Lou’s

I’m M 24

[sixeyesonathiel]

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

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

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

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

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

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

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

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

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

“excuse me.”

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

“i need you to model for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you must be so down bad.

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

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

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

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

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

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

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

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

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

and maybe he is.

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

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

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

not want. need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and he sees it.

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

…ugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he should be bored—but he’s not.

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

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

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

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

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

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

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fix your posture.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“that’s just my natural aura.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so he keeps coming back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you start talking more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts talking more, too.

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

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

“listen, it was a short fall.”

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

and then you laugh.

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

he wasn’t expecting that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

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

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

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

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

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

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

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

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

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t even hesitate.

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

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and he’s used to you, too.

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

so he stays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

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

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

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

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

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

so it turns into a game.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

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

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

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

“…you sure?”

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

“what’s with the interrogation?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t stop there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

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

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

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

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

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

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

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

because you’re routine now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“was it?”

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

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

but then—

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

the change is immediate.

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

oh. oh, no.

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

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

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

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

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

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

the crowd erupts.

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

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

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

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

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

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

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

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

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

the timeout huddle is a mess.

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

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

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

or rather, someone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you shouldn’t be this invested.

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

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

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

the other team is beyond frustrated.

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

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

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

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

the crowd gasps.

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

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

or rather, at you.

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

the reaction is immediate.

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

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

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

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

satoru freezes.

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

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

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

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

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

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

the game is already over.

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

his next move is straight-up cruel.

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

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

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

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

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

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

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

the final seconds tick down.

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

final score: 112-39.

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

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

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

he doesn’t find you right away.

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

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

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

there’s a pause. a long one.

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

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

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

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

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

“yup.”

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

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

his expression crumbles.

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

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

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

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

his brows lift.

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

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

his lips twitch.

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

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

then—slowly, teasingly—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t look away.

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

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

he doesn’t answer right away.

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

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

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

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

and then, there’s finals.

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

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

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

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

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

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

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

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

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

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

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

he doesn’t reply right away.

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

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

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

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

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

[10:56 PM] okay.

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

then, one evening, it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"“huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

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

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

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

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

you don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

his eyes narrow.

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

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

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

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

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

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

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

he won’t let you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he notices.

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

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

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

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

“it’s private.”

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

“no.”

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

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

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

a challenge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tonight, though, you’re running late.

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

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

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

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oh.

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

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

his stomach does something weird again.

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

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

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i was drawing!—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

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

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

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

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

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

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

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

you don’t answer.

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

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

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

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

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

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

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

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

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

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

doesn’t want to.

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

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

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

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

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

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

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

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

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

but this time, you don’t walk away.

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

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

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

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

“no.”

“cold.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

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

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

“my beloved!”

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

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

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a lot of:

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

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

“no way. no actual way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

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

“yeah, but still.”

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

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

“no.”

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

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

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

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

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

“yes. all.”

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

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

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

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

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

“obviously.”

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

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

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

you shove his face away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[lumieros]

WANT U LIKE THAT ! ‎ ‎ — s. gojo

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ pairing . . . brother’s bestfriend! gojo x f! reader

▬▬▬ IN WHICH, Satoru Gojo has two secrets. One, it’s only his room being renovated, not his parents’s entire mansion. Two, the “annoying little sister” of his bestfriend has always been the silent, furious center of his entire universe.

Now that he’s your temporary roommate, your plan is to survive without murdering him. His plan is to ruin yours. The line between hate and something far more dangerous is as thin as the wall between your bedrooms when stolen glances and touches linger longer than intended, one obsession is traded for another, and your decade long muse is demanding to be seen as something more.

❀ contents ⦂ mdni. 16k wc. college au. slowburn. forced proximity. one-sided enemies to lovers. reader has freckles. banter. mean gojo (as a kid). artistic obsession. artist!reader and photographer!gojo. tattoos. mentions of piercings. sexual tension. whole lot of fluff. smidge of angst. eventual smut. reader is a virgin. p in v. praising, cunnilingus, unprotected sex. again, 18+ so mdni or skip the smut.

a/n ⦂ it was genuinely the most fun i’ve had in a while writing this fic, brainstorming ideas with friends at 4am & extensively searching photography & art terms, this fic is lowk the pinnacle of my skills </3 i only hope that whoever has the patience to sit through the 15k wc will enjoy the journey as much as i did !! <3

The first time Satoru Gojo breaks your heart is when you’re six and he’s nine, boy meets girl, girl meets trouble— and the weapon is a dandelion.

You’d found it growing in the cracks of a pavement, a stubborn little sun against the grey. To you, it was gold. It was beautiful. And for any reason that your six years old heart couldn’t articulate but felt with every fibre of your being, you wanted him to have it.

Satoru has been Suguru’s extension for as long as you can remember. He was nine, all scabby knees and a shit-eating smirk already too sharp for his face. He was perched on your backyard wall, waiting for Suguru, looking bored.

You marched up to him in all childish innocence, the dandelion soft in your dirt smudged hands like a peace offering, “see what I found! Here!”

Satoru spared it one glance, looking down and unimpressed. He didn’t take it, “That’s a weed”, he said, with the condescending tone of a child who’s never been told he’s wrong, “it’s what left when a flower dies. It’s ugly.”

Your heart is crushed. “But—”

“You can keep that to yourself,” He doesn’t give you the time to continue. And before you could pull your hand back, he leans in and blows— a precise, sharp puff of air. The delicate dandelion seeds erupted from the stem, a white chaotic cloud scattering in the summer air and Satoru grinned, pleased with his demolition. He pointed to the few seeds stuck to your cheeks, “See? Just a weed.”

You didn’t cry. Not that he would wait around to see that either. You just held onto the empty stem in your hands, it was left as a reminder of what you meant to Satoru Gojo. The message was received as clear as he’d carved into your skin with little care. What you think is beautiful, I find worthless. What you give me, I will destroy.

It was a lesson he would spend the next decade enforcing.

Satoru was around almost every weekend, and every time he made it his life’s mission to make your life miserable. It was always Suguru and Satoru, Satoru and Suguru. They’d spend entire days building a fortress of boyhood you were never quite allowed to enter. And it was fine, you knew your brother loved you. Fighting with Satoru as a rival for Suguru’s attention was okay. It would’ve been okay if Satoru wasn’t always intent on making his presence painfully annoying and loud.

Years and years went on with the same rhythm, you may have built a tolerance to Satoru but not quite a liking. He was always the “ugly extension” of your Suguru who jabbed at your insecurities and took your things and snacks without asking and always wanted to be better at everything.

When Suguru moved away for college, he would room with Satoru. And now you were completely out of the picture.

That was okay too, in a decade you had built your own passion for art and skills that Satoru could never better even if he tried.

In your first year of college and Suguru’s last, your parents wanted to move back to the countryside, and Suguru came back to live with you. It’s been peaceful and steady. You don’t see Satoru much. They still hang out— Instagram stories and posts, gaming sessions and calls. But you’re just not bothered to keep tabs on it.

And yet, you ought to think you didn’t deserve this surprise.

The sound of the doorbell was an inconvenience. The sight of Satoru Gojo on your doorstep, all in his untouched glory— a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, that same old “better than you” grin on his face, and his parents’ sprawling estate presumably too empty for his taste.

He was taller, of course. Not just taller, now having to slightly duck his head under your doorframe, but broader. The world had stretched him out. The lanky, sharp elbowed frame you remember has filled out with a solid, confident build of a man who still believed the universe rearranged itself for his convenience. His white hair was a deliberately messy masterpiece, and his sunglasses were perched on his head, leaving those piercing, knowing blue eyes utterly unobstructed.

Satoru Gojo is at your doorstep with a duffel bag you know doesn’t belong to Suguru, there is no way he’s here to—

“Hey Dots, well, roomie, look at you,” he said, his voice a deeper, richer version of the one that had haunted your childhood, “all grown up and still frowning at me. Some things never change, huh”

He winks at you.

Dots. Yeah, he hasn’t forgotten the damn nickname. Of course he hasn’t.

Like a very Satoru Gojo thing to do, he didn’t wait for an invitation, stepped past you into the hallway, his shoulder bumping yours on purpose. He smelled like expensive cologne and arrogance.

“You’ve grown into a proper slenderman yourself,” you really can’t be bothered to hide your very annoyed smile, all the more emphasized in a mocking attempt to look welcoming.

“Ah, feisty,” he grins, throwing the bag on the couch as if he owns the place, before throwing himself too, legs sprawled out like a cat with a Cheshire grin to match. You wish he tripped, “I like it. You can finally say something without stuttering with me”

He’s asking to be punched.

“Sugu around?” He asks, looking around the place to scan, probably looking for things he can jab about.

“He’s your best friend, you tell me.”

He turns to you, and for a three seconds that his gaze falls on your mouth, you think out mouthing an insult, “Right, forgot,” he taps his glasses, “you’ve always been the prickly one, my favourite.”

The drag of syllables on the favourite has you rolling your eyes. “Can’t say the same, seriously, what are you doing here? Sugu won’t be home till night.”

“I’m your new roommate. For a few weeks.” his eyes did that scanning thing again, and you felt a ridiculous urge to cross your arms over your chest. “My place is being de-germed or something. Sugu offered sanctuary. Don’t worry, I’ll try not to track too much privilege on the carpets.”

Oh. Absolutely. Just what you were missing in your life. Can’t wait for Suguru to come home and poison his coffee.

The boy who had been nothing but a spoiled dandelion-blowing, pudding-stealing, name-calling jerk your entire childhood, is now a man still, if not more, annoying, standing in your foyer and staring at you like you’re the interesting one. You had this stinking, terrifying feeling that he was going to tear apart your life again. He’s no longer just trouble. He’s chaos wrapped in the figure of a now well built man with a pretty face and sly tongue, a thunderstorm daring to be acknowledged.

“Oh please, are your other mansions not big enough? Are all the 5 star hotels books with no place left for you? Ask them nicely and they might let you crash for free. There’s really no reason—”

You protest, because he doesn’t need to live here. He’s got every privilege one could possibly have in the palm of his hands, he doesn’t need to be here.

But of course he cuts you off, old habits die hard, “—but where’s the fun in that? Something tells me you really missed me Dots.”

He’s reminding you that he’s been keeping score, “I have a name, you jerk.” you’d rather be in any other room except with him.

Yeah. The war was on.

“Yeah, but Dots really holds the memories, doesn’t it?” His grin was all innocence, a weapon he’s mastered, “I was nine, you were six. I remember you were barely taller than my knee.” One quick shift of his gaze from your feet to your eyes again was his way of saying “you’re not anymore.”

“Yeah, I remember you had the emotional intelligence of a rock. Some things really don’t change.”

You scoff, turning away in a retreat you think was strategic. The kitchen won’t have any of his obnoxiousness. You really need some strong caffeine to accept the reality of having to share your space with him.

Satoru’s footsteps followed, a lazy confident rhythm against floorboards. He leaned in on the counter, eyeing your movements. To him, your annoyance was probably just background music.

“So,” he begins, “what does grown up Dots do for fun nowadays? Still drawing those monsters?”

Your hand stills on the mug. So he remembers them too, the “little monsters” were your first foray into character designs and he has mercilessly compared them to “blobs with emotional problems.”

“I’m an art student,” you announce, keeping your back to him, “not that you could know the difference.”

“Ouch, a direct hit”, a soft laugh follows the sound of fridge door opening, “still like your coffee tasting like depression?”

“You’re the one who puts enough sugar to put a horse to sleep, you don’t get to say anything.”

“You know how I like my coffee?” You can practically hear his grin, “Then you can make me one.”

You finally turn to him, in utter disbelief at the audacity of this tall hunk of arrogance. Satoru is holding a milk cartoon, looking pleased with himself. “I’m not making you your fucking coffee. And you don’t have to worry about mine either, how do you know that anyway”

“Suguru mention things”

The idea of Suguru casually mentioning your coffee preferences to you Satoru felt like an utter betrayal, “its none of your business.”

Satoru takes this chance to step closer, and you want to instinctively step back. But that would mean allowing him to take more space than he should be, to allow him to cower you into a corner in your house, and to hell with that.

“Not if I’m making it,” he simply takes the mug from your hands, “you’re welcome.”

He lets his fingers finger brush your knuckles, the warmth lingering treacherously on your skin.

“No thanks, I don’t wanna be poisoned.”

“You wound me.” He says with a disgustingly dramatic pout that doesn’t look ugly on him.

But you let him— watch him, stunned into silence, as he moves around your kitchen with an infuriating familiarity, scooping the grounds, pouring the water. He did it all wrong, of course— clumsy and rushed, a rich boy who’d never had to do a thing for himself. But he was trying, or he was performing the act of trying, which for Satoru was probably the same thing, you reckon.

It was an outrageous display of casual intimacy which you don’t ever remember sharing with him.

He handed you the mug, a smirk to proud to pair. It was too light.

“Uh, I think there’s a bit of coffee in your sugar.” you say flatly, taking one sip.

“It’s called flavor, Dots,” he blinked, the picture of a self proclaimed superiority, “you can thank me for introducing you to the good things in life. Sugar, for example.”

It was the dandelion all over again. He’d taken something you wanted, performed the act of giving it, but delivered a hollowed out version, stripped of what made it yours. He was re-establishing the old rules on new terrain.

You don’t throw it in his face. You don’t even sigh. For what it’s worth, at least he didn’t compromise on the caffeine.

“Good things are simple,” you take deliberate sips of the overly sweet coffee, “unadorned and unassuming, unlike your personality.”

For a fraction of a second, his smirk faltered. It was there and gone so fast that you might have imagined it, replaced by a new, more interested glint in his eyes. You hadn’t cried at six, and you wouldn’t sputter now.

Satoru leaned forward, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in. “You’ve gotten better at this,” he murmured, voice a low, approving hum, “I’m really liking it.”

“I didn’t do it for you” you ducked under his arm, taking the coffee with you as you walk away.

To you, he’s a ghost from your most awkward memories, but he’s wearing the face of a man who makes your heart do stupid, frantic things in your chest. And you hate every second of it. The whirlwind of confusing emotions Satoru Gojo is capable of inciting in you hasn’t changed, but you’ll make sure you won’t be the only one suffering. This isn’t a reunion, it’s an ambush. And you have the sinking, terrifying feeling that you are completely, utterly unprepared for it.

Even so, the war was on, and you drew first blood.

The next morning dawned with Suguru’s apology hanging in the air. He’d truly thought Satoru’s arrival would be a surprise. A surprise.

The word echoed in your head, a stark reminder that your brother had long forgotten your deep seated dislike for Satoru’s presence. And frankly, you’d thought you’d forgotten it, too. Out of sight, out of mind. But now he was here, a walking, talking reminder. Your new plan was simple: avoid him. Don’t engage. If he tries to push your buttons, remember Suguru’s blessing: You can hurt him in any way.

You claimed the living room as your studio, spreading your art supplies across the coffee table in a deliberate act of territorial dominance. You were working on a series of concept sketches— dark, twisted tree roots— qand needed to focus.

The focus lasted approximately seven minutes.

Satoru emerged from the guest room, his hair a spectacular mess, and beelined for the couch. He didn’t ask, just flopped down, taking up three—quarters of the space, and flipped on the TV with a blare of morning news.

You gripped your charcoal pencil tighter, “do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he said, not looking away from the screen, “make yourself at home.”

You sighed, already tired. “I am home. And working.”

“Then work.” he gestured magnanimously at the sliver of table in front of you, “Don’t let my awesome presence stifle your creativity, maybe it’ll inspire you.”

He offered his best smile, something the poets would call charming and artists like you would kill to make a muse of.

“I’m drawing roots. Dark, gnarled, parasitic things. Remind you of anyone?”

“You could be drawing me, you know,” he said, leaning back with his elbow lazily resting on the couch. “Art majors in our college pay me all the time to be their muse.” and he winks at you.

Of course they do. “You wish. I don’t have time for you right now, I’ve to finish my assignment.”

Said assignment— a series of studies on structural roots, gnarled and grounding—was failing spectacularly. Satoru was a disruptive presence, the constant rustle of his movements, the background noise of the TV, all low grade irritants.

Yet, his presence was the very thing fueling the betrayal of your own hand. The charcoal had a mind of its own, and that mind was obsessed with the loose limbed catastrophe sprawled beside you. The root on your page was beginning to curve in a dangerously familiar way, starting to look less like bark and more like the line of a collarbone. You gripped the charcoal pencil tighter, your knuckles white.

“You’re breathing too loud,” you muttered, not turning around.

The rustling stopped. The scent of his expensive cologne— a scent you could now connect to wet earth after rain and a musky softness— shifted with the air. Like everything about Satoru, it was determined to be acknowledged. You could feel his attention shift, a physical weight settling between your shoulder blades.

“I’m breathing loud?” His voice was a low, amused rumble. “You’re the one grinding your teeth. It’s like listening to gravel fight.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder, a sharp retort on your lips, and it died there.

The late sun caught him in profile, gilding the sharp line of his nose and the defiant sweep of his white hair. He had one arm draped over the back of the couch, and the position stretched his tshirt tight across a chest that was no longer that of a lanky boy, but of a man.

He was bathed in a warm luminescence. Your artist’s eye, against your will, traced the sharp cut of his shoulder blades down to the ridges of hard muscle roping the length of his biceps.

Suddenly, a memory hit you with the force of a physical blow: you, at nine, perched on the garden wall with a similar sketchbook, a crayon instead of charcoal in your hand, filled with the same, desperate desire to burn the image of a twelve year old Satoru glowing in the setting sun after a day of collecting bugs with Suguru. The familiar, aching loneliness of being the perpetual observer tightened the same, old strings of your heart.

He tilted his head, and his eyes— a shocking, crystalline blue even in the warm light— met yours. The smirk you loved to hate had melted away, replaced by a warm, unguarded smile under the sun’s magic. His gaze wasn’t teasing. It was cataloguing. It traveled from the determined set of your shoulders, down the line of your arm to your charcoal smudged fingers, then back to your face, lingering on your mouth for a heartbeat too long before finding your eyes again.

He’s looking at you the same way you just caught yourself looking at him.

The realization was a bucket of cold water. You’re not nine anymore. You’re not moved by fickle sceneries or childhood ghosts.

“You’ve changed,” he said, his voice quieter now, the lazy tease gone.

The words felt dangerously honest. “So have you,” you managed, your own voice softer than you intended. “You’re… bigger. You take up even more space now.”

A slow, real smile touched his lips. “And you’re not a little kid hiding behind Suguru’s legs anymore.” He let his head tilt back against the couch. “Confidence looks good on you, you know.”

Is that a compliment? A real one? Is Satoru Gojo even capable of that? You would have questioned him, pulled apart his words to find the hidden barb, if not for the violent buzzing of your phone on the table, shattering the moment.

Wait— what moment? There was no moment.

You flinched, grabbing it. It was your project partner. “Do not make moaning sounds, I’ll seriously end you,” you mumbled the threat, standing up too quickly and retreating to the kitchen, your heart hammering a frantic, confused rhythm against your ribs.

Satoru only threw up his hands in mock surrender, a laugh on his pretty lips, “promises, promises.”

You silently thanked your project partner for calling at the right time, the weird, unwelcome tension in your stomach from just moments before already starting to diffuse. It wasn’t worth the attention, you told yourself firmly. He’s not worth the attention.

.

.

.

Satoru waited until he heard the low murmur of your voice from the kitchen. Then he moved.

He was at your spot in three silent slides, his eyes falling to the open sketchbook. He expected the roots, or the same original character designs. Something abstract, or just the structural anatomy of a dandelion. He knew whatever you’d draw, it was your way of holding onto it.

He did not expect to see his own jawline emerging from the tangle of one, or the unmistakable curve of his shoulder blended into the trunk of another. He absolutely did not expect to see a series of questionable angles of his mouth and lips twisting, the moment before a smirk, the subtle bump on his lower lip from a fall as a child. #Catalogue of Annoyances.

It wasn’t a typical collection of handsome portraits. It was a dissection.

He did not expect himself, even as the last thing he’d ever see in your sketchbook.

But the most damning thing was the hand— his hand, the one with the scar— a series of movements rendered with such painstaking, intimate detail that it felt less like a drawing and more like a caress.

The scar over his knuckle from a fight with an older boy he’d won at the cost of a bruised lip. From the precise length of his thumb next to his index finger, to the subtlety of his other hand caressing the ring on his thumb— a habit he remembers in rare moments of caffeinated anxiety. The way his pinky finger bends from when he broke it playing basketball.

Then the next page, a full page drawing.

You had captured the precise way his white hair fell over his collar, the subtle, vulnerable dip of his head, the faint, almost invisible sunburn from a day spent outside a week ago. The detail was so intimate it felt like a violation. This wasn’t a drawing done from a few feet away; this was the view of someone who had spent a lifetime walking behind him.

Scrawled in the corner was a caption: “Figure 11: The Unseen Atlas.”

This was the view you’d had for over a decade. Him, walking ahead with Suguru, always turned away, always moving forward while you trailed behind. You hadn’t been drawing his face because you’d rarely seen it directed at you with any real, unguarded attention. You had been drawing his retreating form, the symbol of his constant, careless exclusion.

And you could’ve drawn anything in the world. But it’s him. It’s really him. In a way he would’ve

never expected to be mesmerized by anyone.

Satoru is used to being observed and admired and desired. He’s been a muse many times before.

What he’s not used to is feeling so seen. So mercilessly stripped of every defense and exposed like a hand drawn moment caught in time.

He was so absorbed in the violation, in the feeling on pressed old pages filled with him, he didn’t hear you return.

“What are you doing?!”

Your voice was sharp with panic. He jerked upright, spinning to face you. And for the first time in his life, Satoru was caught completely off guard. There was no smirk, no smooth recovery. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted. A faint, unmistakable flush crept up his neck, staining his pale cheeks a soft, rosy pink.

You surged forward and snatched the sketchbook from the table, clutching it to your chest like a shield. The panic on your face mirrored the shock on his.

The two of you stood there, frozen in a silent standoff. The air was thick with the unsaid again. He just stared at you, his blush deepening, the usual arsenal of wit and arrogance completely failing him. He looked… young. Awkward. And for the first time ever, you held all the power in a room with him, and it was terrifying.

“I—” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. “you— you see that?”

“See what?” you deflected a little too fast, your voice tight.

“The scar. The way my finger bends.” He gestured vaguely, still flustered.

You hugged the sketchbook tighter, your own face heating. “It’s an artist’s job to see things.”

He was quiet for a long moment, just looking at you, the blush slowly receding but the soft, stunned expression remaining. The dynamic had fractured. The teasing god had been rendered human, and he was looking at you like you were the deity.

Finally, he let out a slow breath, and a small, genuine smile touched his lips— nothing like his usual razor edged grins. This was softer, much warmer.

“Been that obsessed with me?”

Curse that wretched mouth of his.

“Please, this was time pass. Just a way to fill up the empty pages. As an artist, you have to be able to draw the ugly too, if you wanna get better at drawing the good.”

You lay your defenses. Satoru Gojo will not get a rise out of you from now on. Not over your own passion. Your own art.

“Hehe,” a painfully childish laugh, “you know,” he said, his voice soft, almost wondering, “when you were fourteen, you used to bite the end of your paintbrush when you were thinking. You had this tiny little gap between your front teeth back then. It’s gone now.” He gestured to his own teeth. “I noticed when it closed up.”

“So what,” you said that faster than you intended. Satoru shakes his head.

The admission was so quiet, so unexpected, it stole the air from your lungs. He hadn’t just been teasing you all those years. He’d been watching, noting and remembering.

You didn’t know how to deal with this version of him. The one who blushed. The one who admitted to paying attention.

He seemed to gather himself then, the moment of raw vulnerability passing. He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step back, giving you space. The tease returned to his eyes, but it was different now. Softer. Acknowledging the new ground between you.

“Guess we’ve both been paying a little too much attention, Dots.”

Then he does the only decent thing he’s ever done for you.

He leaves you alone to give you space.

Satoru has struck back in this war.

Suguru, in his eternal, misguided role as peacemaker, declared a “family trip” to the bulk mart. “It’ll be fun!” he said, a man living in delusions. But he truly meant no harm and all peace.

The embarrassment hasn’t left the air for you. It wasn’t the sharp, defensive kind you felt with the sketchbook. This was a slow, creeping warmth, a feeling of being utterly and painfully seen.

And as you walked the aisles, the reality of your sketches hit you with a new, terrifying force. For years, drawing him had been your outlet. A safe, silent way to process the confusing storm of feelings he stirred in you— the resentment for how he made you feel small, the desperate, aching want for him to really see you, not as Suguru’s little sister, but as you. The crayon, then the charcoal, and the paper— all were a barrier, a way to hold the unattainable Satoru Gojo at a safe distance while secretly pulling him closer.

Now, that barrier was gone.

Every time he reached for a high shelf, your mind supplied the memory of sketching the exact line of his arm. When he laughed at something Suguru said, you remembered the careful study you’d done of the way his eyes crinkled. He was no longer an abstract subject. He was a living, breathing man, and your secret, clinical observations now felt like an intimate invasion.

You had documented him, and in doing so, you had confessed everything.

“You’re quiet,” Satoru noted, falling into step beside you as Suguru debated paper towel brands ahead. His voice was low, for your ears only.

“Just thinking,” you mumbled, focusing intently on a pallet of canned beans.

“About the structural integrity of kidney beans?” he teased, “or about how you know the exact number of freckles on the back of my neck?”

You stumbled, your shoulder bumping into a tower of soup cans. He caught your elbow with a grip, firm and steadying. The contact was electric, a jolt that went straight to your core. You yanked your arm back.

“I don’t,” you lied, your voice tight, eyes absolutely refusing to meet his.

“You do,” he said softly, a tone you’d previously call mocking if you couldn’t distinguish the fondness behind it. “Page fourteen, bottom right corner. A study of the nape of my neck, titled ’Figure 19: Sun Exposure.’ You even counted them. It was seventeen.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you say through gritted teeth, hoping the edge in your voice will keep his attention away from the red heat crawling on your cheeks now, “you’re wasting oxygen. Some miserable tree out there is making up for it with its life.”

Satoru chuckled, running his pinched finger and thumb over his lips in a gesture of zipping up, would’ve been cute if you didn’t feel so murderous.

You weren’t just embarrassed that he’d seen the sketches. You were exposed because he understood what they meant. They weren’t just drawings. They were a diary of your obsession, and he was reading it aloud.

Suguru came back then, holding two different giant packs of toilet paper. “Okay, which one is the better deal? Satoru, you’re the math genius.”

Satoru didn’t look away from you. A slow, soft smile, one that held no mockery, spread across his face. Ugh, painfully dashing.

“You know what, Sugu,” he said, his eyes still locked on yours, “I think I’m all out of genius today. Let’s just get both.”

He finally broke his gaze, turning to your brother, but the moment lingered. You stood there, surrounded by the mundane reality of a grocery store, feeling more seen and vulnerable than you ever had in your life. The outlet was gone. The barrier was broken. And you had no idea what to do now that the boy you’d always drawn from a distance was standing right in front of you, seeing right through you.

Suguru, noticing your complete silence and the deep blush that had been burning on your cheeks this whole time, finally looked properly concerned. “Hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “Are you feeling okay? You look… really embarrassed. Did he say something to you?”

Before you could even open your mouth to deny it, Satoru leaned in closer. His expression shifted from that soft understanding back to pure, unadulterated cockiness, his eyes glinting with the thrill of the chase.

“Yeah, Dots,” he repeated, his voice a low, challenging tease that was meant for you and you alone. “You embarrassed?”

The white haired freak was gonna torture you for the rest of his days.

.

.

.

The car ride home from the mart was silent. Suguru, sensing the strange new energy but misinterpreting it as a successful truce, hummed along to the radio. Must be nice living in a world of rainbows.

You stared out the window, the ghost of Satoru’s words— “you even counted them. It was seventeen”— echoing in your mind.

He didn’t try to engage you. He just sat in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing at you in the rearview mirror. Each time your eyes would meet for a fractured second before you both looked away, the air in the car growing heavier and electrified.

Back at the apartment, the dynamic had irrevocably shifted. The war was over, the scales tipped unfavourably to one side. But no peace treaty had been signed. You existed in a state of tense, hyper aware coexistence.

Later that night, you found yourself drifting back to the kitchen, pulled by a primal need for a glass of water— or maybe just a moment of quiet in the dark, a few square feet of space that didn’t feel charged with his new, overwhelming presence.

And of course, by some divine, cruel joke, your plan to avoid him shattered instantly. Because he was there. Of course he was.

Leaning against the counter as if he’d been waiting, a half empty glass of water in his hand. And he was shirtless. The sight was so absurdly Satoru that you froze in the doorway, your tired brain shortcircuiting. The pale expanse of his torso was a stark landmark in the dark, and you hated the way your eyes, against your will, traced the line of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the way his sweatpants sat low on his hips.

In the faint glow of the fluorescent light from the refrigerator which, Satoru, of course, had not closed, you could make out the inked patterns just below the curve of his collarbones. You could get a better look and see what it really is if you stepped a few paces closer to him, but you absolutely do not want to do that.

You could try narrowing your eyes in hopes of a better vision, but then again, why would you want to do that and give him something to poke you with again?

A sound of pure exasperation escaped you, “Ugh”

He turned, the movement fluid. A flicker of genuine surprise lit his features before it was smoothed over by that familiar, infuriating amusement. You forced your gaze to remain fixed on a point just past his shoulder, refusing to let it wander.

“Jumpscare,” you said, your voice flat.

His signature grin was a little slower in the quiet dark, a little less sharp. “Enjoying the view?”

You just wanted your water. It was too late for witty comebacks or sharp tongued defenses. He wouldn’t take you seriously anyway, he’d just twist it, turning your annoyance into a game you didn’t know how to play. The thought of it sent a confusing, unwelcome thrill through you that you were too tired to confront.

“Yeah, sure,” you sighed, the word laced with a resignation you felt deep in your bones

“Miss me?” he joked, voice stripped of its performative edge. Just something to fill the silence.

“Uh huh, couldn’t sleep,” you rolled your eyes— took more effort than it used to, your own voice soft.

He was looking at you, shrugging, but with a quiet, unnerving focus. “I could always sing you a lullaby, try asking nicely,” Satoru chuckled, a vibrato of sound spilling against the air, smoothening into a sweet baritone, almost singsong.

“Just stick to photography, yeah? Don’t find more things to terrorise us with.” you sigh, “and put on a shirt, you weirdo.”

“Ahah,” he says, eyes sparkling with a glint of a child ready to talk about his favourite topic, before his hands picks up the tshirt lying on the couch, “you know, started photography because I was terrible at drawing.”

The admission surprised you. You stayed silent, not quite asking him to continue, but a gesture that gave him space to talk.

“I could never get the lines right. Not like you,” he gestured vaguely in the direction of your room, where your sketchbook was hidden. “A camera, it captures the truth, but it’s a liar, too. You can crop out the messy parts. You can choose the angle. You can control the narrative,” he met your eyes, “what you do? It’s the opposite. You don’t crop. You don’t hide the messy parts. You seek them out. You find the story in the scar tissue.”

Your breath caught. He understood. He truly understood what your art was about.

“You were right, I guess, ” he continued, his voice dropping, “about the two-in-one shampoo. About the pudding cups. About all of it” he let out a short, self deprecating laugh, “It’s kinda insulting, how right you’ve always been.”

Oh.

This was the side of Satoru always hidden from you. Not the arrogant asshole, but the boy who was terrible at drawing, who noticed when a gap in your teeth closed, who felt exposed not by a camera, but by a charcoal pencil.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you whispered, “for a photographer.”

A real, gentle smile touched his lips, one that unknowingly mirrors your own. He’d been doing that a lot, or you were just seeing him differently— it was becoming your favorite thing.

He pushed off the counter, but not towards the door. He took a few steps that closed the distance between you, stopping when he was far too close, the heat from his body a palpable force. The sincere smile you wore seconds ago was contorting into a nervous one. You should’ve put your hands against his chest to keep the distance, you shouldn’t have taken a step back to give him more space to cover. Now, your back was against the counter, with nowhere to retreat.

“Got a good look at it?” he asked, gaze intense and a slurry smile to pair, dropping pointedly to his own chest where the dark shape of the tattoo was now obscured by the thin cotton of his shirt.

“At what?” you deflected, crossing your arms over your chest.

His grin widened. “My ink. You were staring hard enough to burn a hole through me earlier. Couldn’t make it out, could you?”

“I wasn’t trying to, you were in my way. I was just looking at the fridge,” you lied, voice steadier than you felt.

“Uh huh,” he hummed, “it’s a secret,” he breathed, leaning in just a little closer, “but you’re an artist. You appreciate fine line work, don’t you?” his eyes scanned your face, then drifted down your body in a leisurely, appraising sweep that made your skin prickle. “You could try some as well. I think you’d suit it.”

His hand came up, and for whatever reason you’d make sense of later— you let him. He didn’t grab you, didn’t make a sudden move. He simply let his fingertips come to rest on the bare skin of your thigh, just above the hem of your shorts. The contact was a jolt of pure lightning, his skin treacherously warm against yours.

“You’re not my stylist,” you said, a sharp inhale betraying your calm tone.

“Just thinking out loud,” he murmured, his voice a low, contemplative rumble. His fingers began a slow, idle journey upwards, tracing a path along your skin. The touch was feather light, a maddening graze that sent shivers in its wake, his palm was a brand of heat as it slid higher and up the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. “A small one. Right here,” he tapped his finger, “maybe something delicate. A trail of ivy.”

His fingers paused, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate circle.

“Or,” he continued, aquamarine eyes darkening as they locked with yours. Then his head dipped, and you felt the soft exhalation of his breath, then the near silent brush of his lips against the hollow of your throat down to the curve of your collarbone. Your head fell back against the cabinet with a soft thud, an even softer sigh threatening to spill from your lips. “A piercing. Right here— a simple silver barbell.” His words were a vibration against your skin. “I’d feel it every time I kissed you there.”

Then he moved his head up, angling it perfectly into the crook of your neck, lips just a breath away from the sensitive akin. You fought back the urge to close your eyes shut, or to swallow. “I’ve never seen collarbone piercings before,” was all you could blurt to distract yourself from the feverish onslaught.

Satoru hummed against your skin, you can practically feel his smirk, “I could show you so much more.” he says, and the soft exhale of his breath on your neck has your body reacting in a way you didn’t think was possible, “i could give you so much more.” he continues, and you let him— daring to see how far he’d go if you let him.

A full body shudder wracked you. “You’re getting awfully ahead of yourself,” you breathed, hands gripping the edge of the counter behind you for support, and knuckles white.

“Am I?” he asked, his fingers flexing high on your thigh, pressing just a bit harder, a promise and a threat both. “I’m just appreciating . An artist considers their canvas, don’t they?” His other hand came up, not touching you, but bracing on the counter beside your hip, caging you in completely.

His gaze swept over your face, lingering on the bridge of your nose, your cheeks. “What about right here? A tattoo, a little constellation of stars,” His thumb stroked your thigh again— a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “I could connect them for you.”

“You’re insane,” you managed, voice barely a whisper now. The warmth of his palm was branding you through the thin cotton of your shorts, his proximity an intoxicating mix of expensive cologne and pure, unadulterated Satoru.

“Maybe,” he murmured, his face so close you could feel his breath ghost over your lips. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there until yours parted involuntarily, “but you’re still here. You’re not running.”

He was right. You were pinned, not just by his body, but by the raw, magnetic pull of him, by the scent of his skin and the searing heat of his touch mapping your thigh.

“So,” he said, voice just a low vibration that went straight to your core, “what do you think? Feeling adventurous?”

Your mind was a blank slate, wiped clean by the sensation of his skin on yours, the phantom feel of his lips on your throat. All you could do was look up at him, your wide eyes meeting his burning blue ones, and give a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head. Not in denial, but in sheer, overwhelmed surrender.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. “That’s what I thought.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, his hand a brand on your thigh, his gaze holding yours captive. The air crackled with everything unsaid, every unfulfilled promise his touch had made. You could feel the frantic beat of your own pulse under his palm.

Then, with a final, deliberate stroke of his thumb that made you shiver, he pulled his hand away. The cool kitchen air hit the spot he’d been warming, a sudden loss that felt like a physical ache.

He took a single step back, giving you just enough space to breathe but not enough to break the spell. His eyes, still dark with intent, crinkled at the corners.

“Think about it, Dots, maybe you could design me something new. ” he’d winked at you with a boyish charm, voice nothing but a low, intimate rumble. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving you leaning against the counter, your skin still buzzing from his touch, your mind racing with the phantom sensation of his hands and the imagined weight of silver against your throat.

The war was far from over, but the battlefield had just become infinitely more dangerous.

The name— Dots, the one you’ve wanted to rid yourself— didn’t feel like a jab this time. It was a key turning in a lock you’d kept sealed for over a decade.

The kitchen around you blurred, and for a dizzying second, you were eight years old again.

It was the first day of summer vacation, and the sun had already begun to paint its tiny, brown freckles across your nose and cheeks. You’d noticed them in the mirror that morning, a new sprinkling you weren’t sure you liked.

Satoru, eleven and already a giant in your eyes, had cornered you in the kitchen. He’d leaned in, his head tilted, his blue eyes sharp and dissecting.

“Whoa,” he’d gasped, voice full of a clinical, unkind curiosity. “Your face is all… dotted. Like someone flicked a paintbrush, did you?”

He’d poked your nose, hard. “You’re like a little connect-the-dots puzzle. Hey— Dots. That’s you.”

The name had stuck. For years, “Dots” was his primary weapon. “Move it, Dots.” “Hey, Dots, you’re blushing. Can’t even tell with all the… you know.”

It was a constant, cruel reminder that your face was not your own, it was a public canvas for his commentary. You’d spent years trying to scrub them away, hating the sun, mastering the art of the downward glance.

The memory shifted, sharpening into another specific agony. The Friday afternoon pudding cup ritual. Your mother bought the four packs: one for each of you. And every Friday, without fail, Satoru would steal yours.

He wouldn’t just take it. He’d perform a whole production. He’d snatch it from your hands, hold it high above his head as you jumped for it, and then eat it in three large, deliberate bites, never breaking eye contact. The final act was always the same: he’d place the empty, hollow cup back on the counter directly in front of you with a soft, definitive clink.

Suguru would always have a cup saved for you, so itt was never about the pudding. It was about the principle. It was a weekly lesson in powerlessness. A reminder that what was yours could be taken by him, consumed, and the evidence left for you to clean up.

You blinked, the memory releasing its grip. You were back in the present, your knuckles white around the glass of water. Setting the water glass down, you crossed the room and pulled the fridge door open. The bright, sterile light spilled out, illuminating the shelves.

And there they were.

Not just one or two. A full, unopened four pack of the chocolate pudding cups. Your chocolate pudding cups. They were placed neatly on the middle shelf, right at eye level, impossible to miss.

You just stared.

Was it Suguru? It had to be. It was the kind of mundane, thoughtful thing he’d do, noticing you were out of a snack and quietly replacing it. A simple, brotherly gesture.

But then your eyes traced the presentation again. They weren’t tucked away. They were centered, desplayed. It felt less like a grocery restock and more like a… presentation.

And that’s when the real conflict hit you, a dizzying car crash of past and present. Because your mind, still raw from the memory of Satoru’s smug grin as he ate your pudding, should be rebelling. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was replaying the heat of his palm on your thigh, the possessive stroke of his thumb, the low rumble of his voice suggesting constellations he could trace with his mouth.

The boy who had stolen from you was now offering. And the truly terrifying part wasn’t the audacity— it was the way your body responded. The same resentment you’d worn as armor for over a decade was melting under the memory of his searing touch. You could still feel the ghost of it, a brand that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with a shocking, undeniable pull.

He wasn’t just blurring the lines. He was systematically dismantling the entire mapping of your childhood resentment, and he wasn’t using force. He was using the memory of his proximity, the phantom sensation of his fingers and presence slithering past your defenses like smoke and leaving you unalarmed. All it left was the searing possibility that this was his way of saying: I see you differently now.

And the most frightening thought of all whispered through you: So do I.

If this was his peace offering, it was working. Because looking at those pudding cups, all you could think about was the man who put them there, and the traitorous, thrilling hope that he was as undone by this new tension as you were.

Getting a wink of sleep wasn’t possible that night.

.

.

.

Suguru’s idea of “a fun outing” was, as always, questionably sane. But a retrospective on perceptual art at the city’s modern museum was, you had to admit, a tempting distraction from the tectonic shifts happening within your own apartment.

After 30 minutes of trotting around, the trio moved through the white walled galleries, a study in contrasts. Suguru was the thoughtful observer, hands in pockets, genuinely engaging with each piece. You were the analyst, your artist’s eye dissecting technique and composition.

And Satoru… he was a critic unleashed, his commentary a lazy, brilliant torrent that was equal parts insufferable and illuminating.

You all stop before a large canvas, an optical illusion depicting a large, endless staircase. ‘ Ascension without Summit. ’

“It’s a clever trick,” Suguru muses, “but there’s no real depth.”

Satoru snorted, not even bothering to look properly. “It’s forced perspective. A cheap parlor trick. Like using a wide angle lens to make a room look bigger. Isn’t it just a flat lie?” He glanced at you, a glint in his eye. “Your brain knows it’s a dead end, but your eyes keep trying to find the focal point. It’s pathetic, really.”

“Okay, geniuses” you rolled your eyes, but a smile threatened your lips. He wasn’t wrong. “Move on to the next.”

The next piece: a vast, pristine white canvas with a single, small, red dot in the center. ‘ Cardinal. ’

Suguru sighed. “Now this is just lazy.”

“Lazy?” Satoru shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “It’s a crop. The artist just framed out everything else.” He turned his head toward you. “It’s what you do when your subject is so strong, anything else in the frame is noise. That dot? That’s the only thing in focus. The rest is just… not important. It’s like saying “I can make you stare at a red dot for 5 minutes and you’ll feel something deep.”” His eyes held yours for a moment too long. “And Sugu’s staring at the dot. So I guess it’s working.”

Your heart did a stupid, little flip. He was talking about photography, but he was talking about you. About your sketchbook, where he was the only subject in focus.

The centerpiece was next, surprisingly not crowded at all.

It stood in the middle of the room, commanding the space: a massive, perfectly polished sphere of obsidian. It was dark, profound, and reflected the entire gallery in a warped, dreamlike panorama.

‘ Narcissus’ Echo. ’

Suguru nodded, impressed. “Now this is something.”

Satoru circled it slowly, his own reflection elongating and compressing. “It’s a 360—degree fisheye lens. The worst kind. Distorts everything at the edges, makes a mess of the proportions.” He stopped, his warped image staring at your warped image. “It’s the most honest shot in the place. No retouching, no good angles. Just a raw, bad, panoramic shot of how twisted things really are.”

Suguru hummed, background noise to you. To you, moments seemed to stretch endlessly. Under normal circumstances, up until 3 days ago, you would’ve been incredibly annoyed at Satoru’s lazy dissection of art, in the way he effortlessly interprets it— arrogant genius just spilling out because there really isn’t anything he’s bad at. And he has to make an outrageous declaration of it.

But now, under these circumstances, it has simply left you awestruck.

Suguru’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and sighed. “It’s mom. I have to take this. Don’t… touch anything.” He gave Satoru a specific, warning look before stepping away.

The moment Suguru was out of earshot, the energy shifted. The buffer was gone.

Satoru didn’t move, just kept looking at your reflection in the sphere. “See? We look like aliens. Or melted candles.” A lazy grin spread across his face in the warped stone. “Kinda suits us, don’t you think?”

“Speak for yourself,” you narrowed your eyes, though it didn’t hold its usual bite. “It’s just a warped reflection.”

“Nah,” his voice dropped, losing its teasing edge, becoming simple and direct, like weighed down by an unseen and unexplainable weight in the air that becomes evident every time you two are left alone, “it’s the shot before you fix it. This is the raw file. Everything else is just, good editing,” his eyes, in the reflection, locked onto yours. “This is what’s left when you leave it untouched.”

The air grew thicker, charged. The hushed murmurs of other patrons faded into a distant hum. There was only the sphere, and the two figures within it.

Satoru took a slow, deliberate step closer, his reflection swelling, his warped hand coming up to trace the outline of your warped cheek in the stone. You followed his movements silently,

“What would happen,” he whispered, his voice so low it was almost a vibration in the air between you, “if I touched this version of you? The one that only exists here, with me?”

You couldn’t breathe.

A direct challenge. He was asking permission without asking.

“You’re breaking the rules,” you breathed, hoping he heard the subtext you intended, “it clearly says to not touch and to keep your distance.”

A tender but dangerous, beautiful smile spread across his face in the reflection. No amount of obsidian warp could ever tarnish it,

“Hmm,” he hummed, the endearment a shock to your system, silently whispered like a scandalous secret, “think I don’t wanna care anymore.”

And then he did it.

He leaned in. Not to you, but to the sphere. With a shocking, quiet certainty, he pressed his lips to the cold, hard surface of the obsidian. He kissed the exact spot where your warped, impossible mouth was reflected.

It wasn’t a peck. It was a statement. A claim, a promise sealed not on your skin, but on a distorted image of it— a testament to his desire for the raw, unedited truth of you.

He held it for a heartbeat, then pulled back, leaving a faint cloud of his breath on the stone that briefly obscured your image.

A security guard shifted his weight by the door, his eyes narrowing.

Satoru didn’t flinch. He simply turned, shoulder brushing yours as he walked past, heading toward a bland landscape painting as if he’d already forgotten the universe shattering thing he just did.

He left you standing there, your real lips burning as if they’d been touched, the ghost of his kiss cooling on the black mirror in front of you. The challenge had been issued. And he’d left you with the silent, screaming question: what are you going to do about it?

The living room was a cathedral of quiet concentration. The golden hour light streamed in, thick and honeyed, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like forgotten prayers. Your final project— a series of root studies exploring foundation and hidden strength— was nearly complete.

You were adding the last, microscopic textures to a gnarled oak root, your entire being poured into the tip of your charcoal pencil. This was your sanctuary, a space where you had control.

The sanctity was breached not with a sound, but with a shift in the atmosphere.

You felt him before you saw him— a change in the air pressure, a subtle warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. Satoru drifted into the room and sank onto the far end of the couch without a word, a photography book in hand. He was pretending to read, but you could feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch on the back of your neck. The silence between you was no longer empty; it was full, charged with everything left unspoken since the museum, since the pudding cups, since the shattering of your sketchbook’s privacy.

You tried to ignore him, to lose yourself in the intricate lines of your drawing. But your hand, which had always been so sure, betrayed you. The root began to curve with a familiar, arrogant sweep, its end starting to look suspiciously like the line of a jaw you knew too well.

Nah— not happening again.

“You’re sighing,” he stated, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s the little frustrated huff. You’ve done it since you were twelve and couldn’t figure out your algebra homework, “ he turned a page in his book, not looking at you, “the problem can’t be that hard.”

“The problem is the distraction,” you retorted, finally glancing at him.

He met your gaze over the top of his book, and the connection was a live wire. The easy tease in his eyes was a veneer; beneath it was something warmer, more curious. “Maybe the distraction is the point.”

He dog-eared his page— a habit you knew infuriated Suguru— and set the book aside. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and just watched you work. It wasn’t an invasion, it was an immersion. He was studying you with the same intensity you had once reserved for him.

After a long, quiet moment, he reached out and plucked a stray sheet of high quality drawing paper and a fresh charcoal pencil from your toolkit.

“Hey—”

“Relaaaaax, I’m not defacing your masterpiece.”

His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Just… making one of my own.”

Satoru began to draw, gaze flicking between you and the paper. But he wasn’t looking at your face, not exactly. He was looking at the space around you. The silence stretched, becoming a tangible thing, woven with the sound of two sets of breathing and the twin scratches of charcoal on paper. It was the most intimate sound you had ever heard.

After what felt like an eternity, he held up his sheet.

And your breath caught.

It was a study of negative space. He had captured the perfect, empty shape framed by the curve of your shoulder and the fall of your hair. The elegant void between your arm and your waist. The air your silhouette displaced in the world. It was your presence defined not by your form, but by the emptiness you left behind. It was a confession— an acknowledgment that your absence would now be a palpable thing to him.

“See?” he said, voice hushed and reverent. “You have a shape, Dots. A specific, important shape. You’re not just there. Hard to ignore I’d say.”

The kindness, the sheer seeing in that gesture, the fragile softness of his voice and haze alike— it all undid you. It was more intimate than any touch could have been. You looked from the drawing— a testament to his perception— back to his face, and found him watching you with an expression so open it was almost painful.

You’re caught speechless. Back and forth between deciding to spur a series of snarky remarks, or say something outrageously grateful.

“I thought you said you couldn’t draw.” You settle on changing the topic.

Satoru raised his eyebrows, “Couldn’t yeah, you think I was gonna live with that?”

The smirk resurfaces. You try to hate it, but it’s just not possible anymore.

“Show me,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to the closed cover of your main sketchbook. The one that held your soul, “…please? Please.”

The “please” was his undoing, and yours. It was so un-Satoru-like in the most mundane way possible, so vulnerably sincere.

Your throat tightened. You had to say no, no matter how much he pleaded. You shook your head, a barely perceptible movement, “Not happening.”

He didn’t push, didn’t get angry. He simply accepted it, albeit with a dramatically enforced pout, a faint shadow of disappointment crossing his features before it was replaced by a new, determined softness.

“Then draw me again,” he said, voice regaining a sliver of its old playful charm, “draw me like one of your French girls.”

Satoru fucking giggled, striking an absurd, dramatic pose on the couch, eyes never losing their intense focus on you, just weighed down with a performed intensity for the pose.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, and he laughed along with you. A shared, tender joke.

But it died quickly under the weight of his gaze that still pressed. The tease was a gateway to something more.

He relaxed the pose, expression turning serious, his voice barely a whisper, “No, seriously. Draw what you’re scared of.”

You knew. Of course, you knew. You had drawn every part of him you could safely observe— his hands, his mouth, the vulnerable nape of his neck, the frustratingly perfect line of his back as he walked away.

But you had never, ever drawn his eyes. To do that was to admit you were drowning in them. To acknowledge that this was no longer a study, but a surrender.

Satoru saw the panic and the understanding warring in your face. He held himself perfectly still, an offering. Piercing blue eyes, usually so full of mockery and mischief— were now deep, clear pools of unwavering patience and intent.

“Go on,” he breathed, the words nothing but a soft caress in the space between you, “draw my eyes.”

He didn’t look away. He gave you everything, holding your gaze with a terrifying honesty.

“I’ll follow,” he promised.

And to you, the tension broke. I’ll follow. Two words that rewrote fifteen years of history. He was no longer the boy walking ahead; he was the man asking to be led, to be seen, to be captured by you.

With a hand that trembled, you slowly, deliberately, closed your finished project folder. You opened your sketchbook to a pristine white page. When you looked up, and his gaze was right there, waiting— deep, endless, and full of a quiet storm.

You put your charcoal to the paper. And as you began the terrifying, beautiful work of mapping the universe in his eyes, he kept his promise. His gaze remained locked on yours, following every breath, every flicker of your lashes, every subtle shift in your expression. It was the most profound silence of your life, a silent conversation more intimate than any kiss, a confession etched not in words, but in the quiet, shared act of finally, truly, seeing each other.

When the final line was drawn, you lowered your charcoal, hand trembling not from effort, but from the sheer emotional toll of the act. You had done it. You had captured his eyes— not just their shape and color, but the startling intensity within them, the focused softness he had reserved only for you in that moment.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The connection held, a taut, silent thread between your gaze and his. The world outside the living room had ceased to exist.

Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile touched his lips. It wasn’t triumphant or teasing. It was awed.

“Can I see?” he asked, voice hushed.

Your instinct was to snap the book shut, but the raw honesty in his eyes forbade it. You gave a single, shaky nod.

Satoru moved with a deliberate slowness, shifting from the couch to kneel on the floor beside you. His proximity was a wave of warmth, shoulder just a hair’s breadth from yours.

You held the sketchbook out between you.

He didn’t say a word. He just looked. His eyes scanned the page, tracing every line you had drawn of his own gaze. You saw his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“Wow,” he breathed, the word full of reverence. He finally tore his eyes from the page to look at you. “You… you see this? When you look at me, you see this?”

You could only nod, your throat too tight for words, “Surely it’s not the first time someone drew your eyes.”

His gaze was a physical weight, he shook his head as if you said a really dumb thing, “It’s the first time you drew them, that’s what matters to me. No one else,” he whispered, “not even close.”

Satoru reached out, his movement infinitely slow. His fingers came to hover just beside the sketchbook, his pinky finger gently brushing against the hand that held it. The contact was a jolt of pure lightning.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice low and thick.

“So are you,” you whispered back, noticing the faint tremor in his own outstretched hand.

A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “Yeah,” he admitted, “I am.”

The air was so thick with unsaid things it was hard to breathe. His eyes dropped to your lips, and your to him. The pull in the air was only growing stronger, and the moment you felt the air shift with the imperceptible movement of his shoulder dipping forward, your lips parting in resigned welcome— the sharp sound of a key turning in the front door lock shattered the silence like gunfire.

You both flinched apart as if scalded. You snapped the sketchbook shut, your heart hammering. Satoru pushed himself back onto the couch, grabbing his book, the picture of nonchalance. But the faint flush on his neck betrayed him.

Suguru walked in, dropping his keys in the bowl. “Uh, what’s up? You two are quiet.”

“Just reading,” Satoru said, his voice impressively steady.

“Finishing my project,” you added at the same time, your voice embarrassingly breathy.

Suguru looked between the two of you, his brow slightly furrowed. “Uh huh, well, I’m ordering pizza. The usual?”

“Yeah,” you both chorused.

Suguru’s frown deepened slightly before he shrugged and headed for the kitchen.

The moment he was gone, your eyes met Satoru’s across the room. The intensity was still there, but now it was laced with a shared, frantic secret. He didn’t smile. He just held your gaze, and in his eyes, you saw a promise and an apology.

The moment was gone, but the shift was permanent. The slow burn was no longer a smolder, it was a flame, carefully guarded, waiting for the next gust of wind to set everything ablaze.

.

.

.

The front door clicked shut behind Suguru, leaving the apartment in a sudden, heavy silence. He had muttered something along the lines of forgetting his thesis in the library along with a string of curses before leaving. And Satoru had vanished into his room the moment the pizza boxes were empty, a retreat that felt charged, not casual. You were left alone in the living room, the ghost of his near kiss still humming on your skin.

Then you remembered— your art history paper. It was due by midnight, and you needed to print it. Suguru’s printer was out of ink. A knot of dread and something else, something thrilling, tightened in your stomach. There was only one other option.

You padded softly to his door, the hallway floor cool under your feet. You knocked, a quick, nervous rap.

“It’s open”, his voice was muffled.

You pushed the door open just enough to see him. He was sitting at his desk, back to you, scrolling through his phone. The room was surprisingly neat, dominated by the large monitor on his desk.

“Hey,” you started, your voice sounding small. “Suguru’s printer is dead. Can I…?”

Satoru swiveled in his chair, face unreadable for a second before he nodded. “Yeah. Sure. It’s all set up”, he gestured to the laptop on his desk, “password’s the same as before”

He stood, stretching, and you caught the faint, now familiar scent of his cologne. “Gonna grab a drink, knock yourself out.”

He brushed past you in the doorway, a brief, electric contact, and disappeared down the hall towards the kitchen.

The room felt different without him in it. It felt like his space, and you were an intruder. You sat in his still— warm chair, the leather sighing under your weight. Opening his laptop, typed in the ridiculous password — ‘iamthehonoured101’ — and found the printer queue. You sent your file, the soft whirring of the printer in the corner a comforting, normal sound.

As you went to close the browser, a folder icon on his desktop caught your eye. It was labeled simply, almost clinically: portfolio_new.

Curiosity, that fatal, clawing thing, got the better of you. He did it to your sketchbook, it’s fair enough.

It wasn’t cityscapes. It wasn’t wilderness. It wasn’t random memories captured with Suguru or his family.

Alright. Guess what.

It was you.

Ooookay…. Dozens, maybe hundreds of images filled the screen. Your breath is quite literally knocked out of your lungs.

This wasn’t a random collection. It was a study, a catalogue. Just like your sketchbook.

There was a series of you laughing, your head thrown back, caught in a moment of unguarded joy you didn’t even remember. Another of you focused on your sketchbook, the tip of your tongue caught between your teeth, the light from the window haloing your hair. A close-up, almost abstract shot of the freckles across your nose.

But the one that made your heart stop was the one taken from the living room couch. You were asleep, curled into a ball, your face soft and peaceful. The composition was perfect, the lighting tender. It was the photographic equivalent of your drawing of him sleeping. It was just as intimate, just as stolen.

He saw you. Not as Suguru’s little sister, or an annoyance, or a challenge. He saw the quiet moments. The peaceful ones. The beautiful ones.

The door creaked.

You slammed the laptop shut, spinning the chair around so fast you got dizzy.

Satoru stood in the doorway, holding a glass of water, his eyes flicking from your horrified face to the closed laptop and back. The casual ease from the kitchen was gone, replaced by a frozen stillness. The air was sucked from the room.

He knew. He knew exactly what you’d seen.

The parallel was perfect, devastating. You had seen his soul in your charcoal lines. He had seen yours through his lens.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t blush or look away. He just stood there, completely exposed, his secret laid bare between you. The hunter, caught in his own trap.

Slowly, he walked forward and set the glass of water down on the desk next to the laptop. His knuckles were white.

“Find what you were looking for?” he asked, voice low and rough, stripped bare of all its usual armor.

You couldn’t answer. You just stared up at him, the world tilting on its axis once more.

This time, you were both the artist and the muse. Both the thief and the treasure. And in the silent, charged space between you, the only thing that was clear was that the game was over.

Something real had begun.

The silence in his room was a physical thing, heavy and suffocating and determined to be acknowledged. You could hear the frantic beat of your own heart, a wild drum against your ribs. The images from his laptop were burned onto the back of your eyelids. Him, standing frozen in the doorway, knew it.

“Why?” the word tore out of you, sharp and broken. All the confusion of the past few weeks, the whiplash from his teasing to his tenderness, boiled over. “Why are you doing this? All those years… you were a jerk. A complete and total jerk. You called me names, you stole my puddings and ate it in front of me just to watch me get mad. You touched all my insecurities and made a joke out of them, and now… now you have a folder of pictures of me like some… some precious thing? Am I a plaything to you? Is this just a new game?”

Your voice cracked, betraying the hurt you’d carried for over a decade.

Satoru didn’t flinch, he just watched you, blue eyes dark with an emotion you couldn’t name.

Then, he took a step forward. And another. Until he was standing right in front of you, so close you could feel the heat coming off his body.

“No,” he said, his voice low and rough. “It’s not a game. It was never…”

Slowly, so slowly it made your breath catch, he raised his hand. His fingers, trembling just slightly, came up to your face. They didn’t grab, they didn’t poke. They brushed, with a shocking tenderness, across the bridge of your nose, tracing the path of your freckles.

You flinched, the old insecurity surging up. “Don’t— I know,” you whispered, turning your face away, your cheeks burning, “they’re just dots to you”

His hand stilled, then gently cupped your jaw, forcing your gaze back to his. Maybe because he couldn’t find it in him to look you in the eyes, Satoru let his head drop on your shoulder, yet the intensity there was overwhelming.

“They’re not dots,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, a flitter against your neck laced with a painful sincerity, “I was a stupid kid. A stupid, fucking kid who didn’t know the word for “constellation”, I’ve been trying to map it my entire life.”

The air left your lungs in a rush. Constellation.

You were blushing furiously now, the heat spreading down your neck. You had to fight back, to cling to the familiar ground of your resentment,

“You stole my pudding cups, my favourites,” you accused, your voice weaker now, losing its fight.

A sad, almost ashamed smile touched his lips, you felt it against your skin, the movement of his lips burning soft pecks, white tuff of hair tickling, “it was the only way I knew how to get your attention without breaking the rulesm”

Satoru raised his head up and leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching yours. His confession hung in the space between you, pathetic and profound.

“It’s really that stupid,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips, “a kid, being mean to the one thing he couldn’t have. Because if I was nice… if I let myself be nice to you— I would have ruined everything. Suguru— I…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. The truth was finally out, naked and raw. All the years of cruelty, a desperate, clumsy armor for a crush he thought was forbidden.

When he lifted his gaze to finally meet yours, his other hand came up, framing your face, with a touch impossibly gentle. You were surrounded by him, by his heat, his scent, his devastating honesty. The last of your defenses crumbled mercilessly.

“You’re just an idiot,” you breathed, but there was no venom left, only a shaky, disbelieving wonder.

A real, genuine smile broke through his pained expression. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice thick with emotion, “I know.”

And then, finally, he closed the last inch of space between you, and his lips met yours.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t supposed to be.

His lips were soft, yet insistent, moving against yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. His lips were everywhere, surrounding your mouth with a wet warmth. It was a kiss that tasted of fifteen years of unsaid words, of stolen glances, and the bittersweet relief of a truth finally set free. A low, ragged sound vibrated in his throat, a mix of desperation and triumph.

His hands, which had been so tenderly framing your face, began to move. One slid back, his fingers tangling deep in your hair, tilting your head to a better angle, claiming you completely.

The other hand drifted down, his palm a hot brand through the fabric of your shirt, sliding from the curve of your waist to the small of your back. He pulled you flush against him, and you felt the hard, solid line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart echoing your own.

You were drowning in him. The scent of his cologne, the taste of him, the feel of his hands— it was an overload that shortcircuited every thought except one— more.

Your own hands, which had been frozen at your sides, came to life. They crept up, fists clenching in the soft cotton of his tshirt, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world. A soft, helpless whimper escaped you, swallowed by his mouth.

He took the sound as an invitation. His tongue swept against the seam of your lips— a bold, asking stroke. You opened for him without hesitation, a final surrender.

When he broke the kiss, both of you panting, foreheads resting together. His blue eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with a sincerity that clashed starkly with his lips now swollen with sin and desire.

“See?”, Satoru breathed, voice a raw, wrecked thing. His thumb stroked over your kiss-swollen bottom lip, “Not a game. Never was, and never, ever will be.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He leaned in again, but this time his mouth left a trail of searing, open mouthed kisses along your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat. Hands growing bolder, the one in your hair tightened its grip, a gentle, possessive anchor. The other slid from your backside, around your hip. His fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of your lower stomach, just under the hem of your shirt. The touch was electric, a promise of things to come, and you shuddered against him, your body following his lead— yielding, wanting, finally allowing itself to feel everything it had been denied for so, so long.

Your lips are swollen from the kiss when he pulls back, breathing hard, eyes blown wide and hungry. Sweat beads at his temples, strands of his white hair sticking to his skin, but he doesn’t notice— he’s staring at you like you’re something holy. His thumb drags across your cheekbone, rough pad catching faintly on your skin, before he ducks back down and kisses you there. Then lower, along your temple, then the bridge of your nose.

His mouth lingers on every freckle like he’s making tally marks with his lips. His voice is rough when it breaks through between kisses.

“God, I used to make fun of these ’cause I didn’t know what else to do with myself,” he admits, the sound almost a growl against your skin, “couldn’t tell you I wanted to kiss them. All of them.”

The confession burns hotter than his mouth, and you whimper, hands twisting in the cotton of his shirt. The sound makes him grin— crooked, unrestrained— and he tips his forehead against yours once again, your breaths tangling into a hot mess between your lips. Then he sits back just enough to yank his shirt off, fabric sliding over his shoulders in one swift motion.

Your breath catches hard.

His chest is lean, all smooth lines of muscle, skin flushed faint pink. But your eyes are pulled elsewhere, caught fast: ink, etched across his collarbone. The tattoo you couldn’t properly see that day— a dandelion, its delicate head blowing apart like caught in a phantom wind.

Your throat tightens. The memory slams into you— summer air, your hands shoving a dandelion under his nose, an offering your innocent self made to bridge gaps, his laughter as he called it a weed and blew the seeds away. You’d never forgotten his dismissal.

But now— “You… got that?” your voice cracks.

His grin falters into something softer, almost shy. “Guess it stuck with me. I wanted to keep it, wanted to keep you.” His hand finds yours, warm and steady, guiding your palm to the tattoo. His skin is hot under your touch. He presses your hand flat against it. “Go on. Make a wish now.”

Your chest aches, but the words tangle and vanish before you can say them. He doesn’t wait— his mouth finds yours again, hungrier, urgent. This kiss tastes different: less hesitation, more claim.

You barely notice when he shifts, pushing you back against the mattress. The sheets bunch under your shoulder blades as his weight settles over you heavy and grounding.

His hands skim your sides, tentative but desperate, until they catch at the hem of your shirt. His eyes flick up, searching, dark and asking, “Tell me to stop, I will.”

Instead, you nod, heart in your throat, and lift your arms, “don’t want you to.”

Satoru drags your shirt off slowly, gaze catching like a flame on bare skin. His lips part when your bra comes into view, and his breath stutters audibly. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice thick, and almost reverent, “been dreaming about this.”

He doesn’t rush. His mouth is everywhere, covering you like worship. He maps constellations out of freckles with the drag of his lips, your collarbones, your sternum, your stomach. Every kiss sears, every brush of his mouth feels like a tentative stroke of an artist mapping his heart’s desire on his favorite canvas— and it leaves you trembling. “Gonna kiss every one,” he promises, voice muffled against your skin, “make sure you never forget how perfect you are.”

By the time he strips you fully, your nerves are frayed and your body is thrumming. Goosebumps trail in the wake of his touch. When he spreads your thighs, settling between them, the coarse hair of his legs brushes your softer skin, making you shiver. His tattoo brushes the inside of your knee as he shifts lower, lips hovering.

“Nervous?” he asks, thumb stroking your trembling hipbone.

“A little,” you admit, voice small and throat dry.

“Good.” His smirk cuts sharp, but his eyes stay soft. “Means you care. I’ll take care of you, y/n, just trust me.”

And then he lowers his head.

The first flick of his tongue has you jerking, back arching off the mattress. The sensation is molten, wetter and hotter than you’d imagined. He hums low, pleased, the vibration traveling through your cunt. His tongue works slow at first, tasting, teasing— then hungrier, lapping like he’s been waiting years.

“Fuck, you taste so sweet,” he groans into you, words hot against your skin, tongue flicking kittenish licks at your clit, “Gonna make you come on my tongue before I even fuck you baby, you want that?”

Your hands fly into his hair, gripping tight, dragging desperate sounds out of your throat. He groans when you tug, burying deeper, alternating between sucking your clit and sliding one slender finger inside. He stretches you carefully, curling them just right until your thighs spasm around his head.

He pulls back briefly, lips and chin slick with you. “Look at you,” he rasps, eyes flashing. “Never let anyone touch you before? Saving it all for me like a good girl.”

“G-Gojo—”

“Satoru,” he corrects through a mouthful of cunt, “Say it baby, say Satoru.”

“Satoru—!” you cry out when he inserts another finger in, a sweet kisses presses into your inner thigh. Satoru relishes in the sweet mess he’s making out of you.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” He thrusts his fingers deeper, curling hard until you cry out, “say my name, only mine.”

It’s too much— it’s so much more than anything you could’ve ever imagined, and not enough at the same time. You break on his mouth with a sob and a violent shudder, climax tearing through you. Your thighs tremble around his head, nails scratching his scalp, but he doesn’t let up. Satoru only groans into you, drinking everything you give until you collapse, gasping.

He doesn’t leave you a moment’s reprieve. He kisses back up your body, mouth hot and messy, tongue tangling with yours so you taste yourself on his lips. Freckles get pecked in passing, neck, jaw, cheeks, until he reaches your mouth again.

“Ready?” he murmurs, breathless, making quick work of his pants and boxers, rutting his cock against your thigh. He has your thigh thrown over his shoulder, with a tenderness that has your body resigning to him. The heat of it makes your stomach clench. He’s flushed, precum slicking the head, smearing against your skin.

You nod, but nerves flutter sharp through you. He notices instantly. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking soft as he guides himself down. “We’ll go slow. Promise i’ll be gentle, just sit with me, yeah? let me in.”

The push is slow, agonizing. The blunt head nudges into you, stretching untested walls. Your gasp breaks sharp, nails clawing his back. Pain burns, spreading, and you cling harder.

“Breathe,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, then softer, dotting along your cheek, kissing every freckle he can reach, “I’ve got you baby, fuck— you’re so tight, my perfect girl.”

Your nails are digging deep into his back, and somewhere in the back of your mind you think you should apologize, but then Satoru grins with the flex of his back muscles under your touch.

He bottoms out, hips flushing to yours. He’s shaking, every muscle strung taut, but he doesn’t move. His forehead drops to yours, panting. “Tell me when, sweetheart.”

The ache melts into heat slowly, your walls clenching around him to accommodate him, and when you nod, he exhales ragged, like he’s been drowning.

The first thrust is shallow, measured. Then another, deeper. Pleasure strikes bright like stats in daylight, your moans spilling unchecked.

Satoru loses composure quickly. His voice cracks, rough with restraint and hunger. “Fuck— been waiting to ruin you for years. My girl. My sweet little virgin. No one else gets this.”

Your walls flutter, and his smirk sharpens. He grabs your wrist suddenly, pressing your palm flat against the inked dandelion over his heart. “Hold onto me, right here, don’t let go.”

He builds a rhythm— slow at first, then harder, rougher, deeper— dragging filthy words out of himself between kisses. A string of saliva connects your lips when satoru pulls back to let you breathe, “needy little thing. So fucking good for me, g’na make you cry on my cock baby”

Tears collect on your eyelashes, and Satoru feels the overwhelming urge to wipe them should they ever spill.

Your head tips back, overwhelmed, but his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze on him.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart. Wanna see who’s fucking you.”

You break, sobbing his name, climax snapping through you. Your body clamps around him, and he groans ragged, hips jerking. “Fuck—” he gasps, spilling himself inside you, rutting deeper and deeper as the orgasm settles.

Satoru mutters a string of curses, sighing deeply into the crook of your neck. He hasn’t even pulled out completely, too busy with peppering your skin with as many marks as he can. As if making up for the time lost in trying to restrain himself before.

After, he stays inside you, trembling, forehead resting to yours. “You okay?” he whispers, thumb brushing away a stray tear.

You nod weakly, not being able to form words in your haze.

He grins faint, smug but tender, pressing one more kiss to your nose. “Freckle count went up by twenty,” he murmurs. “Pretty sure I added them myself.”

You roll your eyes, but melt anyway when he kisses you again, the nectar of the universe tasting sweet on his lips, his snow-coloured hair becoming a beautiful disheveled mess tangled in your fingers.

You stay like that for a long time, minds taking vacation in the warmth of your bodies melding together and ghosting over you bodies like a second blanket.

It began with the small, seismic shifts in the apartment’s atmosphere.

Suguru, a man who prized peace and order, felt it first— a new frequency humming in the air, a secret language spoken in glances and accidental touches.

It started subtly. A new, unspoken game of cat and mouse began in the apartment, with Suguru as the increasingly perplexed cat.

The plan was simple: act normal. For two people whose entire relationship was built on a foundation of chaotic banter, it should have been easy.

It was not.

It started at the convenience store. The three of you were at the slurpee machine.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting that radioactive red cherry again,” Satoru said, his voice dripping with mock disdain as he positioned himself at the blue raspberry spigot.

“Rich coming from someone who likes the flavour that tastes like a cleaning product,” you shot back, your hand hovering over the cherry lever, “it’s literally the color of a sad swimming pool.”

“It’s the color of awesome,” he corrected, filling his cup with the electric blue liquid, “This has personality. Yours is just… red, basic.”

“It’s a classic! You’re basic. ”

Suguru finished paying for his black coffee and watched the two of you from near the hot dog roller, his expression unreadable, “Are you two finished? Or do you need to file formal complaints about each other’s life choices?”

You both fell silent, shooting each other one last, heated glare before turning to pay— a silent agreement to continue this cold war elsewhere.

The truce held until you were all in the car. Suguru drove, you were in the back, and Satoru, who had always been the one riding shotgun when Suguru driver, had suddenly slid into the backseat next to you, claiming the passenger seat was “getting too much sun”

It was 6pm, twilight breaking through.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the aggressive slurping of Slurpees.

Then, Suguru’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. He frowned.

“Okay,” he said, his tone casual. “Why are your tongues purple?”

The question landed in the quiet car with the subtlety of a grenade.

You and Satoru froze, straws still in your mouths. Your brains, which had been blissfully occupied with sugar and secret thigh brushing, screeched to a halt.

Satoru yanked his straw out, “Why wouldn’t it be?” he blurted out, a little too defensively.

“Yeah,” you chimed in, your voice tight, “it’s a slurpee, that’s… what they do.”

Suguru’s skeptical gaze in the mirror was sharper than a razor. “You,” he said, nodding at you, “Cherry. Red.” He then nodded at Satoru, “You. Blue Raspberry. Blue. You didn’t get a purple one. You hate each other’s flavors”

The air was sucked from the car. The truth— that you’d ducked behind a tall shelf of motor oil, grabbed the front of Satoru’s shirt, and kissed him with a desperate, sugary intensity until your individual flavors had swirled into one incriminating shade— was a physical force pressing on your chest.

“ ...so what are you suggesting…” you coughed and laughed awkwardly, completely missing the point of his deduction.

“YEAH WHAT ARE YOU SUGGESTING? IT’S NOT LIKE WE MADE OUT OR ANYTHING!!!”, Satoru added because it was obviously the right thing to say.

You turned to him with the horrified face of a person in utter disbelief.

Suguru’s eyes narrowed. He let the silence hang, thick and uncomfortable, “I wasn’t gonna suggest anything,” he said, his voice dangerously slow and deliberate.

Silence. And the synchronised sound of gulping.

Suguru’s eyebrow inched higher, “I was going to ask if you, I don’t know, finally acted like normal people and tried a sip of each other’s drinks ”, he sighed, “but you know what, I don’t really wanna know anymore”

The second incident followed shortly after. Movie night.

The dinner table feels like a battlefield. Suguru, your unwitting general, has taken his seat next to you, a bastion of obliviousness. Satoru is in the chair in front of you. The opening credits of some action movie are rolling, but you’re not seeing any of it. Your entire world has shrunk to the space under the coffee table.

Then you feel it. A nudge against your bare foot. It’s not an accident. It’s a question.

Don’t you dare, you think, curling your toes. He’s right there. Suguru is right there.

Another nudge, more insistent this time. Satoru’s big toe presses against your arch. It’s warm. A shiver runs straight up your spine. This is so stupid. This is so juvenile. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Against your better judgment, you uncurl your toes and press back.

A silent, secret war begins. A gentle press of his sole against your ankle. A retaliatory poke from your toe. He traces a lazy circle on your instep, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop a completely inappropriate sound from escaping. This is insane. You are losing your mind over toes. You’re so focused on the game, on the electric current running between your foot and his, that you don’t notice the movie has hit a quiet, dialogue heavy scene.

Suguru clears his throat. The sound is like a gunshot in the quiet room.

“Satoru.”

“Yeah?” Satoru’s voice is a little too casual.

“If you’re trying to give me a foot massage,” Suguru says, his eyes still glued to the screen, “you’re doing a terrible job, please fucking stop."

Oh my god. The toe that was drawing patterns on your foot freezes, then retracts so fast you feel the air move. You yank your own foot back, tucking it safely under you. The spell is shattered, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated mortification. He thought it was him. Satoru was massaging Suguru’s foot.

“Your feet looked… tense,” Satoru mumbles. It’s the weakest, most pathetic excuse you have ever heard in your life.

“My feet are fine,” Suguru replies, not even bothering to grant him a glance. He picks up the remote and turns the volume up, “Let me watch the movie in peace.”

You just sit there, burning up with a mixture of humiliation and a strange, giddy relief that you weren’t the one caught.

On the third day, the tension had become a physical ache. It’s a low grade hum under your skin, a constant awareness of where Satoru is in the apartment. You decide to do laundry, a suitably mundane and solitary task. You’re in the small laundry room, sorting whites from colors, the rhythmic thumping of the washer a comforting sound.

The door clicks open behind you. You don’t have to turn to know it’s him. The air changes.

“Hiding?” Satoru’s voice is soft, close.

“Working,” you correct, not turning around, focusing very hard on a sock. “It’s a novel concept. You should try it.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, his hands settle on your hips, his touch gentle but firm. He spins you around slowly until you’re facing him, backed against the vibrating dryer. The room is small, cramped. He’s everywhere.

“Satoru,” you whisper, a warning. “Suguru is—”

“—in his room, with his noise canceling headphones on, probably listening to a podcast about the migratory patterns of arctic terns,” he finishes, his hands sliding from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, “We’re safe.”

This is a terrible idea. This is how people get caught. But his chest is solid against yours, and his eyes, in the dim laundry room light, are so, so blue. He dips his head, his nose brushing against yours. “Missed you,” he murmurs, and the words are so simple, so devastatingly honest, that all your resolve melts.

“You saw me at breakfast,” you breathe, your hands finding their way to his shoulders.

“A lifetime ago.” His lips are inches from yours.

The laundry room door swings open.

Suguru stands there, a single, lonely dress sock in his hand. He looks from Satoru’s hands on your back, to your faces, which are undoubtedly flushed and guilty, to the pile of sorted laundry.

Your pointed elbow hits hard into Satoru's ribs, with more force than intended due to the urgency of the scene. A pained yelp leaves his mouth which you ignore all too easy, "M-My shoulders are fine! I told you I didn't need any massage."

Suguru stands poker faced, pointing to the sock in his hand. He is much too tired for this, "If you find the other one, let me know."

The door clicks shut. Satoru is still coughing from pain.

By day four, Suguru was panifully exhausted.

The air in the living room was thick enough to chew, and the strategy had devolved from “subtle indifference” to “performative hostility.”

This, it turned out, was a catastrophic miscalculation.

Suguru was ensconced in his favorite armchair, a book open in his lap. He hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. His attention was fixed on the scene unfolding on the floor around the coffee table, where you and Satoru were engaged in a fiercely competitive game of Scrabble. Or, more accurately, a fiercely competitive performance of one.

“Taking your time, I see,” you snipped, tapping your nails on the floor. You aimed for a tone of bored impatience, but it came out shrill and overly invested.

“Genius can’t be rushed,” Satoru retorted without looking up from his letter rack. He was trying to sound aloof, but the set of his shoulders was rigid with tension.

Suguru’s eyes traveled from your strained face to Satoru’s clenched jaw, and then returned to his page. He said nothing.

Satoru, finally seeing his opening, moved and laid down his tiles: H—A—T—E. He placed the ’E’ directly on a double word score square.

“Sixteen points,” he announced, a smug, brittle smile plastered on his face. He leaned back, crossing his arms, “Let’s see you top that.” The subtext— Look how little I care about you!— was practically screaming through the room.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was your chance to prove your own feigned indifference. You studied your letters: S, L, O, V, E, and a blank.

A brilliant, idiotic idea bloomed in your mind. It was so clever, so perfectly a secret message hidden in plain sight.

You reached out, your fingers deliberately steady. First, you placed the S at the end of his word, turning HATE into HATES.

“Plural,” you said, your voice a low, faux saccharine purr, “multiplied effect.”

Satoru’s smug smile tightened.

Then, you began building down. Using the very same ’E’ from HATES as your starting point, you laid down L, then O, then V, and finally another E.

LOVE

The board now presented its undeniable, poetic truth. HATES, horizontally, on a double word score, directly adjacent to LOVE, vertically, the two words locked together.

You looked up, meeting Satoru’s gaze with a challenge in your eyes. “Fifteen points for ’LOVE’. Plus the eight for ’HATES’. Twenty three total.” You let a slow, cold smile spread across your lips. “You’re done, Gojo.”

For a single, suspended second, the room was silent. Satoru’s face went on a journey. The forced smugness evaporated, replaced by confusion as his brain processed the board. Your hopes of having delivered the final hook to establish animosity was crushed as you looked at the furious shade of crimson blooming on Satoru's pale cheeks, and his lips pressed to a thin, trembling line.

Seriously? He was blushing from the word LOVE on a scrabble game?

Click. The soft, precise sound of a book closing was like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Suguru didn’t sigh. He didn’t ask or say anything.

He simply placed his novel on the side table and stood up. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he walked the three paces to the coffee table.

He pointed first at HATES. Then down the vertical line of LOVE.

His eyes moved from your face, now pale with dread, to Satoru’s, which was a mask of guilty panic.

He looked at the two of you, and sucked in an exaggeratingly deep breath. You gulped and braced yourself.

“Get a room,” he said finally, voice flat and utterly drained, “I’m going for a walk. A long one.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Simply turned and grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door, muttering a simple, “And hide your hickeys properly by then, for fuck's sake”, and left.

You and Satoru sat frozen, gaping at each other like idiots. The two of you were alone, surrounded by the wreckage of your charade, the words HATES and LOVE staring up from the board as the most obvious, hilarious, and catastrophic love letter ever written.

It’s over. You both know it. The charade is too exhausting to maintain.

A giggle bubbles up in your chest, then another, and soon you’re both laughing, really laughing, the sound free and unfettered for the first time in days. Your foreheads fall together, and between the lingering warm kisses that Satoru plants on your lips, he whispers, “So I can finally sleep over in your room tonight right?

©2025 LUMIEROS — the quality of my writing was trashed towards the end ngl. the smut wasn’t really the main focus so I kept it pretty vanilla, this fic was more character driven for me.

i wrote the first draft on my phone because i’m stupid and in the three times I edited this, it went from 11k to 16k, the longest fic i’ve ever written so pls be kind slowburns are not my forte </3 also if there are any grammatical errors pls ignore cus ts had me biting my own fist with how torturous it was to edit.

[willgrahamscock]

KILL AI AND REBLOG AND CREATE ART IN 2026

[askinkiskarma]

Illicit Affairs | Chapter I: Willow

pairing: Neteyam x human!reader (f)

summary: You were one of two kids stuck on Pandora after the war took all the Sky People back to Earth. After a series of events left deep scars behind, you are now forced to deal with your trauma - and your lingering resentment towards your once-best-friend Neteyam - head-on.

tw: this fic will deal with dark themes, including death, references of depression, addiction, post-traumatic stress disorder, cancer, blood. it will also eventually contain smut. viewer discretion is advised.

a/n: this fic means a lot to me, and i'm happy to be able to bring it back to tumblr.

total fic words: 78,502

“Wake up, Ace. It’s late already and there’s so much to do today, remember?” Norm’s voice pulled you out of a beautiful dream, one where you were flying on your chosen Ikran, high above the clouds, the worries…this lab. Albeit hard to swallow, you were almost relieved to be woken up, as feeding out-of-reach fantasies and dreams could lead to no good, anyhow. 

“I’m up… Jesus, Norm.” You felt yourself rise from your warm and comfortable bed and the feeling of your bare feet touching the cold, hard floor of the living quarters of the lab made you swallow a curse. 

“We left you some breakfast, get ready and meet us in the lab in 30, okay? We have the samples ready for you and you can run them after we’ve talked it through.” 

“Aye, aye, captain.” 

This was your life. You, among a few other people, were one of the only humans left on Pandora after the war took them back to Earth more than 17 years ago. Unlike the others, though, you were born here, on this foreign planet, the only home you’ve ever known. There was one more, a beautiful, feisty young man with a dark heritage, who liked to think that he is as much Pandoran as the actual natives. His name was Spider, and although you grew up together, there was not much you could say you had in common. He was wild and adventurous, has been his whole life; fully willing to immerse himself in the Na’vi ways and almost demanding a place amongst the people.

Although you have your doubts, he says the people were accepting of him, as he managed to befriend the most important family of the nearby Omatikaya tribe: the Sullys. Jake Sully, a former dream walker, rose to prominence as Toruk Makto, rider of Last Shadow. He brought multiple clans together to defeat the Sky People in their brutal quest for wealth and colonisation. He succeeded, after which he became Olo’yektan, leader of the Omatikaya. He is now fully Na’vi, after completing a consciousness transfer that allowed him to leave behind his human form and forever live as one of the people. It had never been done before. Jake was a great man, who became a mediator between the Na’vi and the humans left on Earth. His children, Neteyam, Lo’ak, Kiri and Tuk, were brought up to know English and be accepting of everyone, regardless where they came from, as long as they had pure intentions and a strong heart. Spider was considered one of them. And, surprisingly, you were, too. 

Your mum was a medic and researcher, brought here many moons ago to assist the Dr. Grace Augustin and her team in their quest to understand Pandora and its miraculous biology. Your dad, a former Master Sergeant in the US Air Force, joined the RDA for their military purposes. You never met your dad. He died when the Sky People attacked, although no one knows for sure which side he ended up taking. Your mum didn’t even know she was pregnant with you at the time, that’s how new everything was. Your mum loved your dad and she maintained her belief that he ended up doing the right thing in the end. You believed that as a child, but now are not so sure. Nevertheless, you still kept his dog tag, in a drawer at the bottom of your desk, a reminder of where you come from and what mistakes not to repeat. 

Your mum died where you were 10. It was the worst day of your life. The cancer, which slowly spread in the beginning, overtook her being one faithful day, which you will never be able to erase from your memory. There is no chemotherapy, no radiation therapy, no drugs that could have prevented this, not here, not on Pandora. Your mum made a decision to remain on this planet she loved more than her own and it eventually killed her. She had no regrets, she said. She was happy to have lived and loved and died here, among Eywa. The Na’vi loved her. She was good friends and a mentor to Neytiri and Jake, both of whom agreed to give her a Na’vi send off. You were there that day, one of the few times you had visited the Home Tree. You remember the pouring rain, falling so hard it washed away the tears spilling from your eye almost as soon as they emerged. You remember Lo’ak and Kiri, your beautiful friends that have always been there for you, mourning with you. Your mum was their favourite aunt. She introduced them to music and films, and showed all of you her favourite books and painters and made sure you all understood that humans, despite their many flaws, have beauty and love and good in them, that no matter what, will prevail. “It will prevail because of you. Because you will carry it along and share it. You will revel in the beauty and fight to bring it back because what better way is there to live?”

You finished breakfast quickly, some dry toast with some fruit Kiri brought you the last time she visited and made your way back to the lab. You found Norm and Max, alongside two other human scientists, Tim and Claire, sitting on chairs next to the lab benches, discussing plans for the week. 

“There she is, the brightest of us all.” You smirked at the compliment, raising your eyebrows in amusement and sitting down next to Claire. 

“You’ve done great work last week, Ace The ELISAs show promise that Relensa might have some effect against this type of Pandora virus. I need you to now repeat it with the samples we’ve provided and also include a different type of positive control to the experiment, if possible.”

“Will do. How about a combination therapy? I know Relensa is not the only type of anti-viral therapy we have available. Amantidin, maybe? We have to go at this from all angles, you know?” 

“Our Amantidin reserve is running severely short, but give it a try. Try a dose-response? Maybe 100 nano molars to 1 micro molar? Try 1milimolar as a positive control?”

This was your life. Unlike Spider, you avoided the clan. You did not want to be the walking reminder of everything they’ve lost. You were happy to sit back and dedicate your life to helping from the shadows. Your mum was a medic and a researcher, one of the brightest in the world. She wrote the book on Na’vi anatomy and physiology, she wanted to understand the people and hopefully help them mitigate losses brought by disease. You continued that work. Although young, you learned everything there was to learn. Not like you had anything else to do. You worked as a scientist and a nurse and a doctor if needs be. You patched humans up, stitched their wounds, ran experiments on Pandora pathogens and tried to find a cure against viral and bacterial diseases that plagued the Na’vi. You spent your life in the lab, and in the adjacent hub, learning, working out and playing the guitar and piano your mum taught you when you were really young. You couldn’t say you loved it, loved being here all the time, but you were content knowing you were, in your own way, making up for your species’ past mistakes. 

Around lunchtime, you heard commotion from the entryway. A very familiar voice reverberated through the hallways. Your lips raised in a soft smile. Lo’ak. 

Removing your lab coat, goggles and gloves, you made your way towards the origin of the sound. The tall, much-taller-than-you young man picked up a breathing mask from the designated shelf and waved at you with unwavering enthusiasm. You loved this boy. Your brother, for all intents and purposes, your partner-in-crime for all time. He loved you, too, you knew that, and you thought in a different life, in a different universe, you were soulmates, braving life’s tough storms together. 

“Brought you lunch, angel.” Your nickname for you made you roll your eyes. You hated it, but the more you hated it, the more he used it so you remained silent. “I thought you could use a break from the stale excuse you guys call food around here.” 

Lo’ak spoke English with you most of the time. He took to your parents’ (and his dad’s) culture the most out of all the kids. You spent a lot of your childhood together, hunched around a computer with old reruns of shows your mum loved in her youth, shows and movies that were way before even her time. She said she loved seeing what Earth looked like before humans killed their mother. Shows like Gilmore Girls, Friends and Modern Family were some of her favourites. You devoured them as a child, and Lo’ak did so too, with you. You drove her crazy as children, and drove Norm and Max crazy as teenagers, both trying to understand references and sayings, buildings and activities, games and idiosyncrasies. The Earth you grew up watching and reading up was beautiful, a star in the night sky you will never be able to touch. 

Lo’ak made his way to the dining room of the hub, and lay several carefully-packed items on the table. Fresh teylu, cooked over fire and Pandora vegetables, all full of colour and flavour, all much better than anything that could come out of this place. You realise that you are starving as soon as you lay your eyes on them. Before you even sat down, you dug your fingers in and quickly ate some teylu, groaning at the delicious sweet meaty flavour. It was your favourite, and Lo’ak knew. He laughed at your apparent desperation and motioned for you to sit down. You obliged, and you both sat in silence for a while, just enjoying each other’s company and the food he provided. 

“How’s training going? I haven’t seen you in a few days.” 

“I die a little bit inside every time you make me remember I spend my days training like a little robot. It’s going fine. Tiring, you know? My dad is fully back in his Marine ways. He knows it’s been enough time that the humans are bound to return sooner or later. He says they’d never leave this world, and all its untapped riches alone without a fight. So it’s a lot of military training… if we walk like them, talk like them and fight like them, it might bring us some sort of advantage, you know?” 

“Yeah, I know. I know it’s a pain, but he’s only doing this to protect you guys. He’s right. The humans are bound to return one day and when they do, we have to be prepared.” He doesn’t know this, but you have also been training, learning about guns, going through your dad’s old manuals and whatever else the RDA has left behind that could possibly be of use. You use the guns that are in the hub to learn how to aim, shoot, strip field, reload and clean the weapons, so you too can be prepared when the time comes. You might be stuck in a weak human body, but you will not be weak. 

“Neteyam’s driving me nuts. He used to be fun, remember that? He’s such a killjoy, it’s hard to stomach being around him anymore. He’s always giving out orders, always making sure everything is in order and perfect , like him. He’s been training like crazy, and sticking to my dad like he’s some sort of fungus you can’t get rid of. Drives me crazy.”

“Hey, don’t talk about your brother like that. There’s a line, Lo’ak. Neteyam only wants the best for you guys, and he’s the oldest. He has to carry the burden of being the responsible one while you guy cause mischief all the time.” 

Neteyam, Jake and Neytiri’s oldest, is more Na’vi than all the other children combined, in both looks and personality. Whilst the two middle children, Lo’ak and Kiri have five fingers, eyebrows and a more human appearance, Neteyam is all Neytiri. He’s tall and lean and seems like he was born with a bow in hand. A true warrior, you always found him a tad intimidating. Just like his mum, he has his apprehensions about humans and avatars, and although he used to come to the hub quite often when he was younger, mostly to keep an eye on his siblings, the visits have become a rarity as of recent times. 

You wonder how the young man changed in the time you haven’t seen him. You used to be close as children, or at least that’s what you thought. Whereas Spider took to Lo’ak and Kiri, their mischievous personalities a good match for each other, you took to the oldest Sully boy. He was quiet and thoughtful, and he used to look at you like a puzzle he was trying to solve, but couldn’t. He used to sit in the back as you used to play piano, and his gaze on you used to make your skin blush and your heart race. You tried not to think about the pang of hurt that rose in your chest as you remembered that he essentially abandoned you, without so much as a farewell. 

“Earth to Y/N, are you still there?” Lo’ak interrupted your train of thought and you were half grateful that you didn’t have to think about Neteyam anymore. 

“Sorry. You were saying?”

“I was saying you’re right, I know I should be more understanding, I am happy I don’t have to be the one to carry all of responsibility, but it’s hard not to hold a grudge when it seems my brother was abducted by aliens and replaced with a weird, no-fun replica of himself.” 

You groaned at the young Sully’s ongoing verbal attacks, but said no more. Whatever was going on between the two Sully boys was, at the end of the day, none of your business. 

“Anyway…” Lo’ak started, a mischievous grin appearing on his beautiful face, “I know something you don’t.” 

“Mmm, what is that?”

“I’m not telling you, but let’s just say I think it will make you very happy.” 

“Well that’s just cruel. You know I hate surprises.”

After lunch, Lo’ak joined you in the recreation hub, where you kept a guitar and the piano that the humans left behind. You didn’t feel like going back to work just yet. You sat down on the cold floor and picked up your copy of Pride and Prejudice, your mum’s favourite book. The book was coming apart at the seams, worn down from all the times you have held it in your hands, as if gripping it tighter would bring her back to you, even if for only a split second. You sighed as you passed the book to Lo’ak and motioned for him to put it on the table next to him.

“Sing for me, will you? I missed hearing your voice.” 

You smiled up at him. Nobody knew you like Lo’ak did. Nobody accepted you the way Lo’ak did. Both of you felt out of place in this world, like you didn’t quite belong anywhere. He has spent many an hour confessing how alone he’s felt all his life. You’d like to think you helped. You picked up your guitar and played a familiar song, one you knew he loved.

“Life was a willow and it bent right to your wind , as if you were a mythical thing

Like you were a trophy or a champion ring, and there was one prize I'd cheat to win

The more that you say, the less I know

Wherever you stray, I follow

I'm begging for you to take my hand, wreck my plans

That's my man”

You sat like this for hours, laughing and playing and singing. You tried to teach him a couple of chords on the guitar, which looked puny in his massive hands. With a loud thud, the open to the recreation centre swung open, making both of your heads turn in shock. 

“Lo’ak, what the fuck?” 

The harsh tone came from a man, a man you barely recognised anymore. Tall and muscular, he was not the same Neteyam you last saw. He was adorning a carefully crafted neck piece that matched his hunter’s chest piece and the knife holder he kept by his hips. You took a second to adjust to the man in front of you, that you haven’t seen in so long, that will always have a special place in your heart. Your gaze eventually fell on his face, which, like the rest of him, matured so much in all that time apart. He was beautiful. His hair was freshly braided and you couldn’t help but stare at the beaded strands that framed his face. As much as his body and face changed, they didn’t hold a candle to his eyes. The big yellow orbs that always looked at you curiously and intently were now focused on Lo’ak with rage flashed across them. 

“You were supposed to meet me at the Home Tree a fucking hour ago, Lo’ak. Dad asked you to join the hunting party and pull your weight for once, remember that? Are you physically unable to do anything that is ever asked of you?” 

He is yet to even spare a glance in your direction. You felt your blood pressure rising at the oldest Sully, but you pushed it down to look at Lo’ak, who was staring daggers at his older brother. As he was opening his mouth to undoubtedly say something that would get him in even more trouble than he was already in, you cut him off. 

“It’s my fault.” You say in Na’vi. You doubted Neteyam was in the mood for English, so as to not escalate the tensions further, you opted for your semi-decent Na’vi. “I needed his help with some samples Norm got for me that I couldn’t identify. I’m done now, though. Sorry for taking him from his duties.”

His eyes finally snapped from Lo’ak and laded on your frame. You saw his lips parting in confusion and then settle in a firm line. His eyes scanned your body from head to toe. You changed. A lot. Your hair was now close to reaching your narrow waist, which he hated himself for noticing. You were wearing what the humans called a “top”, that was cut above your abdomen and had the word “Stanford” written across it. He’s sure he’s seen it before, although he couldn’t place where. You were wearing bottoms, short and blue, with cuts in them, which Neteyam didn’t get. Why are your clothes ripped? It’s not like you fought some animal in the wild, you never got out. He couldn’t help noticing how lean you had become, so lean, in fact, he could trace your muscles with precision, something he is rarely able to do with humans. Your species was puny and weak, which is why they needed avatars and exo-suits to survive on Pandora. Realizing he was staring, his eyes moved from you back to Lo’ak, and motioned for him to get up. Although he huffed and puffed, Lo’ak obliged without saying a word. He turned around before exiting the room, giving you one last exasperated look. You winked at him and clicked your tongue in the direction of the forest, a small smile on your face. This skxawng. 

“Hey, you.” You called after Neteyam in English, as soon as Lo’ak disappeared from your line of view. You don’t know what you expected, but you had to try. He turned around and his eyes met yours. It was like looking at a stranger. 

“I really have to go, Y/N.” He said, with a deep voice and slight accent, and his eyes fell on the floor as soon as he noticed the look of hurt that crossed your face. 

“Fine, go.” You said, quickly composing yourself. You refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he can hurt your feelings. You turned around, and busied yourself cleaning up, not sparing a second look in his direction. His gaze shifted back to your frame, and with a sigh, he made his way out of the lab and your life, once more. 

[saduko]

ʙᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀɴɢs

Neteyam x Omatikaya!Reader 16.7k words

I got so insanely carried away, but again, I just cannot write a short story. I also never write smut so stfu (ᵕ≀ ̠ᵕ ). There will absolutely be mistakes, this isn't entirely proofread, and I cba rn so I'll do it later.

Summary: Duty weighs heavy when the clan expects you to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the one you’ve spent years convincing everyone you loathe. Your father is the clan’s greatest warrior, closest friend to the Olo’eyktan, and their bond sealed your fates together long before you could draw a bow. You grew up running wild with the Sully children but the flawless eldest son always seemed to shadow your every step and you’ve perfected the scowl reserved only for him. The clan believes it and they accept your envy. Everyone except the parents who watch with quiet amusement, because they see what you both still refuse to name. Or in which; you’re the warrior’s daughter, bound by expectation to the perfect future leader you claim to hate. You insist it’s true and everyone believes you. Except, parents always know their children best.

enemies to lovers, holy slowburn, slight soulmates (but not really?), childhood rivals, forced proximity, aged up Neteyem, so much smut!!! as always, my terrible gramma

Your composure is a facade. He knows it.

He knows it because he sees it.

In the way your scowl falters just a fraction as you swirl colorful insults through velvet words and he finally bites back. In the way you push against him when he even tries to offer his help – because the basket you’re lugging looks absurdly full, and yet you still let him walk you the rest of the way to the village. 

You snarl at him when he even attempts to correct your bow arm, and it used to make him flush with something sharp and ugly – envy, maybe? – because you didn’t have a problem with authority, he knows because you seem to take his fathers criticism’s just fine. When anyone else rectified you, you adjusted.

It was only ever a him problem.

Because when he corrected you, you hissed at him like his correcting hand was tipped with arrowheads and poisonous herbs. 

You had a problem with Nateyam.

As a teenager, it used to irk him to no end. Because as the firstborn son of the Olo’eyktan, he was meant to carry himself like the leader he would one day become, like an authority the clan respected without question and trusted to guide them through storm and calm alike. Yet the one thing expected of him above all else, the one duty his father never let him forget, was simpler and far more aggravating.

He was supposed to get along with you.

You – the daughter to the clan's most formidable warrior, his fathers right hand man. 

You – who did not listen. Who did not trust him. Who always – always – questioned him. 

It may as well have been written in the stars by Eywa herself that the two of you were fated to fold neatly into the same position as your father’s. And yet you resisted with every breath possible.

You rebelled, and scowled, and cursed at the mere mention of his name. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with the Olo'eyktan's first born despite your role, and that made it so exceedingly hard to get along with you. It left his skin flushing that embarrassingly dark purple colour which made his mother chuckle whenever he spoke of you. 

He tried to make sense of it. Of the way you rolled your eyes at his advice, or scowled when the two of you were paired in training once again and he couldn’t recall doing anything wrong. Not really.

You fought as normal children had, argued and competed as two eldest children to high-ranking parents would, but never with anything sharp enough to leave a lasting wound.. Nothing that should have haunted him like this.

However, he wasn’t a young boy anymore and time had an ironic way of sanding things down. He noticed what once felt like a raw hatred you wore like a book written in some foreign sky-language, suddenly became much more legible as his years grew to start with a two, almost as if he learned how to annotate his memories of you with the clarity he lacked as a teen. 

One in particular he remembers most vividly. That evening by the central fire, where you were seated opposite him, and the air still carried the echo of that afternoon’s argument. He sat closest to the basket of ripe utumauti fruits, something he always recalled being your favourite through the years of shared meals, and he remembers the way it sat just beyond your reach on the woven mat.

When you asked for it low and casual, he didn’t think twice. Of course he picked it up and of course he leaned forward to pass it, because why would he not? He sat the closest, and both your siblings and his own had been too occupied in animated conversations with each other to notice.

He also remembers the way you had slapped his hand away with a guttural scoff, almost as if he was utterly ridiculous for even offering. The sting on both his knuckles and his pride had his brows furrowing instantly and that familiar anger, the kind only you could kindle so effortlessly, surged hot beneath his skin once more.

But it was only when the soft snickers rose from nearby – his mother and yours, seated side by side and watching the exchange with far too much interest –that he noticed.

You had still taken the basket.

“Hey!” He remembers the way your fathers voice cut from just to the left, “Play nice.” 

And he’d assumed, as always, that your father was less than impressed at his daughter’s rude manners toward the Olo’eyktan’s son. But the reprimand softened almost immediately, chased by a low chuckle that started only after Jake failed to hide a snort of his own beside him.

The two men were already leaning into one another, shoulders touching, Jake’s head tipped low as one hand, holding a piece of half bitten meat hung limply by his mouth, trying and failing to hide his laughs through a mouthful of food.

The nudges of your sister's elbow into your side was the last thing he remembered noticing, sharp and mocking but quickly followed by the look you shot her. It was a silent warning in that strange language he’d never understood as a boy – the one you did with your eyes alone, but one he was now, uncomfortably, starting to. Because you ate your fruit without ceremony, eyes trained forward and stubbornly refusing to drift his way, yet the basket sat firmly in your hands all the same.

That was when Neteyam stopped letting it irk him. When he realised why everyone else around him seemed to find that mean spirit you reserved only for him so humorous, despite his distress. You were composed, yes, but he finally understood why.

Your composure was a lie. 

And once it stopped irking him, once it settled into something he thought he understood, all the memories of you persistently adorning that scowl that seemed to exist only for him suddenly lost their bite. For a moment he felt like he had maybe started to figure you out.

But recently, something had changed, subtly at first, then all at once. What was once harmless irritation had suddenly sharpened into something more volatile. You didn't just brush him off anymore, you snapped before he'd even opened his mouth, and flinched away the moment he so much as reached to steady the basket. It was as if every breath he took was a disruption, and his presence had become something you could no longer tolerate in silence.

That mean spirit wasn't funny anymore, because now it was relentless.

Which was why, standing across from you now, he didn’t brace for your signature fang baring scowl. He expected it in a way that made him sigh with knowing fatigue, and yet a little bit of smugness all the same.

“Why must you always be so difficult?” The words surfaced in that defeated tone he reserved only for you and your impertinence for him. 

Your body shifted back and you leaned against your heels to glance over your shoulder at where he stood behind you. You were still kneeling over the stump of braided vines you had been meticulously shredding into winding fibres with your knife. 

“I am not.” And there it was – that scowl he expected. It twisted your face into that familiar snarl, upper lip curling to flash the set of fangs he saw more than his own. “You just insist on hovering.”

“We were sent out here to collect fibre together. You ‘insist’ on making it a one man job.”

You didn’t look at him again, instead, turning back to the vines where your blade already resumed its steady work, as if his presence were nothing more than a distraction.

“I do not need a partner to cut fibre,” Your response was flat as if it were such an obvious observation, and then you sighed, a long drawn out exhale to yourself. “So ridiculous.”

The scoff that followed was harsh and hidden under your breath.

Despite its low delivery, the sound didn't slip Neteyam’s ear, and he raised an unassertive brow at what he thought he heard, the corner of his mouth tipping low in confusion. “What is?” 

His confusion hit you like a sudden gust of wind, and with a growl that spoke as if you couldn't believe he dared asking, you quickly shot up with a whirl, tail whipping fast with a force Neteyam had to step back to avoid. You were facing him completely, now.

“That our fathers insist on sending us out here together like we are still little children. I do not need a partner and I certainly do not need any partner of mine to be you.”

The words landed harsher than the scowl ever could. For a moment he only stared at you, really observing your features twisted with perplexed anger, yet comically softened by what he could only describe as a pout in your lip. He took in the way your stance squared and the way your grip curled around the knife with agitated force.

You may not think you acted like one, but great mother, you looked like a child right now.

“Right, you are not a child.” He said at last, voice level. “But maybe our fathers would not feel the need to treat you like one if you stopped acting as one.”

“Excuse me?”

The grip on your knife tightened, handle creaking under the pressure of your grasp that almost splintered the wood. The corner of your mouth twitched up once again in that scowl that bared the top of your right fang to his watchful eyes, and your tone was so even it almost made him falter.  

Neteyam held his ground, though. And instead, he replied carefully in an attempt to diffuse that constantly building tension just a little.

“You make an enemy of me in everything we do, as if we haven’t been paired together since we were barely old enough to hold a blade. If you wish to be met as an adult, you cannot bare your teeth at every word spoken to you, Fang.”

That age old nickname rolled like honey off his tongue but struck your ears and curdled into venom. Your fists curled so tight your claws bit crescent marks into your palms, and the muscles along your jaw tightened until you felt the throb of it.

Fang. You despised when he called you that. The way he reduced you to nothing but the sneer he so often deserved.

With a slow drawn out breath that carried no warmth, you bared the edge of a laugh that held no humour, letting your mocking reply land bitter and sour on your tongue.

“Perfect Olo'eyktan's son, always so composed and responsible. Maybe I would enjoy my time with you more if Eywa hadn’t shaped you so stiff in the tail you forgot how to bend, Tawtute.”

For a heartbeat, the words hung between you like a knocked bowstring waiting to snap with release. Then Neteyam’s jaw tightened, because he always hated when you commented on the human in him, as if it made him less Navi. Less than you.

A Tawtute, a sky-person, as if it were an insult. Spoken like a curse, when all he’d ever done was try to prove it wasn’t.

He let the silence stretch a moment longer, before taking one deliberate breath to regulate his reeling thoughts, choosing to ignore your bait. Low hanging fruit as his father would call it.

“You forget how many times that stiffness kept you from getting hurt.”

You turned back toward the vines with a scoff, knife biting down harder than before. The fibres split unevenly, curling away beneath the force of your hands. “I do not need to be helped by someone who can barely hold their bow arm high enough to knock an arrow. I do not listen to you.”

“Yes,” Neteyam scoffed a humorless laugh, “you never do.”

He sank down into a squat then as well, finally turning his attention to the pile of finished fibres you had shoved aside. His hands were quick to gather a few filaments between his pointer and thumb, testing the strands between the fingers as he twisted the two together, before giving them a short, sharp tug. They held for one, and held for another as he stretched them further, then finally faltered with a snap as he pulled them taught enough.

His mouth twitched down. 

“You cut angry,” He observed with a growl. “Uneven. Wasteful.”

You spun once more, this time in your squatted position to meet him at eye level, the knife still gripped between your four fingers almost as a threat. “You waste them with your stupidity! Of course they break when you only weave two fibres!”

“They need to be thick enough for bowstrings, to hold knocked arrows in new bows.” He countered. 

You sneered with a slight hiss, leaning further into him. “Then don’t use them.”

“Oh no, I will.” He smirked, as he finally began his job, looping the fibres together, securing them with practiced ease. “Someone has to make sure we don’t come back empty-handed.”

You shot him a glare. “I said I do not need your-”

“You do not need my help,” He finished for you, clearly way too amused now. “I know. You have said it at least five times since we left the clearing.” 

He leant closer as he spoke, not directly into your space, but just enough that you had to shift your stance to keep working without him intruding. His looming shadow falling over the stump you worked on, over your hands and the blade that suddenly seemed to falter under a different kind of pressure now.

“And yet,” he continued, eyes never leaving the strands as he calmly coiled the fibres, “you keep cutting while I bind. Funny how that works.”

You stopped your movements, sending him a glare out the side of your eye, one that had your lashes feeling heavy and jaw slightly agape.

“Get out of my way.” You spat, but it was as if you couldn’t convey the weight of anger you meant to land. Your tone was weak and almost a little desperate.

“You always rush when you are angry,” he ignored your demand - if it could even be called that - with a tone that was almost conversational. “Your tail gives you away.”

Your eyes flashed with the realisation that he had even been looking long enough to notice your tells, and your cheeks suddenly flared with something warm and hot that turned you purple.

“Stop watching me, Tawtute.” This time your voice really did sound desperate.

“I can’t. You make it difficult.” 

You were close enough to see the faint curve of that infuriating smile he loved to wear, and to feel the heat of him radiating that smug confidence he wore like a headpiece.

Years of success at keeping him as far away as one could be from someone they worked with on a near daily basis, you felt had suddenly dwindled into an endless array of interactions where he always managed to dominate the conversation. Reduced to this. To the way he always stood too close now, and spoke too smugly, as if he had suddenly decided that he finally had you all figured out.

Despite your lack of response, he broke the silence, voice dipping just enough to grate, “You know, for someone who insists she doesn’t listen to me, you react an awful lot when I speak.”

“Because you are provoking me!” You snapped in a low growl. 

“You glare like you are about to strike me." He replied, entirely too amused.

“Lucky I am working, because you would deserve it if I did.” The words landed like a pathetic cry, and suddenly it felt like you were deficient of every insult you had ever known, reduced to the same childish fury you’d sworn you’d outgrown.

“Oh are you? Would not have guessed, with the way you are looking at me like a Yerik in the firelight.” 

Eywa, if you didn’t look angry before.

“Neteyam!”

This time, you hissed it like a venomous mantra, fangs bared and legs snapping up to your full height as you leaned into his space, close enough to let the words bite the air. Your ears pinned sharp against your braids, and his jaw set as he met your glare without yielding, tension pulling tight between you like that drawn bowstring–

“Oh good, you’re fighting again.”

A sudden unexpected third voice had both your heads spinning towards the break in the clearing just a few yards East, where a very unimpressed Lo’ak tread carelessly down the path with a barely-contained giggling Kiri besides him. Kiri moved with a balled fist pressed against her pursed mouth, supported by an arm crossed along her chest in an attempt to hide her amusement. 

“It’s more like flirting again.” The words Kiri muttered were small and meek but Eywa, if they didn’t hit large.

Both you and Neteyam froze at the intrusion, then stilled at the implication, a beat passing before you each stepped back in the same beat of time. He rose to his feet far too quickly besides you, your eyes blown wide in something too closely resembling horror, while Neteyam merely rolled his, tired and resigned, straightening back into the perfect son like it was second nature once more. 

“Stop being a skxawng, Lo’ak–.”

“–We are not flirting, Kiri.” 

The words collided in the air, yours to Kiri a hiss and his to Lo’ak a sigh, overlapping with a defensive tilt that had the other two chuckling harder.

Lo’ak’s mouth twitched. “Wow." He stated. “Touched a sensitive nerve.”

And Neteyam, the all mighty responsible son he is, didn’t reach for the bait Lo'ak hung so low for him, instead, he crossed his arms with a sigh at his unexpected presence. “What are you doing here?”

The answer came before either of them could speak, as a sudden fifth voice came echoing from the brush of leaves. A small, blurred figure soon came dashing out of the tree scape, making a b-line straight to the centre of the clearing in a full stumbling sprint. She was headed directly towards where you stood in a pout next to Neteyam. 

“Dad said to come get you two because you’re taking too long!”

Kiri and Lo’ak's eyes grew wide. And with a quick exchanged glance of horror, at the same time they barked. “Tuk!” 

But she ran right past them, as if their voices fell silent to the wind.

Lo’ak lunged forward, catching her by the arm just before she could skid to a stop at your feet. The glare he sent her sharp and immediate enough to make her shrink in on herself, ears drooping as she braced for the scolding she knew was soon to come.

“Dad told us to come get them,” He corrected, gesturing between himself and Kiri. “That wasn’t an invitation to follow.”

Tuk's round eyes glint up with that innocent reasoning you just couldn't deny, her pupils glossing over as she pouted heavy in protest and twisted her head to look at you and Neteyam.

“But Dad said you’ve been out here alone long enough!”

Tuk protested, twisting free of Lo’ak’s grip with a determined wriggle and darting straight to you. The moment she was within your range, she grabbed your forearm with both of hers, tugging urgently as she looked up with those wide, worried eyes.

“He told mom that if you and Neteyam keep fighting like this, you’ll probably end up at the Tree of Souls by tonight!” She paused, then her voice pitched higher with pure betrayal. “But you can’t! You promised you’d help me braid my new beads tonight!”

For a heartbeat, the clearing went unnervingly still. You stared still as stone down at Tuk, mortification burning hot beneath your skin at the implication that flew right over her head but knocked you right up yours instead. And besides you, Neteyam fared no better, looking as if the world had briefly knocked him off balance too, His eyes widening just enough to betray him before he could pull himself back together. 

In stark contrast just a ways away, Lo’ak let out a sharp bark of laughter, doubling over with his grip on Kiri's arm, just as she finally outright lost the battle she’d been silently fighting, turning away from the set of two dazed and angered eyes with a hand clamped over her mouth.

She shook with quiet, uncontrollable cackles, restraint entirely gone, fed by the matching looks of mortification plastered across both your faces. The two of you looked ridiculous.

And Tuk, sweet innocent Tuk, oblivious to the chaos her words had detonated in the once silent clearing, glared up at Neteyam's shell-shocked face with furrowed brows and that pouty sneer.

“Stupid Neteyam.” She declared, voice ringing with righteous indignation. “You can’t take Y/N anywhere tonight. Eywa heard it - she’s with me today!”

She punctuated the proclamation with the scrunch of her nose and a quick, defiant flick of her tongue, poked in his direction.

For a split second, Neteyam only stared at her, still caught somewhere between the weight of what had just been said and the very real presence of his little sister. Then he blinked, jaw tightening as the annoyingly-older brother instinct finally won out over shock. With a sharp, almost automatic motion, he reached out and pinched her tongue between his fingers. An act that had Tuk squealing and flailing in protest.

“Oi!”  Tuk yelped, recoiling instantly, clutching her tongue with a gasp.

Neteyam let the sound settle before he spoke. He shot you a brief, weary glance, as if checking whether you’d reacted at all, then turned back to his sister, composure sliding firmly back into place. His voice level and measured with a delicate care he reserved specifically for her.

“That is entirely enough out of you. Someone needs to give you a lesson about eavesdropping." He glanced back at his brother and sister, motioning a hand to the two still giggling. "Time to take you home before we all get scolded.”

Tuk’s ears drooped immediately, shoulders curling inward as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingers still hovering protectively near her mouth. She opened her lips as if to argue, then thought better of it, gaze flicking between Neteyam and the ground with exaggerated remorse.

That was when Kiri scoffed, the tension finally cracking as ahe straightened, still grinning as she shouted. “He's right, you’ve caused enough trouble. Come on, teylupil.”

She didn’t wait for her to comply, instead walking to grab her, planting two steady hand on each of her shoulders, then began steering her away with decisive finality, already turning her toward the path before she could wriggle free.

“But I didn’t do anything!” Tuk protested.

“Tell it to dad.” Kiri laughed.

Tuk craned her neck back toward you one last time as Kiri dragged her away, voice pitching higher with urgency. “Y/n, don’t forget my hair-!”

“I know,” you cut in quickly, the words tossed over your shoulder like a promise already made as the two disappeared down the winding path in a lingering bicker.

Lo’ak remained a heartbeat longer. His gaze flicking between you and Neteyam, something quiet and knowing glinting behind his eyes as his mouth twitched with barely restrained amusement.

You caught it quickly, and shut it down even quicker, face smoothing into neutrality as you turned away, dropping back into a crouch before the stump as if nothing had been disturbed in you.

“We will collect the threads and follow.” Your voice came out flat and deliberately ungiving, spoken without the fault or fracture he was clearly waiting to see. Whatever reaction they had hoped to draw out of you never came, instead, your expression smoothed into something unreadable, as if nothing at all had happened in the last few minutes.

When he didn't get it from you, Lo’ak redirected his attention to Neteyam with a long, assessing look. He was waiting for the reaction you refused to give, and when he found nothing but the faint quirk of Neteyam’s mouth, he huffed a quiet laugh and finally began his own descent toward the start of the winding path back to the village. “Dad’s pissed.” He called over his shoulder. “Try not to be too long.”

The brush swallowed him soon after as well, laughter and murmured whispers dissolving into the low hum of the forest. And then the clearing fell still again.

You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, shoulders rolling as the tension finally bled off. Remembering yourself, you turned back to the stump, your hands moved quickly now, rough and efficient, gruffly snatching clumps full of fibre from the scattered pile. You stuffed them into the woven basket Neteyam had brought, as if keeping busy might quiet everything still coiled tight beneath your skin.

For a moment, Netayem watched. It almost seemed like that armored composure of yours was taut as rigid as usual, as if nothing in the last five minutes had made you falter for even a moment. To anyone else, maybe, it did appear as so, but he knew you well enough to see the way your jaw clenched so tight he’d envisioned you cracking a molar, and the harsher than necessary grip in your fingers as you haphazardly tossed the fibre around. Not to mention the stutter in your tail’s path, the tell he’d learned long ago as the one that always surfaced when you were lying.

It left him releasing a chuckle he couldn't contain, a deep, rumbling sound which made your ears twitch sideways in annoyance. You paused in your frantic movements, head snapping to the side in a motion which left your glowing amber eyes glaring daggers at his towering form. 

“What?” You spat, tired, irritated and painfully obvious to him – embarrassed.

“Still upset about what Kiri said?"

Your jaw clenched, fangs peeking as you whipped fully around to face him, rising to your full height at the implication. The basket thumped forgotten at your feet as the tension tipped to a peak beyond your capacity, and you stalked towards him with an almost predatory sway. 

"I am not angry about that ridiculous–” You cut yourself off, taking a moment to collect the basket off the ground, along with a breath of humid air, allowing it to sit in your lungs before releasing in a desperate attempt to somewhat self-regulate. “Do not flatter yourself, Tawtute. Flirting? With you? I'd sooner make Tsaheylu with a thanator."

His eyes gleamed with mischief, but it wasn’t the boyish, innocent kind he wore when messing with his siblings. This one was the kind he wore only where you were involved, deliberate and cocky, slipping neatly beneath the cracks in your composure because he knew where to press. 

The careful, responsible mask he wore all the time loosened just enough to reveal the tease underneath, a glimpse of something warmer and far more dangerous than his jabs at you ever were. He didn’t crowd you with his body so much as he crowded you with his unyielding certainty, leaning in just the smallest amount, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in the a dark room rather than under the open light of tree canopies.

“Funny,” He murmured, and Eywa, the way he said it made your spine want to curl. “Your tail is flicking like it does when you lie. And you react so much when I get close, almost as if... as if you enjoy it.”

Heat hit you so fast it was humiliating, up your neck, across your cheeks, down your chest - anger and something you refused to name twisting together until you couldn’t tell which was which. Your hand shoved into his chest on instinct, a firm press meant to reassert space, meant to remind him you were not something to be read and teased apart like the vines beneath your knife.

But his skin under your palm was solid and warm, his breath even, his posture maddeningly steady. You hated that he didn’t move. You hated that the push didn’t become a shove, that your body betrayed you with restraint and a split-second hesitation that had nothing to do with strength. Your pulse seemed to jump when he watched you like this.

“Back off,” You snapped instead, aiming for venom and getting something too light, too strained. You lifted your chin as if height alone could restore your pride. “I do not enjoy anything about you hovering like a skxawng who thinks he is Eywa’s gift to the clan.”

Neteyam didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, the gold in them catching the filtered light until they looked almost feral. The smirk was gone and in its place was something colder as he took one slow step forward, crowding you until the basket handle dug into your hip and the scent of him, warm skin, crushed leaves, the faint sweat from the summer heat, filled every breath.

“Gift?” He repeated, voice quiet and flat, the kind of quiet that made your spine prickle. “I am the one stuck dragging your half-finished work back to the village every time you storm off. That sound like a gift to you?”

Something in his words snapped the tension in a way that almost had a stifled laugh escaping you. The image of perfect Neteyam, future Olo’eyktan, the ever-responsible son, trudging behind you with a basket full of your messy fibers and a everpresent moping frown to match struck you as absurdly funny considering he was the one who always offered to do it anyways. That short, sharp laugh escaped before you could stop it, low and mocking, cutting through the thick air between you.

“Poor you.” You sang, voice dripping with false sympathy as the anger flipped into something crueler and entirely more enjoyable. “All that dragging must be so exhausting for such meek shoulders to carry.”

His eyes narrowed, the feral glint sharpening into irritation, but you were already moving. You jerked the basket from where it pressed against your hip and shoved it hard into his front, the woven edge leaving him doubling slightly from the sudden jab to his ribs, a smack that landed with a satisfying thud.

A few loose fibers fluttered to the ground as he stumbled back a few steps and caught the basket on reflex, fingers curling tight around the rim. The motion finally giving you the space you longed to breathe once again.

“Except, you came here knowing you were going to do it anyways. So, there,” You said, stepping back with a grin that showed too many teeth. “Problem solved. You can carry it all the way home anyways, like the dutiful son you are. Try not to strain yourself complaining about it later.”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched hard enough that you could see the muscle jump beneath his skin, his ears pinning back flat against his skull. The feral edge in his eyes flared hotter, and for a second you thought he might actually snap, toss the basket aside and give you the fight you both pretended you didn’t want.

Instead, he gripped the handle tighter, knuckles paling and barked, “Fnawe’tu skxawng!”

The insult landed far too humorously for you to care, Instead you tilted your head back with an overly delighted smirk, very amused by his irate slurs and the way his facade cracked. “You call me the stubborn idiot? But you carry the basket anyway. Funny how that works?”

He exhaled through his nose, blood boiling at the way you managed to throw his earlier words back at him. The sound was almost a growl, and he took one deliberate step onto the path after you. “Start walking, Fang. The sooner we get back, the sooner I am rid of you for the day.”

“Perfect!" You grinned, but the grin quickly dropped. "Twelve whole hours before you find another excuse to follow me around tomorrow.”  You barely glanced back to see if he was following when you took off towards the village, because you already knew he was.

The clearing was loud with voices and laughter, bodies packed close as food and weapons were passed around in uneven circles, and it felt like the whole village had decided to breathe in the same place at once.

Someone had dragged a fresh kill in not long ago and the smell still hung in the air, mingling with roasted meat, crushed herbs, and the faint sting of smoke from the fire that kept getting fed as if it might swallow the night. Nets of fruit were being unknotted and handed off, cups passed between hands, blades checked and re-sheathed in the same idle rhythm people used when they were safe enough to relax but still too wound up to sit still.

You were wedged between a few of your friends near the edge of one of the many circles, packed close enough that their shoulders kept bumping yours when someone laughed too hard or shifted in their seat. Ki’tiri had been retelling an exaggerated recall of her day on patrol, her eyes gleaming with irate exasperation as she animatedly spoke of the moment Lo’ak decided to start throwing stones out of boredom, nearly nailing Mo’at on the head from the overhang.

Tuk sat too. She had found you the moment you settled onto the woven mat, darting straight to your side to claim her usual spot and spend her evening meal with you instead of her siblings or friends. It's something that had become so common during communal mealtimes that your friends had come to expect the young Sully girl attaching herself to your side like a second tail. It was as if the decision had been made somewhere in her head and the rest of the world simply had to accept it, and now she perched happily at your side like she belonged there.

Her small hand gripped your wrist with the possessive certainty only children had, and she fidgeted with the jewels decorated across your fingers, twisting the woven strands carefully as if she were inspecting treasure. The beads you’d braided fresh not even a few weeks before clinked softly each time she moved, and every now and then she would lean her head against your arm and sigh, pleased with herself like she’d taken down a Thanator.

“Will you make these for me too?” She asked – more like stated – for what had to be the third time tonight, thumb brushing the tiny knotwork with awe.

“When you stop trying to steal mine..” You murmured back, and she grinned, utterly unbothered by the threat.

You let yourself settle into it for a moment, letting the noise wash over you because it was easier than thinking after long days training, because nights like this were meant to feel simple and unwinding. You were halfway through listening to your friend complain about yet another act of stupidity Lo’ak had attempted on their patrol together, when Tuk’s fingers suddenly stilled on your ring, halting and tightening hard enough that the movement forced you to glance down at the girl with a concerned furrow of your brow.

“What?” You muttered, eyeing her of an answer before she spoke it.

Tuk’s eyes flicked past you toward the centre of the clearing, eyeing something in the distance that left you searching the vicinity in hopes of catching the focus of her gaze. Her mouth fell slightly, an almost angered look settling across her face before she scoffed, turning back to you in a huff that had her drawing closer. 

“Neteyam is with that noisy woman again. An’aya.” 

She spat the name in that high-pitched mocking tone children did, and at first, you didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. But something in your chest tightened all the same, small and sadistic, as if it even mattered at all.

You followed Tuk’s gaze without meaning to, your eyes slipping past the firelight and moving bodies until they found him almost instinctively. Neteyam sat just beyond the centre of the clearing, leaned back against a stack of supply crates, relaxed in the way you only ever saw when he was amongst people he trusted, his shoulders were loose and his attention tilted toward the woman beside him.

An’aya was speaking animatedly, hands moving as she spoke and laughed so easily, and Neteyam had angled himself toward her without thinking, one knee bent beside his chest, head dipped slightly so he could hear her better over the noise.

It irked you. And it irked you more that it even irked you in the first place. Because you hated him. You told yourself it irked you because you hated that he was enjoying himself. Right. Of course. 

But the irritation still sat heavy and ugly in your chest, coiling tighter the longer you watched, and you hated that too, hated that your attention wouldn’t let it go, and that your mood had soured so fast despite being so fine just a moment ago.

There was no reason for it. None that made sense. You hated that stuck up tawtute more than anyone else and you argued with him so much you made a sport out of it. So why did your chest tighten when he didn't brush away the hand she put on his shoulder?

Tuk noticed the shift in your mood right away. Her nose wrinkled as her grip tightened again and she leaned in closer, glaring openly now.

“I don’t like her,” she muttered, voice fierce and final. “She talks too much. And she sits too close to Neteyam. And she laughs at his jokes even when they’re not funny.”

You attempted for even a minuscule moment to draw yourself back, to brush it away and forget it ever made you feel anything by resorting to your usual self regulation habits – insulting the man.

“Nothing Neteyam says is funny.” But not even that seemed to work to calm you because that irrationally confusing feeling still clawed at your chest.

“That’s not true,” Tuk called out immediately, tilting her small face up at you with those wide eyes. “You laugh at him all the time! Just not when he’s looking.”

She leaned in closer, voice dropping into something hurt and almost bordering a whine. “He’s supposed to sit with us.”

“That is not how this works.” You snapped the reply too quick, eyes diverting from the scene to pick up another piece of utumauti fruit as if it never bothered you.

Tuk’s eyes rolled at the response she should have predicted. She never understood why you acted so weird about it, when it was obvious to her that you liked her brother - because that was just what people did when they liked someone. They got weird and sharp and pretended they didn’t. She didn't see it elswhere often, but she knew it because that was what you and Neteyam did.

Your friends had gone quiet at the sudden stir occurring just beside them. Ki’tiri quickly noticed the shift in your mood and tilted her head, studying you now with open curiosity.

“Why are you angry?” She cut in plainly. “Did he do something again?”

“No." You replied stark. “How could he? Neteyam is all the way over there.”

Ki’tiri exchanged a quick, knowing glance with the friends beside you. “I didn't even mention his name." And the corner of her mouth lifted as a chorus of light giggles sung around the circle.

You answered with a quick, harsh warning glare, a motion that had the laughs slowly dying but the smiles still lingering in a knowing gleam. Ki’tiri leaned in again, allowing you the dignity of ending her teasing, feeling almost a little bad at how astoundingly purple you looked.

"You’re getting upset,” She stated simply and not unkindly. “You do that only where Neteyam is involved.”

“I am not upset.” But you were too far maddened for that to be convincing. “And he is not involved. I have been sat here, and he has been there this entire time.”

The lie hung heavy and brittle as you clicked your tongue. Tsk.

"Yeah, sat with that healer girl." Mikatxi interjected low and humoured.

Your chest tightened, sharp and sudden, like the threads Neteyam pulled too taut in the woods and before you could bite it back, the denial tore out of you, louder than intended and edged with fury.

“I do NOT care who he sits with!” You hissed, voice cracking on the volume. “He can sit in her lap for all the stars in the sky care! I would not notice if Eywa herself told me!”

“What is going on!?”

The voice carried across the fire, calm but accusatory, and edged with something that made the fine hairs along your arms rise. In your bladed fury, you let your voice spike too high and missed the one pair of eyes that had locked onto you from beyond the fire.

Neteyam hadn’t stood, he hadn’t even moved from his spot. But he had leaned forward with a watchful, almost concerned eye, braids swinging low and hand hanging off his elevated knee as he observed with what you knew was that stupidly disingenuous concern.

The way he intervened like he was already rehearsing for Olo’eyktan burned you, as if he believed he could snuff out any simmering flame with his big, proud words simply because his blood said so.

And that wasn’t even half your problem. The problem was that An’aya followed his gaze immediately, curiosity sparking as she turned to see what had drawn his attention, blinking and glancing between the two of you, clearly lost by why he interrupted her mid sentence.

That alone was enough to make your teeth grind. Because what was your relationship with that skxawng any of her business?

“We’re fine.” You called back, sharper than necessary, your eyes not even bothering to glance his way once. “Try having your own conversations instead of monitoring everyone else, tawtute.”

Neteyam’s mouth tightened just slightly at the insult, a breath leaving him slow and measured as if he were counting to three in his head. He didn’t rise, not yet. Only tipped his chin and let a quick “Eywa help me,” fall to the air before pushing himself to his feet at last.

He crossed the space between you in a way that had your fist tightening in anticipation for yet another argument, only fueled by the image of An’aya hot on his heels like a second tail of his own, close enough to the boy that it felt intentional whether it was or not. Tuk sat up, planting herself more firmly at your side like a guard animal half her size.

“I said we are fine,” you warned as he stopped in front of you.

Your friends ogled at the two of you, already bracing for the next round of your endless bickering.

“And I said I was just asking.” His voice was calm but firm, and his eyes began searching your face for something, as if he could find whatever it was if he looked hard enough. “You are upset.”

You sputtered a short sudden laugh but your tone held no humour. “Right, I forgot I am only allowed to feel something once you have approved of it first. I forgot I need my warden to tail me through the village and make sure I am behaving. Shall you go report my mood back to our fathers now?”

Neteyam’s jaw flexed, his calm finally straining at the edges.

“That is not what I am doing. You know I do not–”

“You do!" Your outburst came hard against his sentence, not having the patience nor heart to hear his excuses. “My tail flicks to harshly, and it is enough to call council with our fathers! Tell them to rest easy, golden son. I am not about to reign war over one evening meal.”

Neteyam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he was bracing himself. “Well, you don’t have to turn everything I say into a fight.”

“And you don’t have to turn everything I do into your problem to solve. The mantle still sits on your fathers head, you are allowed to have a personality until then.”

An overdramatically long groan suddenly sounded to the left of you, and both your eyes snapped over to Tuks exaggeratingly agitated from, as she sighed in that childish way she did.

“Stop fighting!” She begged, voice whiny with pure childish exasperation. “You guys always pretend like you don't want to talk, and then Neteyam comes and you fight forever, and he won’t leave you alone, and you won't tell him to go away, and it's annoying!"

“Tuk!” Both you and Neteyam barked simultaneously, horror gleaming in both of your eyes because that was so obviously not true!

“That is what happens,” she insisted stubbornly. "You do it all the time.”

"No!" You rejected. "We argue because he hovers!"

An’aya, from the shadow of Neteyam’s shoulder, suddenly appeared forward, finally establishing her presence with a smile that was not wide nor warm, but enough to show she was not very fond of the girl her friend had been talking to.

"Maybe, if we did not worry about what you might do next, Neteyam would not be expected to hover and act like Olo’eyktan already."

Your head turned slowly toward her, blood finally boiling to that point only Neteyam’s presence could push it to. Because who was she to imply you were a burden he had to shoulder, a mess he had to trail behind and fix every time you dared to exist too loudly? And especially who did she think she was, inserting herself into Neteyam’s problems as if they were her own. ‘if we did not worry’ — as if she had any right to speak for the frustration he supposedly felt?

“Oh, is that your healer’s wisdom speaking, or are you only borrowing the golden son’s voice while he is too busy ogling to use it himself?”

Your gaze snapped to Neteyam, fury bright and uncontained now that this girl he had dragged to your circle had suddenly felt all too comfortable insulting you in front of all your friends.

“Maybe our fathers should stick her as your new training partner since she is already so good at handling me. My guard dog has a guard dog.”

Neteyam stiffened. “Enough.”

But you didn't stop. “Is this what you tell people about me?”

Neteyam opened his mouth to speak, visibly caught off guard by the sudden accusation.

“That is not–” He started for the umpteenth time but again you didn’t let him finish.

“I would think you respected me even a little, enough, considering all my father has done for you and your family. But you let your women speak to me like I am beneath you.” You scoffed softly, the sound carrying just far enough to be heard.

“A leader, they say you will be.” You continued, words mocking. “Tell me how this is keeping the peace. Seems your peace is built on my silence. Both your peace and our fathers.”

You rose without haste, the motion deliberate enough that the space around you seemed to shift with it. The ground felt steady beneath your feet, solid in a way your chest had not been for the last several breaths, and for the first time that night you welcomed the clarity that came with deciding to leave rather than be dismissed.

“Y/n, no– please don’t be mad,” Tuk whined, the plea tumbling out of her in a rush as she reached for you, fingers brushing the edge of your wrist but failing to catch hold. Her face pinched with genuine worry. "I didn't mean to make it worse."

“You did not.” You said shortly. “This is not on you, Tuk.”

And then you turned and left without a word, the sudden absence of your presence cutting through the clearing sharper than any insult you had ever sent him, and for the first time Neteyam did not know whether you were just angry or actually hurt by what had happened.

It was confusing because you had never let any interaction between the two of you get to you like this, yet now that you had chosen distance in place of where you would usually just choose name calling, he couldn’t help the feeling like he’d missed something far too important while it was happening.

The noise resumed all too quickly behind you, laughter reclaiming the air as if nothing had shifted at all, but he stayed where he was, unease settling low in his chest as he watched your retreating form saunter away, hips swaying with jolting anger and body tempting his eyes to never shift.

He didn’t know when he started noticing things like that. The way your hips rolled as you walked, the flex of the muscles along your thighs with each step, and the way the line of your back shifted as you moved.

It sat wrong that he noticed these things about you, because he didn’t notice them on anyone else. More than anything else, the fact that you hadn’t looked back sat even worse. And the fact that he felt that hollow pull, tight and wrenching in his chest because of it, sat the worst of all.

“At least you don't have to worry about watching her anymore." An’aya’s voice cut in beside him, light and coaxing, like she was trying to pull him back by the wrist.

Neteyam nodded absently, already half elsewhere, the hollow feeling in his chest refusing to settle. Even as he turned back toward the fire, his attention lagged behind, tethered not to the laughter or the conversation resuming around him, but to the quiet space you’d left behind. To the quiet, unwelcome understanding that this time, you hadn’t walked away to cool off – you had walked away because he had apparently crossed a line he didn’t even realise he was dancing.

One delicate, purposeful step after the other. Neteyam watched your sultry hips as they worked against the motion of your legs, swaying against the gracefully deliberate rhythm of your strut. Every step was intentional, not a single wasted motion and certainly no hesitation, each one drawing a slow, tightening circle around him. You eyed him like prey and circled him like a predator. 

He, too, circled your figure. Less graceful in his approach, his steps heavier and more grounded, but just as analytical with his eyes all the same. He told himself he tracked your figure because he had to, that he noticed how dangerously alluring you looked in your stride because he was being tactical, certainly not because he found it mesmerising.

Partnered again. You almost rolled your eyes had it not been for the undivided attention you had on his solid figure. You had your suspicions that they were doing it on purpose now, because whenever given the opportunities, your fathers paired the two of you like it was something written into the roots of the forest itself. As if Eywa refused to separate you.

Jake’s voice cut through the air before either of you could make a move.

“Enough posturing,” he barked from the edge of the ring, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unimpressed. “This isn’t a mating dance. Someone's going to have to make a move soon enough. Engage.”

The command barely left Jake’s mouth before you moved.

You didn’t rush him all at once because that was never your style. You shifted your weight and pivoted to your right instead, just as your tail came down with a sharp snap to the left, a deliberate ploy to feint him around you with sound.

Neteyam stuttered for a moment, nearly diving left and falling for the bait, but caught himself immediately, because of course he did. His jaw tightened as he corrected, blocking you by widening his stance, shoulders settling into a space much larger than you had accounted for.

You collided with his chest, steadying yourself with a tight hand clamped around his forearm. It was successful, but your proximity to Neteyam left you vulnerable to an open hand palm against your shoulder, knocking you a step back. It was a warning shot, not meant to land hard, but it angered you all the same.

“Good feint, Y/n. Nice recovery, Neteyam.” Jake called out. 

Your eyes never pivoted from Neteyam, but Jake's words riled you further, knowing he got praise for the first hit. 

"Is that all you have?" You taunted, circling again, your breath steady despite the fire igniting in your veins. "Afraid to hit me for real, golden boy?"

Neteyam’s ears flicked at your taunt, but his expression stayed infuriatingly calm. He rolled the shoulder you’d nearly landed on earlier, circling with you, mirroring your steps like he’d memorized every rhythm you’d ever moved to.

“Would not want to mess up that pretty face.”

You flared your teeth in a hiss at his words, fangs bared and all, as the implication of them did not evade you. The idea that you were too feminine to fight. Bullshit.

It was bait, you knew it deep within, and yet you lunged for it all the same.

You dropped low, striking dirty with a sweeping leg that made contact with his ankles while your hands aimed for his torso. He leaped back, but you were faster, twisted in the air and raking your manicured claws down his ribs just to watch him hiss.

You landed in a crouch behind him, tail lashing with triumph at the hit but he countered instantly, arm hooking yours, using your momentum to flip you over his hip but you held tightly, and this time you both went down. You snapped right to the ground, landing with a splat and a breathy groan, caged beneath him as his braids fell around your face like a curtain.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes dropping to your mouth, “keep rubbing up on me like that and people may talk.” 

Damn his Sully tongue and their dirty human minds. Only they – only he, were rash enough to say such vulgar words.

Heat flared in your face, nothing else but pure rage, and you answered with a growl, driving your knee up sharp between his legs. Not hard enough to hurt, you think, but just enough to make him block instinctively and give you room to twist.

You both rolled again, a tangle of limbs and snarls across the dirt, kicking up dust around you until you came out to a stop, this time you were on top, straddling his waist, thighs clamped tight, hands slamming his wrists into the dirt beside his head.

“I will kill you!”

Neteyam’s eyes blazed up at you, all traces of amusement gone. His ears pinned flat against his skull, jaw clenched so tight you saw the muscle jump. He bucked hard beneath you, trying to throw your weight, muscles straining as he fought your hold.

“Get. off. of. me.” He snarled, voice low and dangerous through his squirms against you, wrists twisting against your grip. “Why must you always turn it into this?”

You dug your nails in deeper, refusing to budge, chest heaving with anger. “You started it with your filthy mouth. Think you can say whatever you want and I will just take it?”

He arched again, harder this time, nearly unseating you from his lap and you slid to settle on his chest. His breath came in harsh pants now, struggling under the weight of you on his lungs, but his eyes still burned up at you with pure defiance.

The shift gave him a perfect view of you, sweaty and furious as you loomed above him, your braids wild, chest heaving and skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat. A deep flush crept up his neck and face at the sight, dark purple blooming across his cheeks and he prayed to Eywa it looked like it was from a lack of air to everyone watching.

“I’m trying to win a damn spar, not deal with your tantrum. Yield!” He said through short breaths.

“Force me, tawtute,” you hissed, grinding your knees harder into his sides. “Or keep dancing for your sempul like the skxawng you are.”

His face darkened at that, a fresh wave of fury rolling off him. He surged up with a grunt, flipping you both violently, dust flying as you grappled, elbows and knees jabbing, fangs baring and hisses sounding like a tussle of five years olds.

He landed a sharp elbow to your ribs and you answered with by snatching at his long swinging kuru braid and tugging at it, pinning him for a split second before you broke free with a snarl.

The spar had turned ugly so fast, no one had time to register what it was until it already had become it. There was no technique left, just primitive fighting and petty aggression mixed with ragged breaths and dirt covered bodies, every strike fueled by years of built-up resentment.

And Jake’s was done watching it.

"That's enough!" Jake barked again, rubbing a tired hand down his face before turning to you both with an outstretched arm that sliced downward in a sharp, commanding swing. "Eywa ngahu, it was funny at first, cute even, when you two were teens and it didn't matter. But by Eywa, you're adults now. You have responsibilities and the clan is going to depend on you." His voice was so demanding and final, it had you cowering in your skin. 

The authority in his voice pinned you both in place. Only two men in this world could make you feel small like this, your father, and Jake Sully.

"I'm sorry, sir," Neteyam spoke with a breathy compliance, eyes trained downwards in a way that almost left you scoffing at how pathetic he looked - at how quickly he folded under the pressure of his father despite talking so big against you moments ago. It took everything in you not to roll your eyes while being lectured by his father about acting mature.

So, you muttered through gritted teeth, "Yes, sir," forcing the words out while fighting every instinct that screamed at you to glare at Neteyam instead of Jake.

Jake’s gaze flicked between you. “You two are going to be the leaders of this clan some day.” 

As he spoke the words, there was a pause as he immediately noticed the sudden way the two of you began shifting apart, blue faces crawling into flushed purple ones. It only took him another moment to realise the implication of his words, and he saw it. Of course he saw it. Eywa, the two of you couldn’t even look at each other at an implication he didn’t even mean!

Realization dawned on his face, and he let out a long, exasperated sigh. "And this – this right here – is exactly what I mean. Every little thing between you turns into a problem. You don’t know how to keep things contained when it’s the two of you.”

He jabbed a finger toward Neteyam, ready to correct your misunderstanding.

"You will be Olo'eyktan one day." Then the finger swung to you. "And you will be the clan's head warrior. His right hand. His most trusted." Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sooner or later, you have got to get along. The People need to see unity, not... whatever the hell this is." 

He said the line so defeatedly, as if his two greatest proteges had become his two biggest failures in that moment, and it left you deflating in embarrassment at the notion that your rivalry with his son had turned into something beyond comprehensive words. Instead, reduced to “hell” - to some weird sky people word.

Shameful. 

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You stared at the ground, heat crawling up your neck, wishing the woven walkway would just open and swallow you whole because it was almost like your own father had just admitted that you were acting a fool. 

As Jake Sully, the man who raised you almost as his own in the proximity of your father and their strict training regimes, was sighing down at you and his idiot son with weary frustration.

You knew he didn’t mean it cruelly. This was that strange sky-people thing he did, where he slipped into what was described as the “military” tone, meant to correct rather than offend. That didn’t make the cut sting less deep, though.

You were mid deliberation when you suddenly heard it, the tiniest huff of breath from Neteyam’s direction. Not quite a laugh, but close enough, and it had you glancing up at him with the scowl you reserved only for him.

Neteyam wasn’t looking at his father anymore. Now he was looking right at you, glaring through the corner of his limp braids, head still hung low as one side of his mouth twitched upward in that infuriating half-smirk he saved just for you too.

His amber eyes glinted with something resembling a shocked amusement, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe you were actually compliant. Like your mortification was the funniest thing he’d seen all day.

You knew you shouldn’t. You knew this was a horrible time. But in that moment it was like something inside you finally snapped with finality for the first time ever.

Where you usually would have met him with snark, now you were meeting him with red vision and a complete lack of respect.

Your ears flicked back, pinned taught to your hair like an animal on its prey only moments away from pouncing. Tail lashing once almost like a whip.

“What?” you hissed, so low it was almost swallowed by the breeze, meant only for him, but almost so quiet that Neteyam nearly missed the fact that you had spoken entirely. “Something funny, Tawtute?”

He caught your words all the same, the perfect, golden son act completely slipping away, traded for a smirk that widened a fraction larger at your beyond irked facial expression. “A child, Fang.” He taunted, hitting right where he knew you hurt most. “You look like a child scolded by her elder. It’s pretty damn funny.”

That was all it took.

You stepped forward, voice rising despite yourself, despite the voice telling you that only awful consequences would come from acting out right now. The worst part of you could not have cared less that his father wasn’t even through with lecturing the two of you yet, the bigger part of you so enraged, so encompassed by Neteyam and his stupidity, his audacity, that you just-

Did. Not. Care. 

Your figure snapped upright, tall and menacing, body twisting to face him fully as your large blearing eyes glossed over, unblinking and fear-provockingly wide. 

“Open your mouth again, Tawtute, and I swear to Eywa and everything she deems sacred, I’ll slam you down and make you swallow every sorry sound you choke in front of the whole clan.”

Neteyam’s smirk froze, then vanished almost as quickly as it came. His ears were the ones to flick forward now, sharp at the ends and persistently alert. His golden eyes that had been mocking you a heartbeat ago had darkened into molten amber pits, pupils narrowing to slits. The perfect son was gone entirely. 

His tail lashed once, hard enough to slap the air as he twisted his body entirely to tower over yours. It was the first time in all your years of knowing him where he had ever intimidated you, because it was the first time in all the years you’d known him that his size truly registered. Tall, and broad, and built like the future leader he was meant to be. 

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, tracing the sharp lines of his frame all the way down until they stopped to linger on the bold stripes that curved low around his hipbones and disappeared beneath the edge of his loincloth. They had always stood out more than anyone else’s, as darker, thicker, more prominent than the others. The Tawtute genes, you told yourself, that’s why they were like that, no other reason, certainly. A flush crawled up your neck, hot and confusing, and what would have been disguised as pure rage to any onlooker.

It pressed in on you though, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin. Because, it didn’t feel like pure rage alone. Your mind could try to convince you, but your body would do otherwise, betraying your thoughts with that persistent betraying flicker of your tail.

And Neteyam noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Keep staring like that, Fang,” he said, leaning in until his breath stirred the loose strands of hair at your temple, “and I’ll give you something real to choke on.”

The words hit low and vicious, a promise wrapped in threat and before you even processed which arm had lifted first, your hand, with pre-curled fingers was already moving toward his chest to shove him back as hard as you possibly could. A hiss so guttural and sharp tearing from your gaping mouth, decorated by the furiously purple hue that painted your face like a white canvas. 

His own shot up just as yours had, catching your wrist mid-air in a grip like the metal on the ships the sky people flew. Not painful, but almost entirely unbreakable.

For one suspended heartbeat you were locked there, with his fingers around your wrist and bodies inches apart, both of you breathing hard, tails thrashing in mirrored fury. The space between you felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.

Then Jake’s voice cracked through it like a whip.

“I said enough!”

He was on you in two strides, one massive hand clamping the back of Neteyam’s neck, the other seizing your upper arm and hauling you both apart with force that made your feet skid on the woven mat.

Jake’s eyes were wild, ears pinned flat, chest heaving.

“You two are done,” he growled, voice shaking with barely-leashed anger. “Done acting like feral animals that can’t control their emotions. Grown adults and I’m still treating you two like I did when you were twelve.”

He exhaled sharply, making the decision at that moment.

"You're going out to the eastern watchpost. Tonight. Just the two of you." He held up a hand when you both opened your mouths to protest. "No arguments, not a goddamn word. It's an hour ride so that's plenty of time to cool off and you'll spend the entire night there.” 

Jake was not having it. “I want the supplies inventoried, the platforms repaired, and I want every corner of every ridge scouted for any signs of human activity, and you're going to do every moment of it together. You'll eat together, sleep in the same goddamn hammock if you have to, and you'll come back tomorrow morning acting like the future leaders you're supposed to be."

He released you with a shove toward the rookery.

“Go saddle your Ikran’s.” 

When the two of you hesitated, Jake snarled “Now! And if I hear one more word out of either of you before you’re out of my sight, I swear to Eywa I’ll tie you both to the same tree instead.” 

Jake's voice sounded so tired and the clearing had gone deathly quiet. Neteyam’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing and he was the first to turn without even so much as a glance in your direction, stalking toward the rookery with rigid shoulders, his braids swaying with each step, and every taut line of him vibrating with a restraint he almost lacked.

You stood frozen for half a breath longer, heart hammering against your ribs, wrist still burning where his grip had been. Then you turned too, spine straight with the kind of discipline that fooled everyone but the Sullys, because Neteyam and Jake could both see the bruise that adorned your ego, they just both knew better than to comment on it this far in.

The young warriors scattered around the training grounds let their conversations die and bows lower as you both strode past. Your ikran sensed the rage rolling off you and answered your call with shrieks and flared wings, and an agitation that mimicked your own. And you mounted without glancing at Neteyam once, attaching your queues to the end of your Ikrans with what was probably a little more force than necessary. He did the same and Jake watched it all with a tired stare as Neteyam banked east first, cutting through the darkness like a blade, before you followed silently behind him without a glance back.

Jake finally let out the breath he’d been holding, dragging a tired hand down his face. The forest answered him with the soft rustle of leaves and distant night calls of your fleeting Ikrans, nature utterly unconcerned with the problem he’d just sent walking into it. He had broken up enough sparring matches to know the difference between anger and whatever that had been.

Eywa help them, he thought. Because I am officially out of patience.

Behind him, the rustle leaves and heavy approaching footsteps had his ears perking up, expecting the presence before the sound of a low chuckle could startle him. The sound of a man who had already arrived at the same conclusion and was simply waiting to see if Jake would catch up.

Jake turned to find your father standing there, arms crossed, tail swaying lazily behind him as his eyes tracked the two figures disappearing into the trees. There was concern there, yes, but there was also something else that Jake had seen displayed on his face every time your families met and you and his son fought. Something almost… entertained.

Your father watched the treeline a moment longer before he spoke, his expression thoughtful rather than amused, though the hint of it lingered all the same.

“You finally snapped.” He said, eyes not glancing at Jake, but to the sway of trees that shielded your retreating forms in the distance. “Only took till the moment they stopped trying to fight clean.”

Jake let out a slow breath and rubbed at the back of his neck, because that had been the exact moment his stomach had dropped, when the spar had stopped looking like training and started looking like something feral. “I told myself it was just their temper getting the best of them,” he admitted. “That they’d settle once one of them landed a solid hit, but I’ve never seen them go at it like that.”

Your father hummed softly in agreement. “Even anger has rules.” He said. “What I just saw forgot them. No form. No distance. Just hands… wherever they could reach.” Your fathers eyes finally glanced over to Jake, a knowing smirk leaving him chuckling at the revelation.

Jake snorted quietly, humour slipping through despite himself and soon they were laughing low in unison. “My son knows better than that.”

“As does my daughter,” He replied, and there it was, that note of worried pride that always crept in when he spoke of her. “Which is how I know they have reached a point where the body starts answering questions the mind refuses to ask.”

“You’re worried.” Jake observed. 

“I am a father,” he simply replied, and then after a beat added, “And I have eyes. I know Neteyam is fond of her.”

“He wont–,” Jake moved to start comforting his friend, shifting to place a hand on his shoulder when your father let a short snort leave him.

“I do not worry about Neteyam, I worry about her,” he said, with no effort to soften the curve of his mouth. “Neteyam has always known where the line is even when he pretends not to, and I have watched him choose restraint around her provoking comments time and time again. When it would have been easier not to.” A pause, then quieter, “That matters to me. It is her who has no restraint.” He ended with a chuckle.

Jake’s smirk lingered, but it softened at the edges, tempered by something more careful in tone. “Yeah, well, they have both been very good at lying to themselves.” He let a beat pass before he chuckled. “Well, maybe not your daughter, she can’t lie to save her life.”

“It really is her we should worry about.” Your father laughed. “If I were foolish enough to wager,” he suddenly turned, clapping a hand to Jake’s shoulder, “I would bet they return insisting the night was torture, then flinch every time their queues touch because they finally know what they’re used for.”

This time, the laugh Jake let out was almost too loud for his liking, glancing around in hopes that no one had heard the less than tasteful wording. 

“I’m not taking that bet,” he said, then hesitated, the amusement fading just enough to let the doubt through. “I expected you to be angrier with me for sending them off together.”

Your father snorted. “You did the same with Neytiri,” he replied. “And you didn’t exactly handle it with grace.”

Jake grimaced. “That was different.”

“No, It was not,” he said lightly, his gaze flicking back toward the trees, “and Neteyam’s trying too hard not to cross the same line. My daughter has never been good at pretending there isn’t one.”

Jake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, rubbing yet another exhaustedly stressed hand down his face at the implication of his words. “I’m not gonna sleep tonight.”

“Good,” Your father said quietly. “Someone should keep watch. In case they burn the forest down. Let us just hope we do not share the name Grandfather and time soon either.”

Your feet hit the platform before his did, heavy with a careless thump that transitioned quickly into long strides against the creaking wood, riddled with the intention of getting as far away from Neteyam as possible, who was landing close behind you. There wasn’t anywhere far to run off too, especially in the dark of night on a foreign base you had visited not even twice before, so you settled towards the end of the platform on a pile of large crates that rattled against your weight.

Neteyam dismounted much slower than you had, gently detaching his queue, before petting his Ikran three times, signalling its dismissal to perch elsewhere. It left with a shriek, chasing your own which had scattered the moment you landed. 

Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, adorning everything in a bleary silver and deep shadows illuminated by bioluminescent blues. The base was rickety and barely large enough to accommodate a few people with all the supplies stolen and housed from the sky-people around. The wooden branches sagged and the leather tarp frayed, neglected and unkept for what seemed to be decades. But it was going to have to work considering you were banished here for the night. 

Neteyam didn’t look at you right away. He took the first few moments to busy himself checking over the boxes, silently counting the stock in the typical Neteyam way that forced him to be a stickler for the rules, to listen to every authoritative voice, to be the most stuck up Na’vi to ever grace Pandora's blue planet.

It took him a second of a forced and uncomfortable silence before he finally broke the tension, his voice low and failing to hide the tinge of irritation behind it despite his attempts to at least try and get something done. “We should start with inventory. Get it over with.”

You didn’t move from your position on the crate farthest south. And you almost laughed at how pathetically authoritative he attempted to sound, because you knew his blood still seared hot with boiling anger at being scolded not even an hour ago. Instead, you tugged at the string of the bow you had picked up from beside you, slowly swaying the one foot you left dangling as you fidgeted with the fraying thread. 

“Do it yourself.” 

Your voice – so dismissive and blunt in tone – had Neteyam’s pointy ears pinning back and deep amber eyes snapping at you in a quick, sharp warning. 

“Do not start.”

You took the first moment since he entered to direct your attention away from the flimsy bow, finally looking up at him with an all too unimpressed glare. “Too late.” You sneered, your typical fang glaring snare on full display. “You started it the second you opened your skxawng mouth back at the training camp. Even children know to be silent when Toruk Makto speaks, yet somehow you can not manage to get that through your thick skull?”

“My thick skull?” Neteyam’s big eyes bore straight through your own, blown wide and non-blinking almost as if trying to read you for an answer he wasn’t going to find. He looked absolutely exasperated and a breathy laugh that held no humor escaped his lips as he shook his head. “Thats rich coming from the one who is sat on a crate of knives, doing absolutely nothing.”

“We are only here because perfect son could not bite his golden tongue long enough to remember his father was still speaking. You listen to him when we're here but not when it counts back home. I thought you were supposed to be the smart and disciplined one.”

“Kind of difficult to concentrate on a lecture when the woman threatening to make me choke is attempting to swing her claws into my chest.”

“I only reacted because you–!” 

The words stuttered in your throat, dying in your mouth as heat flooded your face in a violent wave, remembering what led to your outburst in the first place. Remembering the explicit words he let slip from soft yet smug lips like he had any right saying it in the first place. 

–Because you speak lewd words that should only be muttered between the most established of mates. 

“–Because I what?” Neteyam’s voice was softer now, but the smirk that followed was anything but gentle. It spread slow and lethally arrogant across his face, eyes glinting with a new light that felt almost predatory, as if he’d just found the one loose thread that would unravel you completely.

“Because–” Your face was so flushed, you could hardly bring the words to the surface. “–Because you- you have a vulgar mouth! Y-You speak filth just to provoke me.”

 “Vulgar?” Neteyam's eyes glinted with something completely different from the irate exasperation from earlier, it was like his entire demeanor had calmed, replaced completely by that arrogant smirk, like he was the only one able to translate the book the two of you had been trying to read your whole lives. “Me? I think I recall you mentioning something about slamming me down on my back.” 

A sharp gasp tore from your throat. The words hit like a physical blow, twisting your earlier threat into something raw and unmistakable. Your face burned hotter, if that was even possible, violet spreading across your cheeks as you instinctively looked him up and down.

“That is not what I speak! Why must you keep bringing up those words?” The words tumbled out too fast and breathless to be convincing, and you almost kicked yourself for the delivery.

“Because you are the one who said them, you just don’t like what they mean.”

He began stepping closer. His strides were so deliberate, as if planned in advance, and unhurried, as if you were not another moment away from clawing out his eyes.

“They meant nothing,” you shot back, chin lifting in defiance. “You twist everything.” 

The sound of Neteyam’s footsteps drew your eyes to lock on his figure, tall and looming as he strutted one slow step at a time closer, and you found your eyes doing that traitorous thing they did a lot now, wander. Wander down. And down. 

It started with his face, as you watched the sway of his braids while he strode with that infuriating arrogance, brushing the sharp lines of his jaw with a clatter of his beads. Then it was his impossibly round eyes fixed right on you – which they always seemed to be when you were around – unblinking and heated through a downwards gaze. They were eyes that masked what you knew to be such a conceited personality as so deceivingly innocent. 

Soon your gaze fell to the wide frame of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest, and it dawned on you that you’d only just noticed how much broader they had become over the years spent together, carved from tireless hours of drawing bowstrings and traversing the harsh landscape of Omatikiya forest, lean with muscle that shifted under blue skin with every stride he took closer.

Your eyes wandered again until they finally fell right to where they seemed to stop at a lot now; his lower body, narrow hips marked by the most vibrant stripe pattern you’d ever seen on any man – on any Na’vi you’d laid eyes on. They were darker and thicker, more pronounced and unlike any others, they trailed off and disappeared so low into his loin cloth it almost felt purposeful in the way they pulled your eyes. Like they were specifically made to draw your eyes and your eyes only, and hold them there by design.

Those lines were unnatural in their perfection and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they made your face so hot and your heartbeat feel as if it could move to places it should not be, and it especially wasn’t fair that it wasn’t a you thing, it was a him thing. You only liked it on him.

You told yourself for the hundredth time – that it was the Tawtute genes making everything about him just a little too defined, a little larger. Not that you were staring, of course, just studying. Because he was different and you were always curious, you told yourself. But your tail flicked once, another betrayal that told you that was a lie, and you prayed the shadows hid it..

The shadows did not hide it. And of course he noticed.

Neteyam slowed, stopping just close enough that the space between you felt inconsequential. He wasn’t touching you, at least not yet and somehow it still felt as if he had pressed his entire body against yours. As if you were suffocating beneath him. 

His gaze dipped and it wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t subtle either, following the same path yours had just taken; down the line of his chest, over the sharp cut of his hips, to the stripes adorning his body next to the band of his loincloth before lifting again, eyes glinting with the most unbearably smug sense of amusement you’d imagine possible from a single man at the realisation he had just made. 

It was silent for a beat, air heavy with tension before Neteyam spoke. 

“You must really like my loincloth.”

Your ears shot straight up and outwards, standing tall and perky as if alerted by a lingering predator, eyes blowing wide as you shot your head up to meet his gaze head on. 

“Shut up–!”

“–You know, my mother makes them–”

“ –I don’t care–!”

“ –Shall I ask her to make another? She does adore you–” 

“–You do not know anything–!”

“–I know exactly when you lie.”

The words were being sputtered so fast, they crashed into each other in an overlapping, frantic mess. To any onlooker, it would have almost sounded as if you were talking in unison. 

Your tone was desperately sharp, doused in mortification and hidden in anger. And his was flooded with pure, unadulterated tease, knowing very well how every word he spoke rolled down your ears and crawled beneath your skin. You blushed so often around him he could almost mistake you as a purple Na’vi now. 

The overlap fell apart as abruptly as it had started. You glared at him, chest tight, ears still rigid with embarrassment and fury, daring him to say one more thing. He didn’t… 

At least, not right away.

His gaze dipped instead, unashamed and bashfully amused, tracking back down to where yours had been just moments ago. His mouth curved like he’d found something amusing he was excited to explain. But you knew he was only rubbing the fact that he caught you staring in. 

“My mother uses five beads on each knot,” he said smugly, and you followed his fingers as they brushed against the small carved beads on the loincloth’s cords. “She says it is the number of balance. Five for the senses and all.” 

Then he suddenly looked up at you, those overly round, innocent eyes portraying that innocence all too well. “Seems it isn’t working, you don’t look very balanced right now.”

If you were in half a mind with any common sense, you would have scolded him once again and shoved him as far back as your arms would allow in hopes for a little space and clarity. Unfortunately for you, however, that sense was ripped directly out of your already fumbling grasp the moment your eyes followed his hands to where he gripped that damned loincloth you really couldn’t escape.

They were larger and longer than others, scarred from weaponry and cliff climbing, and calloused in places where the overuse was notable. His fingers grasped the thread of the cloth, and as his grip tightened, the purple veins littering the surface of his skin protruded along with it. 

Watching the way his fingers curled, and the way his veins pulsed, it sent heat crawling up your throat and pooling behind your ears. Every flex of a tendon, every faint flicker of those tiny freckled lights, felt like a private taunt aimed straight at whatever composure you had left.

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice steady even as it came out breathier than you wanted. “Five is a greedy number anyway.” You muttered, eyes still traitorously fixed on his hands.  

His gaze followed yours until it landed on his hands  – on the way your eyes lingered there too long, and the way your breath had betrayed you before your mouth ever could. A slow smile curved across his lips, smug and knowing.

“Greedy?” He echoed softly. Without haste, he lifted those hands, the ones you couldn’t stop staring at, toward your face. “Is that what you think this is?” 

His long fingers spread deliberately to parade all five fingers to your wide, helpless eyes, and began wriggling them in slow, teasing beats as if he, too, were suddenly fascinated by the anatomy you’d just mocked. 

“Tawtute.” He uttered, his voice dipped low with smug delight. “That is what you call me.”

He let his hands hover close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his palms, close enough that if you stuck your tongue out just slightly, you’d be able to taste the skin. Close enough, that the fact you had even entertained that thought made you sick to your stomach with dizzying confusion.

“Txampay tawtute.” He purred, eyes half-lidded and glinting as he drank in the flush climbing your neck.

Then, unhurried and impossibly sure of himself, he leaned in. His body now crowding every inch of air yours occupied, chest nearly brushing yours, until he reached past your shoulder and caught your wrist in one smooth motion. He brought your hand up between you to display the four fingers you always had, and his golden eyes gleamed as if it was the first time he had seen it. Slowly, he lifted his own hand to mirror yours, five fingers spread to contrast the four of your own just across from his, hovering directly opposite it.

“Demon blood.” He muttered, though he wasn’t offended. It was more a statement, or amused even, awaiting a reaction.

You watched, breath caught, as he hesitated for a single heartbeat, watched in your peripheral as his eyes bore into your face, searching for any flicker of protest or resistance. A sign that never came.

And once he realized that, he dipped one long finger down between the gaps of yours. Then another, and another until he slid each one of his fingers between your own, interlocking your hands like he was claiming every unoccupied space he could find. 

“Do you call me tawtute so often because you think about how my hands would feel on you?”

Then he guided your joined hands, fully intertwined, up and back, lifting them slowly until your knuckles brushed the rough-woven wall behind you. He pressed them there and the motion brought him so much closer, it was as if he had taken up all the air, because why were you suddenly finding it so much more difficult to draw a breath?

“Neteyam.” The name came out like an unsure whine, nothing like the sharp hiss you’d wielded against him a thousand times before. Because the last place you had ever imagined yourself being was here, pinned beneath the steady weight of his gaze, his body, his five greedy fingers laced so perfectly through your four and it confused you that no fiber of your being was begging to reject it. 

You watched with greedy eyes as his face twisted from out of your view, head shifting down towards the crook of your neck and the frantic rate of your breath betrayed every last pretense of calm. His mouth stopped just on the cusp of your left ear, and you felt the warm, velvet skin of his lips brushing the sensitive shell of it, tied with the cherry on top by the soft sway of his braid against your cheek and the smell of him. That intoxicating scent which smelt of eclipse leaves and sweet hearth vines.

They had been your favourite scents for as long as you could remember, and it was only just dawning why that is now.

He took a beat, his breath warm on your skin before he spoke. “I know you hate me.”

You did. You hated him, the Olo'eyktan perfect first born. The boy that followed you like a shadow through the winding roots of Hometree. The child you had been measured against since the first time a blade had been pressed into your palms.

“Neteyam learns quicker,”

“Neteyam already wields a bow,”

“Neteyam never loses his temper.”

You had heard it from your father your entire life and you hated him for being the excellence you couldn’t be. You hated that he wore it so smug. And more than anything, you hated that he actually tried to soften it and make space for you beside him instead of behind. He was so good to you, and you hated that he never got mad when it counted.

And now – now – you couldn’t reconcile that boy with the man standing close enough to steal your breath, hands steady where your resolve should have been. You couldn’t fathom how you were letting him do this. How the same Neteyam you’d spent years resisting, spitting at, and training like Eywa herself had told you to do so in order to best him, had slipped past your defenses without even raising his voice. All it took was him invading your space closer than he ever tried before and your resolve dwindled. 

“I know you think you hate me.” He repeated, but this time you could hear the smirk that crept up his irritatingly gorgeous face. “But you never look at me like this when you say it. And this–” his free hand drifted down, fingertips ghosting along the tense line of your hip until they found the base of your tail, “--this is the most still your tail has been all night.”

The gentle, knowing stroke along the sensitive underside made your spine arch involuntarily before you could stop it, so far into him you could feel the press of everything below his loincloth against your lower belly and it made you whine. A guttural, involuntary sound you didn’t mean to make, nor had you realised escaped you until Neteyam’s glowing amber eyes widened alongside his smile. 

You struggled to find your voice, with the overwhelming feeling of Neteyam all around you, touching every inch of your skin, all consuming and intoxicating but when you did, it was breathy and weak. 

“Do not–” you stuttered, pausing your words to find breath.

Then your voice came again, interrupting his thoughts in a moment where his grip faltered slightly around your fingers and tail. You sounded so primitive and defeated, it was like the entire forest in a ten-mile radius had stilled.

“–stop.”

Neteyam stilled, mind reeling and eyes searching every inch of your face in desperate search of an answer to an unspoken question you sparked within him. Do not? Stop? 

Do not stop?

He gawked at you, ogling at every inch of your face in hopes of an answer. Your eyes, droopy and half-shut, turned sideways as if too ashamed to look him in the eyes. Mouth just a touch open, drawing long and heavy breaths, and your beautiful blue skin, flushed that purple colour he was becoming so fond of seeing, gleaming with a layer of warm, sleek sweat. 

You looked absolutely ruined. And he absolutely detested the idea that you might have been telling him to stop – truly stop – his advances because now that he had a glimpse of such a sight, he cursed the idea that he may never see it again knowing exactly what you looked like underneath him. So he waited with baited breaths, a wait you did not make him stand long for, and then you delivered.

“Do.. not.. stop.” You spoke between heavy breaths. “Neteyam, please.”

And then he saw it. The way you had been pressing up against his right thigh, locked between both your own thighs and rubbing against your core, just close enough to create friction. The sight and the plea shattered whatever thin thread of control he’d been clinging to as he finally realised what you meant. 

A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep in his chest, a half growl, half reverent thanks to Eywa herself, as he surged forward, releasing your tail momentarily, only for the hand to sweep through the air, landing right on the back of your neck as he pulled you towards him with a roughness he rarely displayed. 

And that's when it finally happened. His mouth crashed against yours, hungry and possessive, swallowing the next broken gasp that spilled from your lips. His fingers curled into the sensitive skin just below your hairline in a way that made your knees weaken, and had you not still been sitting on this crate, you were sure you would have faltered and folded to the ground. 

His tongue pushed at the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart with a devastating hunger, as if he had been waiting far too long to claim this moment, only clarified with the roll his body made to press into your own. The muscles of his abdomen elongated and protruded against the skin, screaming at you to touch them, to feel them, as he pushed your intertwined hands further back into the wall. 

That was when his hand around your neck finally began its descent downwards. It started at your shoulders, brushing against your collarbone and lingering just a moment around your breasts. He swirled against the curve underneath the soft fat and the trail left hot tingles in its wake, sending blood rushing to every nerve the pinpoint of his fingertips lined. 

It continued on, searing down the arc of your waist, against the curve of your hips and drew a curl to stop just a few paces below your belly button, and yet not even a breath above from the band of your loincloth.   

Your breath hitched as those fingers paused there, so achingly close, tracing lazy, maddening patterns just above the thin strip of woven fabric – the only thing left between you and completely surrendering to the man who haunted your every waking moment. Neteyam pulled back from the kiss, only far enough to watch your contorting face, the molten amber of his eyes now nearly non-existent, replaced almost entirely by his pupils, blown wide with lust and a restraint that was seconds from snapping.

He could feel the heat radiating from you, and could tell you were trying to resist whatever thoughts were happening in your head, unsuccessfully so. He could see it in the way your thighs tremored ever so subtly, and in the way your hips shifted restlessly against him, as if seeking friction but hating who the friction you seeked came from. A low, approving, yet humoured growl rumbled in his throat as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged.

“You are always so responsive.” He murmured, voice gravelly, lips brushing yours as he spoke and fingers still working their patterns at the lowest part of your belly. “Every touch… you light up for me.”

“You always think you know what I feel.” The words spat harsh but breathless, trying desperately to deny him the satisfaction of winning.

But Neteyam just laughed, stating flatly. “Your freckles glow, fang.”

And your flush deepened knowing your body was betraying your mind. 

“Stop talking. I still despise you.”

Neteyam took the opportunity to lean back, making enough room to have a full view of your body without disconnecting your lower bodies. Finally his hand strayed from your belly, sliding to the left of it before stopping right at the rope that knotted your loincloth into place. He glanced down at it expectantly, then up to meet your eyes, his own glinting with mischief.  

“Funny way of showing it.” He commented.

Then his fingers pulled at the string, and all you did was let your head fall back against the wall in response. 

The knot gave with a soft tug, the woven cord loosening until the loincloth sagged against your hips, and you felt the cool air kissing at your newly exposed skin. It left your sighing, and Neteyam actually laughed at the sight of you. 

His next move was to grab at your right leg, lifting it high until it settled on top of his right shoulder. The motion had you shifting forward slightly, nearly hanging off the edge of the crate now. Once it was placed, he leaned down, meeting the slant of your body against the crate until his face met just above yours.  

“No fangs now, huh?” He taunted, voice dripping with smug triumph, his breath hot against your lips as his free hand slid up the thigh draped over him with the most reverently possessive grip.

Your eyes narrowed, a spark of fury cutting through the haze of pleasure. “I’ll silence you.”

Before he could fire back another cocky word, you flexed the leg hooked over his shoulder and shoved hard. Your heel dug into the muscle of his back as you pushed, using every bit of leverage to force him downward and surprise flashed across his face for a split second before he dropped to his knees in front of you, left hand disconnecting from yours and instinctively reaching to grip your hips as a means to steady himself.

There he was – all mighty Neteyam, son of Toruk Makto, future Olo’eyktan – kneeling between your thighs, directly in front of your exposed core, with amber eyes flicking a mix of shock, defeat and drooling hunger.

You let your head rest back against the wall again, eyeing him through the brush of your lower lashes and fingers threading roughly into his braids to hold him exactly where you wanted him. 

“I told you I would make you swallow your sorry sounds.” And with a sharp tug forward, the control had been shifted to your hands. “Now swallow.”

The low, involuntary groan that vibrated through his chest and into your core was the only answer he managed before his mouth obeyed. His head moved first then his tongue dragged slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’d been starving for years and refused to rush the meal. But the grip you kept in his braids, tight and unforgiving, told him exactly who set the pace. 

Heat slammed through you, ugly and mixed with the pure rage of having him under you. You hated him for making your body clench like this, hated the way your thighs shook because his tongue felt so damn good, but hated it more that you questioned if the reason he felt so good was because he had done this before. Hated that the idea made you jealous. 

You were a mix of pleasure and shame – that Neteyam was on his knees, eating you out like he had no choice and that he was disgustingly good at it. And when you rolled your hips forward, demanding more, he gave it without hesitation, lips sealing around you, tongue curling deep and relentless, then it dawned on you that he was worshipping your clit like he was singing a prayer.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, the leg still hooked there locked tighter, heel pressing between his shoulder blades to keep him exactly where you wanted him  – on his knees, serving the woman who’d sworn to hate him forever. And he did it so well you had been reduced to a moaning, whining and squirming mess beneath his hands that were holding you down.

“Eywa, shit– Y/n– ” The name slipped out raw and whiny, and the vibration of his voice had you absolutely feral, snapping in an instant. But not to your end. No.

Because the only thing you could think about was why he felt so good. Why he was so talented at everything. The idea of him having experience with this, of him doing this to someone else, made something vicious twist in your chest.

So your hand in his hair tugged hard, snapping his head back and away from your core to glance up at you with daze in his eyes and your slick dripping down his chin.

He blinked up at you, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in rough pants. For once, the smugness was gone, replaced by raw, hazy want and a flicker of confusion at the sudden stop.

You stared down at him, chest heaving, jealousy burning hotter than the aftershocks still pulsing between your legs, and the words came sharp, cutting through the air like an arrow.

“Who else?” You spat, voice accusatory and ugly with envy, fingers tightening in his braids in a visceral way you couldn’t help.

“What?” He sounded so breathless, and so confused, eyes still foggy from being buried between your thighs.

“You move like this is not new to you.” You snapped, the words spilling out jagged. “People do not learn that by accident.”

“Fang, what are you–”

Then your mouth spat the words like the answer was so obvious, like you had been just waiting for the name to be mentioned. “ –It is An’aya, isn’t it?”

“An’aya!?” He said it like the name didn’t belong here at all. Because it didn’t. Because twenty seconds ago he was face-deep drowning in what he deemed to be his new favourite flavour, and now he’s thinking of a girl he’s barely spent more than 10 minutes alone with.

“You lie with her too!” The accusation came out sharp enough to feel final, as if it wasn’t something to be debated and you had already made up the answer. 

Neteyam stared up at you for a beat, eyes wide, mouth still wet and open like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or groan. Then the laugh won, short and completely disbelieving as the weight of your words settled into him. He searched your eyes, stern and glazed, angry with something he knew you barely understood and it dawned on him. Holy shit.

“You are jealous.” He said it so incredulously, like it was the best revelation he made all week. A rough laugh tore out of him, head tipping back in your grip, the sound raw and disbelieving. And it was like you couldn’t even deny it, all you could do was sneer your usual fang baring scowl and snap your head away with a tsk of your tongue.

“An’aya?” he rasped, grin sharp and crooked, chin still dripping with you. “Eywa fang, you think I have ever touched her? Ever wanted to?”

He shifted forward on his knees, hands sliding up your thighs as he finally raised to his feet off his knees to meet you at eye level. His face was inches from yours, grip firm but not pushing and you watched as that aggravating amusement melted into the softest look you think he had ever sent you. His smugness fell, the cocky edge dulling into something so honest.

“I do not lie with An’aya. Just you, fang.” He spoke so slowly, voice low and steady, and almost gentle despite the filth of the moment. “I only ever think about you.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Heat flooded your face, your chest, mixing between the jealousy and the flattery until you couldn’t tell which burned more. You didn’t know if you believed him – or more so didn’t know if you wanted to believe him. So you picked your arm up to pinch the side of his ear, using it to drag his face impossibly closer. Your gaze flickered between both his eyes, searching for something, an answer to a question you weren’t even sure you knew what.

For a split second, something in your grip faltered. The idea that he might be telling the truth was somehow worse than the lie. So you tightened your fingers on his ear for a beat before yanking his head back with a force meant to hurt.

“Prove it,” you snarled.

Neteyam’s breath hissed through his teeth at the sting, but the look he gave you was pure lust, not a single trace of softness left. In one brutal motion he tucked one hand under your ass, and the other around the curve of your waist, before spinning you around so fast the world tilted for a fraction of a second. Your chest slammed against the crate, palms scraping metal as he kicked your legs wider and pressed his full weight into your back.

You heard him before you felt him, the quick tug and rustle as he worked the knot of his loincloth free behind you. Something involuntary dragged your head back, forcing you to peek over your shoulder. The fabric fell, and it was like every silent inkling you’d ever felt bite at you, every reflexive moment that told you to study his stripes despite never knowing why, finally dawned on you why it had always been so urging.

Those large, vibrant stripes were only a preview into what the loincloth hid. They tapered lower and thicker up the base of his cock, before finally crawling into a thinning stretch that ended just beyond the tip of his head, which was slick with precum and the most angry, swollen shade of red. Red. Like a Tawtute.

And it was in that moment you realised that all those little characteristics that made him slightly different – the broader shoulders, the extra finger, the sheer size of him below the cloth and the way his tip skin flushed pinker than any Na’vi you’d ever seen – weren’t the flaws or accidents you convinced yourself was the reason you fixated on them. They were proof that he had Toruk Makto’s blood running through him, the son of a leader, born to be a leader. And right now that blood had him hard and leaking for you, the girl who’d spent years calling him sky-demon scum.

The realisation twisted hot and ugly in your gut, hate and want braided so tight you couldn’t pull them apart but that was so swiftly disrupted by the feeling of him pushing forward, the tip of his achingly large cock making contact with your swelteringly wet entrance, and it had you absolutely unraveling at the mere contact of it.

You couldn’t help the moan that slipped out of you at both the stretch he gave with just the top of him, barely even a quarter full, and at the sight of him ogling down at the space between you, at the way the tip of his cock looked barely swallowed inside of your warm hole, his fist gripping at the base.

Neteyam caught the sound, eyes snapping up just in time to see you bury your face in your arm and he laughed that irritatingly smug laugh that vibrated through his chest and into your back. 

“Already moaning for me, Fang?” He murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You can’t even pretend to hate me anymore.”

“Do not…,” you hissed with a breathy sigh, the words cracking despite your best effort to sound venomous, “…dare assume you know what I feel.”

He hummed, amused, like your denial was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard.

“I do not think I'll have too.” 

Goosebumps rose in its wake, your hips stuttering back despite yourself before you could correct it. His hand tightened on your hip, holding you steady, while the other slid up your spine in a slow, deliberate path until his fingers closed gently but firmly around the thick base of your kuru, the long, sacred braid that cascaded down your back.

The feeling of his hand around your kuru had your entire body jolting, a sharp, electrifying shock racing through every nerve in its wake. You spun in his grip with a surprise he’d never seen on you before, eyes blown wide, breath caught, and all that sharp defiance from before suddenly fractured by something he had never seen painted so vulnerably on you.

You looked so unsure, so confused, so conflicted, staring at his hand like it was both a threat and a gateway to something new.

At your face, Neteyam’s expression softened too, the smugness fading completely as he brought the end of your braid up between the two of you, turning it so the the wispy ends of your braid went limp to expose the pink tendrils beneath. They snaked in the air, searching the air as if awaiting what was yet to come.

His own kuru hung over his shoulder, and he used his other hand to grab at it, settling it so close to yours that the tendrils already began reaching for each other, drawn like magnets, but far enough that they did not touch.

“I will not force this, and I will not continue with this if you say no. I honestly don’t think I can.” he said, voice low, rough with restraint but steady. “Tsaheylu with me… or we stop right here. Your choice, Fang. Always your choice.”

The words hung heavy. You hated him for giving you the out. Hated him for making it feel safe to say yes even though you really thought you would have said no. Hated how much you wanted him, and wanted to know what it felt like to be bound to the one person you’d spent your whole life trying to push away.

Your chest rose and fell fast. The tendrils of your kuru twitched, brushing the air toward his and you didn’t speak as you watched them try to connect. Slowly, deliberately, you reached your hand up to wrap around his forearm, watched as the hand that held his kuru faltered at the intrusion and met his eyes as he searched yours for answer.

It didn’t come as a verbal one, but your mind had been made the moment you tugged his arm forward to allow his kuru to connect to yours. And in an instant the tendrils met, wrapping and fusing, snapping the bond into place.

A gasp tore from both of you at once, backs arching, eyes fluttering as raw sensation flooded through. The pleasure was intense and overwhelming, but more than that: every buried feeling, every unspoken want, every flash of anger and longing and need crashed together in a single, shared current that left you both moaning messes.

He groaned your name like it hurt and you whined his so helplessly, fingers digging into his shoulders and the world narrowed to just the two of you.

Neteyam moved first, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he spun you both around and sank to his knees. He laid you gently on the cool floor beneath him, settling between your legs, face-to-face now with his forehead pressed to yours, kuru still joined, the bond pulsing with every heartbeat.

He slid back into you slowly, eyes never leaving yours, letting you feel everything – his awe, his hunger, the years of wanting you he’d hidden behind every smirk and fight. And you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and for the first time with there being no crate, no wall, no anger between you, nothing but the bond, neither of you could deny the truth that lingered between you for years anymore.

The bond made it unbearable in the best way because you could feel everything. 

You could feel every slow drag of him inside you echoed back through the link. You felt his pleasure at how tight and wet you were, your helpless clench around him, and the ache that flared harder with every inch he gave. You felt the way your body gripped him like it never wanted to let go, and he felt it too, a low, broken groan rumbling from his chest as his hips finally seated flush against yours.

“Fuck–” he breathed, voice ragged, forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, the golden amber almost gone. “You feel… I can feel you everywhere.”

You couldn’t answer with words. The bond carried it for you: the rush of heat, the ache, the impossible fullness of him stretching you open while his emotions poured into you

He started to move, slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged the thick length of him along every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust sent a wave through the bond, pleasure looping between you until it built on itself, amplifying, stealing your breath. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines over his stripes; he hissed and answered by snapping his hips harder, driving a sharp cry from your throat.

Through the link you felt how much he loved that sound, how it made him throb inside you, how close he already was to losing control and you responded by sticking your mouth to his neck, and sucking hard in an attempt to quiet yourself.

“Tell me,” he rasped, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, keeping your faces close, noses brushing, “tell me you feel it too.”

You did. Eywa, you did. The anger was still there, flickering at the edges, but it only made the pleasure sharper, almost as if the bond was burning it clean and turning years of hate into something so much more overwhelming.

“I feel you,” you finally gasped as your mouth left his neck with a slimy pop, and you noticed the angry purple mark that sat in its wake. Your voice cracked, legs tightening around his waist to pull him impossibly deeper. “All of you. Don’t stop–!”

The next thrust ended with another broken sound from you, a half-moan, half-word that slurred through your tongue almost incomprehensibly.

“Mmm– ’tayem–”

Neteyam’s rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, then picked up again, faster now with a cocky triumph you felt flooding the bond like heat. A low, smug chuckle vibrated against your neck as he nipped the skin, sucking and pinching at it with pride.

“I got you that good, huh?” He murmured, voice rough but dripping with satisfaction, hips rolling deep and deliberate. “Got the stubborn Fang stuttering my name?”

You tried again, desperate, the pleasure coiling so tight you could barely think.

“Ma– tayem–”

He laughed again, breathlessly arrogant and loving every moment of this – loving that you, always so sharp-tongued and composed, always throwing insults at him and trying to embarrass him in front of your families, was reduced to this, such a moaning, whiny mess you couldn’t even get his name correct.

“Ca not even get your words right,” he teased, smirking against your lips, eyes gleaming down at you with such amusement. “If only everyone could see you now.”

“Ma ‘teyam.” You managed it this time, much clearer and insistent of every syllable that trembled out of you on the next thrust. And he froze.

Not completely, his hips still rocked shallow and instinctively, but the rhythm stuttered hard, like someone had yanked his hips backwards and held them still. His eyes widened, searching yours through the haze, the cocky smirk smacked off his face in an instant as the meaning finally slammed into him.

Ma ‘teyam. 

Your Neteyam

The bond flared hot with it, your claim, raw and unfiltered, pouring straight into him. A ragged groan tore out of his chest, half between shock and something much, much deeper, like a stirring pot of pleasure and disbelief and possession all tangled together into two bodies merged as one. His forehead dropped to yours again, losing every trace of that smug control because the words were echoing through the link like a vow, and it broke him.

A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat, deep and wrecked and his whole body shuddered as the realization hit him harder than any phrase ever uttered to him. His hips jerked forward once, hard and uncontrolled, completely unlike his usual poise, as he buried himself to the hilt inside you, and that was it. He came with a broken cry of your name, voice cracking on the syllables as he spilled hot and deep, pulse after thick pulse flooding you.

The bond amplified everything and you felt every throb of his release as if it were your own and that made yours follow soon after, the overwhelming rush of his pleasure crashing into yours, the way his heart slammed against his ribs, the dizzying mix of disbelief and euphoria that Neteyam was now claimed by you in the most intimate way possible, solidified by the way your attached kuru still hung besides you, your deep purple marks decorated his neck, and your bodies lay against each other, sleek and fucked out.

His forehead pressed hard to yours, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in harsh, uneven pants against your lips. His arms trembled as he held himself above you, hips still twitching with aftershocks, grinding slow and shallow as if he couldn’t bear to pull out.

“Fuck… fuck–” he gasped, voice hoarse and trembling, nothing left of the smug warrior who’d been teasing you since you got to this forsaken watchpost. “You… you said…”

“That I despise you?” You murmured, eyes fluttering closed as you breathed him in, beyond exhausted, tail finally curling loose and lazy behind you. “I do.”

A broken laugh tore out of him, warm and disbelieving, his nose brushing yours as his breathing slowly began to steady. “I don’t even need to see your tail to know you lie.” 

And as if to prove his point, he brought his hand around to the place where your kurus joined, stroking the exposed, sensitive nerves gently with his thumb. The bond hummed softly at the touch, sending a lazy ripple of warmth through you both and your tail flicked once, then curled deliberately around his thigh, holding him close.

He felt it, of course and a quiet, satisfied hum left his chest.

“See?” He whispered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “Even your tail is done fighting me.”

You opened one eye, glaring weakly up at him. “Do not get used to it, skxawng. The second we are back with the clan, I am telling everyone you cried after your father yelled at you.”

Neteyam snorted, shifting his weight so he could prop himself on an elbow and look down at you properly. His braids fell forward, framing his face, and the bond carried the soft glow of affection he was trying, and miserably failing to hide behind his usual smirk.

“Then I will have to tell them how the almighty daughter of our clan head warrior begged for me to–”

You slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing. “Finish that sentence and I will bite you again.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughter muffled against your palm and you narrowed your eyes as you spoke once more. “I could still push you off this ledge. No one would find the body till morning.”

“Maybe so.” He conceded easily. His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing the base of your kuru in a way that made your spine shiver despite your best effort to stay at least a little defiant. “But then who would keep you company on patrol anymore? You would miss arguing with me.”

You huffed, shoving at his chest. “I would finally earn peace.”

“Peace is boring.” He countered, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to the inside of it, soft and infuriatingly gentle. “And you would miss my family interrupting us every five minutes, thinking they will catch you slipping in the act. My dad likes messing with us too much to let you go.”

You snorted, but the sound lacked real venom. “Your father likes me because I am not afraid to yell at you when you are being an arrogant teylupil. That is not the same as liking me.”

Neteyam’s grin turned softer, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He likes you because you are strong. And because you force me to be stronger. Even when you are threatening to skin me alive.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but your tail betrayed you again, curling tighter around his leg like it had decided it wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

“Flattery will not save you,” you muttered, dropping your head back to his chest so you didn’t have to look at that stupid, fond expression on his face. “When we get back at dawn, we say nothing. We walked the perimeter. Inventoried the stock. End of story.”

Neteyam arched a brow, amusement flickering through the bond as his eyes flickered around at the area even messier then it was before you two had arrived. “You think they will believe that? Nothing has been done here. And you look…” He brushed a thumb over your neck, tracing where his mouth had been earlier. “…thoroughly ruined.”

You swatted his hand away, but there was no real heat in it, not like before. “You look worse, Tawtute. Like you lost a fight with an Ikran.”

He laughed, full and unguarded this time “Then let them think what they want, I already won.” he whispered when you parted. 

You rolled your eyes, but your tail tightened around his leg again, betraying you.

“I still despise you,” you muttered into his neck.

“I am aware.”

[neteyawne]

"THE MOST DANGEROUS THING ABOUT PANDORA IS THAT YOU MAY GROW TO LOVE HER TOO MUCH."

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ welcome to my avatar oriented blog! you can call me bee <3

written in third person:

her bewitching boy. neteyam has always avoided y/n due to the fact that he cannot trust himself around her - but what happens when he is tasked to teach her?

bloodied, but beautiful. neteyam visits his favorite healer after a hard battle.

his sacred sun. neteyam has the girl of his dreams right in front of him - but he cannot have her because she belongs to someone else.

pandora's lakes. neteyam and y/n's childhood friendship blooms into something more.

the clan's karyu. neteyam's clumsy self manages to charm tuktuk's beautiful teacher

carved treasures. neteyam learns the way of water on a new level with a metkayina girl. he learns how sweet she is too.

a trip to my tender soul. neteyam and y/n's frienship was broken from the beginning, but he is determined to keep her close, no matter what.

a change of heart. when y/n is told she's to be mated to toruk makto's eldest son- she refuses to let her future be decided for her. she believed he felt the same way for her, until her life is in danger and she realizes she was wrong. that eywa is always right, when it comes to her children.

our hidden sights. a snippet of y/n and neteyam's secret love

written in first person:

best mates. headcannons of neteyam being the best friend ever

sickeningly sweet. neteyam helps his favorite girl out after she gets sick.

the bond. neteyam didn’t know how head over heels he truly was for you until he saw ao’nung and his friends bullying you.

a gentleman. headcanons of the best boyfriend evaaa on pandora <3

the stars speak to us. toruk makto's son, neteyam sully, is your secret lover...!

his hands. neteyam, being the dutiful boyfriend he is, braids your hair for you. but night has fallen over pandora, and you manage to fall asleep while his gentle hands are massaging and cradling your head so sweetly

smile! your lover shows you a human invention you'll cherish forever

[neteyamslovrr]

kxani: series masterlist

the scientists don't favour you, and the na'vi want you gone. you're torn about between two worlds and so is tsu'tey when he finds himself loving a demon

to lose you:

tsu'tey had lost everyone he had ever loved. fearful of loving you to lose you, he pushes those feelings down just for you to dig them back up

sky-women love gifts:

it took tsu'tey a very long time to warm up to the humans but when he finally did. he couldn't deny his want for you, how much he wanted to court you. so who better to ask than jake?

gift of song:

eywa blessed you with the gift of song unfortunately not the gift of being brave enough to show it.

neteyamslovrr | do not republish, repost, steal, modify, translate or claim my work as your own.

[reesereadsalot]

Recommendation List

(All of these writers are amazing and put so much work into their fics so please reblog or comment or like on any of there fics! ❤️)

🤍 = one-shot 🩵 = series

F = fluff | A = angst | S = smut (rare)

Ao’nung

I Love You, I Trust You, I See You | fem!deaf!sully!reader | Summary: When the Sullys moved to Awa’atlu Ao’nung thought they were weird, knew they were weird. He took a particular hatred towards the older Sully kids, Neteyam was the perfect little follower, Lo’ak was constantly in trouble, Kiri was always off in her own world, and you. Just you. You seemed to always ignore him and never talk, but what he didn’t know was it’s because you couldn’t hear him. | (F) | 🤍 | by @ghoul-bonez

Heartfelt | fem!sully!reader | no summary | (A/F) | 🤍 | by @nyctophicbtch

notes: so cute!

‘Anla | fem!sully!reader | Summary: Ao'nung is carefree and rude, to say the least. All he needs is the fear of Eywa in him, and a girl from the Omatikaya clan unexpectedly straightens him out. | (A/F) | 🩵 | by @torukmaktoskxawng

notes: sooo good! definitely recommend @torukmaktoskxawng in general

A Long way Home | fem!sully!reader | Summary: Leaving your life behind to move to the reefs wasn't your plan, all you really want is a peaceful life with your family, but one of the Metkayina boys keeps staring at you | (A/F) | 🩵| by @riverlikethelake

notes: read both endings they both make you cry!!

Even if it’s a Lie | fem!reader | Summary: after ao'nung is left behind as a second choice, his friends decide he's in need of a major pickup. the only problem? it's you. | (A/F) | 🩵 | by @eitaababe

notes: the ending had me saying “you’re joking”

Neteyam

Don’t Worrry Yawne | fem!reader | Summary: Moving to Awa'atlu took a toll on reader. | (A/F) | 🤍 | by @l3ry4

notes: (my bae fr ❤️)

Just Neteyam | fem!reader | Summary: despite being from a different clan and expected to marry the leader of the omatikaya without knowing him, you agree to it for the sake of your family, but doubts start haunting you the moment you set foot in the clan, causing you to plan your escape on the day of your mating ceremony. | (F) | 🤍 | by @lanasblood

notes: queen charlotte reference!!! it’s so cute!

To you he Feels Like Home | fem!reader | Summary: You were born to the forest, wild by nature, wild by nurture, and surely wild in spirit. Your animal family had always warned you about strangers, the odd people who looked like you, but when one approaches you, you can’t help but be curious. When your curiosity wears off and you deem him weird enough you’re convinced you’ll never see him again, but Eywa has other plans. | (F/A) | 🩵 | by @ghoul-bonez

notes: i ate this fic up and read it in a few hours! It’s addicting!

Chosen by Eywa | fem!reader | Summary: eywa makes no mistakes... in the midst of his preparation to become the future olo'eyktan, neteyam is told to be with a chosen mate. guided by the signs of eywa, tsahik picks y/n, a woman orphaned by the war, whose heart already belongs to another. y/n's whole world begins to crumble, as she is forced into the loveless bond. will neteyam and y/n be able to overcome the odds and find their true happiness? | (A) | 🩵 | by @randxmthxughts

notes: this is so sad but its so good!!

The Arrangement | fem!reader | Summary: enemies to lovers trope; you and neteyam are enemies, destined to be the future leaders of the omatikaya clan. will you continue to hate each other or find a way for the arranged mate ship to work? | (A/F) | 🩵 | by @gvcci-bxby

notes: obsessed with arranged marriages with neteyam

One of Us | fem!avatar!reader | Summary: neteyam sully was the next olo'eyktan and for years had been focused on his training and his responsibilities only. he had never accounted for you to become one of them. when you got your avatar body and ended up in the forest alone, being brought to the village and offered to be taught the ways of the people wasn't what you expected. let alone it being neteyam, future olo'eyktan becoming your teacher. | (A/F/S) | 🩵 | by @forever--darling

notes: one of the first neteyam series ive read!! it is just so good!

Lo’ak

Silver Springs | fem!reader | no summary | (F) | 🤍 | by @anakin-pilled

notes: the comfort reader gives him is just so cute but the ending 💔💔

Contagious | fem!reader | contains: angst, slight enemies to lovers trope, some language, and fluff of course <3 | (A/F) | 🤍 | by @teyums

notes: i was giggling and shi for real

Twin Flames | fem!reader | Summary: Eywa has bonded the Son of the Forest and Daughter of Ember over the pain and grief towards the Sky People. | (A/F) | 🩵 | by @saintsstranger

notes: it’s not finished but chapter six could be considered an ending

Tsireya

Even the Stars Would Envy Your Embrace | sully!oc | Summary: The forest breathed in a language Tari no longer understood. Its roots whispered to the stars above, its leaves murmured to the wind, but none of it felt like it used to. Somewhere beyond the treeline, the waves rolled in, endless and unyielding. Tari stood between the two worlds, the eldest Sully, pulled by a home that didn’t feel like theirs anymore, and a sea that had yet to accept them. | (A/F) | 🩵 | by @writonkatsu

notes: it’s not an x reader fic but it’s still so good!

Tsu’tey

The age of Arrogance | fem!reader | Series Summary: ❝Ever since you looked at him with those fearful, haunting eyes he ceased to be a respectful man. Those very eyes that slowly became unwilling and sparkling with mirth. ❞ | (A/F) | 🩵 | by @sunsents

notes: tsu’tey my king ❤️❤️

Kxani | fem!reader | Summary: the scientists don't favour you, and the na'vi want you gone. you're torn about between two worlds and so is tsu'tey when he finds himself loving a demon. | (A/F) | 🩵 | by @neteyamslovrr

notes: the way tsu’tey defends reader is so adorbs

Dreamwalker Siblings | fem!sully!reader | Summary: Y/n and Jake Sully. Siblings, shipped off into the depths of space to explore the mysterious world of Pandora. | (A/F) | 🩵 | by @avatarloverfrfr

notes: literally inspired my tsu’tey series

Jake Sully

Eye to Eye | fem!reader | Summary: jake sully x reader, wounds, mentions of blood, mentions of knives and being stabbed, arguing, i think that is all | (A/F) | 🤍 | by @stargirlrchive

Folklore | fem!reader | Summary: widowed jake sully tries his hardest to heal from the loss of neytiri and you’re there to pick up the pieces and mend him back together, even if neither of you wanted to or realized. | (A) | 🩵 | by @stargirlrchive

The Ghost Between Us | fem!reader | Summary: Jake Sully arrives on Pandora, Tom’s replacement. When Y/N meets him for the first time, she goes pale. He looks exactly like her Tommy. | (A) | 🩵 | by @speaknowgirl3184

notes: not finished but so good!

notes: I just recommend anything by @stargirlrchive

Masterlists

Masterlist | all works are fem!reader | (A/F/S) | 🩵🤍 | by @neteyamslovrr

notes: she legit has stories for every character in avatar: twow

Masterlist | fem!sully!reader | (A/F/S) | 🩵 | by @jsooly

notes: i’m in love with this blog

Masterlist | all works are fem!reader | (A/F) | 🩵🤍 | by @oneheda

notes: omg loveee her writing!

Masterlist | all works are fem!reader | (A/F/S) | 🩵 | by @vandnana

Masterlist | works are fem!reader and gn!reader | (A/F) | 🤍 | by @tonowarii

—

I’m definitely adding more fics so make sure to check for updates! And if you want your fic to be added just link it in the comments and I will read it!

[tonowarii]

❃ masterlist ❃

❃ last updated: 04/10/23 ❃

❃ guidelines ❃

✴ Neteyam Te Suli Tsyeyk'itan ✴

At Fault

Not to Blame

Night Swim A Part of The Family You— What? "This is my favorite day ever." The Night Is Still Young

✴ Lo'ak Te Suli Tsyeyk'itan ✴

Lo'ak falling asleep on your shoulder

Young and Dumb, with a Broken Arm Staring Problem A Life for A Life - A Soulmate Who Wasn't Meant To Be I Want You To Give In Do I Wanna Know

✴ Kiri te Suli Kìreysì'ite ✴

Good Days

✴ Miles "Spider" Socorro ✴

Code Blue Got A Secret

✴ Tsireya ✴

Honey Blue - Ocean Eyes Clueless No Promises

✴ Ao'nung ✴

Ao'nung introducing you to his spirit brother A Not So Romantic Flight That One's Mine oh, and i found love where it wasn’t supposed to be, right in front of me. Ma Yawne

✴ Rotxo ✴

"Just please be my best friend right now, not the guy I just confessed my love to."

✴ Jake Sully ✴

Lay In My Arms Smitten

✴ Neytiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite ✴

None yet.

✴ Tsu'tey te Rongloa Ateyitan ✴

Yawne Doing It All For Love Open Arms Tsu'tey listening to your ramblings

✴ Tonowari ✴

In The Long Run Lay Your Head On Me

✴ Ronal ✴

My reckless warrior

✴ Grace Augustine ✴

None yet.

✴ Norm Spellman ✴

None yet.

✴ Miles Quaritch ✴

Catboy Quaritch purring

✴ Misc. fics ✴

Headcanons of the Sully brothers dating a Fem! Human!

Small drabble about Tonowari w a pregnant! reader

Jake Sully's massive praise kink Neteyam, Lo'ak, Jake, and Tonowari reacting to their female mate practicing to be intimidating How would Neteyam, Lo’ak, Jake, Ao'nung and Tonowari react to their Fem!Na'vi! Mate who couldn't keep their eyes off of them <3 Husbands In Distress (Jake Sully x Fem!Metkayina! Reader x Tonowari)

p.s if you're looking to drop a request, please see my guidelines.

[neteyamslovrr]

kxani: series masterlist

the scientists don't favour you, and the na'vi want you gone. you're torn about between two worlds and so is tsu'tey when he finds himself loving a demon

to lose you:

tsu'tey had lost everyone he had ever loved. fearful of loving you to lose you, he pushes those feelings down just for you to dig them back up

sky-women love gifts:

it took tsu'tey a very long time to warm up to the humans but when he finally did. he couldn't deny his want for you, how much he wanted to court you. so who better to ask than jake?

gift of song:

eywa blessed you with the gift of song unfortunately not the gift of being brave enough to show it.

neteyamslovrr | do not republish, repost, steal, modify, translate or claim my work as your own.

[moniquill]

[sufferingbooknerd]

That’s his kid alright

[nadin2003]

🕊 Nadin’s Hope: A Mother, A Memory, A Future

Hello, my name is Nadin. I’m from Gaza. I’m a graphic design graduate, a wife—and now, a mother.

I finished my design studies just before the war began. I had dreams of starting a small studio, of creating art that told stories. I used to think about colors and fonts and the future.

Then, the war came. And the future became something we tried to hold onto, moment by moment.

On October 22, 2023, I learned I was pregnant when a missile destroyed my husband’s family home, killing 25 members—his mother, siblings, nieces and nephews—entire branches of our family in seconds.

We were displaced twice. Everything was gone—home, safety, routine, rest.

A few weeks later, I gave birth to our daughter. There was no crib, no celebration—not even stillness. But she arrived, quietly and beautifully. In her eyes I saw something I hadn’t felt in weeks: life that still wanted to grow.

Now, our days are shaped by decisions that could dismantle the future we are trying to build together.

Today, Israel’s government is discussing plans for a full military occupation of the Gaza Strip, including Gaza City and southern regions. The stated aim: to eliminate Hamas and later hand governing control to allied Arab forces—not Israel—but with no clear path to peace or normalcy.

The humanitarian fallout is devastating. More than 61,000 Palestinians have died in this war; hunger and malnutrition are rising sharply. Hospitals in north Gaza have shut down, and 193 people have now died of starvation, nearly half of them children.

Aid remains blocked, water is scarce, and many risk dying of hunger or disease long before future promises arrive.

We Don’t Know What Comes Next There’s no clear path forward—only uncertainty for our daughter’s life and our ability to survive another day.

Nadin’s Hope: Rebuilding Life for a Mother and Child

My name is Nadin, and I’m a mother from Gaza.

How You Can Help I’m asking for support—not for comfort, but for survival:

Help us meet basic needs so we can breathe, heal, and preserve a world for our daughter.

Support us as I try to stand again on my own feet—even a glimmer of stability matters.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you can give—thank you. If you can’t—just sharing this post is a lifeline I will never forget.

[choscookie]

been smiling a little too hard at pics of older men lately

[sweeetestcurse]

Joel Miller 40/??

[elliespuns]

Obsessed with the idea of brushing my cheek against Joel's bushy beard

[beckie-letitia-deactivated20210]

This blog is pro tits and anti Nazi