so many. stupid fucking people. smugly wrong. the term . "all art is political". does not mean. every artist puts political intent into their work. no. the guy drawing dicks on the subway did not intend any deep message by it. HOWEVER. all art. IS political. he chose to draw that dick. for a reason. society shaped what he finds funny. what he finds shocking. the fact he chose to draw a dick at all says something about his society. actually, the fact it is a dick and not a pussy is itself political. we are all. ALL. shaped by our environments. in an alternate universe a woman is drawing a vulva on the wall. and shes saying "TCH! this isnt political. stupid liberals". all art. has political CONTEXT. that is a more specific way to phrase it. because we live in a society. who has access to art? where is the art located? who is the artist? why did they draw that in that specific location. what led to them even having the sharpie they used to draw the dick to begin with. their society shaped their tools! their society shaped their choice of subject! their society shaped the location of their art! but these people are too stupid to understand this. so theyll continue pretending that they are not shaped by their political environment. SAD!
out of all the posts ive made that have blown up this has to be the most fascinating Given how i was too drunk to remember how to form full sentences. but was i wrong? no.
2. The Delectable Negro: Human Consumption and Homoeroticism Within US Slave Culture by Vincent Woodard
3. "Abolitionists turned the tables on Europeans by accusing them of being cannibals when they ate sugar tainted with the flesh and blood of slaves."
4. Zombies (which I would class as cannibals, since they were human and need to eat humans to live) have a root in Haitian folklore and represented enslavement.
adding that, if you can find it, cannibal culture by deborah root is about exactly this. the way the white western world is a hungry, destructive force that cannibalizes non-white cultures and creates wealth and status through the cannibal colonization of those cultures.
here's the intro
i almost think there's an essay in bell hooks' black looks about this too? yes! just checked, there's an essay called "eating the other"
︎▶︎ Tyrant, every time I ride it (starring . Dabura)
synopsis . Using his horns like handlebars while you ride him. content . slight/eventual dom f!reader, rough sex, all porn no plot, he gets a lil’ needy, feralness—on both ends, dirty talk, “improper use” of horns (lol), creampies, fucking him stupid, overstim, breeding kink, size kink, man(?)handling, etc. (not proofread)
"So this is what human pussy feels like, hm? How erotic," Dabura hums indifferently as if you weren't currently creaming around his looongly stretching length, gushing all over each widening inch expeditiously. His head merely cocks over some, "And pathetic," He adds, "Can't even take every inch of mine. Is this your best attempt at riding cock? You look as though you're about to cry."
"S-Shut-, ah-, shut up!" You huff out in between moans, lashes fluttering with a delicate sum of wetness already coating each one, "S'not my fault you're so big, asshole."
He laughs right in your face, as if what you'd just said was truly that funny to him. Then there's a faintly gentle smile—a twitch in his lips—that you notice before he says, "I am not big." His vexing eyes begin to trickle down to study the way your cunt is struggling around his veins, sopping each one up deliciously, "You just have a stubborn pussy. But it's cute how hard she tries."
Dabura is entirely unlike anything you ever could have expected and far better than any person you've ever slept with prior, undoubtably so. The only issue here is that it seems impossible to get a different reaction out of him. His eyes rarely ever show any emotion outside of the occasional instant in which his plump cockhead bumps against that particularly juicy spot inside you. It's in the way you gasp and choke over your own breath that makes his otherwise sternly sat expression falter for a second long enough to showcase pleasure.
"Does this help?" He asks after a few more seconds of finding amusement in the way your walls struggle 'n quiver around him, the thick pad of his thumb coming near your clit to swab out the letters of his name, "It's just a couple more inches, pretty thing." Dabura coos all sweetly. The moment he feels your syrupy walls begin to relax a little around him and then sink further, he finally allows you to catch a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "Thereee you go. You asked to ride me so do that—ride. And do it properly."
The alien's large hands are settled on the purchase of your perfectly rocking hips for a while after and although he knows you've been trying (and failing) to get a different reaction out of him for the past few minutes, nothing works until he notices yours hands traveling up all of a sudden. "Oh, w-wait-," He tries to get it out before your fingertips graze the smoothness of his horns. He jerks his head back a bit in an attempt of avoiding the gesture but fails entirely.
The stutter he just let out catches you off guard since that's the first and only time he's ever tripped over his words but, outside of the shock, you're left rather encouraged by the sudden break in his words.
Encouraged enough to wrap your fingers around his horns and get a good grasp on them while drawing your hips high up above his length, that sloppy wet tip of his slipping out of you with something gooey oozing out of the centered slit already.
"Fuck—damn human—I said.. wait," Dabura attempts to warn again. His voice comes out slow ‘n heavy, lacking the previous sense of mockery and amusement he had when this whole thing started. The syllables used to nastily glide off of his tongue but now they’re falling out with an almost pathetic rasp. Hands sliding up to hold your waist firmly, grasping at every stretch of skin available there, he then squeezes as if to warn you or something.
Do you heed said warning?
Fuck no.
Your grip on his horns gets even tighter and he's still trying to tug his head away from you, something suddenly fogging up his gaze as you maintain your hold on him and plop your warmth back down onto his firmly-standing cock. “Let go,” He groans deeply, the sound vibrating against his inked throat. Ignoring the poor alien, you smile and arch forward all sensual-like,
“Mmnh, see? I knew you could make other faces!” You exclaim all excitedly as you drink in the sight of his eyes failing to uphold that hardened look from before.
He couldn't keep up with his glares no matter how hard he tried, not when you've got your palms rubbing up pressed against his horns. No one ever touches them, especially not in a situation like this but, here you are.
He should've known better than to agree with you about doing all this for science or-, whatever bullshit it was you uttered to him before all this. “I demand you release my horns this-, hahh..." His lashes flutter rapidly and his hips begin to unconsciously lift up to meet yours slightly, "—this instant, angh.” Dabura groans.
Now you're the one smiling, “But, mmngh! You feel like you’re enjoying it,” You point out softly just as your hips come flush with his and you start to grind with his cock knocking around your insides, “I wonder what happens if I move my hands… up, like this,” With your little narration, your touch on his horns begins to travel in a way that's far too stimulating.
So much so that Dabura's jaw falls open and something whiny runs out of his throat. “Fuhh-, fuck. Don’t-,” Pausing to swallow thickly, “Don’t stroke them, slut—" He's cut off by the spinning of his own mind. Suddenly, he didn't know where to focus his attention. There was too much pleasure: the sensation of your hands caressing his horns, your pussy greedily gulping in every inch of his all the way down to his deftly sat base, and then the way you squirm in reaction to him being flustered. "Please? I… I meant to say please,” He corrects.
“Awwww," You mock, trying to get back at him for each time he'd done so earlier, "That was a cute attempt at trying to regain control here, really."
Dabura's eyelids lower a bit more, hiding the way his vision is slightly fogging over with something watery, “I could-, mngh.." His jaw tenses tightly enough to flash a vein decorating his sharp jawline, "I could have you under me within seconds. You’re already pushing your luck here, as if it was not you who begged for me like this.” He argues with a sudden thrust upwards.
The motion throws you off your balance for just a second, causing your voice to leave you all shaky-like, “I did n-not beg.”
“You did," He protests further, leaning-, no, slouching back and then letting his sharp fingernails dig into your skin, "You whined for me to let you play around with my cock and now that its toying around inside that sloppy pussy of yours, you’ve the nerve to get—fuck—bold with me.”
“Anh! Dabura-,” You're moaning again while he uses his firm grip on you to fuck himself deeper—impossibly deeper—inside you.
Something whorish splays out across his lips and you think he's drooling for a split second as his shaft ever-so-rudely thump! thump! thumps! against somewhere new, “You should be more appreciative of what I give you," He grunts hotly, maw beginning to dangle open whilst something feral coats his gaze, “Especially when my cock is so snug inside you like this. Can you feel that? The way I kiss the depths of this pussy?”
You hate how swiftly he had you looking like some stupidly-fucked whore on top of him, “Y-Yes, fuck! That feels s’good.”
His brows furrow with true curiosity, “Does it?” He asks, a faint softness caught in his throat. When you start nodding again, he pulls at your body so that you can resume your needy grinding, “Mmh. Prove it to me.” At that, its almost like you snap out of your daze. Your hands don't just grip onto his horns to tease him, no, no. This time around you roll your hips forwards and hold onto his horns just to keep yourself steady. Dabura tries prying his head away from you again, gasping, “Ah-, that’s cheating.”
You ignore him, of course, and with your perfect hold on him, you begin to bouce—frantically so—the sounds of your skin slapping down against his flying throughout the room and leaving everything to sound a slicked mess of sex. “Not my fault you’re sensitive here," You taunt.
“I am not—ohfuck," Dabura tried to fight back this time, he really, really did. But with the way you rut your hips back 'n forth and back 'n forth before switching to that up 'n down, hungry bounce of yours, he just couldn't keep up.
The rest of his taut frame falls into something submissive and he whimpers when you jerk him forward by the horns to match your pace. Husking, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” like a broken little mantra as his pupils blow out and he starts to lean into your touches, “Fuck me good, keep fucking me like this.” He encourages in between the hot flashes of something rigidity and heavy building up inside him, “Yesyesyes-, I’m gonna cum-," The alien gasps with abruptinly bucking hips, "I'm gonna-, mmmgh, fuck!”
You lose your balance again and almost flop forward entirely but his hold on your hips keeps you upright, leaving your hands to gravitate to his face just as a single tear of pleasure rolls out of his left eye. The moment he feels it and you notice it, he starts thrusting up faster in an attempt to distract you from it.
“Ah! Mmgh," You moan, feeling the way he tries exasperatedly to bring you to tears instead, only to fail no matter how many times his cockhead weeps tender thwaks! against your cervix. "Cum inside me?" You choke, "B-But—“
“Wanna stuff you with all of me,” Dabura pours out throatily. It was like talking to a brick wall at this point, he was already smearing something warm 'n creamy into you as he spoke, “You’ll be so pretty with my seed dripping out of you so, please,” Another pitchy gasp cuts through the air, “Take it, let it be yours—for... for science, remember?”
Just then, you almost laugh. You probably would've if you weren't busy agreeing to his babbled words, nodding your head and chuckling, “Uhuhh, cum inside me then. M-Mmnh! For science."
banner art by Rororogi Mogera || tags (people who showed interest):
you were going to be late for work. not because you woke up late. not because you took too long in the shower and not because you were doom scrolling in bed and lost track of time.
you were going to be late because your husband, satoru, just couldn't seem to let you go. you found it cute at first, him begging you not to go and whining when you say no, but the act was getting boring especially because you were standing at the door, trapped in his arms for the last twenty minutes.
"for the last time, 'toru. i have to go", he only shook his head and pulled you impossibly closer against him.
"you don't have to work...i make enough for the both of us...you can stay home with me...you should stay home with me", satoru whispered into your ear, nuzzling his face against your neck, inhaling your scent.
"i actually like my job. i know you can pay for everything, but i also want to treat myself sometimes". satoru looked at you like you'd grown two heads. he looked you up and down, his frown deepened and shook his head, no.
"absolutely not. what kind of husband would i be if i just let you spend your hard earned money. only a loser would do that, and I'm no loser.", he pulled you closer to him again, this time peppering kisses all over your face.
"as cute as this is, satoru, i have a life to live"
"yeah, with me". this time he captured your lips in a long, passionate kiss, your lipstick now on him before pulling away and staring at you with the most love sick eyes. "i could just lock you up and keep you all to myself. i bet your boss is an ugly guy"
"my boss is a woman", he pressed his lips together in a straight line and sucked his teeth.
"whoever keeps you away from me is ugly by default. how much should i pay you to stay with me? i'll give you double your current salary-"
"don't be ridiculous, satoru"
"it's 'toru to you", you checked your wrist watch for the nth time and rolled your eyes.
"i'm gonna get stuck in traffic if you keep me here for longer", satoru sighed dramatically and pulled you in for one last hug before capturing your lips again in another kiss. but this one felt different. he kissed you like he would never see you again before pulling back and looking at you with the saddest puppy dog eyes.
"you can go now, my love". he escorted you to your car, his hand on your lower back and once you were settled in your seat, the door closed, you rolled down the windows and you kissed his cheek. "get there safe. call me when you do"
you said your goodbyes and were soon. some time later you realized that you had forgotten your purse. you reached for your phone with the intention of messaging satoru to tell him you were coming back. and to your surprise, you found that he sent a selfie of him posing with your purse, all pearly whites out and your lipstick still smeared on his lips. and below it a text.
my handsome clingy husband: i wont let you go this time if you come back
︵ ೀ mdni. satoru finds your secret sketchbook full of him and in a haste to explain yourself, he offers to be the nude model for your assignment ( artist!reader x sports!satoru / college au / wc 5.8 k )
︵ ೀ series. part one / part two
you've been doing really well, actually. two whole days of successfully avoiding him—not that you're avoiding him, obviously, that would be childish, you've just been taking very specific routes across campus that happen to not cross paths with anywhere he usually is. completely different thing.
so of course, the one time you let your guard down, the one morning you actually allow yourself to sit in the cafeteria like a normal person with your coffee and your sketchbook open to a completely innocent, satoru-free page, you feel the chair across from you scrape back.
you look up.
he drops his tray down and folds himself into the seat like he owns it, which, to be fair, he kind of acts like he owns every seat he sits in. he's in his practice clothes, hair pushed back, looking annoyingly good and unbothered for someone who absolutely should be at least a little embarrassed about that night.
"hey," he says, like it's nothing. like it's any other monday morning and you definitely didn't spend the entire weekend hunched over your desk shading every line of his naked body onto paper, painstakingly getting the light right across his shoulders, his stomach, his cock—
"cool if i sit here?"
"you're already sitting," you say.
"true." he picks up his fork, glancing down at your sketchbook. "how'd the drawing turn out."
"it turned out good," you say, wrapping both hands around your coffee cup. "handed it in this morning actually."
"yeah? what did he say?"
"she," you correct automatically. "professor lee. and she—" you pause, because this is the part you've been equal parts dreading and wanting to tell someone since it happened an hour ago, "she really liked it. said the proportions were the best in the class. said it looked like i actually knew my subject."
satoru grins at that. "obviously."
"don't let it go to your head."
"too late." he steals a piece of fruit off the edge of your tray without asking, which is so aggressively normal and familiar that some of the tension in your shoulders loosens without you meaning it to. "so she liked it. that's good. you were stressed about it."
"and then," you say, because apparently you are going to tell him the whole thing whether you planned to or not, "she asked me who the model was."
satoru raises an eyebrow.
"and i said a friend. and she looked at it for a second and then she was like—" you cover your face briefly, "—'is this gojo satoru? from the athletics team? i've seen him play.'"
satoru puts his fork down. "your professor knows who i am."
"apparently she goes to the home games."
he leans back in his chair with the most insufferably delighted expression you have ever seen on another human being. "so your professor has seen me play and my dick."
"she hasn't seen your—it's a drawing."
"of my dick."
"of your—it's art. it's an anatomy study."
"still my dick though."
"satoru, oh my god, keep your voice down." you glance around the cafeteria, mortified. "it's fine art. there's a difference."
"what's her name."
"no."
"i just want to introduce myself properly. we've already been through something together, it feels rude not to—"
"you are not tracking down my professor."
"i could come to class."
"absolutely not."
"i'm serious, i could be a guest model." he's fully grinning now, leaning forward on his elbows like this is the best idea he's ever had. "your whole class would benefit. very educational."
"you are not coming to my anatomy class."
"why not? i'm clearly qualified. i have references." he nods toward your bag, where your sketchbook is poking out. "got a whole portfolio of evidence right there."
"those are my sketches, not your references."
"same thing." he steals another piece of fruit off your tray, completely unbothered. "so she gave you a good grade at least? after everything i sacrificed for your education?"
"i don't know yet. she has to grade them all first."
"god," he mutters, "why do they always take so long with that."
it's not really a question, so you don't answer it. you just watch him pop another grape into his mouth, and then he's quiet, and then you're both quiet, and that's worse, actually, because silence means your brain immediately fills it with everything you've been successfully not thinking about since friday—
his dorm room, the towel, the chair, then the way he had touched himself, his hand wrapping around his cock, stroking slow at first then faster, the wet sounds. the way he had looked at you and said that he likes you to watch, like he wanted you to see every stroke, every twitch, every drop of precum—
"you're turning red," he says.
you look up. he's watching you over the rim of his water bottle, completely calm, one eyebrow slightly raised.
"i'm not."
"you are." he sets the bottle down. "what are you thinking about."
"nothing."
"uh huh." the corner of his mouth pulls up, just slightly. "nothing that happened friday, or."
"i actually have to go," you say, already reaching for your bag, sketchbook shoved in first, coffee cup grabbed second.
"we should probably talk about friday," he says, easy as anything, like he's suggesting you discuss the weather.
your bag nearly slides off the table. "i'm good, actually."
"you're good."
"yeah." you stand up, pulling your coat off the back of the chair. "totally fine. nothing to talk about."
"i feel like there's a little something to talk about."
"nope." you're already backing away from the table. "i have class."
"you have forty minutes until—"
"lots of things to do before class. very busy. full schedule." you point vaguely in a direction, any direction. "i'll see you around." you turn around before he can see how red your face has gone, already speed-walking toward the exit your coat not even properly on yet.
"we're gonna have to talk about it eventually," he calls after you, loud enough that two people at the next table look up.
you pretend very hard that you didn't hear that.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
it's thursday afternoon when professor lee hands back the assignments, moving through the rows with a small stack of papers tucked under her arm. you're barely breathing by the time she stops at yours. she sets it down in front of you, face up.
A, circled in red pen. and underneath it, in her small, neat handwriting:
best in class. exceptional sensitivity to form and proportion. the familiarity with the subject is evident. it elevates the entire piece.
you stare at it for a second too long.
"i mean it," professor lee says, pausing at your station instead of moving on, which she doesn't usually do. "this is genuinely impressive work. the best figure study i've seen from this class in a few semesters."
"thank you," you manage, still a little stunned.
she tilts her head, glancing at the drawing one more time. "your model—a friend, you said?"
"yeah. just a friend."
"he's clearly very comfortable in his own skin." she says it so matter-of-factly, so professionally, that you almost don't register it. "do you think he'd ever be willing to come in? to pose for the whole class? we're always looking for new models and frankly, he has exactly the kind of build we look for."
you blink at her. "i'm sorry?"
"as a paid model, of course. it's a standard arrangement." she's already moving on to the next student, completely unbreezy about the bombshell she's just dropped. "just think about it. ask him if he's interested."
you sit there for a full minute after she moves away, staring at your a, thinking about how on earth you're supposed to look gojo satoru in the eye and ask him if he wants to get naked in front of your entire class.
you'd survived the sketchbook discovery. you'd survived the dorm room. you'd survived the hallway, and the door, and the sounds, and the cafeteria where you'd basically sprinted away from him like your shoes were on fire.
you had, very carefully and deliberately, been in the process of letting things go back to normal between you. or as close to normal as they could reasonably get given everything.
and now this.
asking him once had been mortifying enough. asking him to do it again, in front of twenty other people, with proper studio lighting and your entire class staring at him—all of him—for three hours straight... you'd rather fail the semester.
you decide, firmly and with great conviction, that you are not going to ask him.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
professor lee catches you on the way out of class the following tuesday.
"did you speak to your model?"
"i—not yet," you say, which is technically true. "i've been meaning to."
"no rush," she says, in a tone that suggests there is a little bit of rush. "i'm planning the spring model schedule and i'd love to lock it in. he'd be compensated well."
"right. yeah. i'll ask him."
you do not ask him.
by friday she stops you again on your way in, before class has even started, a scheduling sheet in her hand and a hopeful look on her face that makes your stomach sink straight to the floor.
"i don't want to keep pestering you," she says, in the way that people say things when they are absolutely going to keep pestering you. "but i showed his study to a colleague of mine and she was equally impressed. if he's open to it, we'd love to have him for at least two sessions."
"two sessions," you repeat faintly.
"the pay is quite good for a few hours of work." she smiles, warm and completely oblivious to the internal crisis happening right in front of her. "and i have to say—your work this semester has been good, but that piece was on a completely different level. there's something that happens when you draw someone you actually know. the confidence in your work, the attention to detail." she tilts her head, like she's genuinely thinking it through. "i think having him as a recurring subject could do a lot for your portfolio. potentially best of semester material, if you keep working at that level."
you stare at her. "best of semester."
"it's early to say," she adds, already heading toward the front of the room. "but i'd be lying if i said i wasn't thinking about it. just something to consider when you talk to him."
she says it so casually, like she hasn't just dangled your entire artistic future in front of you like a carrot on a stick and walked away.
"yeah," you hear yourself say, like someone else has taken over your mouth entirely. "yeah, i'll ask him." you walk to your seat, drop your bag, and sit down.
fine. you're going to have to ask him. however embarrassing, however awkward, however many new levels of humiliation this opens up between you—you are going to have to look gojo satoru in the eye and ask him to come and be naked in front of your entire class.
you pull out your sketchbook and stare blankly at a fresh page.
the things you do for a good grade.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
you find him coming out of the locker room just as training wraps up, which in hindsight you should have timed better. you'd figured you'd catch him on his way out, fully dressed, easy and normal, a quick conversation and then you'd be gone before either of you had time to be weird about it.
instead he pushes through the door with a towel around his waist and another one hanging around his neck that he's using to roughly dry his hair, still dripping, chest still damp, looking entirely too good.
my god, why—why is this a thing now? you went years without ever seeing this man like this. years. it wasn't even hard, it just didn't happen, and you were fine, you were completely fine. and then something changed like three weeks ago and now it's just—towels. constantly.
like the universe looked at your life and went, you know what this needs? more of him, wet, with very few layers on. thank you. very helpful. really appreciate that.
he spots you immediately, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "hey. what are you doing here?"
"i needed to talk to you about something." your eyes have already gone somewhere safe, like the floor, the wall, the water fountain twenty feet down the hall. "sorry, i didn't realize you'd still be—i can wait outside."
"why?" he pulls the towel off his neck, draping it over his shoulder, looking genuinely confused by your reaction. "you've already seen me naked."
"that was different."
"how."
"it just—it was for class, it was a whole—it was a different context, satoru."
"you literally drew my body for weeks without me knowing and now you can't look at me in a hallway." he tilts his head, amused. "make it make sense."
"it makes complete sense and you know it," you mutter, still not fully looking at him. "can you just—put a shirt on or something."
"i just got out of the shower."
"i'm aware."
"my shirt's in my bag."
"then get it out of your bag, satoru."
he laughs, but makes no move toward his bag whatsoever. just stands there, like he's genuinely enjoying watching you try to hold this conversation with the water fountain. "okay. what did you want to talk about."
you take a deep breath, eyes still fixed somewhere over his shoulder. "i need to ask you something and i need you to not make it weird."
"when do i ever make things weird."
"satoru."
"fine. ask."
"my professor asked me—" you stop, start again. "she really liked the drawing. like, a lot. best in class, apparently."
"obviously." he leans against the wall, arms crossing over his bare chest, completely unbothered. "and?"
"and she wants to know if you'd be willing to come in." you say it fast, the way you rip off a bandaid. "to pose. for the whole class. like, as a proper model. she'd pay you."
he stares at you for a second. "the whole class," he repeats.
"yeah."
"like, all of them. sitting there drawing me."
"that's—yes. that's what a class model is."
"naked."
"that's what a figure model is, yes."
he's quiet for a beat, which is somehow more nerve-wracking than if he'd immediately said something. then he tilts his head, studying you with that unreadable look he gets sometimes. "and you'd be there."
"i mean—it's my class, so yes, i'd—"
"so you'd be drawing me again."
"along with twenty other people, yes."
"hm." he looks almost entertained now, pushing off the wall. "and you ask this because—"
"professor lee said it could be best of semester for me," you mutter, hating how small it sounds out loud. "my portfolio. if i keep drawing you, apparently my work is on a different level and—"
"so you need me."
you close your eyes briefly. "yes. fine. i need you."
he's quiet for a second. "okay," he says finally.
you blink. "okay?"
"yeah." he shrugs, like it's nothing at all. "i'll do it."
"just like that?"
"just like that." he reaches back for the towel around his shoulder, giving his hair one last rough pass with it. "but i want something in return."
"what kind of something."
"a drawing."
"a drawing," you repeat slowly, waiting for the rest of it.
"yeah." he says it completely simply, like that's the whole sentence, like that explains anything at all.
"what kind of drawing."
"i'll let you know when the time comes." he's already turning back toward the locker room, clearly very pleased with the level of vagueness he's just gave you.
"satoru." you take a step after him. "what does that mean, you'll let me know when the time comes. you have to give me more than that."
"it's a drawing. you're an artist. not exactly a hardship." he glances back over his shoulder, smirking. "unless you're worried about what i'm going to ask for."
"i'm not worried."
"you look a little worried."
"i look normal. tell me what the drawing is."
"later." he pushes the locker room door open with one hand, completely unbothered, like he hasn't just left you standing in a hallway with the world's most open-ended agreement hanging over your head. "talk to your professor. set up the dates."
"satoru—"
the door swings shut behind him. you stand there for a second, staring at it.
what did you just agree to.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
the following days are, frankly, not great for your mental health.
it starts small—a passing thought while you're brushing your teeth sunday morning, a quick what did he mean by that before you shake it off and move on. fine. totally manageable.
by monday it's less manageable. you're sitting in your color theory lecture staring at a slide about complementary palettes but your brain is persistently thinking about it in the background like an app you forgot to close. a drawing. what kind of drawing. why wouldn't he just say what kind of drawing.
tuesday you're in the studio working on a still life and your roommate asks you three times why you keep stopping to stare at nothing and you say you're just thinking about composition which is technically not a lie.
wednesday is when it gets genuinely bad. you're lying on your bed at midnight, sketchbook resting on your stomach, pencil tapping against the page, going through the options in your head.
a portrait, maybe. something normal. that would be fine, that would be completely fine, you could do a portrait no problem. except satoru doesn't do anything without a reason and he definitely wouldn't have been that mysterious about a portrait. which brings you back to the other option sitting at the back of your mind that you keep trying to evict.
a nude.
another one. something he could actually keep this time, something personal, not a class assignment. a drawing he could—your brain unhelpfully supplies the image of him showing it to some girl, grinning, look what my friend drew me, isn't that insane—
you groan and pull your pillow over your face.
that's what it is, isn't it. he wants a proper one. something finished and framed and entirely too detailed that he can use as the world's most unhinged conversation starter with whoever he's currently interested in.
he'd basically said it himself, that night in his dorm. the most insane nude i could ever send to a girl, he'd said, grinning like the thought genuinely delighted him.
you'd laughed at the time. you're not laughing now.
or maybe this time he wants you to actually draw him pleasuring himself or something, his hand wrapped around that thick length, stroking himself the way he had that night while he looked at you and told you to stay and watch.
you wonder how that would go, would he stare at you the whole time, eyes dark and locked on yours while his hand moves on his cock? would he moan loudly, the low rough sounds filling the room the way they had that night? would he have to go a few rounds if you are not fast enough to finish the drawing the first time, his cock getting hard again and again while you try to capture every detail? does he take long to finish, or would he come quick and hard with you watching every twitch and every drop?
you would not survive this.
at least professor lee was happy when you told her. she'd practically lit up, already pulling out her scheduling sheet before you'd even finished the sentence, penciling satoru in for two sessions with the kind of excitement she usually reserved for particularly good student work. she'd called him a find, which was such a professor way to describe gojo satoru that you'd almost laughed.
it was the only good part of the whole week.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
the morning of the first session you get to the studio early, which you tell yourself is because you want a good spot near the window for the light and absolutely not because you need five minutes alone in the room before everyone else arrives to mentally prepare yourself.
your classmates filter in one by one, morning chatter filling the studio and the usual scrape of easels being adjusted and pencils being uncapped. normal. fine. you set up your station, clipped a fresh sheet to your board, told yourself this was just another class.
and then maya, who sits two easels down from you, glances at the model release sheet professor lee has left on the front table and does a very audible double take.
"wait." she picks it up, turning to the room. "is our model today gojo satoru?"
the energy in the room shifts immediately.
"the gojo satoru?" someone says from the back. "from the athletics team?"
"oh my god, i've seen him at the games." this from jess, who is already setting up her pencils. "he's like, genuinely unreal looking. i saw him at the spring championship and i thought i was going to pass out."
"same, he's so tall—"
"and his shoulders—"
"i heard he's like, built like actually insanely well—"
you are staring very hard at your blank page, pencil gripped too tight in your hand, willing yourself not to react to a single word of this.
"wonder what he looks like underneath all that," maya says, in that way that makes three people laugh and makes you want to fold yourself directly into your easel and never come out.
"i mean, we're about to find out," jess says.
"lucky us."
"lucky us is right."
you make a very small, very quiet noise into your sketchbook that no one hears, which is good, because you don't fully have a way to explain it.
professor lee chooses this moment to walk in, satoru a half step behind her, and the room goes just slightly electric in the way it does when someone walks in and everyone clocks them at once. he's in his regular clothes still—sweatpants and a loose shirt—looking completely unbothered by the sudden weight of twenty pairs of eyes, because of course he does, he's satoru, he was probably born unbothered.
his eyes find you immediately across the room. he grins. you look back at your paper.
"good morning everyone," professor lee says, setting her bag down. "as you can see, we have a new model joining us for the next two sessions. this is satoru. please make him feel welcome and remember our studio etiquette—professional environment, focused work."
"hi satoru," the class choruses, with significantly more warmth than you've ever heard directed at a model before, and a few of them are already giggling before they even finish saying it.
"hey," he says easily, lifting a hand, and you can hear the smile in it without even looking.
"oh he's even better up close," someone whispers, not quietly enough.
you close your eyes briefly.
i drew him, you think. i spent a friday night in his dorm room watching him stand there like that and i drew every single line of him and then worked on it for two days and i got an A and none of you will ever know that and i am going to take it to my grave.
so, there's nothing to worry about. you've already seen him naked, you remind yourself, very firmly, like a person who is totally fine. this is nothing new. this is just—a repeat viewing, basically. a familiar subject in a professional context. you have already seen everything there is to see, you have already drawn it, you are already ahead of everyone else in this room by approximately one very eventful friday night.
there is absolutely nothing to be worried about.
you are not going to survive this class.
professor lee gestures toward the changing area. "satoru, whenever you're ready."
"sure." he glances across the room one more time, finds you again, and there's something in his expression that's almost like he's checking in, just briefly, before he disappears behind the curtain.
you pick up your pencil.
you are so not going to survive this class.
and then the curtain moves, and satoru steps out. the room goes completely quiet.
not the polite, professional quiet of a figure drawing class but the stunned, collective, nobody-planned-to-stop-breathing quiet of twenty people registering something all at once and not quite having a response ready for it.
you keep your eyes on your sketchbook for exactly four seconds before you look up, because you're only human.
he's standing at the edge of the platform professor lee uses for her models, completely at ease, even though he's standing in front of a room full of art students in absolutely nothing at all. one hand resting loosely at his side, weight shifted onto one leg, like he's just waiting for someone to tell him where to stand.
"okay," maya breathes, from two easels down, in a tone that isn't really meant for anyone in particular.
someone's pencil rolls off their easel and hits the floor. nobody moves to pick it up.
professor lee, bless her, clears her throat. "alright. let's start with a few short gesture poses, two minutes each, before we move into the longer study. satoru, if you could—"
"yeah, wherever you need me." he steps up onto the platform, and the light from the studio windows catches him in a way that makes the whole thing feel almost unreasonably unfair, like the universe is just showing off now.
"oh my god," jess whispers, so quietly it barely counts as a sound.
you look back down at your paper.
you've seen this before, you remind yourself. you've seen all of this. you are calm. you are professional. you are an artist in a figure drawing class doing exactly what artists in figure drawing classes do. and he is not standing there enjoying every second of the effect he's having on this room, and you are not nervous about it.
you chance one more glance up at him.
he's already looking directly at you, the smallest smirk sitting at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what every single person in this room is currently experiencing and finds it very funny.
you look back down so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
the two minute gestures blur into longer poses, and the room settles into the kind of quiet that only really happens when everyone is actually invested in what they're drawing. except the investment in this particular class feels distinctly less academic than usual.
maya keeps exhaling these small, controlled breaths like she's actively regulating herself. someone in the back row has been erasing and redrawing the same line for the last ten minutes, which has nothing to do with the line being wrong and everything to do with needing an excuse to keep looking. jess fanned herself with her reference sheet at one point, caught professor lee's eye, and stopped.
and then there's the girl to your left. hana, who is usually one of the most technically precise people in the class, ruler-straight lines and perfect proportions. you glance over at her sketchbook once, casually, the way you sometimes do to check where everyone else is in the drawing.
she is on her fourth detailed study of satoru's... manhood.
fourth.
you look back at your own paper immediately, pressing your lips together very hard. professional environment, professor lee had said. focused work. you add a careful shadow along satoru's shoulder and say nothing.
the class continues, pose after pose, and the light shifts slightly as the morning progresses. you almost forget that satoru gojo, your longest friend, is standing right in front of you, naked. it's easier than friday night, somehow, with twenty other people in the room and professor lee moving quietly between easels. more structured. safer. except—
you look up to check the angle of his jaw for the third time and find him already looking at you yet again. you glance back down. look up again a minute later to check the line of his shoulder. still looking at you.
not at the room, not at the middle distance the way models usually do when they're holding a pose. at you, specifically. you drop your gaze back to your sketchbook. look up again two minutes later. still you.
you try, very subtly, to gesture with your eyes. a small, deliberate flick to the left, toward the window, toward literally anywhere else in the room that isn't directly at you. he blinks. stays exactly where he is, gaze not moving an inch.
you try again. a tiny tilt of your head. look somewhere else, you are sending him every possible telepathic signal you have, you are burning through your entire reserve of nonverbal communication, look at the wall, look at the window, look at maya, look at literally anything—
he almost smiles. doesn't move his eyes.
you widen yours slightly, a last desperate attempt.
he raises one eyebrow, barely perceptible, like he's asking what exactly you think you're doing.
"satoru." professor lee's voice cuts through the room, not looking up from the student drawing she's currently reviewing. "eyes forward please."
the class doesn't look up. you look down.
and from across the room, so quietly that you're almost sure you imagined it, you hear him exhale something that sounds very much like a laugh.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
you take longer than necessary packing up your things. unclipping your sheet from the easel slowly, sliding your pencils back into their case one by one, straightening the edge of your sketchbook even though it doesn't need straightening. around you the rest of the class files out, and they are not quiet about it.
"his shoulders," someone says, not even bothering to lower their voice, and a round of giggles breaks out near the door.
"did you see his—" jess starts.
"yes," two people say at once.
"does anyone have his number?" someone asks, completely serious, and the giggles tip over into full laughter that echoes down the hallway and slowly fades.
you stare very hard at your pencil case.
from behind the curtain comes the soft sounds of satoru getting dressed, and professor lee is tidying the platform, humming quietly to herself. then she pauses, glancing toward the curtain.
"satoru, i just want to say—you were wonderful today. very natural in front of the class. some models take weeks to settle into it."
"thanks." his voice comes through easy and relaxed. "wasn't so bad."
"the students responded really well. you have a real presence. it translates onto the page beautifully."
"good to know i'm useful for something other than sports."
professor lee laughs, soft and genuine, in a way you've genuinely never heard from her in a full semester. you hear her gather her things shortly after, the click of her bag, the soft tap of her shoes crossing the studio floor.
"see you both next week," she says warmly on her way out, and then she's gone, door swinging shut behind her, and the studio is suddenly very quiet.
you're still standing at your easel pretending to organize your pencils when the curtain shifts and satoru steps out, fully dressed, hair slightly disheveled from pulling his shirt on. he's looking down at his phone with an expression you can't quite read from here.
"hey," you say.
"hey." he holds his phone up, turning it slightly so you can see the screen without fully crossing the room. there's a new contact open. a name you recognize. "i think your professor just gave me her number."
"she did not."
"slipped it under the curtain on a little piece of paper." he sounds genuinely amazed, somewhere between flattered and delighted. "like an old school note. actual handwriting and everything."
"satoru, she's our professor—"
"she's your professor." he tucks his phone away, grinning now, fully pleased with himself. "i'm just the model."
"you cannot date our professor."
"why not? she's smart, she has good taste—" he gestures loosely at himself, "—clearly. i think we have a real connection."
"oh my god." you finally give up on pretending to organize your pencils, turning to face him fully. "i am not having this conversation."
"you're the one who brought me here. this is on you."
"i did not bring you here so you could get my professor's number—"
"technically you did though." he leans back against the nearest easel, arms crossing, way too comfortable with all of this. "you asked me to come. i came. connections were made. can't control chemistry."
"satoru—"
"relax." the grin shifts into something softer. he tilts his head, watching you with that quiet look again. "i'm messing with you."
"i know you're messing with me."
"do you? because you went pretty red pretty fast for someone who knew."
you open your mouth. close it.
he uncrosses his arms, pushing off the easel, and there's something different in the way he moves now, slower, more deliberate, like he's not in a hurry anymore. he closes the distance between you by one step, then another, until he's close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to look at him properly.
"don't worry. i'm not gonna call her." his hand comes up and he tucks a loose strand of hair back from your face, fingers barely grazing your cheek, the touch so brief and light you almost convince yourself it didn't happen. "there's already someone i like."
the studio goes very quiet.
you should say something. you are a person with a working mouth and a functional brain and you should say something.
"you don't want to ask who?" he says, and there's the ghost of a smile there, but it's softer than usual. less like he's winning something and more like he's nervous and trying not to show it.
you look up at him. "...who?"
he looks at you for a long second. his hand hasn't moved far, still hovering near your cheek, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it. and then he leans in, slow enough that you could step back if you wanted to, close enough that you can feel him before you can hear him, his lips just barely brushing the shell of your ear when he speaks.
"you," he says, quiet, just for you. "obviously."
he stays there for a moment, close, warm, not moving away yet. you're pretty sure you've forgotten how breathing works.
and then satoru backs up, easy and unhurried, like he didn't just say that, like the last thirty seconds didn't happen at all. he picks up his bag from the floor, slings it over his shoulder, and glances back at you on his way to the door. "see you next session," he says, and the smile is back.
the door clicks shut behind him.
you stand there in the empty studio for a very long moment.
"next session," you repeat, to no one.
note: please do not ask for updates or comment "next part?" or something like that. if there is an update, i will post it. ppl who continue to demand updates will be blocked.
i appreciate your comments and love hearing your thoughts on the story, but demands for updates make me anxious. have a good day everyone ♡
The writer must have a good imagination to begin with, but the imagination has to be muscular, which means it must be exercised in a disciplined way, day in and day out, by writing, failing, succeeding and revising.
just bc ao3 doesn’t allow censorship and bc the site was made by incest shippers doesn’t make it ok.
It’s ppl like you that I cut my eye at. Incest, pedo’s, rape, all that disgusting stuff being written and romanticized and LOVED and yet you sit there to justify it?
Absolutely not. 
okay. good for you. keep crying. I’ll still keep writing my non-con fics. you cannot stop me and I couldn’t care less about what you think so
