jealous.

It was only a quick pitt stop at the Wizard Pendragon's shop (one of Howl's many aliases) that set it all off.

A calm morning for the Pendragon's moving household was set to start and the shop needed a bit of upkeep as customers were running dry. So with the creaky floorboards all swept up and Calcifer warned to not misbehave, the clock-like magical device that hung next to the door signalled with a resounding ding and a switch in colour indicating where the castle had teleported to.

There was a long day ahead but you couldn't be more pleased.

As the hours went on Howl worked in rhythm with you as tinkering laughter was heard throughout the shop and bubbling mixtures were stirred harmoniously in cauldrons. There was a calm air to your love as he flitted around you with hands briefly coming to couch and maybe even teasingly squeeze at your hips as he passed.

"Pass me the dandelion leaves ?", He asked while focusing on the lilac fluid seeping from the side of the potion bottle he was pouring into.

You nodded with a kiss atop his freshly midnight-dyed hair - courtesy of sweet Sophie, you know she didn't mean it but you couldn't thank her more for the darkened charcoal colour that had seeped into his golden locks- and off to the ingredients section you went muttering past bottles of all sorts.

Coming back empty handed with no dandelion leaves in sight you let your eyes wander to his sprawled out form in the chair by the fire, Howl only looked up and smiled a bit disappointedly before getting to his feet and tugging on his boots.

You could already see long black feathers creeping out his cloak, predicting his speedy mode of transport for the errand.

"I'll be back in a moment sweetheart, not to worry. Markle will take care of everything."

Knowing full well the small child would've dosed off by now as he'd left to play in the fields while you both worked, you were left to manage the quaint store while Howl flew out for after a dizzying kiss goodbye and mumbles of bringing you wildflowers to carefully twist into your hair.

Then and only then did a customer decide to come in.

He was a polite young man, easily flustered and a soldier of the royal palace you noted due to the bluish uniform donning his slightly hunched physique.

He was nervous.

You grinned trying to ignore his demeanour so that maybe the pink in his cheeks would lessen.

"Ma'am, the queen has requested for a simple sleep draught from the makings of your shop.", He coughed, "please." came soon quickly after he'd recollected himself and pulling at the yellowed buttons holding his vest together.

You hid your smile behind the worn glove that your sweet partner had embroidered a pathetic attempt of a small daisy onto which you very much cherished, it felt like you were talking to a mouse rather than a fully grown man.

"Why of course."

The man...boy even, settled into a lone seat to watch you set up, eventually gaining courage to invite you into bubbly conversation that you found very boring very fast hence weren't all too interested in so short sugared-up answers were all he received.

The 'banter' he thought he was receiving on your end was honestly faked curiousity.

It seemed he was quite dim. Too dim for your liking.

His puny attempts to indirectly flirt were unoriginal and simply unwelcome.

Just as you were starting up your potion with another lame probe on the topic of the weather about to leave the man's mouth, your beloved hurriedly came in. Cheerily he was chattering on about a bird he'd been able to fly up close to in in his bird-like form.

"Oh, you should have seen it's-", Howl interrupted himself to stare at the man sat atop the brass stool across your apothecary tabletop, "feathers?"

His demeanor immediately switched.

Gone was the gentle, patient magician you were so accustomed to. There stood an intimidating wizard and he oddly felt much taller, much more powerful than a split second ago.

This was the Howl Pendragon you'd only ever heard about through word of mouth, not the one that childishly insisted to cuddle up on your ill-fitted couch or cast silly spells to jokingly make your hair stick up in different directions.

No. This was a whole different feel of a person and it seemed like the magic was almost spilling out of him in waves, you could almost taste it's electric crackling force in the air.

He felt more confident, cocky, ready to rip into this poor man down to his basic self-worth.

You liked it.

His lips twitched.

"Darling, who is this?"

Howl's voice was always deep and smooth as silk, just as it was right now, yet you were no fool and could pick up on the the roughened edges of his tone.

But it seemed like the young soldier took no notice of the emotional state of the suddenly very upset wizard in his presence. He only turning around to bow deeply in respect while stuttering out a greeting and an explanation of his presence.

Howl only had a curt nod to give as a reply and you could tell he wasn't very ecstatic have a new face in here.

If he could roll his eyes at the 'competition', they'd roll all the way to the back of his head to see his brain.

The next few minutes were tense as he only grinned tightly and came to your side to place a very domineering palm on your corseted waist pulling you in closer to his warm body, sending a clear message.

"I'm sure you've got this one little potion down love?", He said with his eyes sharply glancing to the young man that had very clearly receded back into his shell at this point.

Howl didn't even need to say a word, didn't even need to properly look at the guard for him to metaphorically back away. But of course he had to ensure he got his point across, so what else could he do but dip down to deeply kiss your lips, he was only seconds away from basically pushing his tounge into your mouth if you didn't stop his dramatic live-performance.

Nodding satisfied with himself, you huffed whispering 'show off' while he stepped back to tend to his dandelion-leaf-less potion.

You couldn't even look up at the barstool your customer sat on anymore with the intense blush covering your face and you could only imagine the agony of embarrassment he was going through.

With the potion sealed up and a-way-over-the-actual-price bag of coins thrown at the counter, he promptly escaped out the door not even bothering to check for any change.

Shrugging you turned back to glare at Howl who was innocently blinking into space.

"Was the last part really necessary."

He slowly smirked, tendrils of his magic swirling past your shoulders.

"Whatever do you mean?"

You quickly found yourself within his grasp, pressing kisses to your knuckles as an apology.

You knew he wasn't sorry at all.

Loud laughter could be heard from a distance as Calcifer moved the castle along to wherever your hearts desired.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~