Av

𝒮ℯ𝓍 ℳℴ𝓃ℯ𝓎 𝒻ℯℯ𝓁𝒾𝓃ℊ𝓈 𝒟𝒾ℯ

[reidluvr9]

“LUST AT FIRST BITE” ──────── ✦

AVA ᰔ — S/her. Love writing and reading. LOVE nerds. Currently only writing for Bllk and JJK, but I’m up for writing for different fandoms.

Second account — @thesecretaryy, DISCLAIMER!

Mlist — Requests are OPEN — 17+

© 2025 REIDLUVR9. Please do not copy, modify, or translate my work. All rights are rightfully reserved to me.

[reidluvr9]

SYNOPSIS: You worked as a prison psychologist, you were face to face with the worst criminals of New York every day, but was it scary? Yes. It was. But somehow the thrill of it all overruled the feeling of fear. The information you got, stored, gave away. Since your friend Foggy Nelson died you decided to seek out his killer, Benjamin Poindexter. To what end? You didn't know yet. All you knew was that you had to meet him. What you didn't know when you took the job was that it would make your life a whole lot messier. Your friendships were at stake, your life, your morals. Would you give it all up? For a certain criminal?

PAIRING: Benjamin Poindexter x Psychologist reader

TAGS: Violence, mature themes, sexual content, slowburn, enemies to lovers, lethal violence. This takes place in the same timeline as ”daredevil born again” with references to season 3 of daredevil. Reader is 26 while Dex is 28

PREVIEW

It should be studied, how the world quiets within the walls of a prison. How it all suddenly feels cold and clinical, like the stillness had always been there, waiting.

Was it scary?

Was a question you commonly got asked by acquaintances and family. Working as a prison psychologist, talking to some of the worst people of New York. Sure, plainly said, it could be scary. Sitting face to face with the person who'd just been a headline of the bulletin was always, unsettling. Fortunately, you and the prison had an agreement. Your arrangement with the institution granted you a privilege few others enjoyed. You selected your own patients. You only had 6 clients currently, most in solitary confinement. The most recent one was also the one you took the job for—Benjamin Poindexter.

Your heels struck the stone floor in a measured rhythm as you crossed the main corridor, the sound echoing against the blank walls. The guards by the entrance offered curt nods as a greeting. you had been working at Rikers Island for only a matter of weeks now, just getting settled, yet you've become a familiar figure for the guards. There weren't many new employees on Rikers Island.

The metal detector emitted a sharp beeping sound as you walked through.

Your earrings.

You looked at the guards for confirmation, they nodded and let you pass. You knew that you didn't carry anything of value, well of danger with you to the prison but still your heart started racing every time you heard that beeping noise.

The rest of the procedure went smoothly, they searched your bag, checked your ID, professional  pleasantries were exchanged and then you went on with your day.

You were dressed deliberately, a mix of fashion and professionalism. In simple black sheer tights, traced with one long stripe at the back. A black pencil skirt, a crisp modest white blouse and your blazer. Predictable, professional and flawless.

You'd probably dress a bit differently if you were the general psychiatrist and you had to meet all the prisoners, but you only met around two a day and your office was located on the north side of the prison, away from all inmates.

You made your was towards your office, being escorted by a guard a few steps behind you. The part of the building you were escorted in was almost empty, no inmates in sight. Which was a relief, it wasn't always easy being a woman with this job.

After a few minutes you arrived at your office, bold letters on the dimmed glass signed your name.

Y/N MATTHEWS — Prison psychologist & former psychiatrist

You unlocked and stepped inside, you had redecorated quite a bit, the former physiologist had been pretty boring. You had made the space a bit more of your own, with white bookshelves, one or two plants and some small decorative pieces. You sighed as you sat down in your chair, you knew what was waiting. It was staring right at you, the papers signing you off to be Benjamin Poindexters new psychologist were staring right at you. They were laid out on your desk, appointment scheduling, do's and don'ts, cautionary disciplines and well, what could happen in contact with him.

You knew all to well what he could do, what he was capable of doing. You had seen it, that night when Foggy died. That was why you took this job, you weren't sure yet what it was for, revenge, could you make his life worse? To get info about him to Matt—daredevil? Karen.

It was all a mess, you buried your face in your hands, probably smudging your makeup a little. The clock on your desk ticked away, 9:00 was glowing in red bold letters.

Your next appointment at 9:30 with no other than Benjamin Poindexter.

FIC ON WATTPAD ”TRUST ME | BENJAMIN POINDEXTER” BY Bookwh0rw. CHAPTERS OUT NOW

[reidluvr9]

SYNOPSIS: You worked as a prison psychologist, you were face to face with the worst criminals of New York every day, but was it scary? Yes. It was. But somehow the thrill of it all overruled the feeling of fear. The information you got, stored, gave away. Since your friend Foggy Nelson died you decided to seek out his killer, Benjamin Poindexter. To what end? You didn't know yet. All you knew was that you had to meet him. What you didn't know when you took the job was that it would make your life a whole lot messier. Your friendships were at stake, your life, your morals. Would you give it all up? For a certain criminal?

PAIRING: Benjamin Poindexter x Psychologist reader

TAGS: Violence, mature themes, sexual content, slowburn, enemies to lovers, lethal violence. This takes place in the same timeline as ”daredevil born again” with references to season 3 of daredevil. Reader is 26 while Dex is 28

PREVIEW

It should be studied, how the world quiets within the walls of a prison. How it all suddenly feels cold and clinical, like the stillness had always been there, waiting.

Was it scary?

Was a question you commonly got asked by acquaintances and family. Working as a prison psychologist, talking to some of the worst people of New York. Sure, plainly said, it could be scary. Sitting face to face with the person who'd just been a headline of the bulletin was always, unsettling. Fortunately, you and the prison had an agreement. Your arrangement with the institution granted you a privilege few others enjoyed. You selected your own patients. You only had 6 clients currently, most in solitary confinement. The most recent one was also the one you took the job for—Benjamin Poindexter.

Your heels struck the stone floor in a measured rhythm as you crossed the main corridor, the sound echoing against the blank walls. The guards by the entrance offered curt nods as a greeting. you had been working at Rikers Island for only a matter of weeks now, just getting settled, yet you've become a familiar figure for the guards. There weren't many new employees on Rikers Island.

The metal detector emitted a sharp beeping sound as you walked through.

Your earrings.

You looked at the guards for confirmation, they nodded and let you pass. You knew that you didn't carry anything of value, well of danger with you to the prison but still your heart started racing every time you heard that beeping noise.

The rest of the procedure went smoothly, they searched your bag, checked your ID, professional  pleasantries were exchanged and then you went on with your day.

You were dressed deliberately, a mix of fashion and professionalism. In simple black sheer tights, traced with one long stripe at the back. A black pencil skirt, a crisp modest white blouse and your blazer. Predictable, professional and flawless.

You'd probably dress a bit differently if you were the general psychiatrist and you had to meet all the prisoners, but you only met around two a day and your office was located on the north side of the prison, away from all inmates.

You made your was towards your office, being escorted by a guard a few steps behind you. The part of the building you were escorted in was almost empty, no inmates in sight. Which was a relief, it wasn't always easy being a woman with this job.

After a few minutes you arrived at your office, bold letters on the dimmed glass signed your name.

Y/N MATTHEWS — Prison psychologist & former psychiatrist

You unlocked and stepped inside, you had redecorated quite a bit, the former physiologist had been pretty boring. You had made the space a bit more of your own, with white bookshelves, one or two plants and some small decorative pieces. You sighed as you sat down in your chair, you knew what was waiting. It was staring right at you, the papers signing you off to be Benjamin Poindexters new psychologist were staring right at you. They were laid out on your desk, appointment scheduling, do's and don'ts, cautionary disciplines and well, what could happen in contact with him.

You knew all to well what he could do, what he was capable of doing. You had seen it, that night when Foggy died. That was why you took this job, you weren't sure yet what it was for, revenge, could you make his life worse? To get info about him to Matt—daredevil? Karen.

It was all a mess, you buried your face in your hands, probably smudging your makeup a little. The clock on your desk ticked away, 9:00 was glowing in red bold letters.

Your next appointment at 9:30 with no other than Benjamin Poindexter.

FIC ON WATTPAD ”TRUST ME | BENJAMIN POINDEXTER” BY Bookwh0rw. CHAPTERS OUT NOW

[reidluvr9]

SYNOPSIS: You worked as a prison psychologist, you were face to face with the worst criminals of New York every day, but was it scary? Yes. It was. But somehow the thrill of it all overruled the feeling of fear. The information you got, stored, gave away. Since your friend Foggy Nelson died you decided to seek out his killer, Benjamin Poindexter. To what end? You didn't know yet. All you knew was that you had to meet him. What you didn't know when you took the job was that it would make your life a whole lot messier. Your friendships were at stake, your life, your morals. Would you give it all up? For a certain criminal?

PAIRING: Benjamin Poindexter x Psychologist reader

TAGS: Violence, mature themes, sexual content, slowburn, enemies to lovers, lethal violence. This takes place in the same timeline as ”daredevil born again” with references to season 3 of daredevil. Reader is 26 while Dex is 28

PREVIEW

It should be studied, how the world quiets within the walls of a prison. How it all suddenly feels cold and clinical, like the stillness had always been there, waiting.

Was it scary?

Was a question you commonly got asked by acquaintances and family. Working as a prison psychologist, talking to some of the worst people of New York. Sure, plainly said, it could be scary. Sitting face to face with the person who'd just been a headline of the bulletin was always, unsettling. Fortunately, you and the prison had an agreement. Your arrangement with the institution granted you a privilege few others enjoyed. You selected your own patients. You only had 6 clients currently, most in solitary confinement. The most recent one was also the one you took the job for—Benjamin Poindexter.

Your heels struck the stone floor in a measured rhythm as you crossed the main corridor, the sound echoing against the blank walls. The guards by the entrance offered curt nods as a greeting. you had been working at Rikers Island for only a matter of weeks now, just getting settled, yet you've become a familiar figure for the guards. There weren't many new employees on Rikers Island.

The metal detector emitted a sharp beeping sound as you walked through.

Your earrings.

You looked at the guards for confirmation, they nodded and let you pass. You knew that you didn't carry anything of value, well of danger with you to the prison but still your heart started racing every time you heard that beeping noise.

The rest of the procedure went smoothly, they searched your bag, checked your ID, professional  pleasantries were exchanged and then you went on with your day.

You were dressed deliberately, a mix of fashion and professionalism. In simple black sheer tights, traced with one long stripe at the back. A black pencil skirt, a crisp modest white blouse and your blazer. Predictable, professional and flawless.

You'd probably dress a bit differently if you were the general psychiatrist and you had to meet all the prisoners, but you only met around two a day and your office was located on the north side of the prison, away from all inmates.

You made your was towards your office, being escorted by a guard a few steps behind you. The part of the building you were escorted in was almost empty, no inmates in sight. Which was a relief, it wasn't always easy being a woman with this job.

After a few minutes you arrived at your office, bold letters on the dimmed glass signed your name.

Y/N MATTHEWS — Prison psychologist & former psychiatrist

You unlocked and stepped inside, you had redecorated quite a bit, the former physiologist had been pretty boring. You had made the space a bit more of your own, with white bookshelves, one or two plants and some small decorative pieces. You sighed as you sat down in your chair, you knew what was waiting. It was staring right at you, the papers signing you off to be Benjamin Poindexters new psychologist were staring right at you. They were laid out on your desk, appointment scheduling, do's and don'ts, cautionary disciplines and well, what could happen in contact with him.

You knew all to well what he could do, what he was capable of doing. You had seen it, that night when Foggy died. That was why you took this job, you weren't sure yet what it was for, revenge, could you make his life worse? To get info about him to Matt—daredevil? Karen.

It was all a mess, you buried your face in your hands, probably smudging your makeup a little. The clock on your desk ticked away, 9:00 was glowing in red bold letters.

Your next appointment at 9:30 with no other than Benjamin Poindexter.

FIC ON WATTPAD ”TRUST ME | BENJAMIN POINDEXTER” BY Bookwh0rw. CHAPTERS OUT NOW

[reidluvr9]

SYNOPSIS: You worked as a prison psychologist, you were face to face with the worst criminals of New York every day, but was it scary? Yes. It was. But somehow the thrill of it all overruled the feeling of fear. The information you got, stored, gave away. Since your friend Foggy Nelson died you decided to seek out his killer, Benjamin Poindexter. To what end? You didn't know yet. All you knew was that you had to meet him. What you didn't know when you took the job was that it would make your life a whole lot messier. Your friendships were at stake, your life, your morals. Would you give it all up? For a certain criminal?

PAIRING: Benjamin Poindexter x Psychologist reader

TAGS: Violence, mature themes, sexual content, slowburn, enemies to lovers, lethal violence. This takes place in the same timeline as ”daredevil born again” with references to season 3 of daredevil. Reader is 26 while Dex is 28

PREVIEW

It should be studied, how the world quiets within the walls of a prison. How it all suddenly feels cold and clinical, like the stillness had always been there, waiting.

Was it scary?

Was a question you commonly got asked by acquaintances and family. Working as a prison psychologist, talking to some of the worst people of New York. Sure, plainly said, it could be scary. Sitting face to face with the person who'd just been a headline of the bulletin was always, unsettling. Fortunately, you and the prison had an agreement. Your arrangement with the institution granted you a privilege few others enjoyed. You selected your own patients. You only had 6 clients currently, most in solitary confinement. The most recent one was also the one you took the job for—Benjamin Poindexter.

Your heels struck the stone floor in a measured rhythm as you crossed the main corridor, the sound echoing against the blank walls. The guards by the entrance offered curt nods as a greeting. you had been working at Rikers Island for only a matter of weeks now, just getting settled, yet you've become a familiar figure for the guards. There weren't many new employees on Rikers Island.

The metal detector emitted a sharp beeping sound as you walked through.

Your earrings.

You looked at the guards for confirmation, they nodded and let you pass. You knew that you didn't carry anything of value, well of danger with you to the prison but still your heart started racing every time you heard that beeping noise.

The rest of the procedure went smoothly, they searched your bag, checked your ID, professional  pleasantries were exchanged and then you went on with your day.

You were dressed deliberately, a mix of fashion and professionalism. In simple black sheer tights, traced with one long stripe at the back. A black pencil skirt, a crisp modest white blouse and your blazer. Predictable, professional and flawless.

You'd probably dress a bit differently if you were the general psychiatrist and you had to meet all the prisoners, but you only met around two a day and your office was located on the north side of the prison, away from all inmates.

You made your was towards your office, being escorted by a guard a few steps behind you. The part of the building you were escorted in was almost empty, no inmates in sight. Which was a relief, it wasn't always easy being a woman with this job.

After a few minutes you arrived at your office, bold letters on the dimmed glass signed your name.

Y/N MATTHEWS — Prison psychologist & former psychiatrist

You unlocked and stepped inside, you had redecorated quite a bit, the former physiologist had been pretty boring. You had made the space a bit more of your own, with white bookshelves, one or two plants and some small decorative pieces. You sighed as you sat down in your chair, you knew what was waiting. It was staring right at you, the papers signing you off to be Benjamin Poindexters new psychologist were staring right at you. They were laid out on your desk, appointment scheduling, do's and don'ts, cautionary disciplines and well, what could happen in contact with him.

You knew all to well what he could do, what he was capable of doing. You had seen it, that night when Foggy died. That was why you took this job, you weren't sure yet what it was for, revenge, could you make his life worse? To get info about him to Matt—daredevil? Karen.

It was all a mess, you buried your face in your hands, probably smudging your makeup a little. The clock on your desk ticked away, 9:00 was glowing in red bold letters.

Your next appointment at 9:30 with no other than Benjamin Poindexter.

FIC ON WATTPAD ”TRUST ME | BENJAMIN POINDEXTER” BY Bookwh0rw. CHAPTERS OUT NOW

[reidluvr9]

SYNOPSIS: You worked as a prison psychologist, you were face to face with the worst criminals of New York every day, but was it scary? Yes. It was. But somehow the thrill of it all overruled the feeling of fear. The information you got, stored, gave away. Since your friend Foggy Nelson died you decided to seek out his killer, Benjamin Poindexter. To what end? You didn't know yet. All you knew was that you had to meet him. What you didn't know when you took the job was that it would make your life a whole lot messier. Your friendships were at stake, your life, your morals. Would you give it all up? For a certain criminal?

PAIRING: Benjamin Poindexter x Psychologist reader

TAGS: Violence, mature themes, sexual content, slowburn, enemies to lovers, lethal violence. This takes place in the same timeline as ”daredevil born again” with references to season 3 of daredevil. Reader is 26 while Dex is 28

PREVIEW

It should be studied, how the world quiets within the walls of a prison. How it all suddenly feels cold and clinical, like the stillness had always been there, waiting.

Was it scary?

Was a question you commonly got asked by acquaintances and family. Working as a prison psychologist, talking to some of the worst people of New York. Sure, plainly said, it could be scary. Sitting face to face with the person who'd just been a headline of the bulletin was always, unsettling. Fortunately, you and the prison had an agreement. Your arrangement with the institution granted you a privilege few others enjoyed. You selected your own patients. You only had 6 clients currently, most in solitary confinement. The most recent one was also the one you took the job for—Benjamin Poindexter.

Your heels struck the stone floor in a measured rhythm as you crossed the main corridor, the sound echoing against the blank walls. The guards by the entrance offered curt nods as a greeting. you had been working at Rikers Island for only a matter of weeks now, just getting settled, yet you've become a familiar figure for the guards. There weren't many new employees on Rikers Island.

The metal detector emitted a sharp beeping sound as you walked through.

Your earrings.

You looked at the guards for confirmation, they nodded and let you pass. You knew that you didn't carry anything of value, well of danger with you to the prison but still your heart started racing every time you heard that beeping noise.

The rest of the procedure went smoothly, they searched your bag, checked your ID, professional  pleasantries were exchanged and then you went on with your day.

You were dressed deliberately, a mix of fashion and professionalism. In simple black sheer tights, traced with one long stripe at the back. A black pencil skirt, a crisp modest white blouse and your blazer. Predictable, professional and flawless.

You'd probably dress a bit differently if you were the general psychiatrist and you had to meet all the prisoners, but you only met around two a day and your office was located on the north side of the prison, away from all inmates.

You made your was towards your office, being escorted by a guard a few steps behind you. The part of the building you were escorted in was almost empty, no inmates in sight. Which was a relief, it wasn't always easy being a woman with this job.

After a few minutes you arrived at your office, bold letters on the dimmed glass signed your name.

Y/N MATTHEWS — Prison psychologist & former psychiatrist

You unlocked and stepped inside, you had redecorated quite a bit, the former physiologist had been pretty boring. You had made the space a bit more of your own, with white bookshelves, one or two plants and some small decorative pieces. You sighed as you sat down in your chair, you knew what was waiting. It was staring right at you, the papers signing you off to be Benjamin Poindexters new psychologist were staring right at you. They were laid out on your desk, appointment scheduling, do's and don'ts, cautionary disciplines and well, what could happen in contact with him.

You knew all to well what he could do, what he was capable of doing. You had seen it, that night when Foggy died. That was why you took this job, you weren't sure yet what it was for, revenge, could you make his life worse? To get info about him to Matt—daredevil? Karen.

It was all a mess, you buried your face in your hands, probably smudging your makeup a little. The clock on your desk ticked away, 9:00 was glowing in red bold letters.

Your next appointment at 9:30 with no other than Benjamin Poindexter.

FIC ON WATTPAD ”TRUST ME | BENJAMIN POINDEXTER” BY Bookwh0rw. CHAPTERS OUT NOW

[kosmogrl]

[tonycries]

Internet Girl - C.K.

Synopsis. On campus? Choso Kamo’s the sweet, shy nerd you share film class with - the one who can barely meet your eyes without blushing. Online? Choso Kamo is really @cursed(your)wombz—the #1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends with 820k followers to see his…nine inches. And he might just be looking for a partner.

Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, streamer!Choso, (sort of) B́J Alex AU, cámboy!Choso, college AU, he’s a nerd, film nerd!Choso, secret identities, masks, píercings (ears, tóngue, D), tattoos, chat, streaming, you’re a fan, identity reveal, exhíbitíonism, oraI (fem rec.), again PlERCINGS, tongue f, spítting, p sIapping, p talking, letting the viewers choose, fíngering with rings, overstím, dúmbifícation, Jacob’s Ladder, rough s, fiIthy s, he’s sIightly mean, tummy buIges, making it fit, pressing down, talking you through it, cIit pinching, pússydrúnk Choso, matíng presses, chokíng, manhandIing, mocking, sIight níppIe stim, creampíes, chat Iove you, cúmpIay, getting together, Phantom of the Opera references, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 14.9k

A/N. Hehehehehe-

Sunday was the night you’d found him; sprawled out on your bed and thumbing through the Internet. Some glitzy pop song you couldn’t name blasted from your speakers, and the room was saturated in the tingly excitement of having speedy Wi-Fi, no assignments, and the night to yourself. LED lights pink.

You’re checking some of your messages - doling out a few hearts, a few reposts - when that bell-shaped button bursts in blue. A new notification.

@cursed(your)wombz liked your repost.

It was on a photograph of the Sun—big and yellow, seemingly melting over a grey horizon.

Which was perfectly ordinary- this was the Internet, after all. And though your list of followers was modest, of course you’d interact with a stranger here and there.

The problem was in the way the notification disappeared as soon as it came.

An…accident maybe? This person had liked and unliked your repost. And without a second thought, you’re typing their username into the search bar.

And clicking on their profile.

@cursed(your)wombz huh?

He had a pitch-black profile picture and a layout with nothing of note, a banner as equally colorless and unnotable, and a simple bio stating: 

I know what you want…

- C.

And beneath that was a link.

It stood out stark against the black background. You don’t click on it, of course- for fear of being something malicious, you’re avoiding it like you’d avoid a minefield. 

You’ve already heard one too many horror stories on here about such things. One click and you’d find your address posted somewhere. Instead, your eyes drop to the number of followers he had…and your eyebrows are immediately shooting up.

0 Following.

581k Followers.

Now that makes you blink.

Okay- alright, maybe it wasn’t the most astounding number you’ve ever seen throughout your expansive time on the Internet - but it was still niche celebrity-status. Especially on this app. Especially to be stalking an account like yours…where all you did was repost the stray picture of a pretty landscape or yell into the aether about your missing assignments for your friends to comment on. 

Now that was a little strange.

And so you’re scrolling down.

And you never quite know what you’re in for whenever you enter the realm of a person’s account—fanfiction with tags you never knew existed, one part of an argument on social media that really shouldn’t exist, mpreg. 

Which was all fine and dandy to be quite honest- you just never expect to be met with the most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The first picture you’re seeing- pinned.

Posted just an hour ago. It’s a mirror selfie taken at a low angle; of a man with his body angled towards the lens and his phone covering his face. In nothing but a towel. With nothing but his chiselled body. His beefy arms flexed as he takes the picture, biceps rippled with a few veins—though still lean and almost smooth to the touch. Pierced nipples. Defined abs. Your eyes linger on the sparse dusting of dark hair leading below, below, below his fluffy white towel…

The picture cuts off just a few inches past his navel. You know because you’re enlarging it.

The photo is almost vampiric in nature.

Somehow. 

Dimly-lit. Beautiful—he clearly knew his angles and lighting. It’s slightly blurry and you can’t make out much of the man’s features - nothing more than the slender length of his fingers, silver rings, and the outline of his dark (perhaps brown?) hair. Touching his shoulders. From just above the hem of his towel, the amorphous blur of a tattoo snakes down his left v-line - and no matter how much you’re zooming in, you can’t quite figure out what it is. 

Something twists at the pit of your stomach as you’re latching your eyes onto the very obvious bulge he was sporting through the towel - very.

The flash created a shadow of his lengthy cock—oh. Hanging between thick thighs, heavy and needy. And it also illuminated the slight dampness clinging onto his body; perhaps he’d just gotten out of the shower, or was about to take on after a workout. 

Whichever scenario it was, both made your thighs clench- fuck.

Fingers slightly shaky, you’re exiting out of the picture and scrolling down for more. 

The next post is a video seemingly taken from the very same instance: it was from the point of view of the beautiful man. Facing downwards, as he zoomed the camera in on his bulge and ran one vein-covered, ringed hand down his abs- down his pelvis- down to that throbbing erection and squeezed himself through his towel. 

And then through your speakers echoes out the most pornographic moan. 

Thank goodness your dorm had thick walls. 

And that’s when you decide that you’ve seen enough.

Not enough as in enough enough to block this strange man and move on with your life- of course, not. As quickly as your fingers would possibly let you, you’re exiting out of the video and scrolling up to a bio that seemed to have more to hide than the first time you read through it. 

The link stands mockingly stark - almost winking at you - against the dark background. You think you know what it is.

And you click on it.

Suddenly, your laptop screen’s flooding with a gaudy pink color. A loading circle swivels in the middle of it for a few seconds, before you’re met with a logo in swooping, slanted black script: C4mBoyfriends. Better than that boy in your dms.

Rapidly, you’re opening up a new tab and typing in the name.

“C4mBoyfriends is an adult streaming platform that hosts webcam performers that choose to label themselves as male. Here they can stream live video, post photographs, and interact on forums with a wide array of paying viewers—for a range of content catering to specific niches or sexual roleplays. C4mBoyfriends, since its recent launch, has shot up in the industry as one of the most-visited adult sites and the safest for its performers. All cuts go to the performers themselves and the site runs on separate donations from its audience.”

Ah- you’d guessed right.

Excitement burbles at the pit of your stomach for a few seconds. You’re clicking back onto the tab with the pink logo, and finding that it’d stopped loading.

It was in the layout of a streaming device, with static images of ongoing streams on one side of the platform, and different pages listed out on top. But what took up the majority of your screen was the vision of the very same man from before- from the mirror selfie, from the video.

This time, it was a stream.

@cursed(your)wombz is streaming—#1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends [101 week streak]. [Only solo]. Your internet boyfriend <3

0 Subscribed.

820k Subscribers.

455k Currently watching.

This time, he had his towel lifted up and his hands fisted around his fat cock.

Perfectly angled. 

Your jaw drops. He was about eight- maybe more inches, though you weren’t in the state to count. Way too entranced by the way his veiny, ring-decorated hands were wrapped around his cock. Large. He was just so loooong and standing tall between wide-spread legs, shiverin’ every time he’s gliding his hand up and down. Up and down. 

Again and again.

Getting faster by the second before he arches-

The edge of his thumb’s reaching for his ruby-red crown—then smearing the glistening liquid that just kept on foaming from the top. He lathers it upon his palm and drags it down his hot erection, making every inch gleam underneath the off-camera lighting.

You’re clicking on a button to increase your volume.

And just in time, too, because then he snakes his left hand down and squeezes his heavy balls- letting out a botched groan that leaves your shorts oh-so-wet. 

Deep and guttural; there’s a slight quiver in them as he whispers. “F-fuck.” Just so full and sensitive—the man’s head tips backwards and his hips buck off the cushioned chair. Sluttily. As though he was fucking something invisible. It’s creaking ever-so-slightly as he settles back down, composing himself just a little bit before he starts cumming.

Pearly white droplets of cum. 

Beading from the very top of his shaft - where he was the most pink n’ angry - shaking as he empties out. Globs of it start to glide down his length, and a few more collect where his silver Prince Albert’s piercing was positioned right beneath his mushroomy tip.

You’re just letting your eyes linger upon that little heap of satiny sap, when the man thumbs upwards and smears that, too. Such a mess.

And you think that might be all- but then he’s reaching his non-dominant hand upwards and pressing down on his frothing cockhead. Stopping himself from cumming - and as he leans to the side, you swear you’re glimpsing the twinkle of even more piercings on the upper side of his shaft. Was that…a Jacob’s ladder?

You’re rendered so damn speechless that you almost don’t register him speaking- “Awwww, did my pretty sluts wanna watch me cum?” 

A shiver runs down your spine at the hitched tone of his voice- drunk on lust. He’s slightly slurring. So alluring, you almost catch yourself nodding.

“Well, too bad.” The man meanly snickers, before he’s suddenly reaching out with his non-dominant hand and angling it higher. The screen shifts to display that very same mouth-watering body from the picture—though, this time with the addition of a black-and-white mask that covered his features from forehead to his sharp jawline. 

The only opening in it was a concave cutout for his mouth - almost reminiscent of a Phantom of the Opera mask. In the background was a clearly expensive bedroom of a clearly expensive home - far different from your single dorm - an artwork that you couldn’t name on the wall behind him. Something like a photograph or a portrait. Something about it was so precise- so cinematic. Like watching a movie scene. He continues, “Because you know why? You don’t deserve it.”

There’s a flurry of comments on one side of the screen, so fast that you wonder how he reads it.

“Didn’t I tell you to spam me with your nastiest stories in the chat?” He asks, and from beneath his mask you catch the outline of dark eyes shifting down those hurried words. Those needy comments. “None of you are nasty enough, so none of you get to see me cum…”

You’re tearing your eyes off of him to peruse what they were saying.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: nuuuuuu please, curse! i’ll get on my knees!!

@vampzo333: me too ME TOO

@likezmenpregnant: My story about the body pillow wasn’t nasty enough? TT

@CCpervnextdoor: AWWWW I’m begging~

@Curse’swifey: I’LL PAY YOU EXTRA PLEASEEEEEEE

@Curse’swifey donated 500 cherries.

“Tch- what a desperate bunch. Just fucking look at yourselves…” And though his words weren’t in the least bit nice, you couldn’t deny just how badly he made your cunt twinge. 

Curse…that’s what his name was, huh?

You’re squeezing your thighs together- your sleep shorts were definitely soaked. 

Curse rolls out the kinks in his neck just a little, and stares down at the camera with a crooked grin. “But that’s not gonna be enough. I said to be nasty- so be nasty.” The active chat becomes nothing but a blur once more: pleas, donations, stories half-typed in their urgency. “And in return I’ll moan whatever name you want me to moan when I cum.”

Before you know it, you’re opening up the sign-up page in a new tab.

Keeping Curse’s livestream playing in the background as you zip through your details. You’re picking out a username for yourself: Ietsmakeamovie and hastily going back to the ongoing stream with your newfound handle. Was it too obvious to make it the same username as your other account? The one that he had stalked?

Fuck- you’re too wound up to think of something else at this point. You decide that you’ll change it later…

Luckily, Curse’s stream didn’t have a paying threshold before you could comment. And you’re jittery with excitement as you pull the laptop closer to yourself and start typing out something—hitting send before you could overthink it.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Seeing you is the first time I’ve gotten this wet.

Curse’s eyes drift down the chat, and he seems to latch onto something. Eyes widening just a fraction.

“The first time?”

Fuck.

You’re feeling a jolt at the way he addresses you - never expecting him to pick out that comment amongst tens of thousands of others that were uttering even filthier things. Curse leans in and speaks with his deep tone, “Those other boys didn’t know how to treat a perfect pussy like yours, huh? This is why they call me the Internet boyfriend, baby.”

@Ietsmakeamovie: Yeah.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Fuck, you’re so hot.

@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t even wanna look away to touch myself.

You feel embarrassed typing it all out - but you console yourself with the notion that no one here knows who you are. And you don’t know anyone here, either.

Curse leans back and starts pumping his cock even harder—taking his left hand off the drivelling top. His milky-white precum is frenzied n’ sticks to his hand like glue, and the chat grows more and more excited as Curse’s actions do the same.

“That’s alright, baby, you don’t have to finger yourself.” He chuckles, eyes locked on the comments. “I’d be doing that for you if I was there.”

@Ietsmakeamovie: Wish you were. You’d reach so much deeper.

@Ietsmakeamovie donated 1000 cherries.

“Fuh-fuck—” He hisses, head throwing back in his chair. You take the time to admire the lines of his prominent Adam’s apple - the way it bobs every time he’s taking a shaky swallow. “No need to donate or anything, baby, just keep- ngh, talking t’me like this and that’s enough…”

@0003h0lesforCurse: holy shit. i’ve never seen him like this.

@CCpervnextdoor: Needy Curse I like it~

@bewbsRlife: KEEP GOING OP KEEP GOING!!

You giggle to yourself.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Enough to make you cum, Curse?

“Greedy, greedy girl…” Through the slightest gaps in his mask you’re catching the way his nose crinkles in amusement. A wolfish smile. “S’that what you all want?”

The chat explodes in agreement.

He cocks his head, “Movie?”

Was that your new nickname now? Hastily, you reply-

@Ietsmakeamovie: Mhm.

“Well then…” He grins, toned body arching off the chair. “Get ready for a show—” Darkened gaze narrowing at the comments, “And you better not take your eyes off of me for a single second- hump your damn pillows if you have to. I don’t care.”

Quickly grabbing your own puffy pillow, you’re stuffing it between your legs.

Right as Curse lets his head loll backwards- and his cum drizzles out of his cock. He’s been edging the poor viewers and overstimulatin’ himself for so fucking long now—all it takes is a few pumps to let the cascade of white coat his hands and his rings. Just the slightest bit of silver peaking through.

Hard and fast.

The man’s cockhead flushes even redder as he drags his high out deliciously. Every burst of dopamine. Every heaving pant. Every pretty moan escaping him. 

It seems to be ramming into him in waves- gooey ribbons of seed coat his digits. Getting smeared like a gloss across eeeeevery single inch, ridge, and vein—and since Curse’s pace was something furious, a few globs of cum splatter across the towel and onto his thighs. A mess that he’s seeming to love.

Because in the next few seconds, he’s wrung out just the final bits of pleasure in him- and is raising his cum-coated fingers up to his mouth and sucking. Staring straight into the camera lens as he does so.

You’re watching slack-jawed as those long, lacquered digits disappear between his lips. Finishin’ them off squeaky clean and letting his head tip to the side.

He mouths, “Movie—”

Part of your username.

Though you hadn’t asked for him to moan your name, as he’d promised to do to one of the viewers had they been nasty enough. And this special treatment…

Maybe he did it to every new viewer. Maybe he just liked how much you complimented him- though everyone else did, too. Either way, it’s perhaps what sets off the bursts of electricity between your legs—and soon enough you’re hurtling into a high you hadn’t even realized had been building up and up and up.

Your lashes flutter shut as the orgasm overtakes you. 

Hips ruttin’ away into the plushness of your pillow- you wonder just how much better riding him would be…

And that’s setting off a whole new layer of dopamine at your core, your cunt quiverin’ as white-hot pleasure makes your heartbeat throb in your ears. Chest pounding. Breaths heavy.

By the time you’ve finished pushing through your high, you’re coming to find that Curse had somewhat cleaned himself up with the towel and was bantering back n’ forth with the chat. He rests his head on one hand and sweeps his eyes down the usernames, “What happened to dear Movie, huh?” Curse pretends to pout. “The first stream wasn’t too much for her, right?”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: kekekeke you’re too freaky, curse!!

@CCpervnextdoor: So dirty~

@daddytoeknee: Must thank Movie for the show though…

Urgently, you’re gathering yourself and tapping a few buttons on-screen.

@Ietsmakeamovie subscribed to @cursed(your)wombz. 

@Ietsmakeamovie donated 2500 cherries.

@Ietsmakeamovie: It’d never be too much.

“Ahhh, there you are.” Such a beautiful smile smears across his face, and Curse’s leaning in to take a closer look at the comments. “And thank you for subscribing, same time tomorrow?”

You’re unsure whether that was directed at you or everyone viewing- but you’re chiming in agreement alongside the rest of the comments. And Curse reads through them, lingering for just a little while longer before he grins.

“Heh- bye, sluts.”

And he covers the camera, the stream cuts off. 

Yet your heart still thunders.

Ignoring the time at the bottom of your laptop screen, you’re then clicking on his profile and scrolling through what other videos he had…

.

.

.

It was your fault that you kept dozing off.

Honestly. 

You should have known better- and you know that you should’ve known better…but you couldn’t help yourself. After Curse’s initial stream, you spent some time browsing through the numerous photographs and short clips that he’d posted; there were even some saved streams that were each dirtier than the last—each with his attractive mask and his even more attractive voice, his sensual cock getting pumped over and over for the audiences.

And so you’d left a few comments, a few hearts.

Throughout all of them, you made the peculiar discovery that they were all more high-quality than the last. The standard of being the #1 on the site, you guess. But the lighting and angles were all just so perfect…

You’d watched them for just a little while- at least, what you’d thought was a little while. Because by the time you’re realizing that your laptop battery was dying, and your eyes were tired, you’re turning your head in the direction of the dorm windows and- fuck.

Why was the Sun coming up?

And so you’d rushed to get at least half an hour of sleep before you had to get up for your 8AM lecture. 

Professor Yaga taught Film 101 as though he was trying to scare everyone off it. Rigorous coursework and never-altered deadlines. Though you yourself wouldn’t consider him an unreasonable man, it was impertinent to be punctual and alert in his classes - and right now, you were feeling neither of those. 

By the grace of the universe, you’re somehow managing to stumble into class just two minutes after it starts. It’s not enough to rouse Yaga’s anger - and either way, you had made a name for yourself as one of his most avid students - though it does get you a sternly raised brow as you apologize and take the nearest open seat.

Just-so-happening to be in the very last row. 

At the very forgotten corner.

Right beside who you knew to be Yaga’s actually most avid student—Choso Kamo.

Had it been a race between the two of you - perhaps between the entire department - Choso would have finished five times before anyone’s even stepping past the finish line. You would’ve gotten second. And that wasn’t to diminish your abilities in any way - you’d long since proven yourself to be one of the best students this course had even seen - it’s just…Choso was a film nerd through and through. 

If there was anyone that could live up to such a title, then it was him.

Choso lived, slept, and breathed film and television. He could name any television show around the world with just a single frame, and most he could recite line-for-line. Oh, that? He learned Korean just to immerse himself in that scene in Parasite. That scene? It was from the 1957 Sri Lankan film Amba Yahaluwo, by the way did you know that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was filmed there, too?

Knitted vest. Hair in two messy space buns. 

Clunky glasses rested atop his nosebridge, and dark bangs covering most of his vision, you’d often see him tottering around campus with a column of books that was damn-near taller than him. And despite his towering demeanour - from your mental counting, Choso was around 6’2 or more - around most of the student body, he was the type that couldn’t meet your eyes no matter how many classes you shared with him.

Even now, as you seated right next to him and smiled- Choso softly yelps and turns away from.

You don’t take it personally, of course, as he was simply the shy type. And by the flush that rises to his high cheekbones, you know he - at the very least - doesn’t dislike you.

Situating yourself, you’re opening your bag and pulling out your laptop. Opening it- fuck.

The briefest flash of one of Curses’s previous streams—where he had his cock in his hands and his face contorted mid-ecstasy flashes across your screen. And you can’t slam your laptop shut fast enough- cracking it just the slightest bit to exit out of the numerous tabs, fingers nothing but a blur. Thank fuck your volume hadn’t been set on high.

Head ducked, you’re looking out from the corner of your eye to check whether Choso had seen anything. 

But if he did, he shows no indication.

Only keeping his back ramrod straight- his gaze ahead- his flush fiery as he listens to whatever Yaga was saying. 

And so you think you’re in the clear…for now…

Opening your laptop up once more, you’re logging onto your lecture platforms and attempting to forget about last night. Which was difficult when that smile upon Curse’s face, just beneath his mask - was the only thing running through your mind.

And before you know it, you’d been staring blankly at your screen for a few seconds—before Choso inches in just a centimeter closer. Unwilling to let himself take up even more space. He keeps his eyes trained ahead and his voice - fuck, you’d never heard his voice before but it was just so deep and measured, something you wouldn’t have expected out of him - low. 

Whispering to you, “H-he’s on Chapter 18 of Stone Butch Blues, we’re about to write a screenplay for the zoo scene.” 

“Ah…” You don’t know whether you’re more surprised at the timbre of his voice or the way he managed a proper sentence out to you. All your previous attempts at conversation throughout the semester had been futile—and you’d long resigned yourself to the idea that he was too nervous to ever talk to you. “Th-thank you.”

He doesn’t answer but nods in shy acknowledgement.

And as you’re opening up your file, you bask in the realization that Choso Kamo was actually hot underneath those glasses. If only you could see his features further…

Maybe you’re being a little delirious. Your eyes feel heavy. 

Heavy.

Heavier. 

Tap-tap-tap.

A shake.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

A warm hand on your shoulder, by the time you’re opening your eyes- you’re looking up into even warmer, molten chocolate-colored ones. They were framed by fawny eyelashes and thick glasses that made his shy gaze seem ever-so-slightly amplified. 

You think you’re stunned for a few seconds before Choso speaks, “U-um…class is over.”

“Oh.” That makes you dart your head up and look around, noticing that most of the students had filtered in or were in the process of already doing so. “Oh, shit-”

You’d seriously slept through all that?

And Yaga had left you alive?!

No, you weren’t going to question this act of mercy—thank goodness for the last row, because he likely hadn’t been able to see you. Shooting upright, you’re grabbing all your things and hoping you hadn’t snored next to the sweet boy - “Thank you so much for waking me.” You’re turning towards him and saying, earnestness seeping into your tone. “Knowing me, I would’ve slept right through till next class. Might actually have been more convenient.”

He startles into a laugh then raises a hand up to his mouth and quietens himself down, “It’s alright.” You’re staring closely at the little bells of laughter, and he turns his eyes downwards. Bashfully admitting, “Happens to me too, whenever I stay up um- studying. Long night?”

You sigh, “You could say that…” Not a long night studying, but…

And as the conversation quietens down and Choso worries down on his bottom lip, you’re hiking your backpack up on your shoulders and saying. “Well, I guess I should be going then. Catch up on the recordings of the lecture and everything-” Turning, “See you ‘round—and thanks again.”

You make all of five steps before Choso finally gathers up the courage to call out-

“Wait—!”

Confused, you’re facing him once more. “Yes?”

And his hand was out, his fingers were slightly trembling. He was mouthing out the words as though still debating whether to speak them into existence - whether he was capable of. “I…we-” Eventually mustering up the courage once you give a reassuring nod, “When will we meet up?”

That makes you pause.

Was he…

“F-for the assignment.” Choso clarifies, a flush rising to his cheeks as he likely realizes he should’ve led with that. “Professor Yaga’s mid-semester project he always does…”

Ah—you’re clapping a palm on your forehead. How could you have forgotten? Yaga had announced at the start of the semester that about halfway through, the class would be paired up or put into groups to work on a collaborative project that contributed to about 50% of your grade. This semester, it was to write a full-length movie screenplay for a book or musical of your choice. And you’d been excited for it, in fact, but after the…activities of last night it’d completely slipped your mind that he’d be delving more into it this lecture.

And the poor boy stumbles through his explanation, “H-he let everyone choose their partners, and I wanted to wake you up but…you just looked so peaceful.” He fidgets with his fingers and flushes, “I th-thought one of your friends would come up here and choose you but-”

Probing him gently, “But?”

“B-but I’m afraid you ended up paired with me.” Choso just looks so genuinely apologetic- “I’m sorry- no one picked me either. I should’ve woken you up, but we can go talk with Professor Yaga about changing partners if you’d like-”

“Hey—wait.” You’re cutting off his spiel, something in your chest aching at the utterly devastated furrow between his brows. You take a step closer to him, “I would love to do the project with you, Choso. No need to talk to Yaga about anything.”

He looks up at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “B-but your friends…”

“I don’t really have close friends in this class, anyway.” You smile, “I’d much rather do it with you.”

“Really—?” Breathed. As if he couldn’t believe it.

And it’s after some time - and a deep inhale - that he speaks again. Finally sinking in that someone would choose him of all people—that you would, that he speaks again. “And um- would you like to work on the script at my place?” Before you can answer, his breath hitches and his head shoots up. “N-not that I’m pressuring you into…it’s nothing weird, I promise! We can meet anywhere else you like- the library, your place- wait, no that’s weird, too…”

“Choso- Choso.” You giggle. And if this was anyone else then you would’ve assumed that they were putting the moves on you. “I’m okay with your place.”

.

.

.

The apartment was a fair distance away from the campus dorms. 

Which made sense, you suppose, given the fact that less than half the people there would be able to afford the rent on such a place—especially after tuition. The highrise dove into the clouds, its vermicular body scaled in glistening windows and gold-accented furnishings within. You got the distinct feeling of being swallowed whole as you entered through the widely-gaped entrance, with several doormen and security that eyed you up and down, bowed at Choso.

You thanked them and made your way - slightly speechless - through the hallways.

This was everything you could ever dream of, and you’re sure you spot the odd actor or two down in the lobby. As you’re getting into an elevator the size of your entire dorm room, Choso punches in one of the highest floor numbers and turns to you-

Throughout the bus ride here, you’d been the one chattering away. And so it surprises you once he finally speaks, “I-I’m sorry…my place is a bit of a mess.”

“Can’t be as bad as mine. I won’t judge.” Who cares about a mess when he lives in a place like this? You couldn’t wait to go inside…

He pushes his chunky glasses upwards and gives you a shy smile, “Thank you.” Looking down at his polished shoes, “You’re so sweet.”

“Thank you.” 

And you rise upwards in silence.

Soon enough, you’re finding yourself being led up to his massive apartment. He’s punching in the numbers of the code and setting his backpack down—telling you to make yourself comfortable. And you shuffle inside awkwardly; past the lavish furnishings and the alien-shaped lamps that all rich places seemed to boast. 

He leads you in the direction of the master bedroom - where Choso said that his film collection was vast and likely to reveal techniques that the two of you would be able to incorporate into your own script.

“I even have a copy of Momijigari- it’s one of my most prized possessions.” He shoots you such a charming smile, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, over his shoulder. Heading inside. 

And you can’t help but follow.

A single step inside his not-so-humble abode and you’re feeling a sudden sense of déjà vu wash over you, rendering you unsteady on your feet. Not quite sure why, you’re sweeping your eyes around the space: the high-quality camera equipment in one corner (not unusual to see for a film student), the chic furnishings, and then over to the empty wall space above the king-sized bed, something in you remained dissatisfied as they find nothing there but white plaster.

Choso notices that you’ve stalled behind and looks over at you curiously—he was taking a seat on the carpet, laptop opened up on top of the coffee table. “Something wrong? I’m sorry, I know it’s really messy but-”

“No, you’re good.” You shake your head, “It’s actually not messy enough.”

He smiles.

That night, you went home and wondered why Choso’s smile looked so familiar.

.

.

.

The musical that you’d chosen for your ‘adaptation’ was The Phantom of the Opera, suggested by you, of course.

And if there had been any connection to the masked man you’d been watching the night prior, then you were just glad that Choso had no idea.

It was far easier, given the fact that it’d already been adapted from the initial novel—though that only meant that Yaga would be critiquing yours even harder. 

So you had to strive to be more cinematic, than the others in your class, stronger in ways than the ones before you - and though you doubt you’d ever match up to Schumacher’s visuals, there was little doubt as to whether you’d be the best amongst the students. This was a screenplay made to impress, and in the week since you’d pored over it—and Choso Kamo’s mahogany coffee table typing away at it, you only grew more determined in the fact. And throughout the week, you’ve been flitting in and out of that very apartment of his.

Choso had been a lovely partner for the project - the best you could’ve ever asked for - and you’re coming to find that he was actually far more funny than anyone ever gave him credit for. Far more open. Far more active when it came to something he was passionate about.

And of course, you knew that he’d be sweet.

Despite his initial insistence that he could do the project himself, you’d taken up half the work. And you’d joined him in browsing through his massive catalogue of movies, in searching up screenplays to read, and in annotating them for techniques when starting to write yours.

You’ve come to make friends with one of the doormen by now. 

Just today you’d watched the 2004 Phantom of the Opera adaptation. And after a few hours of occupying his space and getting to know the nerdy boy a little better, you’d go straight back home to…Curse.

Whenever Choso made you feel tingly with his sweetness, Curse would amplify that heat to right between your legs. 

It’s been a week of getting to know Choso Kamo, and a week of having Curse splashed across your laptop screen—cock furiously hard n’ his moans echoing. He’d smile and utter your username whilst wearing his iconic mask and it’d be a high strong enough to follow into the day after. And often Choso would ask you what you’re so happy about.

Today, in particular, Curse had just finished one of his streams - cumming aaaaaall over the desk this time - when he’d settled himself back down and started chatting with the comments. Responding to one or two of yours.

You’re just about to joke about why he was sticking so long after his orgasm when he speaks once more- 

Voice somewhat serious, “Alright, now…settle down, settle down.” Curse waves his hand airily at the camera, throwing a middle finger up when the chat only gets more frenzied. “Tch- what brats you all are, would you wanna roleplay that someday?”

@vampzo333: YES PLEASE.

@likezmenpregnant: How about you be the brat…?

@Ietsmakeamovie: I would like that. 

@sixeyesorsixh0les: ^^

@0003h0lesforCurse: ^

“Fine fine…” Underneath the mask, he rolls his eyes fondly. “But I really do have something to announce-”

@likezmenpregnant: You’re pregnant.

@Ietsmakeamovie: I’m the father-

@Curse’swifey: NO MEEEEEEEEEEE!!

“I’m thinking of getting a partner for these streams.” He finally admits, rubbing his chin as though still in thought. And your heart stops-

@bipplruletheworld: so down.

@Cursenoticeme44: Omg yeeeeeeeeees!!

@daddytoeknee: YESYESYES.

The chat practically explodes, and you’re unsure what to feel about it—after all, you don’t know Curse and it’d be strange to feel a little possessive over his solo streams, however, you did have your preferences. But then again, you can’t help but imagine just how much hotter it would be to have two people- perhaps to see him make expressions he never has before…

Ultimately, you’re quiet as Curse leans in and scans the chat. His brows furrow just a little as he sweeps through the blurring usernames, “I dunno…I’m still thinking about it- I haven’t even asked this person, to be honest. I just wanted to know what you guys thought.” Nodding his head along or huffing out laughter at some of the comments, “Movie?”

You jolt—at being called out.

He wanted your opinion specifically? You suppose you did contribute to about half his comment section most streams.

But you stall as your fingers reach for the keyboard. 

Biting down on your lip and contemplating for a little while. Though he waits as patiently as ever-

@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t mind!!

Something seems to wash over him as he reads your comment, nodding. “I see.” 

He moves onto something else and his expression was indiscernible. 

You’re flickering your eyes to the artwork behind him, the small corner of it peaking into the frame, and it suddenly hits you that it’s the theatrical poster of The Phantom of the Opera (2004).

.

.

.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

There’s something your brain was telling you that you’re absolutely refusing to believe—after all, how many people in the world loved The Phantom of the Opera? Hell, how many people in the world have watched The Phantom of the Opera?

That didn’t mean that everyone you came across had a secret identity as one of the hottest streamers on C4mBoyfriends.

You were being paranoid, you told yourself. You were being utterly silly- and the next time you’re going over to Choso’s apartment was the very next day. Which wasn’t entirely ideal, given how much you’d tossed and turned after Curse’s last stream conjuring up all the possibilities…but Yaga wouldn’t accept a request for an extension even if you were set on fire in front of him. And so you went.

The pit of your stomach twists as Choso swings the lavish wooden door open and gives you a beaming smile. So innocent. So sweet.

He shakily pushes his glasses up as he welcomes you in. “Come in—s-sorry if I took a while to get to the door, I’ve been doing some decorating recently.”

His nervous smile is what makes you find your voice. And you’re dubiously looking around the luxurious apartment, “You need to do some decorating?”

“Believe it or not, yes.” Choso huffs. “Would you like something to drink? Or maybe to eat? I checked out that bakery you recommended last time and you’re right- they have the best Danish pastries.”

“Actually, Choso…” You’re shaking your head, shooting him a grateful smile. “I’m good. I’d think I’d prefer to start right away, if that’s alright? I really wanna get to Act 2 today.”

“O-oh, of course—!”

And he’s sweetly guiding you inside, whilst you attempt not to look like you’re taking two steps at a time. Back to that familiar room. Back to that familiar desk. Back to that (somewhat) familiar bed which most certainly did not have an artwork from The Phantom of the Opera on it—

You open the door and the first thing you’re seeing is the familiar plane of that white mask. The Phantom. 

Choso follows behind you and catches you staring at the poster. Gravelly tone echoing from behind, “I told you I did some decorating.”

And you jump-

Swivelling around to find him bearing you a sheepish smile, “Sorry if I startled you.” He pushes those chunky glasses up, “Tea?”

“S-sure…” You breathe, if anything for a thing to occupy your mouth with. Wait- not like that—!

And as Choso disappears down the hall, you’re taking a seat on the bed you’ve sat on countless, countless times before without a single care in the world. Now you’re sinking into the very - the very - edge as though it’d swallow you whole.

Body just resting on the plush comforter before-

“Hey, so I also have coffee if you would prefer?” Comes Choso’s sudden voice.

And you’re startling once more- “Just tea is fine, thanks.” Barely managing to get that through your lips, you’re watching as he disappears…as the sound of his footsteps echo…

Before darting off the bed and now heading towards the camera equipment you’d noticed in the corner the first time you’d been here. What you’d assumed to be part of another one of his classes or personal projects. Now, you’re leaning in and wondering with just which camera he showed his pretty cock off to millions, at just what height of his tripod he made your cunt so heated. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck this was real.

Now, you’re noticing things in the room that you’d never noticed before. Like the ring light kept underneath his bed, and the dresser in the corner with numerous rings- those weren’t costume props or anything. They were pure silver.

Heavy.

Heavy, like the pit in your stomach—excited and swirling. Just trembling at the tips of your fingers - ever-so-slightly - you’re reaching out as though to touch it, as though to feel the alternate version of Choso that you knew longer than you knew Choso-

“Ah, so you’ve realized.”

And then his voice permeates the room.

The room that suddenly seems smaller, the room that suddenly seems to rise ten degrees in temperature - though goosebumps skitter across your skin. And almost as though in a horror movie, you’re turning in slow motion to face the bespectacled man who was now holding up a tray of steaming hot tea. 

He walks over soundlessly and sets it on the coffee table with a slight click! And besides that, Choso walks over to the dressing table and puts his silver rings on.

One by one.

His eyes hold court with yours through the mirror, “How long?” Voice a deep timbre. 

You’re taking a step closer without even realizing, “Um…just last night. Just now- actually.”

He chuckles and you realize he’s asking how long you’ve known about Curse.

“I-I found you by chance. About a week ago, actually…” And then you say what’s been on your mind ever since you had, “Ever since you liked and unliked my repost.”

“Ah, a rookie mistake.” Choso comments. “I should have known better than to stalk using my public account.” And with all rings now put on and glinting in the lighting of his bedroom, Choso shuffles through his jewellery tray to pluck his earrings in and one eyebrow piercing. And then…one lip piercing—a lip ring that twinkles mischievously as he smiles.

He rises and you think you’ve never quite appreciated his built frame. 

His deep eyes as they’re locking in on you. Echoing out, “Though…you really can’t say much- can you, Movie?”

And though you knew that he knew- you can’t stop the zaps of electricity running through your body. 

Sputtering out, “Yeah-” Your fists clench and you’re looking up at the object of both your fantasies and your secret interest these past few days - melded into one. “Yeah, I really can’t. Choso you’re so…”

“Different?” He fixes his glasses, “Though I really am shy, I can’t deny that- especially around you. But it helps to be a little more antisocial when I’m around idiots.”

He leans in closer- so close that his scorchin’ hot breath wafts across your features. You have no idea how you’d diminished such a distance so soon…

“And if my memory serves me right-” Choso taps on the edge of his chin, in mocking thought. “-I seem to remember that Movie agreed to have a partner on my stream.” You shiver. And he looks at you adoringly, “So how about it? Wanna make a movie, baby?”

You step a little closer. 

“Only if I get to match wardrobes.”

He chuckles and picks you up to spin you around-

And then it’s getting to work. And then it’s shuffling through his closet to find a mask that matches his own. 

He stretches on the rubber a bit and brings it to you—“I bought this one when I first started, but it ended up being too tight- I think it’d be just the one for you.”

It was. It fit perfectly.

And then he paces around the room and starts to set up- before Choso’s gaze catches you hovering around the bed, and then he’s clicking his tongue and forgoing the tripods altogether. With just the professional lights and the high-quality camera, Choso places the camera on top of the coffee table. Facing the foot of the bed - everything and anything could be seen.

Just with a few clicks he’s started the stream.

And with just a little nudge he’s urging you to sit next to him. 

“Hello, my little sluts—” Choso- or should you say Curse croons towards the camera. On one of his monitors you can see him being projected there - waving, in his knitted vest that clashed with his mask. You stand off awkwardly out of sight from the camera. He smiles. “As you can see, things are a little different today…”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: uuuuuu change of angle!! change of angle!!

@bewbsRlife: ARE WE GETTING A SURPRISEEEEEEE??

@likezmenpregnant: Pls be pregnant, Curse <3

“No- no, I’m not pregnant.” He laughs, “But I have been thinking about what we talked about last night.”

@bipplruletheworld: omg this can’t be…

“And guess what? I did what you guys told me about- and I talked to her.”

@bipplruletheworld: yessssssss

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE^^

@bewbsRlife: WOOOOOO-

@daddytoeknee: Omg where’s Movie, Ik she’d love this- heh. Imagine this WAS Movie though…

“So, my little sluts…” Choso announces, “I’d like to introduce you all to my new partner—” And he’s reaching out and clasping your wrist, looking up to check for reassurance before continuing. Miming whispering to the camera, “And this is her first time on stream, so be nice…”

You’re sheepishly walking into their view. 

Slightly bowing your intrusion into the stream, “Th-thanks for having me?”

“Isn’t she cuuuuute?” He asks the commenters, and there’s a flurry of agreements. You’re even spotting a few questions about your name n’ interests, even kinks, amongst those - all of which Choso waves off with a laugh. “Now now—we can have the Q&A later. For now, let’s get to the fun part…”

@Curse’swifey: FUCK THAT’S MY FAV PART-

@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Movie you’re missing out on a historic moment uwu

And the fun part consisted of clamoring onto the bed as fast as lightning. Letting the mattress dip n’ creak its protests out as Choso sits on it with his back turned to the camera, then lovingly pats his manspread thighs as a signal for you to climb on. Meaty muscles. Thick enough for you to want to sink your teeth into- how could you never have noticed?

Perhaps because this was the polar opposite of how he acted when he was on campus - always keeping to himself, never taking up too much space. Now he was practically vacuuming it all up so you had nowhere else to sit.

And you were more than happy to climb onto Choso Kamo’s lap.

Sitting your ass down on his readily-awaiting seat. From under your skirt you feel something hot—and throbbing between his legs. Cylindrically shaped and curved to the left.

Just the slightest movement makes his rock-hard erection twitch underneath- and you’re whimpering at the lewd sensation. At the way he drips out a hefty dollop of precum that seeps through his trousers and sticks to the front of your panties, making you gasp—“Ch-Cho-”

“Shhhh.” Choso wraps a hand ‘round your throat and cuts you off. 

And before you know it, he’s bouncing his knees to get you to slide your drippin’ pussy up and down his bulge. Up and down. Turning towards the camera, “Ya hear that?” Up and down. “My girl’s so needy- she’s already begging for it. But I dunno if she deserves it, huh?”

@bewbsRlife: I MEANNNN

@theh0rniestsoldier: i’m feeling mean today…

@daddytoeknee: Give her your mouth!!

“Mouth? I love that idea.” Choso titters.

And then he’s giving a teasing slap on the side of your ass cheeks—smack! 

“Please-”

“Sit on my face now, baby.” He purrs, eyes flickerin’ with pure need underneath his mask. Then leaning in to whisper in a loooow tone for only you to hear. “You know Choso, but let’s see if you can handle Curse.”

Then he leans back on the bed - his head pointing in the direction of the camera. 

And you’re shuffling up Choso’s toned, brick-hard body—straddling your knees upon either side of his head, veerin’ your hips right atop that pretty face. You’re sitting - right in front of the camera. Though nothing was revealed…yet. 

And Choso’s digging his tongue up to you instantly- he isn’t even making it past the fabric of your panties. But that doesn’t stop him from lettin’ his tastebuds take a looooong, luxurious lick of your swollen pussy.

Right down your sopping wet slit. 

Suddenly, the room echoes with one of his pornographic moans- the very same ones you’d listened to night after night through your laptop speakers. Now they’re even louder, and somehow even sexier, sending electricity shooting straight up, up, up from your core.

And even more treacherous was the way you’re feeling something cold…and metallic at the very middle of Choso’s tongue. Rock-hard. It takes whatever’s left of your rationality to realize that it’s a silvery tongue piercing smack-dab where his tastebuds kissed your pussy. Scraping alongside where you were most sensitive. 

Instantly; your head tips back and saliva starts bubbling at the sides of your lips. “Fuh-fuck…” And before you know it—you’re starting to drag your throbbing pussy up n’ down his features.

Short, barely-there jerks of your shy, shy hips.

And Choso chuckles huskily to himself at the cute way you were yearnin’ for his mouth. But what you didn’t expect was for him to reach one ringed hand up and squeeze the left side of your hips.

Your only warning.

Before he’s suddenly tightening his hold on you and reaching one more hand up- snaking it beneath your skirt like some pervert. Choso edges towards your throbbing cunt and places one good slap—

It’s the resounding smack! of skin-on-skin that makes you halt more than anything.

Jaw-dropped. Thighs quivering. The white-hot pleasure runs through your spine and leaves you barely hearing his roughened words, a tone lower than you knew his voice to be- as though drunk on the delicious taste of your pussy already. “Greedy, greedy girl…” Choso tuts, “Don’t tell me you’re trying to enjoy yourself without letting our dear audience in on the fun?”

Oh, shit.

You’re letting your head snap to where the camera was positioned and blinking its one gluttonous eye. Comments flooding the screen of the monitor so fast that you couldn’t read them-

You’d completely forgotten about the stream for a second. 

“I—oh, I um.” 

Yet another harsh smack! “Forgot, huh?” Amusement seeps into Choso’s words, as though he’d already guessed the situation.

You admit, “M-maybe…”

“I’m afraid I can’t blame you, baby.” Smack! “Curse’s mouth is too good, huh?” He yammers on and on, his tongue nudging deeper, his rippling tastebuds skidding into every ridge- as if trying to fuck you through your damn panties. “This pussy’s too good–she’s purring f’me already. Hear her?”

And you’re not sure why- but you’re nodding to whatever he says. “Y-yes—fuck.” 

“Mhm. So why don’t we let our lovely audience hear, too, huh?” You’re barely given the time to register his suggestion, before Choso husks out a command. “Lift your skirt up, baby.”

Your thighs squeeze around his head at the notion-

And your fingertips touch the short hemline of your skirt.

@Cursenoticeme44: Holy shit.

@theh0rniestsoldier: i’ve been waiting for thisssssssssss-

@daddytoeknee: WOW.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: bby’s so needy!!

@R€4leater: munch Curse #canon

The chat explodes as you let them bear witness to Choso’s face stuffed between your pretty legs- he’s redly-flushed and ravenous. They could see the slightest glimpse of his nose n’ the way he’s driving it between your sodden pussylips, diving and diving, they could see the glossy layers coating your cunt—and the way Choso’s pink lips come up to suck on it. 

Those handsome cheeks of his hollow out, as he’s makin’ out with your pussy through your panties.

Like a man starved.

Long canines slightly nippin’ at your folds- almost wolfish in mannerisms.

“Oh p-please…” You’re quivering atop him. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—just that it feels so good to have him veering his tongue hungrily against your cunt like this. And you wanted more.

More, more, and more.

Choso’s holding onto your restless hips with a clammy hand- he’s stuck to you almost like adhesive. And he guides your hips - he fucking slows them down - whilst you continue moanin’ and shaking atop his raw mouth. Glistening wet tongue extending even more than its usual length to slide-slide-sliiiiide your panties to the side-

And you’re gasping at the sudden whiff of cold bedroom air against your naked pussy. “Ch-” A spank. “I mean- fuck, Curse?”

“Mhm, m’here, baby.” He drawls out. Slightly slurring with all the extra globs of your pussy juices - pooling straight into your mouth, n’ Choso reaches up and smooches your soft swollen folds to smear it all around. Like some gloss. “M’here aaaaaand- so are 820k sluts that wanna watch you break.”

“B-break?” You’re gaping, “I thought you were just gonna- ngh, eat me out…?”

“Baby, Curse never ‘just’ does anything.” And you’re shocked to find him sliding his tongue out, tipping his head back to refer to the camera on the coffee table. “Isn’t that right, fuckin’ pervs?”

@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah.

@0003h0lesforCurse: duhhhhhhhhh

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU’RE THE BEST CURSE

@Fishygurodad: Fuck, her pussy’s divine.

“Heh…” Choso smiles into your cunt, “And so whaddaya say? How many slaps before I stick my tongue in her?”

@vampzo333: 3

@bbynohuuuuzz: 14

@Ilikepr1menumbers: 29

“Since m’feeling nice- read your favorite one out, baby.” He murmurs.

To which you’re unable to do anything but- you tilt your upper half just the slightest bit closer to the monitor and pick out the first one you can read through the blur of words and numbers:

@Fishygurodad: Until she cries.

Oh.

Your blood runs cold.

Your cunt grows heated.

And before you can either rectify your recitation or beg for mercy—Choso doesn’t hesitate before fixing the rings on his fingers to be slightly higher than before. Making sure they’re in line of him planting one- two- three good, loud spanks on your sobbin’ cunt. “O-oh my god- fuck, mmm, oh my god.”

Until the skin of his fingertips seems to redden, and your pussylips feel raw - “How about that?” He asks- not from you, but from the viewers.

@daddytoeknee: I don’t see her crying yet…also idkkkkk I’m getting Movie vibes.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: movie would’ve loved this-

And then it’s one after the other. Again and again, Choso’s emblazoning the rude outlines of his rings against yours - until you’ve fucking memorized the ridges n’ patterns of the one ring on his middle finger with the carving of an octopus. 

Tentacles flared out.

“Shit, not that damn ring again.”

And as he’s doing so he can’t help himself- fuck, he can’t heeeeelp himself. His canines dig into the sticky fabric of your underwear like a damn dog - and throughout the duration of what his hands were doing, you’re hearing the sharp riiiiip of fabric tearing—!

Soon enough, your panties are tattered and ruined in Choso’s maw- just from his mouth. He spits it out and continues swerving his thickened tips inwards to give a loving pinch on your clit—and you can’t help but burst into peals of shrill, needy cries. Both pain and pleasure mixing as he doles out a final swat-

Before Choso swipes your pussylips apart and spits- the glutinous glob of his saliva landing directly on your hole. He doesn’t give it the time to seep back out—instead, he’s surging up and shoving his face between your legs.

This time, without the barrier of your panties in the way. 

@CCpervnextdoor: HE FUCKING RIPPED IT OFF WITH HIS MOUTH??

@bewbsRlife: HOLY SHIT CURSE-

@Fishygurodad: Shiiiiit, I’d do the same ngl.

And then Choso’s shoving his tongue inside and slurpin’ all around your wet hole like a damn animal…

In and out.

In and out.

Probin’ into slippery sweet spots.

Chin hitting the back of your slit. Plastic mask rubbing against your clit. 

Choso’s pierced tongue was going absolutely fucking wild inside of you. He wastes no time before gripping either side of your cute hips and slammin’ your pussy down onto his mouth- hard and fast. The perverted nerd is slashing his tongue inwards, smearin’ apart your glue-covered folds. As deep as he could go. He doesn’t care if it hurts, he just needs to make sure that loooong slick muscle of his tastebuds were scrapin’ every inch of your walls.

With the curved tip of it, he flexes it against a sweet bundle of nerves. Making you buck with a pitchy moan of his name—“Ch-Cuuuurse—!” And the sensation was made even more delicious with the way his orb tongue piercing presses in contrast against your hot cunt. “It feels so good, Curse.”

“I already know.” Choso pipes up- cocky in all the ways you never knew he could be. “I already know- but what about those fuckers watching, huh?”

“W-well…” Spit drivels down your chin, and you’re struggling to keep your eyes focused to read the urgent chat. 

@bipplruletheworld: they’re so HOT!!

@NERDSAREMYBABYGIRLZ: OHHHH WHAT A MUNCH

@daddytoeknee: Me next <3

And it was clear that they were seeing the effect he had on you- how could they not?

Your eyes were dazed and teary, your thighs were shaking like leaves in the wind, Choso was making your body twitch—just from the way he’s reeling his entire tongue out. And breathing out steadily and slowly against your twitchin’ pussylips, freezing cold air that leaves you even wetter on top of him.

He’s unfastening his mouth - leaving it wiiiiide open for all the satiny ribbons of your slick to enter his gullet. And once you’re done- that isn’t enough riling you up.

Choso leaves a good slap on your folds and asks, “So…what about it?” Muffled through his mouthfuls.

“They agree- they agree—” You’re keening out. Star-struck, seeing pleasure burst behind your shuttered eyelids at the sudden stinging. “Fuck- you’re the hck! best I’ve ever had, Curse.”

“I agree.” He hums. And as if this entire ordeal wasn’t sinful enough, Choso’s swashing around the silky-smooth sap he’d collected from your leaking pussy. Letting the flavor seep into his tastebuds, before he’s then spitting again on your pussy. A semi-opaque layer of lewdness that coats your inner thighs in a sheen that catches the lighting. 

Perfect on camera.

You’re squeezing your wettened thighs together and creating an audible squelch!

“Awwww, look- this pussy agrees, too.”

The gooey addition startles you- and you rut.

Only straight down onto his awaiting fingers.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: oh, shit is he…

@legsopenforcurses: With the rings on, too!!

@likezmenpregnant: My show is onnnnn

It’s such a fucking mess for him to navigate- even with his own fingers. Soon enough, you’re arching your back as you feel him intrude a single ringed digit between those utterly swollen pussylips of yours—almost difficult to find your snug hole between them. You’re damn lucky that Choso’s fingers were slender as well as incredibly lengthy.

Because he’s circlin’ your tight orifice a few times - only a few times - before inserting the sections of his finger. Quirking just right and hitting the exact bundle of your nerves.

That infamous g-spot that made you yelp once he starts and keeps on hitting.

And his rings- oh, fuck, his rings.

Just so chunky and textured. They were the perfect designs to press up against your walls and massage them stupid- every drag meant that you’re feeling them dig into ridges n’ crevices you hadn’t even known existed. 

Hitting and hitting. Curling his dexterous finger and scraping- “Fuuuuck, oh my god.” The doughy tip of his finger soon becomes damn-near molded to the area where it was, and your eyes flicker to the back of your head as you continue anglin’ your hips so he could hit it perfectly. “Right there, Curse- r-right there.”

“I know.” Choso rolls his eyes - at least what seems like it underneath his mask. “That’s why I’m hitting it. Honestly…is my girl dickmatized?” He utters as he sucks on your clit—ultimately erupting a sobbing slurp! that makes him nod. “Mhm, I think my girl’s dickmatized.”

Tipping his head back before you can refute his claims. He then addresses the audience-

“Whaddaya think, my little pervs? Dickmatized already…maybe I should go easy on her, huh?”

@olderandR4w: nooooooooooo

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: NEVER.

@Fishygurodad: Go even harder.

“Tough crowd.” And with that said, Choso’s stuffin’ in just a few more fingers. Each with their own numerous rings and sopping wet sounds accompanying them—slurp!

One. 

Two.

You’re counting about three of his prolonged digits pushin’ your tight walls to their limits, rubbing your sweet spots raw with his constant bashing rhythm, before lustful fogginess coils around your brain. And it’s around here that Choso catches onto the glazed look in your eyes and chuckles—

“Ohhhh, you really are dickmatized.” He hums to himself, though you’re sure the professional mic picks it up either way. “And so soon, too. Probably hasn’t had a good finger-”

A fourth being added so that he can scissor apart your velvety channel whilst still multi-tasking with his other fingers to ram into your g-spot.

“-or even a good mouth on ‘er…” To emphasize his point, he presses a dramatically loud kiss upon your clit. One that’s making you bounce n’ bounce your hips atop his clammy face, and grind your throbbing nub down on his pointed nose. The addition of his mask just makes that cool touch even more lecherous. “My poor girl.” Choso still mutters out despite the way he’s gluing your cunt to his mouth. He pulls away from your clit with a loud pop! “What do you think, my slutty audience?”

At the slurring question you’re letting your head down to watch him. “Ch…Curse, what’ve you got on your mind-”

“M’just asking what else you deserve, baby.” He coos. And questions them once more, “How about a little quiz? Which parts of Curse are going to make my poor, poor girl feel the best? A). My fingers. B). My mouth. Or…”

And he pretends to listen to your noisy wet pussy once more.

“Or C…”  You could practically feel the grin plastering against your needy pussy. The way his eyes narrow in sinful amusement beneath his mask- you didn’t have to see his full face to know that Choso was enjoying this perhaps way more than he should. “—all of the above.”

And it was futile to think that they would answer anything else.

C floods your vision.

You’re letting your mouth droop, and your gaze meet Choso’s own between your legs- but you’re finding that you don’t have to say a thing for him to already know the answer.

And as expected, he gives a final roll of his tongue atop your clit - before munchin’ on your aching cunt once more. This time, he’s tunneling his fingers deep into your cavern whilst still licking inside with his prolonged tongue—when stretched out, Choso’s tongue could reach almost as deep as his fingers could.

Your cunt was being stretched-out to lengths you never thought about before.

Not only were Choso’s fingers thicker than yours, but his tongue was something ravenous- no matter how much you’re flinching in sensitivity, he isn’t slowing down. “Mmm-” He groans, barely breathing through even his flared nostrils. You’re hit with the distinct feeling that he thinks he doesn’t even have to breathe as long as he had you on him like this - “Mmm, hold still.”

Taking advantage of the fact to lavish your sensitive inches with kiss upon kiss. To grind his nose down purposefully on your clit. To glide his metallic piercing across those hidden spots. To bash your poor g-spot in again and agaaaain with his fingers before his tongue’s coming to the rescue to soothe the slightly raw sting-

So it’s not long before you’re throwing your head back and cumming.

Perhaps the strongest you’ve ever felt when you’re in the throes of your high.

You barter your hips forwards and keep up a steady pace - one that’s making Choso hit the exact spots you wanted him to during the peaks of your high. The utmost peaks. “Shit—shit, just like that.” Breathless. “K-keep going, baby, it feels so good.”

And he doesn’t even answer - too caught up in fucking you through your orgasm.

In the way you shudder above him. In the way you’re only getting even sweeter by the second-

Bodyheat raising a few degrees in temperature; your heart sings and the bed creaks with how much you’re jostling from above. This was even better than touching yourself to videos of him, there were so many thrills of bliss that he’s wringing out of you- like he’d wring out of himself during his solo videos. 

With both his fingers and his tongue, slurpin’ and sliding. Those doe-like eyes of his are edging straight to the back of his skull as he feels your drenched walls cleeeeench around his pierced tongue, as though it’s the best thing he’s ever fucking felt. And you’re acting on impulse - you really are - because the coffee table was positioned right beside the foot of the bed.

And all you had to do was reach your arm out to grab the simple camera there. Turning it into your point of view as Choso’s sweaty brown bangs stick to his forehead, as sweat trickles down his temple, as he lets out soft yet unyielding moans whenever you’re squeezing your thighs around his head.

@cockycockowner: no homo but that’s the most beautiful man i’ve ever seen.

@theh0rniestsoldier: woah he’s PUSSYDRUNK

@Fishygurodad: Show me his POV.

@daddytoeknee: Don’t you know that she’s his girl now smh?^^

@daddytoeknee: Movie-core- wya ml??

Choso cocks his head and keeps making out with your pussy in all the ways that make your toes curl—pleasure elongating from your orgasm and spreading into every part of you. Your vessels, your cells, your atoms.

They’re all buzzing with pleasure and still aching for more once Choso finally pulls away with a loud pop! of his lips releasing. 

When they do, you’re sneaking a look down at him and noticing just how red n’ swollen they were. Even the skin around his jaw was flushed with the constant ramming contact. And the viewers are just gobbling it up - subscribing bells keep dinging here and there, and everywhere. 

Just a single look at his stats on-screen reveal that Choso’s climbed up to 870k just since you’d started this stream.

And it’s after a little while - after he’s had his fill - that the dark-haired man finally taps at the side of your thigh to gesture for you to get up. Though, even then, he’s tightening his grip on your body—going against his own fucking instruction to press a final few open-mouthed kisses before he’s done.

He chases after your pussy with his maw for a little- before he’s finally sitting up.

And it’s only then that he seems to notice the camera in your hand, blinking his glazed eyes a few times to make sure he isn’t dreaming things up. Once it finally registers, the most attractive grin spreads across his face. “You changed POVs?”

“Had to.” You admit, “I wanted them to see how pretty you are…”

“Guess you finally learned about sharing, hm? Greedy girl.” He chuckles darkly to himself. And then he starts looming closer, “But you realize that the show’s not done yet, right?”

You gulp.

@Fishygurodad: Fuck her already, damn!! I’m only here for her.

@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Hate to admit it, but he’s lowk right. I think I’ve discovered I’m bi…

@vampzo333: ^^

@girrrrrrrrrrth: ^^

“So impatient.” He looks at the monitor, reading the chat and tuts. “Honestly- so ungrateful. I should end the stream right here and fuck her on my own terms.”

There’s a frenzied flurry of comments- all of which you were sure were begging for Choso not to stop and bashing that one commenter for attempting to start a revolution. To which you’re only giggling and handing over the camera to him.

Choso - as the expert - then positions it somewhere by the edge of the fluffy pillows: where they’d be able to see the expanse of both your bodies and where you’d soon be connected…

And then you’re shedding your clothes in a hurry- making it to your smart blouse before he’s reaching a hand up and tearing through it. The buttons hit the floor, and at your noise of displeasure Choso merely lets out a half-delirious giggle. 

He leans in and whispers, “I-I have a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt I’d love for you to wear.”

The change in demeanour gives you utter whiplash, and you can’t help but stare at him open-mouthed.

“What?” Choso asks, next moving on to shrugging off his own fabrics. They’re landing on a heap beside the bed, and your lips slightly part at the display of his red-hot erection—it’s just as large and sensual as all those streams had proven him to be. Polished strawberry top. Slender veins along the middle. 

A happy trail of dark brown - nearly black - glistened with the splattered remnant of his precum. Just like the gleaming mess across his chin, mouth, and cheekbones that Choso wore like a medal.

He was slightly longer than even on camera- and even prettier up-close. Way up close- he shuffles his body up yours n’ fucks your tits a few times to dollop out glistening translucent precum across yours tits.

“Lighting’s not the best here.” Choso explains- or at least attempts to pin an explanation onto that. Onto something he’s clearly been wanting to do for so long. “Had to highlight ‘em, baby.”

You scoff, “It’s just…” Throwing a cautious glance at the camera, you lower your voice. “You’re so different from how you are in real life.”

“Oh? And how did you expect me to be, huh?” He positions himself between your legs - wrapping both of them around his waist. Before then thinking better of it and throwing them even more lewdly around his neck instead—his plush priggish tip kisses your entrance. “Did you expect me to be like…”

He trails off.

He doesn’t need to complete the rest of his sentence- and you don’t think you’d have heard him even if he tried.

Because in that very moment, Choso’s jerking his pale hips back a mere few inches—then plopping his globular tip between your pussylips and push-push-puuuuuushing. Fucking past the initial restraint of your first ring of muscle, he’s funneling in some thick inches that make your heels bang against the muscles of his back.

And he doesn’t even seem to notice.

He doesn’t even seem to breathe as he’s letting his cock swerve inside. Get suctioned inside. Get his Prince Albert’s piercing crept down your sensitive innards. Get gobbled up between your greedy legs-

You clench ‘round him and Choso throws his head back with a low, broken moan.

“Oh p-please—” He’s babbling out through unsteady pink lips, a lazy line of dribble starting up from one corner of his mouth. Those long lashes of his flutter as he’s reaching one bulky hand up to grip the headboard, and placing his right one on your hips- keeping you steady.

Fingers trembling. Muscles rippling.

@likezmenpregnant: Woah…make him do that again…

@sixeyesorsixh0les: SUBBY CURSE HELLO??

@whimperwhiteboywhimper: oh I am SO here for this

@Fishygurodad: Whatever…

Your eyes bulge once his throat cracks with what sounds like a whimper—“Please it feels so good.” And though you couldn’t quite make it out, even the chat seemed stunned as Choso punctures out a broken stutter of his hips. Delving a few inches into your goopy insides- though not enough to bottom out completely, as you’re still too wound-up for him to fit completely. And you’re able to pinpoint exactly where he’s using the orbed metal of his first piering. With more to come…“Ngh- oh.” Broken noises emanating into your eardrums and the mic. “It f-feels shooooo good, baby.”

Choso’s head drops into the crook of your neck, and there - and there - you’re feeling his cheeky grin.

And suddenly you’re understanding.

Oh—he was toying with you.

And he was doing it in a way that’d completely fooled you- and perhaps all of his viewers, too.

But before you’re able to open your mouth to bite back something at him, Choso staggers his hips back and gives you a vicious jackhammer with his cock, “O-ohhhhh, my god—” Your toes curl atop his shoulders, slippery with sweat. He hadn’t even rammed all the way inside yet, and yet the slightly left-leaning angle of his shaft was driving you wild.

Big and thick.

Running the slick globe of his tip down your walls, Choso probes a direct hit to that spot you loved so much. And he knew you loved it so much—he’d mapped out your entire pussy earlier, of course.

And yet, he’s still gasping as though the pearls gates of heaven had descended right here and there. He’s letting his sweet caramel eyes widen convincingly as he peers down at you, “I-is that…the spot, baby?”

@Curse’swifey: HE sounds SO NGH.

@daddytoeknee: Daddy likey…

@daddytoeknee: Also Movie would’ve really LOVED this, huh?

You hiss, “Curse, you should already know-”

“But how could I know—?” He exclaims. “This is my first time, after all…” Then Choso’s plastering his clammy tattooed hips - with a snake on the side - to yours, as though the two were connected by the force of the world’s strongest magnets: pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing. Every single battering ram of his mazing cocktip ends up lodged against your sweetly bruised g-spot, marking his circumference out with the sheer pace at which he was hitting it. 

“Shit—” Your nails clench on the sheets, and feeling jealous- Choso guides them to fist his hair instead. “Shit, right there. It f-feels so good-”

“There?” The once-nerdy man breathes out in awe. Disbelief every single time - or at least the mocking imitation of one. Swipin’ a line of precum down your nervy spot once more, “Th-there, baby—?”

Something breathy- octaves higher in his tone. “Yes- yes there-”

“There-” Choked up and ruined. Husky grunts hatching in the back of his throat. There was something there in his words that you couldn’t quite pinpoint—a sort of undertone of primal need, primal amusement as he ruined your pussy with his speedily pap-papping hips, but acted as though he had no idea what he was doing. Every single syllable uttered was met with a thorough whack of his curved cockhead against your particular spot- “There there there there- there-”

“Fuh-fuuuck-”

“So this g-spot’s really m-mine now, baby?” Choso asks. 

You whine, back arching off the mattress. “Yes-”

“Does she really have my mark on it now?”

“Yes…?” Eyes shooting open as you’re half-registering his question in your hazed brain. He bores his dark eyes down at you intensely. And as though to emphasize his point, you’re feeling his perfectly round tip squeezing into your throat by the next few thrusts. Deeper and deeper.

His Jacob’s Ladder starting to ease its frigid way past your entrance and glide across the roof of your cunt. It was a sensation like nothing you’ve ever felt before. 

Choso probes even more, “I-is she really shaped to the shape of my cock now?” 

“Cho—ngh.” Quickly shutting your cockdrunken self up. Quickly reaching a ringed hand up to squeeze your throat- before he’s languidly snaking his way up to squeezing your pretty cheeks together.

Smushing your face in a way that was almost disrespectful- though, not that you were in any state of mind to call him out on it. And there’s a mean inkling in Choso’s tone as he coos, “Awww, b-baby, why aren’t you answering me?” Another rude slap! of his hips make your own sear in flames- that damn strength of his. Those damn piercings of his. “Is your poor, poor Curse not good enough?” 

Before you can answer, he’s looking at the blinking camera. 

“My babies, my girl doesn’t love my cock anymore…”

“I do—I do-” 

Squeezing his doughy-soft restraints - those contrastingly mean fingers of his - around your cheeks. He’s managing to smush your mouth shut and make you echo out the most pathetically pleading whines—as he fucks you. Determined and targeted.

The glossy rotund edge of his tip presses against your g-spot a few more times before you’re managing to make yourself take a peek at the comments on the monitor. 

Almost too far away- almost too blurry with the tears in your eyes. 

@Curse’snewestharem: Awwwww poor bby </33

@CCpervnextdoor: I would LOVE your cock, Curse!!

@girrrrrrrrrrth: is it just me or is he teasing us?

@Fishygurodad: ^^Yeah, he’s totally a fraud.

@Curseswombmommy: ^^girl shut up

“Th-they really think you’re oh-so-innocent…” You’re whispering up at him. Overstimulated tears in your eyes.

Breath hitching every time he’s surging his tattooed hips forwards and hitting that one spot particularly hard. Though there was never such a thing as too hard…

And Choso’s shooting you a secret smile - one just between the two of you - before morphing his expression into that of picture-perfect innocence. Roleplaying the demeanor of his nerdy self on campus, mixed with the utterly sultry—sexual way he was draaaaagging his lengthy cock in and out of your cunt.

Eventually, Choso’s emptying his inches out n’ bruising the bottom of your pussy. All of his nine - you seriously felt nine throbbing inches - inches shaping out the in-betweens of your legs. All of the beaded barbells of his Jacob’s Ladder massaging inside- the slitherin’ feeling of them making themselves at home. Zig-zagging and slithering. 

He feels the sponginess of your cervix and presses a hand down on your abdomen just to make sure, before changing that excitement into one of almost-genuine bafflement- “I-I really bottomed out?” Choso’s pinkish bottom lip juts out and quivers dramatically.

“Of course, you did.” You’re ready to scoff-

But whatever sarcastic sound was in the back of your throat gets quickly dissolved at the sight of Choso with genuine tears in his eyes. Glistening. “But I never- ngh, never thought I’d be able to.” He puts some more merciless pressure on your stomach that makes you buck—

And the only thing you can do is let your head tip back into the pillows.

The only thing you can do is let out a few mottled moans as he rubs over the small tummy bulge he was fucking into you. Pushing his palm down so that he could feel it. 

Whispering out, “I-I never thought this pussy would claim my cock as- ngh, hers, hm?” And for the moment there, you’re completely sure that he isn’t talking to you. Rather, your pussy that was sobbing out squelches after every one of his jackhemmerin’ thrusts. “And it’s not too big, right?”

“N-never—”

“Because m’just a nerd with a- hngh, biiiiiig fuckin’ cock.” How pitiful, right? He’s letting his long, dark lashes flutter as Choso avoids meeting your eyes—as though in shyness. He drills his hips even deeper - one unforgettable strike after the other following every word he spoke. “Just a big- fat- fucking- cock-”

“Please—!” Eventually, your arms reach upwards and you’re grabbing ahold of whatever part of him it is you could reach first. Which just-so-happened to be his bulky deltoids.

Choso’s brows genuinely seem to furrow at the lewdness of you digging your nails into his muscles, leaving your marks for everyone and anyone to see even after this stream has ended. And so he continues in his faux-innocent tone, “Oh? Did that feel good, baby?”

Purposefully slidin’ his cock across your g-spot so that you’d have to cry out. “Y-yeeees—”

“I didn’t even know, baby.” His mouth hangs open, and the most lustrous squelches! echo between your two connected bodies. Your cunt n’ his precum were making such messes…“I had no idea…”

His Jacob’s Ladder leaves your channel feeling raw n’ overstimulated- you feel raw and overstimulated. 

And you’re laid-out on the bed dazed and feeling so fucking good as Choso’s picking his pace up even more, you notice for a split-second that his hands have moved. No longer was he holding onto your cheeks n’ watching you squirm—now, the nerdy man hooks both hands around your sweaty thighs and pins them close to his body.

Holding them in place as he leans down, down, dooooooown until the caps of your knees hit your tits. 

You’re keening at the stretch, and a searing burn spreads from between your pussy and along your hamstrings. How did he even hide such strength underneath those soft knitted vest? Such a body?

Before you know it, you’re being pressed into your first-ever mating press.

And Choso gapes as though he was just as bewildered as you, “O-oh…did I do that?” He’s fucking asking you—however, when your stunned expression bears no answer, he turns and asks the same question from the camera. The bursts of replies obviously agree n’ tease him. And he’s shaking his head ever-so-slightly, “Did I really bend you in- heh-” A slight chuckle escapes him. “—half, baby?”

And what else can you do but nod and nod and nod—? 

“I think this is called a…breeding press?” He cocks his head ever-so-slightly, before shaking his head. “No wait- a mating press.”

“A m-mating press.” You’re repeating lamely.

“I c-can’t believe I’ve folded you into a mating press, baby.” Choso nearly snarls at himself, his hips accelerating until that rouge-tipped cock of his was almost nothing but a blur. “Can’t believe—s’like my body is moving before my mind, ngh. My fat cock’s not hittin’ you too deep, right, my girl?”

“Not in the l-least…”

And he really was long enough to make each and every probe feel as though it was slam-slam-slamming into your throat- the capped crown of his shaft was entering crevices n’ crannies you hadn’t even known you possessed. All marked out precisely by the silvery orb of his Prince Albert’s. 

Just then, after your answer, Choso reaches his left hand up to wrap ‘round your throat - and then hauls you back down to meet his slapping hips.

A thrust even harder than the ones before it.

Your breath gets snatched out of your lungs, dissipating into the heady air filled with the contact-riddled sounds of sex. Hard and fast. Only getting harder the longer you have your ankles looped ‘round his neck—“Not too hard, is it, baby?” Chosos asks you once more.

And you don’t have anything to spit out besides, “Oh f-fuck off.”

He gasps dramatically-

Well, not exactly dramatically. But in a way you knew was fake, and in a way that sends the chat exploding into comments.

The nerd pouts cutely, “Well, that’s not very nice…”

You’re rolling your eyes—right before Choso’s genuinely sending them rolling with his two fingers clamped around your clit. Using the silvery edges of his rings, he runs a few massages that end up with you sobbing and blabbering out your pleasure. 

@Curse’swifey: FUCKKKKKKKKKK they’re both so hot. THEY’RE BOTH SO RUINED.

@peepeesarebetterfictional: they both look like they’re gonna cum soon hehe

@bewbsRlife: CUM CUM CUM CUM CUM

Biting back. “I would argue th-that that’s not very nice, either.”

“But m’just trying to make my gorgeous girl cum…” And from where he’d been looming his pretty face above yours, Choso then lets his head droop down between your tits. During his ravenous pace, he’s roverin’ his mouth all over to kiss and suck at your tits, your nipples.

His cold lip ring drags across your left areola- and he catches onto the way you’re shivering. Before Choso then grabs your nipple between his lips n’ hollows his cheeks out sucking—“Promise m’just trying to make you feel- hah, good.” He mutters, slightly muffled. “Promise I just wanna fuck my cock raw if it means making my lifelong crush feel good…”

“Cho- Curse, are you…?” Your eyes widen.

And his own flap droopily a few times, “Hmmm?”

And that proved it.

That proved it.

Because Choso Kamo could be pretending to be a stuttering, panting, blushing mess on your heavenly cunt all he wanted- he could pretend to be pussydrunk out of his mind. But at the end of the day, it was impossible to hide when pretend turned into something…more. 

When the cocksure streamer that’d been driving you wild all this time morphs into the contentedly pussy-whipped nerd you expected him to be deep down inside.

His eyes genuinely glazed and blinking longingly.

His hair drenched in sweat.

His skin flushed with need- and only flushing even more fiercely the longer he kept his eyes on you. 

Without much ado, you’re throwing your hands around his neck and tuggin’ him as far as he could crane his neck when his entire body feels like collapsing onto you and into your maddening pussy. 

Choso pistons his hips slightly upwards to hear the slurp of his Jacob’s Ladder sliding across your walls, and he grooooans—

“Curse, baby…” You hum.

“Mhmmmm?” He replies with half-lidded eyes. Barely focused.

This was the big, bad #1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends? As though sensing your thoughts, Choso’s fingers grow a little more frenzied on your clit. “I need you to cum inside, okay?”

He jolts at the idea- that sinful, sinful idea. Before chuckling, “Never had any other plan, baby.” And then he turns to the camera, “What do you think, fuckers? Think my girl deserves to cum?”

@Fishygurodad: Yes.

@Curse’swifey: YES.

@likezmenpregnant: Yesssss~

@girrrrrrrrrrth: yesyesyes.

@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah-

He’s holding out a little longer to make sure there wasn’t a single ‘no’ in there - and had there been one, you’re sure that Choso would have stopped and edged your incoming orgasm until it was a wave of complete agreement.

Luckily for you, they liked you.

And all he does now is press down harder on your g-spot from inside, lingering, and massage a pretty heart on your clit once more, lingering—before a final, thorough stroke is all it takes for you to hurtle into your second high of the night.

For you to arch your body into his chest, and shutter your eyes. “Ch-Cho…” 

Barely a whisper. He’s crashing his mouth into yours to make sure that secret between you two isn’t revealed. And you’re moaning deeply into Choso’s mouth as you cum—“Feels so- oh. It feels so…”

“Mhmmmm.”

Unable to even find the words.

The only thing you can do is riiiiiide out the massive wave of your high. It’s torrential; pure bliss floods your system from head-to-toe, and no matter how much you’re squirming your overstimulated hips, Choso only succeeds in batterin’ away his pierced cock into eeeevery single hidden sweet spot inside of you. The ones that prolonged your bliss and left spikes of euphoria leading up to your brain.

Your cunt clenched so tightly around his cock- almost as though you didn’t want him to even pull out. And Choso’s sweaty head drops once more into the crook of your neck as he cums with a shudder.

The knot between his brows deepening, the bedsheet around his knees bunching up as he surges his body upwards. Almost animalistically.

Choso bottoms out his furious, twitching cock and keeps it there- “Oh, fuck…” It didn’t sound like he was acting once his bawling red divot starts splatterin’ out more milky white wads. Deeep in the back of your pussy, right where your womb was, Choso puddles out his ecstasy in long ribbons. “Oh fuck fuck fuck—fuck. Always knew it’d feel this good.”

Wave upon wave.

Toes curling. Eyes scrunching shut.

If you thought his moans were sensual before, then you weren’t prepared for the ones your pussy was able to drag out of him - ragged and hollow utterances of your name. Over and over like a broken record, like a mantra.

He’s fucking into you to milk them out of his hefty balls- then fucking you again just to pump those webbed wads right back in. From the top of his rotund tip and dooooooown to the tufts of hairs at his base. All nine inches of him being used to stuff you till the brim—

You’re sure your insides look like an utter fuckin’ mess by the time he’s slowing his tattooed hips down ever-so-slightly—still shaking from the aftermath of his orgasm. This was far stronger than anything he’s ever experienced before. 

Drunkenly, you’re blinking your eyes up at him. “Always?”

He smiles, “Ever since our first lesson of Film 101.” Admitting, he lovingly wipes off a bit of his cum you were foaming between your pussylips. “You referenced Pride and Prejudice when talking about the best lines of dialogue of all time, and I-I’d been a goner since then.”

“Corny…” You snort. Though you can’t help the flutter of your heart.

“So um- coffee after this?”

“It better be dinner.”

He laughs in agreement. “Also I bought a vibrating piercing the other day and have been dying to try it…”

Your eyes widen.

And once you’re helping him pull out- Choso reaches for the camera and gets a good shot of the cum leaking between your legs. Before you’re both waving at it, “Thank you for joining us, today—this was the most fun I’ve had on stream yet- heh.”

You’re shooting the camera a pretty smile, too.

And Choso kisses the corner of your cheeks, “Until next time. This has been Curse and Movie.”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: holy fuck??

@Curse’swifey: WAIT WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT NO WAY-

@bewbsRlife: HOLD ON-

@CCpervnextdoor: SAY SIKE RN?

@bipplruletheworld: oh my god that’s amazing.

@likezmenpregnant: Oh, a love story for the ages~

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU TWO LOOKING FOR A THIRD??

@Fishygurodad: Damn.

@Fishygurodad: Hmu when he messes up.

@daddytoeknee: Stfu he won’t.

@daddytoeknee: Also I totally called it <3

A/N. I did NOT plan to have me inserted and beefing with Toji Fushiguro but here we are-

Plagiarism not authorized.

[reidluvr9]

MY GUY PRETTY LIKE A GIRL

Synopsis ✦ It’s the most excruciating day of the year and you’re lonely, really lonely. You walk around the big city in hopes of finding something to do, like drink. You end up in the fanciest bar in the city where you meet a familiar looking man who can help take all your loneliness away.

Content ✦ MDNI, Valentine’s Day!!! smut, alcohol, mentions of smoking, slight exhibitionism, p in v, oral, teasing, fem!reader.

It was valentines. The day of love, and you were alone. Being alone in a big city was somehow much worse than being alone in a small one, you assumed it was since everyone were much closer in the smaller cities. But anyway, that didn't solve your issue since you were in a small town regardless.

Your friends were all with their boyfriends, because well, that was how you were supposed to spend valentines day—with your loved ones. Unfortunely for you you didn't have anyone, the closest thing you had to company was the people sitting next to you in this fancy bar. You'd never been here before, too expensive. Today you allowed yourself an expensive drink or two without caring about the cost.

You had just arrived, taking your seat at the bar after a very well dressed man took your winter coat to be hanged. Somehow it was still snowing, even though it was nearing spring.

The interior of the bar was beautiful to say the least, it had a classy look to it. The alcohol that was placed on the multible shelves above you, were lit up by a warm toned light that was coming from behind them. As you waited for your order to be taken you took your time letting your eyes wander all over the place. The color pallet contained three main colors: Gold, white and black. The place was much larger than it seemed from the outside, it had an airy sort of feeling that most bars hadn't. Most bars had a stuffed humid feel to them but here the air smelled like vanilla, mild tobacco and alcohol. The smell wasn't overbearing by any means, just there in the background.

The menu in your hands had two gold stripes by the sides, you found yourself running your fingers over them before you felt a figure move infront of you—Oh, the bartender. You quickly looked up with a smile only to freeze momentarily. The bartender was beautiful, he had long black hair that was tied back, his eyes were a lighter shade of brown but they looked almost...nevermind. The black gauges in his ears didn't take the attention away from his face at all surprisingly, they suited him well. The first thing you noticed was that he was tall, really tall, the counter was high but he still made it look normal from where he was standing. He was wearing a white button up but the collar was high, a bit priest like if you were being honest.

You came back to reality when he chucked softly, darkly.

"Oh, sorry long day, must have zoned out." You said quickly, traying to salvage what was left of your dignity after you openly oogled this random guy. He nodded and leaned forward against the counter with his palms. "What can I get you today?"

"Hm..." You looked down at the menu again, why were all the drink names in french?! You thought as you tried to search for one you maybe recognized. "Uh, what would you recommend?"

"Well, what do you like?"

You shifted slightly on the velvet bar chair, trying to think of something. "I like sex on the beach," you said, before you quickly added, "the drink!" Your face flushed as he laughed again.

"Yeah, I figured." Gesturing slightly to the bar, because why would you otherwise say you liked sex on the beach, you obviously meant the drink. This is why you're single, you have this nervous way about you whenever you speak to someone you find the least bit attractive. You took a deep breath, the nerves will calm after you've had your drink you told yourself.

"If you like sex on the beach, the drink." He added after with a small smirk. "I could make something similar, though i'm going to change the orange to lemon if that's okay with you, we don't have orange here."

You nodded, sex on the beach wasn't the most fancy drink so you were surprised he could make it for you. Sometimes at fancy places like this they only served the drinks on the menu, not what people requested.

You watched him as he made the drink, he moved smoothly through the bar, grabbing all the ingredients. "Do you come here often?" He asked without looking up at you. You chuckled at the cliché question, "No, my first time actually."

"Really?" He asked, looking back up at you, his eyes flicking over you briefly.

"Yeah, why? Do I look like I come to places like these?" You asked curiously, you supposed that you looked a bit like you'd fit in. You were still wearing your office clothes, a black pencil skirt, a blazer and some jewlery. You worked as a journalist at a well known magazine, so it was expected of you to wear finer things. Since your salary was okay you could afford it, but you didn't frequent places like this anyway.

"Hm, lots of different people come in here, there's no telling who belongs here or not really." He said casually, now staring to measure the different flavors.

"Well it is a very nice place so I can't imagine that the people here are so different really." You said, looking around in the bar. People were on dates, professional gatherings and like you--just having a drink. Everyone was dressed a certain way though, suits, dresses, blazers. You looked back at him, waiting to see if he could see the bar from your perspective, he could maybe see who had the money to go here everyday and who didn't, you certainly couldn't.

"If you've worked here as long as I have you start to see who's here to treat themselves or who's just here for a drink."'

"And what am I here for?" You asked softly, leaning forward slightly, you were already relaxing. There was something about him that made you feel comfortable instantly, even after just speaking a few sentences to each other.

He smiled as he placed your now ready drink on the counter, "I think you're here for a good time."

The night continued in pleasant talk with the bartender, the night was calm, probably since it was valentines day so he was mostly by you. It had been maybe an hour or two when the talking faded slightly.

"So why are you working on valentines? Did you lose a staff bet and were now put on duty on the most romantic day of the year?" You asked, leaning your elbows on the counter slightly.

"I was the only one who didn't have plans." He said calmly, soft almost mischievous eyes lingering on you like he was waiting for a reaction.

Oh. "Really?" You said, obviously surprised. You cleared your throat, "I mean, really?" You repeated, now more calm. His smile widened into a grin as he softly shrugged. "I just meant, most people are busy today." You added, still trying to make up for your earlier surprise.

"Well, i'm not."

"Well," You echoed, "You're working, I would classify that as busy."

"My shift ends in ten." Your eyes flicker to your clock, shit, it was almost eleven. "I'm Suguru," He said, stretching out his hand over the counter. You gently shook it and told him your name in return, a pleasant buzz hummed in your body as the tension that had been building up over the night doubled.

He looked over at the other bartender that had just arrived, "I'm clocking out early." He said, the other bartender just nodded. Which surprised you, they were both bartenders so why did the other just automatically accept that Suguru was clocking out early? Maybe he owed him a favour you thought as you watched Suguru step out from behind the counter, now by you side nut holding a respectful distance.

"So," He repeated your name, "my apartment is actually in this building, would you want to talk more there?" He asked in that gentle but rough voice of his. You nodded in response, "Yeah, I'd like that."

Correction, you'd love that.

"I'll just grab my things," You said, standing up from the comfortable seat to go retrieve your coat, you bag hanged loosely on you shoulders as you walked a bit to fast to get your coat.

When you returned, Suguru stood leaned against the counter. He straightened up as you came. "I didn't know people could live in this building." You said as he gestured for you to walk out.

"At first people couldn't but the owner of the complex changed that." He explained as you both walked out in the cold, there was a second entrance you realised. This one had a reception and was decorated just as nicely as the bar, how could you not have seen this before?

"This looks...nice."

"It is. When i first moved in i couldn't believe how much potential this place had."

You both took a golden elevator up to the top floor, which was a penthouse. Your eyes widened as you took the place in, he owned this? His penthouse had a more industrial vibe to it, probably kept some details from when it was first built. You stood still by the entrance before Suguru spoke again. "You can hang your coat here, do you want anything to drink?"

"Uh, what do you have?"

"Wine?" He said, walking into the kitchen. The kitchen. It had glass panels, white stone, metallic accents all over. It was like from those well known apartment complexes that were always in movies in 2014.

You nodded as you shrugged off your coat, placing it on the nearby hanger. You took of you shoes too, padding to him silently. It felt so odd wearing just stocking while walking without shoes. He handed you a wine glass, you were both leaning against the kitchen counter.

"So why are you alone today?" He asked casually, in a way that didn't feel invasive.

"Well, when you work as much as me you start to lose that uhm...what's it called? Free time?" You joked, laughing.

He laughed too, "Yeah, tell me about it."

"Why are you alone? You must meet a lot of people through work though."

He shrugged, looking at the wall briefly before looking back at you. "Not really, I mean when I'm at work I focus on that, not if the person I'm serving could be the right one for me."

"Hm, so you asked me here because?"

"Today I focused on that."

You chuckled, "Smooth." You smiled, looking up at him. "Yeah?" He hummed as he leaned on his side, facing you fully now. Suddenly the tension came back fully, the warmth of it invading all your senses. His eyes flicked down to you lips and you could feel your breath hitch. He smirked slightly at that as he leaned in, his free hand gently grabbed the side of you face, his other put his and your wine glass down on the kitchen counter before he closed the space between you fully.

His lips met your in a soft but firm kiss. The hand that wasn't on your face was on the counter, by your hips. His lips slotted perfectly against yours, soft, warm and wanting. The pressure came in pulses, soft-hard-soft-hard. Your hands traveled up to his jaw and arm, one of them held his bicep. He crowded you against the counter, his head tilting down and to the side to change the angle. The times when you separated for air were brief, only a second to inhale before you both dove back in. The kisses turned heated fast, your tongue invading his mouth and his hand gently tugging on you hair to make you tilt your head up further.

He started kissing down your jaw and neck as his leg slotted between yours. His firm thigh just below where you wanted him, your tight pencil skirt making it impossible for him to move his leg up. In the haze of him kissing your neck your hands left him to lift the hem of your skirt. Your pencil skirt now bunched up at your upper thighs, his mouth left your neck as he shifted slightly to watch you.

"Fuck," He groaned quietly as he saw your thigh highs, and the garters that held them up. One of his hands ran up your thighs, despite his size he was very gentle. He leaned in to kiss down to your collarbones while his thigh fully pressed up against your covered core now. You whimpered slightly at the contact and heard him huff a breath out, "beautiful." You couldn't help but slowly grind against his thigh, your hands holding his shoulders now. His hand that was on your thigh moved up to your hip, guiding your movements with precision, it was like he already knew your body.

One of your hands moved back to his hair, tugging at the hairtie a bit clumsily. He leaned back a little to look at your face, he hummed in a questioning tone, unsure if you were trying to tug at his hair to pull him back or something else. "I like the long hair," You said, a bit short of breath. He grinned at the statement, and nodded slightly. "Go on then." You tugged harder, the tie finally sliding off his hair. His hair fell around his face in a curtain of black silky hair. I smiled slightly, "You're somehow pretty and handsome at the same time." You said softly as you brushed a piece of hair behind his ear before leaning up to kiss him, not giving him a chance to answer. He groaned into the kiss, both his hands now at your hips, lifting you.

He sat you down at the counter, he picked you up like you weighted nothing, that sent a shot of heat through you. You spread your legs instinctivly for him to stand between. His hands started unbuttoning the top buttons of your blouse, revealing the top of your lacy black bra. His mouth was instantly on your chest, you leaned your head back, all you could feel was heat. You hadn't felt this way in a long time. Suddenly his lips were no longer on you, you opened your eyes to look, he was on his sinking down on his knees. "This okay?" You nodded quickly, he smirked at your eager response. "You look so pretty like this," he said and the hands on your knees spread you further open. He kissed his way up your thighs slowly, he was teasing you. "Suguru, c'mon." You said, your words coming out more like a whine. You leaned back on your elbows to look down at him, he was smirking. "Patience, baby."

You rolled your eyes as his gaze caught yours, your hands traveled from the edge of the counter to his hair, holding it back from his face as you guided him back down, a bit roughly. Both his hands held the back of your thighs, he moved you further to the edge of the counter as he moved his nose up your covered slit. Your legs tensed slightly and in response Sugurus thumbs moved soothingly over them. His breath was warm against you as he licked a stripe over your underwear, his fingers reached the edges of your underwear, pulling them down smoothly despite your position. He looks up at you, his eyes filled with desire, while keeping eye contact he licked up from you entrance to your clit. You moaned at the contact when he circled your clit with his tongue.

You leaned back almost fully against the cold counter, still halfly leaned back on your elbows. Your head tilted to the side, your eyes closed. When you opened them you were met by the image of yourself, you were mirrored in the glass window. You could see Suguru from the side, between your legs. The image was filthy, but so hot. Just the idea that anyone could technically see you from another high building made something flare inside you, something unknown.

Suguru sucked on your clit, his tongue moving up and down on it as his fingers teased your entrance. He hums against you, the vibration sending a shiver through your entire body, you temprature was increasing fast. His other hand held your hip firmly as his tongue continued to find every sensitive spot on you. His finger slides inside you slowly, working in and out in smooth motions before he deemed that you were ready for a second one. He curls them both upwards, stretching you out slowly. It wasn't long until you came, your legs twitching and tensing as your mouth gaped open at the pleasure.

You laid down fully against the counter, he slowly rose from his position on the floor. You opened your eyes slightly as you felt his wet fingers touch your lips while his other hand held your head up, you opened your mouth, letting his fingers enter you once again. Your tongue swirls around them, tasting yourself. "Good girl," He says and leans down, kissing your forehead. Both his hands holds your waist as you sit up, "Are you okay?" He says gently in a tone that makes you want to melt. "Yeah," you nodded.

You looked up at him as you shifted slightly on the counter, “So, where’s your bedroom?” You said, a slightly mischievous smile on your face. Suguru stilled for a moment, a hint of surprise in his eyes before he chuckled softly. “I’ll show you.” He said, moving to take a step back but you moved your legs around his hips squeezing slightly, he grinned, the hands on your waist moving to grip the back of your thighs. He lifted you up, your bare pussy against the front of his slacks. Your arms were around his neck, you didn’t even get to the bedroom before you started kissing. The kissing wasn’t soft anymore, it was rough—devouring. Suguru led you to his bedroom, laying you down slowly and carefully on his bed, you were so focused on him you didn’t even notice how his room looked, you didn’t care.

His dark sheets were a pleasant cold under you, cooling down your warm skin. You started unbuttoning your blouse, quickly. Sugurus eyes flickered down to your chest that was slowly getting revealed before he focused on your skirt. His hands traveled over your hips swiftly, trying to find the zipper, when he found it he quickly unzipped your skirt and pulled it down your legs, putting it down on the floor. His hands moved from your hips to your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh. “Can we keep these on?” He asked, his fingers tracing the top lace of your thigh highs. You nodded, “of course” as you tried to take your blouse off, its wasn’t easy getting a blouse off while laying down. Suguru quickly came to your rescue and helped with getting it off, his hands skimming over your skin as he did it.

Now you laid almost bare on his sheets, you felt a little self conscious, it had been a while since anyone had seen you like this. “You know it feels a little unfair that I’m basically naked and you’re fully dressed.” You said with a teasing undertone as you propped yourself up on your elbows. “Yeah, a bit unfair maybe.” He said and stood up from the bed, for a second you were a bit confused about what he was doing. Well, until you saw that he was going to undress right in front of you, not letting you help as he had done. He stood beside the bed, slowly unbuttoning his black dress shirt. He had a smirk on his face as he did, he knew you were watching his every move. Slowly his shirt opened, and your eyes widened almost comically. He was ripped, not in an overly muscular way but just the right way. He was toned but still you could see the outlines of his every muscle. You looked down at abdomen, waiting for his hands to move to his pants. “You like to watch, huh?” He said as he moved one of his hands down his chest to his belt, it was as if he was putting on a show for you and teasing himself at the same time.

Your face flushed at his words, at the accuracy of them but kept a steady tone. “Maybe.” His long fingers unbuckled his belt with grace, before moving to the zipper. He slowly stepped out of them, now only in his boxers, he was wearing black Calvin Kleins and his thighs were also a piece of art like the rest of him. He walked over to you, moving into the bed and over you. The heat of him against you was amazing, his hair ticked your shoulders slightly but you didn’t care. His mouth went to your neck instantly, kissing, sucking slightly but not enough to leave a mark. One of his legs spread your legs open more while he continued to kiss down your collarbones. He kissed down the top of your breasts, the plump skin that was coming out from the cup of your bra. One of his hands, the one that wasn’t holding him over you came to pull down the lace from your breast, bearing it fully. He kissed and nipped around your nipple before finally sucking it into his mouth. His free hand cupped your other breast that was still covered with his hand, first gently then harder when he realised you liked it. He twisted your nipple between his fingers and your hips shifted, grinding onto nothing.

“Suguru, I want you inside.” You whispered against the top of his head. He stopped his motions briefly, his hands moving to unclasp your bra. Your hands came to find the hem of his boxers. “Greedy, won’t even let me take care of you first.” He said teasingly against your skin as if eating you out wasn’t enough for you or him. He sat up slightly, helping you with his boxers. When they came off you realised why he wanted to prep you so much, he was huge. His hips twitched at the sudden cool air, his dick was standing tall against his stomach, his length was a pale shade but his tip was this pretty dark pink color. You spread your legs open instinctively, “Wow…You’re uh…” You couldn’t even finish your sentence, your eyes stuck on him.

He smirked and hovered back over you, he leaned his face down so his lips were almost against yours. You could feel his warm breath hitch slightly against your lips before he spoke. “C’mon tell me what I am.”

His hair that fell around you two, crowding you in slightly made it all feel a bit intimate. “Big.” You said against his lips before kissing him, wrapping your arms around his large back. You could feel him shift, his hips lining up more with yours, one of his hands went down to align himself with you. You twitched in his grip as his tip brushed against your entrance. “You okay?” He said as he broke the kiss briefly. “Yeah, yeah you can keep going.”

He nodded, he moved so his tip gathered your slick, moving it up your folds to graze your clit before slowly pushing inside. You squeezed your eyes shut at the stretch, warmth filling your entire body and an almost nervous tingle filling your stomach. He pushed inside slowly, making it easy for you to take him. When he finally bottomed out you wrapped your legs around his waist. “You feel so good.” He groaned out as he slowly started to move, his length moving in and out with slick sounds. You loved when you could feel his hips pressed fully against you, you pressed back against him slightly, a signal for him go a bit harder. He understood immediately. Soon enough the room was filled with slick sounds of your skin meeting, moans and groans. He kissed your neck as his free hand groped your breast, pinching your nipple. You held onto his back, biting into his shoulder when you wanted to moan. Your nails were digging into his skin, you could feel it, but it only made him go faster and his groans louder.

“I-I’m gonna—” He said, his voice cracking as his hips lost their rhythm slightly, but his tip was still hitting your g-spot repeatedly. You nodded, not being able to speak. Your body tensed up, your walls clenching around him as you felt the familiar buzzing feeling return. He continued, you could tell he was right at the edge but kept going so you could get there. Your body finally locked up and you came with a moan, wrapping around him tighter. He groaned, which turned into a whimper when he came. His warm seed filling you, he kept shallowly moving his hips, working you both through it.

When you both had come off the high he rolled off you, still breathing heavily. “I’ll be right back, just gonna get some towels.” He said, his voice rough, he gently squeezed your arm before walking to the bathroom. He returned with warm wet towels, he cleaned you up slowly, it felt so caring. When he was done he sat up by your side, “Do you want water?” He asked softly, you shook your head and tugged at his arm. He smiled slightly, laying back down by your side. Wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his side.

You looked at his bedside table briefly, seeing what looked like a business card laying there, which he had signed. Suguru Geto. He had never told you his last name but why did you recognise it? You thought as you looked at him, his eyes were closed and he was almost falling asleep. Geto? You repeated in your mind again, wait, wasn’t the bar you just had been at was named “Geto”

Did he own the bar?!

[leclercloveletters]

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝒞 satoru gojo

SYPNOSIS .ᐟ you're taking an art class when there's a new live model introduced—white hair, blue eyes, a body of sin, and your teachers best friend. he laughs loud and it turns out moans louder

★ INCLUDES 18+ NSFW, artist! reader, model! satoru, cunnilingus, reader goes in a smutty obsessive art spiral bc of satoru, face fucking, cum licking, messy, masturbation, 5.7k dedicated to how beautiful satoru is

⌗ A NOTE FROM IVY ⸝⸝ started off as a silly thought. ended up actually making it into a piece of writing. oops?

When you enter Suguru’s art studio, it’s a rainy day. The studio smells like turpentine and charcoal and the quiet hum of jazz Suguru always plays low enough to be background. You slip inside as you always do, early, shy, keeping to the edges of the space. Only a handful of students are there, easels forming a loose crescent around the small modeling space.

Suguru is at the front, leaning against his desk, black long hair pulled into a loose bun that keeps slipping free, strands brushing his jaw. He’s laughing at something, soft and warm and familiar.

And the man he’s talking to makes you freeze.

Tall. Broad. Careless posture like he grew into his beauty without ever having to think about it. White hair—pale as bone, soft-looking, messy like fingers had been in it. Tight white shirt pulled over shoulders made for ancient marble statues. Veins on his forearms. A silver watch glinting at his wrist.

But it’s his face. His eyes.Blue like summer heat mirage. Deep. Bright. Endless.

Suguru nudges him, says something that makes him grin, wide and bright and boyish all at once. A grin that touches his eyes. Crinkles at the corners. You have to look away before you're caught staring.

You take your usual seat in the back, placing your bag down with slow, careful hands, pretending your heart isn’t beating stupid-fast. You focus on your pencils, your sharpener, the kneaded eraser, the paper towel tucked in the corner for smudging shadows.

You hear his laugh float through the room—warm, smooth like honey, easy in the way of someone who has never needed to try to be liked. It makes your stomach flip.

When everyone settles, Suguru pushes off the desk. You’ve always liked him—when you found out he was hosting an art class, you had been unsure, used to keeping your sketches in the safety of your notebooks that nobody's eyes could look at but yours. You were used to keeping your art private, secret, held close to your chest so nobody could pick it apart with scrutiny. But during that first class, Suguru had walked around, gave you earnest advice on perspective and shadows, appraised your work carefully. He had done that with everybody—took the care and attention for every piece, every person, every stroke. You’d found yourself leaving with a small, private smile, resolved to come back next week.

“Thanks for coming back, everyone," he says with a gentle smile, open and kind as always. "Our usual model is sick today, so I have a friend helping us out for the next few months.”

The mystery man steps up beside him, gives a lazy two-finger wave. His mouth curves like he knows he’s being watched—and he is. Everybody's looking at him, drawn to his sculpted face and pretty blue eyes.

“Hey guys, I'm Satoru, Suguru’s best friend,” he announces with a toothy grin. “not that he’d admit it because apparently only twelve year olds have best friends.” The room laughs, and Satoru only grins wider. “But he asked me for a favour and even though I know fuck all about modelling and art no matter how many museums Suguru’s dragged me to, I’m here,” he shrugs with a soft laugh, almost boyish. “Anyway, I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I can sit still and look pretty, so hope it works out alright."

Suguru mutters something to him—something teasing that makes Satoru’s grin sharpen just slightly—and then he steps toward the center of the room where the modeling stool waits.

And then Satoru starts to undress.

His shirt lifts and you see it all at once: the cut of his waist, the defined line of his abs, his chest carved with muscle that looks like it took years and discipline and something more feral. Light catches the sweep of his shoulders, the long stretch of his torso. He undoes his jeans with the same casual ease, lets them fall, and tosses his clothes toward Suguru who catches them with barely a blink. Satoru's left in black briefs that cling just enough.

Your throat goes tight, fingers tightening on your pencil.

When he sits, he's half-sprawled, long legs set wide, arm braced behind him on the stool. His presence fills the room, effortless gravity, like the air shapes itself around him.

Suguru begins the lesson. His voice is calm, measured, something you normally latch onto. But you’re still rearranging yourself around the sight of the man in the center of the room—the lines of his thighs, the soft shadow at his collarbone, the relaxed slope of his spine.

You sketch and try ignore the heat of your cheeks. You've seen attractive models before, seen attractive men, all but immune to them, too focused on making sure you get their proportions right, the right shadowing kissing their skin. But Satoru is different—you're all too aware of his beauty, of the way the light spills into the dips of his muscles and highlights the expanse of his throat.

He's talkative, you learn very quickly. Chatty, makes jokes, engages in conversation with the people around him like they're not sketching him half naked. His laughter is bright and easy, and he makes the room laugh at least four times. But every so often, during the quiet lulls when everybody's too busy focusing and Suguru's drifting around offering gentle advice, Satoru's eyes drag across the room, like he's curious about all these people who are using him as their muse for the day—and when they land on you, even for a heartbeat, it’s like someone lit a fuse beneath your skin. Your chest tightens. Your fingers slip. You look away too quickly, too obviously. Heat crawls across your face.

Suguru pauses at your easel for a moment, offering gentle feedback, and you nod along, praying he can’t hear the way your pulse is pounding. The way your sketch has become almost too precise, too attentive to the shape of his hips, the tension in his thighs, the light pooling on his collarbones.

Class ends and you pack up quickly. Your voice is small when you thank Suguru, your footsteps quick on your way out the door, and you don't notice curious blue eyes following you the entire way out.

Weeks pass.

You learn quickly that Satoru is magnetic, that people are drawn to him naturally like it's gravitational, that words and jokes flow easily off his tongue, his grins handsome, the laughter he earns genuine. His presence is magnetic, bright and overwhelming. He fills the studio. He fills your sketchbook.

It’s not just his body—though God, his body is something. Broad chest, long legs, easy muscle, that sharp V that disappears beneath waistbands. He takes up far too much space in your mind, in your sketchbook, in the quiet moments you used to fill with nothing at all.

It's him. There's something bright in him—loud and brilliant and warm—a kind of inner sun that makes other people open up like blooming flowers around him. Even when he’s teasing Suguru or draping himself into a chair lazily, there’s a sharpness in him. A wit. A quickness. Something that makes you want to know what his thoughts look like under those too-blue eyes. He starts to take up more space in your sketchbook. His smile. His hands. His throat. The curve of his back when he stretches. The lines of his hips.

After class, when the rain is tapping at your window and your back is pressed to your bed frame, blankets curled over your knees, your fingers itch for charcoal. For graphite. For the shape of his mouth. You tell yourself it’s just studying. Practice to make yourself better on anatomy.

But that doesn’t explain the endless pages detailing his every breath.

First, it’s his face—the way his eyes crease when he laughs, lashes pale and soft, the curve of his grin, the thoughtless curl of his fingers when he talks. Then it's his hands—elegant and long, veins pronounced when he flexes. You draw them again and again, from every angle, like they were made to be worshipped in charcoal.

Then something shifts. Your pencil begins to follow imagination rather than memory. You draw him on his knees. His spine a perfect line, shoulders relaxed, chin tipped up by someone’s fingers you pretend you haven't drawn to be your own. His lips parted, expression lazy and coy, eyes lifted under pale lashes, something in them that sends heat between your thighs.

On another page, he’s lying back on sheets, hips barely covered, hair messy like someone's hands has been tugging at. One arm draped over his eyes, as though the morning light is too much. His thighs spread just enough to suggest invitation.

Then it devolves, filthily, helplessly.

His back arched, hands gripping wrinkled sheets. His head thrown back, throat exposed. His hips pressing down, thighs tense, muscles flexing, forearms pressed to sheets, hovering above another body. His tongue out against a delicate throne, dragging a broad stripe. His mouth open with a pair of thighs thrown over his shoulders.

You start to want to trace him with something other than graphite, want to trace the line of his muscles with your tongue, want to know how his muscles feels under your palms, how they work and tense, how his breath feels on your skin when it shudders in broken breathy gasps. You want to feel the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he might pin you down without effort and lazy laugh in your ear while doing it.

You still sit in the back of class. Still slip out quietly at the end. Still barely speak to him. But he's everywhere. And everytime time his eyes find you, your spine lights up like someone struck a match along it. One afternoon, you'd been talking to Suguru, trying to explain a shadow technique, laughing shy and soft, fingers tucking hair behind your ear.

When you glanced up, Satoru was watching you. Not casually. Not absentmindedly. Watching. His eyes were focused, heavy, intense in a way that feels like being held in place. Like being seen down to your pulse and ribs. And when you caught him staring, he didn't look away. His gaze stayed locked with yours, calm, unbothered, like he was seeing through you, into the pump of your heart, the contraction of your muscles, the squeeze of your lungs.

Your breath caught and your cheeks burned. You looked away first, because you had to, because if you didn't, your knees might have given out.

And you hated how your body reacted so easily to him. The prickling heat under your skin. The needy, humiliating heat that settled low between your legs. It was embarrassing—how easily he got to you. How just being looked at by him made your panties wet enough that you had to press your thighs together for the rest of class.

You don’t even have to speak to him for your cunt to pulse with heat, leaving you slick after every class, chasing the heat with your vibrator pressed to your clit as you gasp in the safety of your bedroom, but even there Satoru lingered, in your thoughts, behind your eyelids. He's in your head, the ghost of his voice in your ear, you imagined his body on yours, his hands on your heated skin, his teasing words spilling into your ear as he played with you, long fingers dragging over your soft slick cunt. Your back arched, your head tipped back into your pillows, thighs clenching as you came, crying out a noise that took the same shape as Satoru's name. You panted afterwards, dizzy and flushed, and already reaching for your sketchpad and a fresh pencil.

Then it all came to a head—the spiral that led to sketching him almost obsessively, in positions that haunt your sticky, hot dreams.

It happens on a Thursday evening, the kind where the rain taps soft against the studio windows. Class ends slowly. People pack up in loose chatter, chairs scraping, easels shifting. You're where you always are, in your spot near the back with Suguru as everybody shuffles out. His arms are folded loosely, head tilted as he studies your latest piece—Satoru with his legs crossed, his back arched just so, exposing that long elegant throat, head tipped back with lazy arrogance. His eyes are half lidded, the kind that speaks through paper, promises that he knows something you don't. It's vivid, deliberate—your best piece to date.

Suguru smiles at you, warm. “You’re seeing form better,” he says, voice soft enough that it doesn’t disturb the quiet. “The looseness in your wrist is helping the line flow. Keep exploring that. It’s working.”

Your chest warms at the praise, something warm and gooey in your stomach as you nod slightly, cheeks pink.

His hand squeezes your shoulder once, gentle, steady. “You’ve got something good going. Don’t run from it.”

Then he leaves too—coat shrugged on, hair loose around his shoulders as he waves his casual, “See you next week.”

The studio settles into quiet. You start packing up your things, neat, quick, familiar, when a chair scrapes. Your head jerks up, surprised. Satoru is still here.

Everyone else is gone. The door has shut behind Suguru. The room feels bigger, emptier—except for him. He stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, blue eyes fixed on you like he’s been watching you for longer than you knew.

“You don’t really hang around much,” he says, voice echoing softly in the open space.

Your pulse jumps. It's the first time he's ever spoken to your directly bar that one time he picked up your eraser that had tumbled across the floor without you realising, your heart stumbling as your fingers brushed and you stuttered out a thank you before fleeing the room. Your fingers tighten around your sketchbook. “Um—sorry?”

He huffs a small laugh through his nose, something quieter than the loud persona he usually wears for the room. “I'm not judging. Just…” He tilts his head, like his considering you. Your skin prickles with heat at the way he''s observing you, blue eyes on you like he's trying to pick apart something interesting. “Never seen you stay late. Thought maybe you didn’t like Suguru. Or, I don’t know. Didn’t like being here.”

Your cheeks heat, pulse stumbling at how this is the first time you've ever been left alone with him and the sudden conversation he's striking up. “No, I— I like him. He’s really patient. And… I like the class.”

His mouth lifts—small, soft. “Yeah. He’s good at that.”

You swallow, try again. “I just… don’t really do well with people," you shrug, looking down, embarrassed.

“Mm, that's alright, not everybody's a people-person.” Satoru's reply is soft. Understanding, not mocking, and it makes your heart squeeze.

"Not like you," you mutter softly, the words out before you can stop them and your head shoots up, panicking to correct yourself. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. You're just very—" you swallow, gesturing aimlessly. "Bright"

Satoru laughs at that, arching a brow, not at all offended and you flush embarrassed. "Bright?"

You hesitate and nod slightly, fidgeting with your sketchbook. "Yeah. You're really...You're good at talking to people," you say, a little less rushed, a little too soft. "Like people like talking to you. You make them laugh and you listen to them. You're.... likeable." You want to take the words back as soon as they tumble out because they're too honest, too insightful.

"Yeah?" Satoru murmurs, as the amused glint in his bright blue eyes is replaced with something else, like he's just realised something. "Pay attention to me alot then?" he asks, tilting his head lazily.

You flush pink. "No—I mean yes—" you stumble to say. "I mean, you're the model so it's only natural I pay attention to you."

Satoru hums then, low, not entirely convinced and your ears burn. Only a couple minutes talking with him and you're giving away all the secrets you've been holding to your chest for months. This is why you don't talk to me, you think with an internal cringe.

"Anyways, I should probably..." you mutter to try end your own humiliation and move to slide your sketchbook into your bag.It slips from your fingers. Falls open. Pages fan out against the studio floor with a dull, loud thunk.

Your heart stops in your chest, cheeks flooding with embarrassed heat, today really isn't your fucking day. You reach to grab it but Satoru is faster.

"I'll get it—"

His long fingers lift the cover. Then he pauses. Because of the page it's opened up to.

Satoru on his knees.

Charcoal shading the curve of his spine, the relaxed part of his lips, head tipped back by a hand in his hair, his fingers curled around soft thighs. He's looking up, smoky eyes all lazy heat in the set of his eyes, the lazy tilt of his head, face resting between a set of spread thighs.

A quiet breath—low, disbelieving, a little awed if you listen close enough—slips from him.

“Well shit,” Satoru mutters.

Your whole body goes hot, cheeks pink, mortified.

“I—” you choke, spine locked, air thin.

He doesn’t look away from the sketch. His thumb traces the charcoal shading of his jaw. “That explains.... a lot.”

“It’s not—It—It’s not what it looks like,” you stammer, though you can’t even begin to form a lie big enough to cover this.

“This is…”

You wait for his judgement, his disgust, heart pumping furiously, throat dry.

“This is real fucking good, y/n,” he mutters, tongue dragging over his bottom lip.

And you're so caught by the use of your name that your brain completely glosses over the compliment.

“You know my name?” you stammer out, and Satoru laughs low, making heat squirm in your stomach.

“I asked Suguru,” he admits, eyes flitting up to you and then back to the sketches. “About the pretty girl who sits in the back and never lets anyone see how good she is.” He flips another page—a sketch of him, sprawled out, head tipped back, lips parted. Another. And another. You want to die. “You get all tense when he compliments you. Like you don’t know how to hold praise without it burning your hands.”

Your mouth goes dry. You hadn't considered that all this time you’d been watching Satoru that he might have been watching you too.

“I—“ you breathe out. His fingers brush over a sketch you did of him with his eyes closer, head thrown back, one hand buried in soft long hair at his hips. "I didn't think anybody noticed that."

“I did," he mutters, and it makes your mouth dry. "You never stick around like the others. Never hang back to go get drinks, never chat,” he says as his eyes flick up to you and you’re pinned in place by those bright blue eyes that look like endless oceans. “wondered if you hated me. If that’s why you never stuck around.”

"I don't hate you," you whisper weakly and he smiles, sweet, fond.

"Yeah," he murmurs softly, as his eyes flick over yours like he can read every secret you've been holding to your chest since you first laid eyes on him. Months of yearning, of wishing after a man you thought was out of reach, that was so beautiful and loved that he'd never look your way. Only to find he's been watching you the entire time too when you weren't looking. "I figure."

His eyes flick back to the sketches, some messy, rushed, some careful and neat, but each one carries the same thought, the same thread of yearning, the same ache of want.

"These are...." Satoru exhales low, tongue dragging over the edge of his teeth.

“I wasn’t—“ you breathe out, trying to explain it away, cover up your tracks, hide the undeniably want you've spilled into pencil lines and smudges.

"You did though," he murmurs and your breath trips as his eyes drag back up to yours. There's something heavy in his eyes, like a suspicion finally confirmed and now it's being laid out in front of him in black and white, he can't help but sink his teeth in. Your breath stutters as he steps closer. You step back and he slips the sketchbook onto a table. “Drew me. Over and over and over. Nobody else."

"It wasn’t like that—“ you protest as he steps closer.

“You sure?” Satoru asks with a low wicked laugh as he continues advancing. “Cause it looks like that. I mean…” his lips curve, wicked, blue eyes bright as your back hits the window ledge. “You drew me getting head. I think it’s like that, y/n.”

He uses your name again and your stomach does that traitorous squirm again. The studio light catches in his lashes. His cologne smells like warm pine and expensive spice and something distinctly him. His voice lowers—something private and heavy beneath the teasing edge.

“I knew,” he murmurs quietly and your heart thunders like a cornered animal. “I knew there was something you were hiding. You always looked away too fast, ran away first.” You swallow, heart hammering, looking up at him. “I didn’t think it would be this though. I’d been hoping, sure. But I didn’t think a girl like you would actually want someone like me.”

His eyes search yours. The words make your pulse trip. A guy like him. Like you know who he is—like those sketches have peeled back a layer, like he knows you’ve seen through him, through the pretty face and handsome smirk.

"You spent so much time thinking about it, sketching it, pouring into drawing me," he murmurs, looking at you from under pale lashes. "It would be a shame if you never got to feel the real thing."

Your throat goes dry, staring at him, wondering if you've heard wrong.

"I—" you breathe out. "Are you being serious?" you breathe out.

Satoru laughs, slow like honey, low and warm. "Yeah," he murmurs with that smile that makes your knees weak, the one that shows his dimples. "Think you deserve to see what it's really like to have me on my knees after sketching it in such painstaking detail."

And then slowly, he sinks down to his knees and your breath catches.

“It was something like this, wasn’t it?” he murmurs as his knees press into the studio floor, looking up at you from under pale lashes, studio light catching on his jaw, the tips of his hair.

“Satoru—” you breathe out and he hums low, soft.

"Yeah keep saying my name like that," he mutters. Your mouth goes dry.

He’s kneeling exactly the way you’ve drawn him. The tilt of his head. The lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. The mouth that looks like sin wrapped in silk. The charcoal shading and daydream hunger of your sketchbook made warm and real and breathing.

“Your hand was in my hair,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with suggestion, like velvet dragged slowly over bare skin. “In the sketch.”

You hesitate. The world narrows to the space between you. And then your hand lifts—unsure, trembling—and touches him. You slide your fingers into his hair. It is soft, softer than you imagined, like silk slipping through your fingertips. He exhales, quiet and unguarded, not quite a moan, but close. His eyes flutter half-shut.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “There you go.”

Your knees feel unsteady. His hands rise, slow as warmth spreading under skin, and settle on the backs of your thighs, broad palms, calloused thumbs tracing slow arcs over your knees. that make you shiver.

"Did you dream about this?" he asks softly as he looks up at you from under pale lashes, the lights hitting him just right. He looks like everything you've been fantasising about and more. "Me finding out about your dirty little sketches?" Your cheeks burn and he laughs, low, gravelly. "Me offering myself up to you? Getting to feel the real thing, not just the filthy imitations you've been drawing on paper?"

"I didn't—" You swallow, fingers still tangled in his soft silky hair. "I didn't think you'd want to. Not with me."

He shakes his head then, a soft, disbelieving scoff spilling past his lips. "Not with you?" Satoru echoes with a soft scoff. "Sweetheart, if only you knew how bad I want you."

Your breath catches and Satoru continues, fingers stroking over your thighs. "Ever since that first class, I saw you in the back, tucked away in your quiet little corner." A heat shoots down your spine at that—he'd been watching? Ever since then? "You were sweet, quiet, soft in that way that made my teeth ache," he murmurs.

"I caught you watching me sometimes, when I was talking with Suguru or one of the others. But you never hung back, never stayed. I figured I was making it up in my head. Then I saw one of your sketches, the fourth week in. I'd been with Suguru, eating Chinese and helping him mark. And then in that pile, there you were." He still remembers the moment, sitting with Suguru on his living room floor, containers of Chinese food between them. He'd been helping the other—or more drinking his beer and offering lazy jokes. And then he saw it—your piece, hidden under the others, when Suguru picked another sketch up. It had sat there, unearthed like a gem and he'd picked it up carefully and swallowed.

"You drew me like you were admiring me and unravelling me at the same time," Satoru breathes as he looks up at you from under his lashes, voice a little more raw around the edges. "Like you really saw me. Like you were looking through the bullshit, through the jokes and smiles. Like you'd seen my fucking soul." Satoru breathes out, looking up at you like he's drunk off it—the heady feeling of being seen, being understood, of someone pouring time into unravelling you, seeing you for who you really are.

In your eyes, in your perspective, Satoru was beautiful, but he was painstakingly human. You caught the crinkle of his nose when he laughed, the beauty marks on his left shoulder, the slight crookedness to his pinky finger after breaking it twice. You'd caught all his imperfections, didn't gloss over them like everybody else did, too wrapped up in his sweet charm and handsome smiles. He felt seen. So seen it made his stomach twist. He'd taken a secret photo of it when Suguru wasn't looking, safely tucked the sketch away in his phone.

When he got back to his own apartment, his stomach was still in knots, a heat that had been simmering under his skin the entire night. His fingers pulled up the photo he'd taken, eyes flicking over the seam of his jaw, the way you'd drawn the bend of his fingers, the curl to the corner of his mouth. His cock twitched, his stomach twisted, all heat and need. He'd gotten his hand on his cock and pumped it, rushed and desperate, teeth digging into his pillows as his eyes screwed shut as he imagined you sketching him, seeing him, touching him. He'd come with a ragged, broken groan, eyes rolling back, pumping out every last spurt of cum from his cock, until he'd made a mess of his sheets. He'd sworn, breathless and half lidded as his eyes flicked to where his phone was still alight with your sketch.

That had been the start of a long, endless spiral—every night Satoru thought about you, about those soft nimble hands that depict his softest parts, his rawest edges, on his skin, on his thighs, wrapped around his cock. He imagined being used for your anatomy practice privately, twisted in positions that left his cock heavy and flushed as you drew him. He imagined you watching him unravel—your eyes on the curve of his spine, the flutter of his lashes, the stutter of his hips as they strained against his matress, rutting his cock against it to thoughts of you.

"I—" you breathe out, stomach tangling into knots and Satoru looks wrecked, presses his face to your thigh, breathes in the smell of your body wash that clings to your skin and something distinctively you. He noses up your thigh and your breath stumbles.

"And then I find out you've been drawing me in your little sketchbook," Satoru breathes as his nose drags up your thigh, like he's drunk off your attention. "Filthy and detailed," he breathes and you gasp when his teeth nip at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "And so fucking dirty."

"Satoru—" you whimper out and he moans into your thigh at the noise, fingers tugging your skirt up.

"I've been dreaming of this," he breathes, eyes half lidded and heavy, focused between your thighs where your panties are soaked through and the sight sends heat straight to his cock. "Being on my knees for you. Worshipping you as gratitude for seeing me," he breathes as he looks up at you.

"Can I?" he breathes and your heart trips. He looks sinful like this, inches from where your cunt is soaked, his pupils blown wide, his fingers curled into the softness of your thigh. He looks devastating—like a god brought to his knees with the only intention to worship, to say thank you.

"Yes," you whisper, voice breathy. Your knees are weak, your heart pumping furiously. And you want nothing more than his mouth between your thighs.

Satoru exhales shakily at your permission, at your allowance. His fingers curl deeper into the plushness of your thighs. Then his tongue dips out and drags over your soaked panties.

"Satoru—" you stutter on a gasp as you feel the heat of his tongue through your panties. And he moans, low, thick, the vibration humming against you.

"Shit you taste good," he breathes as he mouths over your panties and your cheeks flush with heat, fingers tightening in his hair. He mouths lewdly over your panties, lapping at it, tasting you through the thin fabric.

Then his fingers drag your panties down, impatient and the second his mouth gets on your pussy, both of you let out broken noises. Your fingers thread in his hair, tugging and moaning as his tongue laps over you. It's better than what you've sketched, the feeling of him under your hand, the heat of his tongue lapping over you, sloppy and filthy, sucking at your clit.

"Yeah—Yeah fuck—" Satoru grunts. He hooks his hands under your thigh and lifts, anchoring you against his mouth. He drags your right thigh over his shoulder, spreading you open, holding you steady while he eats you out like this is something he’s thought through a hundred times.

"Fuck—Satoru—" you cry out, head tipping back, heat under your skin, fingers tugging at his hair hard enough to make him groan and lap at you harder, tongue rubbing over your clit, fingers curled into your thighs, holding you open for his mouth.

His mouth feels like worship when it's on you like this, greedy as it licks into you sloppily, sealing over your clit, sucking hard enough to make you see stars and cry out, fingers wrapped in his hair. His tongue moves in fast, sloppy strokes that send heat shooting up your spine. His breath is hot against you, his jaw working, the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy filling the empty studio—obscene, sloppy, hungry.

Your hips jerk. You can’t help it. Your body tries to get closer to his mouth, overwhelmed, and Satoru just chases you.

“Do that again,” he moans into your pussy, voice rough and wrecked His fingers flex, dragging you back down onto his mouth. "Fuck my face, c'mon.”

And you whine, and your hips stutter and push, fingers curling in his hair, holding him in place and he moans like this is exactly what he's been waiting for. His mouth hang open, tongue hanging for you to use as you grind your pussy on his tongue, pushing your hips against his face. His tongue pushes deeper, lapping at your slick soft cunt, eyes rolling back as you fuck his face, rolling your hips, hand on the back of his head, forcing him closer. He lets you use him, lets you tug at his hair, push his head down, moans vibrating through your cunt as he you stuff his face in your pussy. His nose bumps your clit when he pushes his tongue lower, licking into you, and the sensation hits so hard your vision whites out for a second.

“Satoru—fuck—wait hngh— I’m gonna—”

And then he sucks, right on your clit, laving over it, lapping at it with sloppy, needy strokes. Your knees nearly buckle; your nails scrape his scalp; your hips jerk helplessly. White heat floods through you so fast you can’t even breathe, just a sound—high, broken, needy—leaving your lips as your body clenches hard.

"Satoru—" you cry out his name brokenly as you feel yourself cum, feel your thighs tremble against his shoulders, feel the way your pussy throbs around his tongue.

Satoru moans into your cunt, and the sound vibrates through you, his eyes rolling back as his own cock twitches in his pants, tip pressing against the seam of his fly as he cum the second he feels your pussy pulse through your orgasm. He cums untouched, like just getting his mouth on your pussy is enough to send him over the edge, spilling into the denim, cock jerking and pulsing, trapped in the fabric.

“Fuckin' hell,” he breathes against your pussy, voice low and hoarse. He looks up at you from under wet lashes, cheeks flushed, jaw and mouth slick, hair messy from your hands. He rests his chin against your thigh as you catch your breath, panting and flushed as you look down at him, his hands holding the backs of your knees. He looks like a piece of art, like honey dewed dreams of soft sheets and warm hands, like everything you've been dreaming of.

"So can I take you out for some dinner?" he murmurs against your thigh, like he didn't just eat you out within an inch of your life and make you cum so hard you saw stars.

You laugh, soft, breathless, giddy. "Yes," you whisper, with a small, breathless smile. "You can."

And Satoru smiles, small and sweet against your thigh, pressing a soft lingering kiss there.

thank you for reading! - my other works - © leclercloveletters 2025. all rights reserved. please do not upload elsewhere, translate or copy

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[gojosconsort]

mdni. suguru volunteers to models for your art class and you didn’t expect him to have such a perfect dick.

you fidget with the edge of your sketchbook in the empty studio. the room smells like turpentine and charcoal, familiar and safe, but right now your stomach is doing flips.

suguru leans against the table across from you, arms crossed, long black hair loose over one shoulder. he’s wearing a loose white shirt and gray sweats that hang low on his hips, and even fully clothed he looks like something you’d spend hours trying (and failing) to draw right.

“so,” he says. “you need a model for anatomy homework?”

you nod too fast, cheeks already warm. “yeah. um. life drawing. nude. if—if that’s okay. i mean, you can totally say no, it’s super weird to ask your friend to just—”

“relax,” he cuts in gently, pushing off the table. “i said yes, didn’t i?”

you swallow. he did say yes, casually, over coffee yesterday, like it was nothing. but now that it’s real, your heart is hammering.

he steps onto the low platform in the center of the room, kicks off his slides, and grabs the hem of his shirt. you’re supposed to be professional—this is art school, you’ve seen naked models before—but this is suguru. your suguru. the one who sits beside you in figure drawing, who shares his fancy pencils when yours break, who always smells faintly of sandalwood and clove cigarettes.

he pulls the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, tosses it aside. the light hits his chest perfectly—lean muscle, defined but not bulky, the long line of his torso tapering to narrow hips. a thin happy trail disappears under the waistband of his sweats. your mouth goes dry.

he hooks his thumbs in the waistband and pauses, one brow raised. “you sure you’re good? you’re already blushing.”

“i’m fine,” you lie. you flip open your sketchbook too fast, pages flapping. he smirks, but doesn’t call you out. instead he pushes the sweats down, steps out of them, and straightens.

oh god.

he’s… perfect. long legs, strong thighs, the sharp cut of his hipbones. and between them—jesus—he’s half-hard already, thick and heavy, curving slightly up against his stomach. it’s big. stupidly big. you’ve never seen one that size in real life, and definitely not on someone you’ve been low-key crushing on for months.

you force your eyes up to his face. he’s watching you with that half-lidded look he gets when he knows exactly what he’s doing to someone.

“where do you want me?” he asks, voice velvet.

you gesture weakly at the stool. “uh. seated? one leg up, arm on your knee? classic contrapposto but… sitting.”

he settles onto the stool, one foot on the floor, the other knee drawn up. his arm drapes over it, hand hanging loose. the pose opens his hips just enough that his cock rests against his thigh, thick and impossible to ignore. the head is flushed darker, a bead of moisture already gathering.

you pick up your charcoal with shaky fingers and start blocking in the big shapes. shoulder line, ribcage, the long curve of his thigh. but your eyes keep drifting. every time you look up he’s staring right at you, calm, unashamed, like being naked in front of you is the most natural thing in the world.

after ten minutes your face feels like it’s on fire. you’re breathing shallow, thighs pressed together under the easel. you can feel how wet you are—embarrassingly wet—just from looking at him.

he shifts slightly, making his cock bob against his leg. “you okay over there? you’re breathing kinda fast.”

“fine,” you squeak. “just—just concentrating.”

“mm.” he tilts his head. “your ears are red. and your neck. actually your whole chest is flushed.” his gaze drops deliberately to where your thin tank top clings. “cute.”

you press your lips together, trying to focus on the shadow under his pec, but your hand trembles and the line wobbles.

he chuckles softly. “you know, most models don’t get this kind of reaction. you’re making me feel special.”

“shut up!”

he stretches, rolling his shoulders so every muscle shifts under golden skin. his cock lifts with the movement, fully hard now, curving up toward his navel. the bead at the tip trails down the underside.

you make a tiny, involuntary sound.

his eyes darken. “getting hot over these, artist?”

you bite your lip, charcoal smudging on your fingers. “you’re… distracting.”

“am i?” he sounds innocent, but the way he spreads his thighs a fraction wider is anything but. “thought you needed accurate anatomy.”

“i do,” you whisper.

he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, cock hanging heavy between his legs. “then look closer. don’t be shy.”

you can’t help it. your gaze drops, lingers on the thick vein running along the underside, the way his balls draw up tight, the faint sheen of sweat at the base. when you drag your eyes back up he’s smiling.

“you’re soaked, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “bet those little shorts are ruined.”

your charcoal snaps in your hand.

he laughs. “don’t worry. i won’t tell anyone our prim little art student gets wet drawing her friend’s dick.”

you drop the broken charcoal, hands shaking. “suguru—”

“you’re shaking,” he says, voice low, almost rough. “can’t draw like that.”

he shifts on the stool, thighs spreading a little wider, and wraps one big hand around the base of his cock. it’s fully hard now and a fresh bead of precum wells up as his fingers close around it.

“think i need to get rid of some tension before we keep going,” he murmurs, giving himself one slow stroke from root to crown. his thumb swipes over the head, spreading the slick, and his abs flex when he exhales. “that okay with you? you can watch. or look away if it’s too much.”

“yeah,” you whisper. “it’s… okay.”

he hums, pleased, and starts moving his hand properly—slow, deliberate pulls that make his cock glide through his fist. the wet sound of it fills the room. his grip twists a little on every upstroke, just under the head, and his hips rock forward like he can’t help it.

“been like this since you asked me to strip,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “watching you stare and try not to was fucking killing me.”

you swallow hard. your nipples are tight against your tank top, and you know he can see it. heat is pooling low in your belly, slick soaking into your panties. you shift your weight and he notices—of course he does. “touch yourself if you want,” he says casually, like he’s offering you a pencil.

you shake your head, too embarrassed, but your hands won’t move from where they’re clenched at your sides. watching is already too much.

he speeds up a fraction, breath hitching. “fuck, you’re cute when you’re all worked up.” his free hand slides up his own stomach, fingers tracing the lines of muscle, pinching one nipple hard enough to make him groan. his strokes get firmer, louder—skin on skin. precum drips over his knuckles now, making everything shiny.

“look at that,” he mutters, tilting his wrist so you can see the way his cockhead bulges through his fist on every pass. “all because you couldn’t stop staring.”

he’s breathing harder, chest rising and falling, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. his balls are drawn up tight, heavy, and every time his hand drops low they shift like they’re aching.

“close,” he warns, voice rougher now. “gonna make a mess. you sure you’re good watching?”

you nod frantically. “please.”

that does it. his head tips back, throat exposed, a low groan dragging out of him as his hips jerk. thick ropes of cum shoot across his fist, splattering his stomach, one stripe hitting high enough to catch on his chest. he keeps stroking through it, slower, milking every last drop until it’s dripping down his shaft and over his fingers.

the sight punches the air out of your lungs. you’re throbbing, soaked, dizzy with it.

he finally lets go, cock still half-hard and glistening, cum cooling on his skin. he looks at you through the fall of his hair. “better,” he says, voice husky. “think you can focus now?”

you shake your head honestly.

he laughs, soft and filthy. “yeah. didn’t think so.”

he wipes his hand on his discarded shirt, then stands, closing the distance in two steps. he’s still naked, still smeared with himself, and towering over you.

“your turn,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “or we can skip drawing altogether.”

your answer is a shaky exhale against his finger.

[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.”

You couldn’t handle it anymore, the way his eyes bore into yours like they read every thought, so you moved to leave the clearing, to be as far away from him as can be.

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!”

“Seems like you do…”

“—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 some way 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 too 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 because he won’t leave you alone, but then you don'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 beyond that point that 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 existed too loudly for her liking?

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?

You let your eyes trail to her far too self-satisfied form, sneering with the scowl you usually only reserved for that gawking fool besides her. But if she insisted on acting as his equal, she could be handled like him too.

“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?”

Her smile faltered and her chin lifted a fraction as her eyes narrowed in something mimicking offence. And then your gaze snapped to Neteyam, fury bright and uncontained now that the 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."

"Fang—" Neteyam's voice was eerily low.

"—Now that my guard dog has a guard dog.”

And then he 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. Enough considering you always like to remind me that 'we are partners.' 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 locked onto his solid figure.

You suspected that they were doing it on purpose now, because whenever given the opportunities, your fathers paired the two of you as if 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 jolted.

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 that flexed under your grip. It was a successful motion that kept you upright, 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.

“Well, 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 to counter, but you were faster, leaping with a twist 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, which he followed taut behind with, and soon you were 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 of him. He surged up with a grunt, flipping you both violently in a cloud of dust that kicked as you grappled. It was a flurry of elbows and knees jabbing at whatever body parts they could reach, claws scratching, fangs baring, and hisses sounding out like a tussle of five years olds.

He landed a sharp elbow to your ribs and you responded 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 or poise left, just primitive fighting and petty aggression mixed with ragged breaths and dirt covered bodies, every strike fuelled by years of building resentment.

And Jake was done watching it.

"That's enough!" he barked again, the sound cracking through the clearing like a whip. He dragged a tired hand down his face, exhaling through his nose before turning on you both with an outstretched arm that sliced downward in a sharp, commanding arc. "Get off!"

His voice was so demanding and final, it had you cowering in your skin and scampering clumsily off and away from Neteyams similarly heaving figure. You subtly brushed the dirt clinging to your arms in an attempt to salvage even an ounces worth of dignity, but it wasn't working, because your hands still shook and beneath it all, that ugly vulnerability lingered heavy as Jakes eyes beat down on you.

Jake continued.

"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."

The authority in his voice pinned you both in place.

"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 is not working, you do not 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.”

[reidluvr9]

The things I would do for Na’vi JJK fic’s omllll

🎀anon

I will get to writing asap🙏

[reidluvr9]

If Gojo was a Na’vi what clan would he be?

Omatikaya

Metekayina

Mangkwan

Tlim (wind traders)

Other, write in comments!

Voting ended onJan 16

[reidluvr9]

If I would make a Na’vi!Gojo x Reader fic, what would the reader be?

Another Na’vi, same clan

Another Na’vi, different clan

An Avatar

RDA Avatar….

Voting ended onJan 16

[leclercloveletters]

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝒞 satoru gojo

SYPNOSIS .ᐟ you're taking an art class when there's a new live model introduced—white hair, blue eyes, a body of sin, and your teachers best friend. he laughs loud and it turns out moans louder

★ INCLUDES 18+ NSFW, artist! reader, model! satoru, cunnilingus, reader goes in a smutty obsessive art spiral bc of satoru, face fucking, cum licking, messy, masturbation, 5.7k dedicated to how beautiful satoru is

⌗ A NOTE FROM IVY ⸝⸝ started off as a silly thought. ended up actually making it into a piece of writing. oops?

When you enter Suguru’s art studio, it’s a rainy day. The studio smells like turpentine and charcoal and the quiet hum of jazz Suguru always plays low enough to be background. You slip inside as you always do, early, shy, keeping to the edges of the space. Only a handful of students are there, easels forming a loose crescent around the small modeling space.

Suguru is at the front, leaning against his desk, black long hair pulled into a loose bun that keeps slipping free, strands brushing his jaw. He’s laughing at something, soft and warm and familiar.

And the man he’s talking to makes you freeze.

Tall. Broad. Careless posture like he grew into his beauty without ever having to think about it. White hair—pale as bone, soft-looking, messy like fingers had been in it. Tight white shirt pulled over shoulders made for ancient marble statues. Veins on his forearms. A silver watch glinting at his wrist.

But it’s his face. His eyes.Blue like summer heat mirage. Deep. Bright. Endless.

Suguru nudges him, says something that makes him grin, wide and bright and boyish all at once. A grin that touches his eyes. Crinkles at the corners. You have to look away before you're caught staring.

You take your usual seat in the back, placing your bag down with slow, careful hands, pretending your heart isn’t beating stupid-fast. You focus on your pencils, your sharpener, the kneaded eraser, the paper towel tucked in the corner for smudging shadows.

You hear his laugh float through the room—warm, smooth like honey, easy in the way of someone who has never needed to try to be liked. It makes your stomach flip.

When everyone settles, Suguru pushes off the desk. You’ve always liked him—when you found out he was hosting an art class, you had been unsure, used to keeping your sketches in the safety of your notebooks that nobody's eyes could look at but yours. You were used to keeping your art private, secret, held close to your chest so nobody could pick it apart with scrutiny. But during that first class, Suguru had walked around, gave you earnest advice on perspective and shadows, appraised your work carefully. He had done that with everybody—took the care and attention for every piece, every person, every stroke. You’d found yourself leaving with a small, private smile, resolved to come back next week.

“Thanks for coming back, everyone," he says with a gentle smile, open and kind as always. "Our usual model is sick today, so I have a friend helping us out for the next few months.”

The mystery man steps up beside him, gives a lazy two-finger wave. His mouth curves like he knows he’s being watched—and he is. Everybody's looking at him, drawn to his sculpted face and pretty blue eyes.

“Hey guys, I'm Satoru, Suguru’s best friend,” he announces with a toothy grin. “not that he’d admit it because apparently only twelve year olds have best friends.” The room laughs, and Satoru only grins wider. “But he asked me for a favour and even though I know fuck all about modelling and art no matter how many museums Suguru’s dragged me to, I’m here,” he shrugs with a soft laugh, almost boyish. “Anyway, I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I can sit still and look pretty, so hope it works out alright."

Suguru mutters something to him—something teasing that makes Satoru’s grin sharpen just slightly—and then he steps toward the center of the room where the modeling stool waits.

And then Satoru starts to undress.

His shirt lifts and you see it all at once: the cut of his waist, the defined line of his abs, his chest carved with muscle that looks like it took years and discipline and something more feral. Light catches the sweep of his shoulders, the long stretch of his torso. He undoes his jeans with the same casual ease, lets them fall, and tosses his clothes toward Suguru who catches them with barely a blink. Satoru's left in black briefs that cling just enough.

Your throat goes tight, fingers tightening on your pencil.

When he sits, he's half-sprawled, long legs set wide, arm braced behind him on the stool. His presence fills the room, effortless gravity, like the air shapes itself around him.

Suguru begins the lesson. His voice is calm, measured, something you normally latch onto. But you’re still rearranging yourself around the sight of the man in the center of the room—the lines of his thighs, the soft shadow at his collarbone, the relaxed slope of his spine.

You sketch and try ignore the heat of your cheeks. You've seen attractive models before, seen attractive men, all but immune to them, too focused on making sure you get their proportions right, the right shadowing kissing their skin. But Satoru is different—you're all too aware of his beauty, of the way the light spills into the dips of his muscles and highlights the expanse of his throat.

He's talkative, you learn very quickly. Chatty, makes jokes, engages in conversation with the people around him like they're not sketching him half naked. His laughter is bright and easy, and he makes the room laugh at least four times. But every so often, during the quiet lulls when everybody's too busy focusing and Suguru's drifting around offering gentle advice, Satoru's eyes drag across the room, like he's curious about all these people who are using him as their muse for the day—and when they land on you, even for a heartbeat, it’s like someone lit a fuse beneath your skin. Your chest tightens. Your fingers slip. You look away too quickly, too obviously. Heat crawls across your face.

Suguru pauses at your easel for a moment, offering gentle feedback, and you nod along, praying he can’t hear the way your pulse is pounding. The way your sketch has become almost too precise, too attentive to the shape of his hips, the tension in his thighs, the light pooling on his collarbones.

Class ends and you pack up quickly. Your voice is small when you thank Suguru, your footsteps quick on your way out the door, and you don't notice curious blue eyes following you the entire way out.

Weeks pass.

You learn quickly that Satoru is magnetic, that people are drawn to him naturally like it's gravitational, that words and jokes flow easily off his tongue, his grins handsome, the laughter he earns genuine. His presence is magnetic, bright and overwhelming. He fills the studio. He fills your sketchbook.

It’s not just his body—though God, his body is something. Broad chest, long legs, easy muscle, that sharp V that disappears beneath waistbands. He takes up far too much space in your mind, in your sketchbook, in the quiet moments you used to fill with nothing at all.

It's him. There's something bright in him—loud and brilliant and warm—a kind of inner sun that makes other people open up like blooming flowers around him. Even when he’s teasing Suguru or draping himself into a chair lazily, there’s a sharpness in him. A wit. A quickness. Something that makes you want to know what his thoughts look like under those too-blue eyes. He starts to take up more space in your sketchbook. His smile. His hands. His throat. The curve of his back when he stretches. The lines of his hips.

After class, when the rain is tapping at your window and your back is pressed to your bed frame, blankets curled over your knees, your fingers itch for charcoal. For graphite. For the shape of his mouth. You tell yourself it’s just studying. Practice to make yourself better on anatomy.

But that doesn’t explain the endless pages detailing his every breath.

First, it’s his face—the way his eyes crease when he laughs, lashes pale and soft, the curve of his grin, the thoughtless curl of his fingers when he talks. Then it's his hands—elegant and long, veins pronounced when he flexes. You draw them again and again, from every angle, like they were made to be worshipped in charcoal.

Then something shifts. Your pencil begins to follow imagination rather than memory. You draw him on his knees. His spine a perfect line, shoulders relaxed, chin tipped up by someone’s fingers you pretend you haven't drawn to be your own. His lips parted, expression lazy and coy, eyes lifted under pale lashes, something in them that sends heat between your thighs.

On another page, he’s lying back on sheets, hips barely covered, hair messy like someone's hands has been tugging at. One arm draped over his eyes, as though the morning light is too much. His thighs spread just enough to suggest invitation.

Then it devolves, filthily, helplessly.

His back arched, hands gripping wrinkled sheets. His head thrown back, throat exposed. His hips pressing down, thighs tense, muscles flexing, forearms pressed to sheets, hovering above another body. His tongue out against a delicate throne, dragging a broad stripe. His mouth open with a pair of thighs thrown over his shoulders.

You start to want to trace him with something other than graphite, want to trace the line of his muscles with your tongue, want to know how his muscles feels under your palms, how they work and tense, how his breath feels on your skin when it shudders in broken breathy gasps. You want to feel the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he might pin you down without effort and lazy laugh in your ear while doing it.

You still sit in the back of class. Still slip out quietly at the end. Still barely speak to him. But he's everywhere. And everytime time his eyes find you, your spine lights up like someone struck a match along it. One afternoon, you'd been talking to Suguru, trying to explain a shadow technique, laughing shy and soft, fingers tucking hair behind your ear.

When you glanced up, Satoru was watching you. Not casually. Not absentmindedly. Watching. His eyes were focused, heavy, intense in a way that feels like being held in place. Like being seen down to your pulse and ribs. And when you caught him staring, he didn't look away. His gaze stayed locked with yours, calm, unbothered, like he was seeing through you, into the pump of your heart, the contraction of your muscles, the squeeze of your lungs.

Your breath caught and your cheeks burned. You looked away first, because you had to, because if you didn't, your knees might have given out.

And you hated how your body reacted so easily to him. The prickling heat under your skin. The needy, humiliating heat that settled low between your legs. It was embarrassing—how easily he got to you. How just being looked at by him made your panties wet enough that you had to press your thighs together for the rest of class.

You don’t even have to speak to him for your cunt to pulse with heat, leaving you slick after every class, chasing the heat with your vibrator pressed to your clit as you gasp in the safety of your bedroom, but even there Satoru lingered, in your thoughts, behind your eyelids. He's in your head, the ghost of his voice in your ear, you imagined his body on yours, his hands on your heated skin, his teasing words spilling into your ear as he played with you, long fingers dragging over your soft slick cunt. Your back arched, your head tipped back into your pillows, thighs clenching as you came, crying out a noise that took the same shape as Satoru's name. You panted afterwards, dizzy and flushed, and already reaching for your sketchpad and a fresh pencil.

Then it all came to a head—the spiral that led to sketching him almost obsessively, in positions that haunt your sticky, hot dreams.

It happens on a Thursday evening, the kind where the rain taps soft against the studio windows. Class ends slowly. People pack up in loose chatter, chairs scraping, easels shifting. You're where you always are, in your spot near the back with Suguru as everybody shuffles out. His arms are folded loosely, head tilted as he studies your latest piece—Satoru with his legs crossed, his back arched just so, exposing that long elegant throat, head tipped back with lazy arrogance. His eyes are half lidded, the kind that speaks through paper, promises that he knows something you don't. It's vivid, deliberate—your best piece to date.

Suguru smiles at you, warm. “You’re seeing form better,” he says, voice soft enough that it doesn’t disturb the quiet. “The looseness in your wrist is helping the line flow. Keep exploring that. It’s working.”

Your chest warms at the praise, something warm and gooey in your stomach as you nod slightly, cheeks pink.

His hand squeezes your shoulder once, gentle, steady. “You’ve got something good going. Don’t run from it.”

Then he leaves too—coat shrugged on, hair loose around his shoulders as he waves his casual, “See you next week.”

The studio settles into quiet. You start packing up your things, neat, quick, familiar, when a chair scrapes. Your head jerks up, surprised. Satoru is still here.

Everyone else is gone. The door has shut behind Suguru. The room feels bigger, emptier—except for him. He stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, blue eyes fixed on you like he’s been watching you for longer than you knew.

“You don’t really hang around much,” he says, voice echoing softly in the open space.

Your pulse jumps. It's the first time he's ever spoken to your directly bar that one time he picked up your eraser that had tumbled across the floor without you realising, your heart stumbling as your fingers brushed and you stuttered out a thank you before fleeing the room. Your fingers tighten around your sketchbook. “Um—sorry?”

He huffs a small laugh through his nose, something quieter than the loud persona he usually wears for the room. “I'm not judging. Just…” He tilts his head, like his considering you. Your skin prickles with heat at the way he''s observing you, blue eyes on you like he's trying to pick apart something interesting. “Never seen you stay late. Thought maybe you didn’t like Suguru. Or, I don’t know. Didn’t like being here.”

Your cheeks heat, pulse stumbling at how this is the first time you've ever been left alone with him and the sudden conversation he's striking up. “No, I— I like him. He’s really patient. And… I like the class.”

His mouth lifts—small, soft. “Yeah. He’s good at that.”

You swallow, try again. “I just… don’t really do well with people," you shrug, looking down, embarrassed.

“Mm, that's alright, not everybody's a people-person.” Satoru's reply is soft. Understanding, not mocking, and it makes your heart squeeze.

"Not like you," you mutter softly, the words out before you can stop them and your head shoots up, panicking to correct yourself. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. You're just very—" you swallow, gesturing aimlessly. "Bright"

Satoru laughs at that, arching a brow, not at all offended and you flush embarrassed. "Bright?"

You hesitate and nod slightly, fidgeting with your sketchbook. "Yeah. You're really...You're good at talking to people," you say, a little less rushed, a little too soft. "Like people like talking to you. You make them laugh and you listen to them. You're.... likeable." You want to take the words back as soon as they tumble out because they're too honest, too insightful.

"Yeah?" Satoru murmurs, as the amused glint in his bright blue eyes is replaced with something else, like he's just realised something. "Pay attention to me alot then?" he asks, tilting his head lazily.

You flush pink. "No—I mean yes—" you stumble to say. "I mean, you're the model so it's only natural I pay attention to you."

Satoru hums then, low, not entirely convinced and your ears burn. Only a couple minutes talking with him and you're giving away all the secrets you've been holding to your chest for months. This is why you don't talk to me, you think with an internal cringe.

"Anyways, I should probably..." you mutter to try end your own humiliation and move to slide your sketchbook into your bag.It slips from your fingers. Falls open. Pages fan out against the studio floor with a dull, loud thunk.

Your heart stops in your chest, cheeks flooding with embarrassed heat, today really isn't your fucking day. You reach to grab it but Satoru is faster.

"I'll get it—"

His long fingers lift the cover. Then he pauses. Because of the page it's opened up to.

Satoru on his knees.

Charcoal shading the curve of his spine, the relaxed part of his lips, head tipped back by a hand in his hair, his fingers curled around soft thighs. He's looking up, smoky eyes all lazy heat in the set of his eyes, the lazy tilt of his head, face resting between a set of spread thighs.

A quiet breath—low, disbelieving, a little awed if you listen close enough—slips from him.

“Well shit,” Satoru mutters.

Your whole body goes hot, cheeks pink, mortified.

“I—” you choke, spine locked, air thin.

He doesn’t look away from the sketch. His thumb traces the charcoal shading of his jaw. “That explains.... a lot.”

“It’s not—It—It’s not what it looks like,” you stammer, though you can’t even begin to form a lie big enough to cover this.

“This is…”

You wait for his judgement, his disgust, heart pumping furiously, throat dry.

“This is real fucking good, y/n,” he mutters, tongue dragging over his bottom lip.

And you're so caught by the use of your name that your brain completely glosses over the compliment.

“You know my name?” you stammer out, and Satoru laughs low, making heat squirm in your stomach.

“I asked Suguru,” he admits, eyes flitting up to you and then back to the sketches. “About the pretty girl who sits in the back and never lets anyone see how good she is.” He flips another page—a sketch of him, sprawled out, head tipped back, lips parted. Another. And another. You want to die. “You get all tense when he compliments you. Like you don’t know how to hold praise without it burning your hands.”

Your mouth goes dry. You hadn't considered that all this time you’d been watching Satoru that he might have been watching you too.

“I—“ you breathe out. His fingers brush over a sketch you did of him with his eyes closer, head thrown back, one hand buried in soft long hair at his hips. "I didn't think anybody noticed that."

“I did," he mutters, and it makes your mouth dry. "You never stick around like the others. Never hang back to go get drinks, never chat,” he says as his eyes flick up to you and you’re pinned in place by those bright blue eyes that look like endless oceans. “wondered if you hated me. If that’s why you never stuck around.”

"I don't hate you," you whisper weakly and he smiles, sweet, fond.

"Yeah," he murmurs softly, as his eyes flick over yours like he can read every secret you've been holding to your chest since you first laid eyes on him. Months of yearning, of wishing after a man you thought was out of reach, that was so beautiful and loved that he'd never look your way. Only to find he's been watching you the entire time too when you weren't looking. "I figure."

His eyes flick back to the sketches, some messy, rushed, some careful and neat, but each one carries the same thought, the same thread of yearning, the same ache of want.

"These are...." Satoru exhales low, tongue dragging over the edge of his teeth.

“I wasn’t—“ you breathe out, trying to explain it away, cover up your tracks, hide the undeniably want you've spilled into pencil lines and smudges.

"You did though," he murmurs and your breath trips as his eyes drag back up to yours. There's something heavy in his eyes, like a suspicion finally confirmed and now it's being laid out in front of him in black and white, he can't help but sink his teeth in. Your breath stutters as he steps closer. You step back and he slips the sketchbook onto a table. “Drew me. Over and over and over. Nobody else."

"It wasn’t like that—“ you protest as he steps closer.

“You sure?” Satoru asks with a low wicked laugh as he continues advancing. “Cause it looks like that. I mean…” his lips curve, wicked, blue eyes bright as your back hits the window ledge. “You drew me getting head. I think it’s like that, y/n.”

He uses your name again and your stomach does that traitorous squirm again. The studio light catches in his lashes. His cologne smells like warm pine and expensive spice and something distinctly him. His voice lowers—something private and heavy beneath the teasing edge.

“I knew,” he murmurs quietly and your heart thunders like a cornered animal. “I knew there was something you were hiding. You always looked away too fast, ran away first.” You swallow, heart hammering, looking up at him. “I didn’t think it would be this though. I’d been hoping, sure. But I didn’t think a girl like you would actually want someone like me.”

His eyes search yours. The words make your pulse trip. A guy like him. Like you know who he is—like those sketches have peeled back a layer, like he knows you’ve seen through him, through the pretty face and handsome smirk.

"You spent so much time thinking about it, sketching it, pouring into drawing me," he murmurs, looking at you from under pale lashes. "It would be a shame if you never got to feel the real thing."

Your throat goes dry, staring at him, wondering if you've heard wrong.

"I—" you breathe out. "Are you being serious?" you breathe out.

Satoru laughs, slow like honey, low and warm. "Yeah," he murmurs with that smile that makes your knees weak, the one that shows his dimples. "Think you deserve to see what it's really like to have me on my knees after sketching it in such painstaking detail."

And then slowly, he sinks down to his knees and your breath catches.

“It was something like this, wasn’t it?” he murmurs as his knees press into the studio floor, looking up at you from under pale lashes, studio light catching on his jaw, the tips of his hair.

“Satoru—” you breathe out and he hums low, soft.

"Yeah keep saying my name like that," he mutters. Your mouth goes dry.

He’s kneeling exactly the way you’ve drawn him. The tilt of his head. The lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. The mouth that looks like sin wrapped in silk. The charcoal shading and daydream hunger of your sketchbook made warm and real and breathing.

“Your hand was in my hair,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with suggestion, like velvet dragged slowly over bare skin. “In the sketch.”

You hesitate. The world narrows to the space between you. And then your hand lifts—unsure, trembling—and touches him. You slide your fingers into his hair. It is soft, softer than you imagined, like silk slipping through your fingertips. He exhales, quiet and unguarded, not quite a moan, but close. His eyes flutter half-shut.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “There you go.”

Your knees feel unsteady. His hands rise, slow as warmth spreading under skin, and settle on the backs of your thighs, broad palms, calloused thumbs tracing slow arcs over your knees. that make you shiver.

"Did you dream about this?" he asks softly as he looks up at you from under pale lashes, the lights hitting him just right. He looks like everything you've been fantasising about and more. "Me finding out about your dirty little sketches?" Your cheeks burn and he laughs, low, gravelly. "Me offering myself up to you? Getting to feel the real thing, not just the filthy imitations you've been drawing on paper?"

"I didn't—" You swallow, fingers still tangled in his soft silky hair. "I didn't think you'd want to. Not with me."

He shakes his head then, a soft, disbelieving scoff spilling past his lips. "Not with you?" Satoru echoes with a soft scoff. "Sweetheart, if only you knew how bad I want you."

Your breath catches and Satoru continues, fingers stroking over your thighs. "Ever since that first class, I saw you in the back, tucked away in your quiet little corner." A heat shoots down your spine at that—he'd been watching? Ever since then? "You were sweet, quiet, soft in that way that made my teeth ache," he murmurs.

"I caught you watching me sometimes, when I was talking with Suguru or one of the others. But you never hung back, never stayed. I figured I was making it up in my head. Then I saw one of your sketches, the fourth week in. I'd been with Suguru, eating Chinese and helping him mark. And then in that pile, there you were." He still remembers the moment, sitting with Suguru on his living room floor, containers of Chinese food between them. He'd been helping the other—or more drinking his beer and offering lazy jokes. And then he saw it—your piece, hidden under the others, when Suguru picked another sketch up. It had sat there, unearthed like a gem and he'd picked it up carefully and swallowed.

"You drew me like you were admiring me and unravelling me at the same time," Satoru breathes as he looks up at you from under his lashes, voice a little more raw around the edges. "Like you really saw me. Like you were looking through the bullshit, through the jokes and smiles. Like you'd seen my fucking soul." Satoru breathes out, looking up at you like he's drunk off it—the heady feeling of being seen, being understood, of someone pouring time into unravelling you, seeing you for who you really are.

In your eyes, in your perspective, Satoru was beautiful, but he was painstakingly human. You caught the crinkle of his nose when he laughed, the beauty marks on his left shoulder, the slight crookedness to his pinky finger after breaking it twice. You'd caught all his imperfections, didn't gloss over them like everybody else did, too wrapped up in his sweet charm and handsome smiles. He felt seen. So seen it made his stomach twist. He'd taken a secret photo of it when Suguru wasn't looking, safely tucked the sketch away in his phone.

When he got back to his own apartment, his stomach was still in knots, a heat that had been simmering under his skin the entire night. His fingers pulled up the photo he'd taken, eyes flicking over the seam of his jaw, the way you'd drawn the bend of his fingers, the curl to the corner of his mouth. His cock twitched, his stomach twisted, all heat and need. He'd gotten his hand on his cock and pumped it, rushed and desperate, teeth digging into his pillows as his eyes screwed shut as he imagined you sketching him, seeing him, touching him. He'd come with a ragged, broken groan, eyes rolling back, pumping out every last spurt of cum from his cock, until he'd made a mess of his sheets. He'd sworn, breathless and half lidded as his eyes flicked to where his phone was still alight with your sketch.

That had been the start of a long, endless spiral—every night Satoru thought about you, about those soft nimble hands that depict his softest parts, his rawest edges, on his skin, on his thighs, wrapped around his cock. He imagined being used for your anatomy practice privately, twisted in positions that left his cock heavy and flushed as you drew him. He imagined you watching him unravel—your eyes on the curve of his spine, the flutter of his lashes, the stutter of his hips as they strained against his matress, rutting his cock against it to thoughts of you.

"I—" you breathe out, stomach tangling into knots and Satoru looks wrecked, presses his face to your thigh, breathes in the smell of your body wash that clings to your skin and something distinctively you. He noses up your thigh and your breath stumbles.

"And then I find out you've been drawing me in your little sketchbook," Satoru breathes as his nose drags up your thigh, like he's drunk off your attention. "Filthy and detailed," he breathes and you gasp when his teeth nip at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "And so fucking dirty."

"Satoru—" you whimper out and he moans into your thigh at the noise, fingers tugging your skirt up.

"I've been dreaming of this," he breathes, eyes half lidded and heavy, focused between your thighs where your panties are soaked through and the sight sends heat straight to his cock. "Being on my knees for you. Worshipping you as gratitude for seeing me," he breathes as he looks up at you.

"Can I?" he breathes and your heart trips. He looks sinful like this, inches from where your cunt is soaked, his pupils blown wide, his fingers curled into the softness of your thigh. He looks devastating—like a god brought to his knees with the only intention to worship, to say thank you.

"Yes," you whisper, voice breathy. Your knees are weak, your heart pumping furiously. And you want nothing more than his mouth between your thighs.

Satoru exhales shakily at your permission, at your allowance. His fingers curl deeper into the plushness of your thighs. Then his tongue dips out and drags over your soaked panties.

"Satoru—" you stutter on a gasp as you feel the heat of his tongue through your panties. And he moans, low, thick, the vibration humming against you.

"Shit you taste good," he breathes as he mouths over your panties and your cheeks flush with heat, fingers tightening in his hair. He mouths lewdly over your panties, lapping at it, tasting you through the thin fabric.

Then his fingers drag your panties down, impatient and the second his mouth gets on your pussy, both of you let out broken noises. Your fingers thread in his hair, tugging and moaning as his tongue laps over you. It's better than what you've sketched, the feeling of him under your hand, the heat of his tongue lapping over you, sloppy and filthy, sucking at your clit.

"Yeah—Yeah fuck—" Satoru grunts. He hooks his hands under your thigh and lifts, anchoring you against his mouth. He drags your right thigh over his shoulder, spreading you open, holding you steady while he eats you out like this is something he’s thought through a hundred times.

"Fuck—Satoru—" you cry out, head tipping back, heat under your skin, fingers tugging at his hair hard enough to make him groan and lap at you harder, tongue rubbing over your clit, fingers curled into your thighs, holding you open for his mouth.

His mouth feels like worship when it's on you like this, greedy as it licks into you sloppily, sealing over your clit, sucking hard enough to make you see stars and cry out, fingers wrapped in his hair. His tongue moves in fast, sloppy strokes that send heat shooting up your spine. His breath is hot against you, his jaw working, the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy filling the empty studio—obscene, sloppy, hungry.

Your hips jerk. You can’t help it. Your body tries to get closer to his mouth, overwhelmed, and Satoru just chases you.

“Do that again,” he moans into your pussy, voice rough and wrecked His fingers flex, dragging you back down onto his mouth. "Fuck my face, c'mon.”

And you whine, and your hips stutter and push, fingers curling in his hair, holding him in place and he moans like this is exactly what he's been waiting for. His mouth hang open, tongue hanging for you to use as you grind your pussy on his tongue, pushing your hips against his face. His tongue pushes deeper, lapping at your slick soft cunt, eyes rolling back as you fuck his face, rolling your hips, hand on the back of his head, forcing him closer. He lets you use him, lets you tug at his hair, push his head down, moans vibrating through your cunt as he you stuff his face in your pussy. His nose bumps your clit when he pushes his tongue lower, licking into you, and the sensation hits so hard your vision whites out for a second.

“Satoru—fuck—wait hngh— I’m gonna—”

And then he sucks, right on your clit, laving over it, lapping at it with sloppy, needy strokes. Your knees nearly buckle; your nails scrape his scalp; your hips jerk helplessly. White heat floods through you so fast you can’t even breathe, just a sound—high, broken, needy—leaving your lips as your body clenches hard.

"Satoru—" you cry out his name brokenly as you feel yourself cum, feel your thighs tremble against his shoulders, feel the way your pussy throbs around his tongue.

Satoru moans into your cunt, and the sound vibrates through you, his eyes rolling back as his own cock twitches in his pants, tip pressing against the seam of his fly as he cum the second he feels your pussy pulse through your orgasm. He cums untouched, like just getting his mouth on your pussy is enough to send him over the edge, spilling into the denim, cock jerking and pulsing, trapped in the fabric.

“Fuckin' hell,” he breathes against your pussy, voice low and hoarse. He looks up at you from under wet lashes, cheeks flushed, jaw and mouth slick, hair messy from your hands. He rests his chin against your thigh as you catch your breath, panting and flushed as you look down at him, his hands holding the backs of your knees. He looks like a piece of art, like honey dewed dreams of soft sheets and warm hands, like everything you've been dreaming of.

"So can I take you out for some dinner?" he murmurs against your thigh, like he didn't just eat you out within an inch of your life and make you cum so hard you saw stars.

You laugh, soft, breathless, giddy. "Yes," you whisper, with a small, breathless smile. "You can."

And Satoru smiles, small and sweet against your thigh, pressing a soft lingering kiss there.

thank you for reading! - my other works - © leclercloveletters 2025. all rights reserved. please do not upload elsewhere, translate or copy

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[reidluvr9]

Should my vampire nerdjo fic take place now or in the 1800s?

Modern (Now)

1800s

Voting ended onOct 14, 2025