#suriki

[sur-i-ki]

What up?

b. katsuki x reader

Snippets of your convos when you're together and he's whipped (also he bought you a new phone) (also slightly suggestive)

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[sur-i-ki]

I got you

k.bakugo x reader

Where he's heads over heels in love with you, slightly suggestive, talk abt weed but barely, bday posttttt

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[sur-i-ki]

Babe, please

k. bakugo x reader

Established relationships, slightly suggestive, snippets of convos between you and him

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[sur-i-ki]

Fissures: Firelord Zuko x reader

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in which you don't fully understand the effect you have on your beau

talk about body image, zuko losing his fucking mind over your stretch marks (bc they're so hot hello, its so yum, i second him), him losing his mind over you, implied sex, some explicit sentences about it but I don't go into detail. lmk if there's anything i'm missing

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You never felt fully confident in your body. It's not hate either, if anything, you feel better about yourself now than you did when you were a teen. But sometimes, the scars of your hardships aren't something you feel confident about.

The thin scars all over your arms and lower legs from getting sliced by swords and knives when blocking during fights in your youth, the stretch marks littered over your thighs and butt, from where your body stored the fat when you were fed on the road, putting on weight fast, then losing it even faster as you and the avatar's group picked it's way through the war torn world.

But there wasn't much you could do about it, the discoloration from where you were burned slightly, to the callouses on your hands that you can still feel, even if you can't see them anymore. Accepting it was the only way to move forward. You liked yourself enough, and sometimes you would stare at your reflection, seemingly lost in the way your waist curves into your hips, the particular swell of your shoulders, the plush of your thighs.

Sure, you didn't like all of you, but you liked yourself enough, and for the longest time, you thought that would be the case for everyone.

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If only you had found out what the unloved parts of you do to Zuko.

This boy, helplessly in love with you, turned Fire Lord, still hopelessly in love with you, feels things he cannot describe when he sees you.

You're his wife, yes, but still, he loses it over you, and your body. Your soul is arguably the prettiest thing he's ever seen. In those soft, slow, rare moments, when the morning sunlight warms the both of you in his sleeping chambers, he presses a palm against your sternum and breathes, feeling the heat and fire inside you move.

It's something he found out by chance, after his meeting with the dragons. He noticed your inner flame, when you had hugged him so tight after his father was put away. It was in you, around you, around him, and for a moment, it was all he could feel, and he's never felt better. He could never describe it, would fail at every try, but somehow, his affinity to fire and his feelings for you had allowed him to see.

He had tried to describe it to you once, when you had asked, but he couldn't. He was never good with his words, but this was so much more than anything he'd ever experienced, he had just stared at you helplessly, mouth open and gaping. But he did say one thing.

"Whenever I feel it-see it, it's like I'm home."

The resulting blush in your face had him barking out a laugh, but you'd hugged him anyways, kissed the skin under his burned eye, and thanked him.

Thanked? Him?

It was absurd, and he told you as much, but you had giggled, smoothing his robes out as a guard approached him to let him know the council meeting was starting.

That's not the main point, however.

The main point is, when you lay with him in bed, hands ghosting over his skin, pressing your lips into every marred inch of his skin, he feels like igniting.

Every time you both bathe together, and you let him scrub you down as you talk about your day, he won't lie and say he hears everything. Sometimes, he's so preoccupied with how your stretch marks look and feel under his fingers, that you openly have to stare him down so he stops caressing your thighs and ass, and actually cleans you.

Not that it stops him from lifting you onto the counter tops, pulling your legs over his shoulders like they're his robes, and palming at the damp skin as he devours you whole.

Every single time, without fail, the thought or sight of your marks makes his ears burn and his face red. Sparring? if you pull off your arm guards, the little white scars on your skin make him pause. The way you smirk at him, the way he knows that you earned them, has him breathing slow and thinking about sharing living quarters with his uncle just to snap back to focus for a little bit.

The unsaid implications of the marks on your body, the hardships and journeys you've went through, documented on your skin only for his eyes to read, make it very hard for him to keep his hands to himself.

You complain about it, at times, fond and teasing, but there is no way you'd understand how hard it is for Zuko, who has to work through every meditation trick in the book to keep calm as you dress yourself after climbing out of bed. Not that it works half of the time. Just the act of you slightly bending at the hips to check your reflection, your undergarments hiding nothing, stretch marks stretching even more, has him prowling towards you, hands hard at your hips as he latches onto your neck.

It's insanity. It drives him insane. Makes him feel like a raging hormonal teen all over again, back when just the thought of you in the next tent over had him shifting. But now with knowing how you sound and taste, it's gotten even worse, but he can't say he's mad about. Especially when you let him do whatever he wants, laughing, eyes crinkling as you beckon him towards you.

He notices how you stare at yourself in the mirror before climbing into the bathing pool every time.

Zuko knows how you feel about them of course. But if you don't want to love these parts of yourself, he has no qualms loving them on your-and his-behalf.

Especially if it gets you saying his name like that when he pulls you into the scented waters, hands already ghosting over his favourite parts of you.

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cuz i was gonna write him sooner or later. This isn't for the poll posted, that's gonna come after finals let me go.

[sur-i-ki]

Before and After

--.-- k. bakugo

--.-- texts between you and him before and after you started dating

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first convo vs. latest

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first favour vs. latest

---first smau post kinda nervyyyy....do we want a pt 2?

[sur-i-ki]

What You Deserve to Hear

gaara x reader

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You have always been the kind of person who folds in on yourself when something hurts.

Not out of weakness, not because you cannot speak, but because somewhere along the way, you learned that discomfort is quieter when kept inside your chest. You learned how to smile through it, how to tuck your thoughts between your ribs and pretend they are not clawing to get out. You learned how to convince yourself that things are fine, even when they are not.

It is easier that way. Easier than asking questions you are not sure you want answered.

So when he tells you not to worry about her, you listen. You nod, soft and agreeable, even as something unsettled curls low in your stomach. He says it casually, like it is obvious, like the very idea of you being concerned is almost amusing. She is just a friend. You are overthinking. You always do this.

And you hate that he is right about that part.

You have always overthought things. Always read too deeply into tone, into timing, into the way someone’s attention shifts just slightly out of reach. So you swallow it, press your lips together, and tell yourself that this is one of those moments where you need to be better, less sensitive, less fragile. You tell yourself that trust should come easily when you love someone, and try not to think about the fact that trust is not supposed to feel like convincing.

At first, it is small things. A mention of her name more often than before, a laugh that lingers a little too long when he is reading something on his phone, plans that shift at the last minute because something came up. You don't ask what that something is, don't ask where he is going.

You do not ask why he has stopped looking at you the way he used to.

Instead, you sit with it. You sit with the quiet unease and let it settle into something familiar. Something you can carry without dropping. You tell yourself that relationships change, that comfort replaces intensity, that this is normal. You repeat it enough times that it almost begins to sound true.

It is not until someone else notices that the illusion starts to crack.

He is not loud about it. He never is. Ever since you've known him from school, Gaara does not interrupt, does not pry, does not force words out of you that you are not ready to give. He simply exists beside you, steady and unmoving, like something that cannot be shaken no matter how strong the wind becomes.

You don't remember when it started, exactly. Maybe it was the way he began to linger after conversations, as if making sure you were not left alone too quickly, maybe it was the way his gaze would rest on you just a second longer than necessary, not invasive, not demanding, just present. Or maybe it was the first time he asked you to go somewhere with him.

It had caught you off guard.

You had been expecting silence, the usual quiet understanding that passed between the two of you without needing to be spoken aloud. Instead, he had looked at you with that same calm expression and said your name, as if grounding the moment before it could slip away. You remember hesitating, not because you did not want to go, but because you were not used to being asked. Not like that.

There had been no expectation in his voice, no pressure. Just a simple offer. You could take it or leave it, and he would accept either answer without question.

You went.

You tell yourself it is because you needed a distraction, tell yourself it is because you had nothing else planned. You don't acknowledge the small, quiet relief that settles in your chest the moment you step into something that feels uncomplicated. The evening is simple. There is no grand gesture, no attempt to impress you with something extravagant or overwhelming. Just a quiet place, soft light, and conversation that does not feel like it is pulling something out of you that you cannot give. A cafe, nestled into the streets that let you have a moments peace.

Gaara doesn't ask you what's wrong. He doesn't need to. He talks about small things, the kind of things people usually overlook. The way the air feels different just before it rains, the patterns the wind leaves behind when it moves across sand, things that do not demand anything from you except your attention.

And somehow, that is enough.

You find yourself responding without thinking, offering small pieces of yourself without the usual hesitation. It's not difficult, doesn't feel like something you need to brace for. It just happens. When the night ends, you realize that your chest does not feel as tight as it did before.

You simply let it be.

It becomes a quiet pattern after that. Not frequent enough to draw attention, not deliberate enough to feel planned. Just moments that seem to fall into place when you need them most. A walk when your thoughts become too loud, shared meals when the silence at home starts to feel suffocating, conversations that drift easily, never forcing you into corners you are not ready to face.

Gaara never pushes. He never asks about your relationship directly. Never asks about him. But there is an awareness in the way he watches you, in the way his presence shifts just slightly closer when you seem smaller than usual. You wonder if he knows, and think he probably does.

It becomes harder to ignore the changes after that.

Your boyfriend grows distant in ways that cannot be explained away so easily. Messages go unanswered for longer stretches, plans become afterthoughts. His attention feels like something you have to reach for, something that slips through your fingers no matter how carefully you try to hold onto it.

You don't confront him.

You think about it, rehearsing the words in your head, over and over, trying to find a version that doesn't sound accusing, doesn't sound desperate, doesn't sound like you are asking for something you are not sure he is willing to give. But every version feels wrong, so you stay quiet. You tell yourself that if something is wrong, he will tell you.

The end comes in a way that feels both sudden and inevitable.

There is no fight, no raised voices, no moment where everything spills out at once in a way that forces resolution. Just a conversation that feels strangely detached, like you are watching it happen from somewhere just outside your own body. He tells you it is not working, tells you he needs something different, tells you that you deserve better, in that vague, empty way people use when they have already made their decision and are simply trying to soften the impact.

You listen. You nod. You tell him you understand. You don't cry until after he leaves.

It is not graceful.

There is no quiet dignity in the way it breaks out of you, no controlled release of emotion that can be neatly tucked away once it has run its course. It is messy, overwhelming, the kind of grief that takes up too much space and does not care if you are ready to hold it. You try to stop it. Then, thinking back to that quiet friend of yours, his words of advice that tell you to feel: you let it happen.

You don't know how long you stay like that.

Time loses its shape when you are in it, stretches and folds in ways that make it impossible to measure. All you know is that at some point, the air feels too heavy, the walls too close, and you need to get out before you suffocate under the weight of it.

You just move.

The night is quiet when you step outside, the kind of stillness that makes everything feel distant and unreal. Your thoughts are too loud, too tangled to make sense of, and you focus on putting one foot in front of the other just to keep from unraveling completely.

You didn't expect to see him, but you hoped he could hear you, somewhere. Gaara is not someone who appears by accident. And yet, there he is. Standing a short distance away, as if he had been there long before you arrived. As if he had known, somehow, that this is where you would end up when everything finally broke.

You stop.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. He looks at you, really looks at you, taking in the tear-streaked face, the unsteady way you are holding yourself together. There is no surprise in his expression, no confusion, only understanding.

It is enough to undo you all over again. You thought you had already emptied yourself out, that there was nothing left to spill. But the moment he steps closer, the moment his presence settles around you in that quiet, grounding way, something in your chest gives way.

Your name leaves his mouth softly, and that is all it takes.

You close the distance without thinking, your hands gripping the fabric of his clothing as if it is the only thing keeping you upright. He does not hesitate. His arms come around you immediately, steady and sure, holding you in a way that does not feel fragile. You cry into him, your face pressed against his shoulder, your breaths uneven and sharp.

He doesn't try to stop you, doesn't tell you it will be okay. He simply stays. His hand moves slowly against your back, a quiet, repetitive motion that anchors you when everything else feels like it is slipping out of place. You do not know how long he holds you like that. Long enough for the worst of it to pass, long enough for your breathing to steady, even if the ache remains.

When you finally pull back, your eyes are swollen, your voice still unsteady. You try to speak, but your voice breaks, breathe catching in your throat, and nothing comes out.

He watches you for a moment, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface of his usual composure. Then, carefully, as if the moment itself might break under too much pressure, he reaches up and brushes a stray tear from your cheek.

“I know this is not the time you would have chosen,” he says quietly. You feel it, the shift in the air, the weight of something unspoken pressing forward.

“But I need you to hear this.”

His gaze does not waver.

“I care about you. I love you. I have, for a long time.”

Simple. Direct. No embellishment, no attempt to soften it into something less than what it is. Blunt, the truth of it all at once, laid bare at your feet, done exactly the way Gaara does stuff in life. Your chest tightens, but not in the same way as before. This feels different, in the way his hand is warm against your back, in the way his heart in thundering under yours. His love feels like giving, not like something is being taken from you, feels like something is being placed gently into your hands, with no expectation that you will know what to do with it right away.

Gaara’s expression remains steady, but there is something there now, something more open than you have ever seen before.

“I am not asking for anything from you,” he continues. “Not now.”

His voice is quiet, but it's roaring in your ears.

“I know where you are. I can only imagine what this feels like.”

Of course he does, this caring man, trying so hard to pick his words, worried for you. The look in his eyes have you wanting to look away. But you can't. The sheer level of love and understanding take your breath away. He's always understood things without needing them to be explained.

“I will wait,” he says.

Not a promise meant to pressure, not something heavy or binding, just a statement, a quiet certainty.

“You do not have to decide anything. You do not have to be ready.”

His hand lowers, but he does not step away.

“And I'll still be here.”

The words settle into you slowly. You don't respond right away, are not sure you can, but for the first time since everything fell apart, the ache in your chest shifts into something that is not entirely unbearable. Shifts into something that feels, faintly, like the beginning of warmth.

And when your fingers tighten slightly against his sleeve, when you do not pull away, he understands.

He always does.

[sur-i-ki]

MDNI-I fear I may have let the voices speak a little too loud because uhm. This happened. Oops. Optional Part 3, smut. Idk how tf imma pull this off but let’s see, bc even though i have filthy thoughts, idk how to execute them without sounding like some goon vro </3 1.2k and it hasn’t even started yet. May I introduce the offering of foreplay. I lowkey don’t know what the fuck im writing, just know that i’ve been in the trenches and I'm ovulating. 2.1k and we haven’t started yet, oops. 2.5k and the escalation begins, all because I decided to turn on “Haunted” by beyonce. 3.7k and idk wtf im doing. 4.7k and I haven’t even gotten to the main plot. 6.2k words and I’m finally done. Yeah lmk if this sucks guys. not edited

Dating Naruto was an easy thing to do, easily the easiest, easy like breathing, like blinking. This man was a walking, talking romance book. Now, after two years of endless pining, the fact that you have him? Best believe he is stuck onto you like velcro, the definition of clingy.

You still remember how not a single soul was surprised when you both broke the news ten months ago, sneezing after you both caught a cold, sheepish but glowing, hands intertwined tightly as if you were trying to mesh together. Regardless, he was the man of your dreams, someone absolutely unreal, so amazing, brilliant and bold. But also so incredibly damning.

So, so damning.

Your current boyfriend was your favourite out of anyone you’d ever dated. Boyish, cute, golden retriever energy balanced out with this foxy darkness in him, everything about him complimented you so perfectly.

Naruto was attractive, like, needlessly attractive, drool-worthy, model material, muscles and smiles with full teeth, canines peeking and dimples pressed into his cheeks, but knowing him, getting to know him, his deepest fears, his ambitions, his hopes, to know someone so intimately, was breathtaking. He was so willing to lead by example, to forge a way with words and actions, and wait for you with encouraging words as you picked your way to him, was freeing and grounding at the time. To let him know you in the same way.

But he could be such a little shit at times.

It’s been almost ten months, ten months of building tension, and this man would drive you insane.

Resting in your new apartment after practice, your old dorm long gone, shirtless and shorts riding low as he talked about his day on your bed, arms stretched behind his head as his hooded eyes sweep your frame. Intentional shuffles, pulls, grabbing your wrist and pulling you on top of him as you walk by. But he never pursued it, for lack of better words. He was waiting for you to break, for you to start it this time.

Naruto would lounge in your apartment more, a background noise as you dived head first into studying for finals. It was intentional hand brushes against your thighs and back as you sat beside him. Teasing touches on your arms and hands as you study from across him. Pressing himself against you, just ever-so briefly when walking behind you in the kitchen. It made your head spin, but you danced around him, too preoccupied with work and clubs and finals.

He’ll be patient. Naruto was slowly making dents in your armour, and your snappy retorts returned with less snap and more heat. He was having fun, watching you press your legs together when he’d shift his hips forward on the couch, manspreading.

Watched the way you chewed on your lip as you stared at him when he’d be practising, eyes trained on his hands, his arms. Kissing you slow and deep when he came to your front door, hands teasing your waistband, fingers trailing before he pulled away casually. And there were moments where you’d be sat in his lap, legs straddling his hips as he mouthed at your collarbone, before stopping short with a grin, diverting your attention with sleep and cuddles and some silly comment.

He’d wait it out, would play this game slowly, would circle you enticingly, watching to see how much you could take before your need took over. But he would never push. No, not ever, would never take from you. You had to choose. It didn’t matter if you fell asleep in his arms with a hand up his shirt and your face buried in his neck, he would wait here reverently, even when he watched your breath stutter when he kissed your exposed back when you’d pulled your hair over your shoulder. Would wait for you to make that decision, but to let you know that he was right here, you just had to grab and take hold.

And he’ll wait, wait for you to catch up, for you to tidy up your other affairs to give him your full attention. Will wait as you battle your anxiety and fears, will wait with pride because you’re doing all of this just to be with him.

And he saw that all of this had an unexpected consequence. You have gotten more comfortable, more confident. He couldn’t rattle you as much, couldn’t fluster you into an adorable mess. Now? Now, you were sultry, more in tune with what you were feeling. Leaned into it, started returning his actions back tenfold. And he liked it, loved it really, this push-pull dance you both had.

It was only a matter of time after you were free for the summer.

Days turned hotter, and your apartment was awash in late evening sunlight, golden hour just around the corner. It was a sweltering day, and you both were lounging in the living room, some true crime show playing on the T.V. as the wind blew through the open windows, the breeze tangled in the curtains before cooling the house down, barely.

Naruto had his head tipped back, pulling at his loose sleeveless shirt, pulling his shorts as he adjusted himself on the sofa. He groaned, loudly, complaining about the heat, glancing at you to see if you saw. Saw the way this shirt made the veins in his arms jump more, how the shorts showed muscle and definition.

You were on your stomach, laid across the rest of the couch, legs swinging languidly through the air as you flipped through your book. You made a noncommittal type of sound, showing that you were barely there, tank top straps clinging onto your shoulders, small cotton shorts hugging your ass.

He trailed his eyes over your figure, looking like a cat napping in the sun with the way you stretched, turning slowly onto your back. Your top rode up just a little, just enough to show him where your tan line was. Naruto studied your legs, your hips, up to your chest, lingering on your collarbones, your neck, the way your throat was bobbing because-oh, you caught him.

Your book was held up, your hair tumbling across the armrest as you started him down. He felt like tearing his eyes away, but he couldn’t.

You didn’t tease, didn’t raise an eyebrow or laugh, no, this time, you held him, pulled him in by some sort of unseen attraction. The book tumbled from your hands.

“It’s really hot, isn’t it?” He said, flexing his fingers before trailing his hand over your legs, tracing nonsensical patterns on your skin, seemingly mindless in intention.

Your eyes flicked down to his hand, then up to his face, before you lifted that one leg up, just enough to give him more area to trace. His hands paused before he fully turned his head towards you. The temperature must’ve risen, must’ve made the room hot and stifling every time you both locked eyes.

“Yup,” You popped the ‘p’ eyes wandering down, not being subtle in the way they checked him out, pausing at his arms, “You should probably take your shirt off, no?”

He fought the smirk threatening to split over his face in fear of scaring you off, but he knew he was in some intricate dance right now. Forget him trying to entice you, you were playing him like a fiddle right now, voice low and rough, and he knew, this is you starting it.

“Yeah?” But his hands were already at the hem of his shirt, holding on as he raised them, his abs probably showing. Your eyes fell to the exposed skin, and you cock your head, bold and unmoving. “You don’t mind, yeah?”

You shake your head as you reach for your fallen book, his shirt landing somewhere behind him as he settles back, hands once again caressing your calf, soft and reverent. You flip it open, but your eyes don’t leave him, your gaze searing on his skin.

You were glowing in the sunlight, skin glistening, bathing in the warmth like some goddess, some deity, otherworldly beauty. It made him want to take a picture of you to keep in his wallet, even though he already has one.

But along with the reverence he always felt when thinking about you, right now, the impure thoughts were just a bit louder.

Louder in the sense that one of your tank top straps had fallen, showing your skin, completely uninterrupted. His eyes chased the glimmer on skin, made him want to lick it right off of you, to taste the salt it would bring. Then to kiss you right after, let you taste yourself on him.

You stood up, stretching before asking him “Water?” He ogles, not caring if you notice, ogles and looks at the silhouette of you, soft skin, top riding up even more as you stand in your glory.

He nods, trailing after you, watching how your hips swing with every step, how your shorts are barely enough to cover anything. You start filling up two glasses, bending your back a little more than necessary, when you feel his hand curl around your hair, softly brushing the skin on your back as he moves it over one shoulder.

“Shouldn’t you have the cold water running?”

You turn the knob the other way, setting the glasses down in the sink, letting the water just trickle into them, because with the way his hand was moving, he might just make you drop them. His hands ghost over your back, tracing your spine, and you wouldn’t have even known if it weren’t for the rough calluses scratching every nerve ending wherever they touched, making them ignite.

“Distracted?”

Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter. He’d noticed. You’d left the door wide open, shrouding yourself in the darkness and letting him walk through the entrance if he dared. And dare he did.

His finger traced the curve of where your spine connected to your head, feeling every rise and fall of bone, goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch. He chuckled at the lack of response from you, the sound of it thundering in his chest as your breath stuttered in yours.

The tension was choking in its thickness. This wasn’t like that first day, in the car. No, this was all heat and tension, of something waiting, lurking on the sidelines of your minds.

“Hm?”

You can’t respond, not when his palm caresses your shoulder blade, pressing into the dip of the bone, watching the way your arms lock as you lean your weight onto them, the muscles in your neck rippling as you tensed.

“Why do you ask?” Thank fuck your voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t show the full extent of your lack of thinking, but you doubt it matters, if the way you were shifting, legs pressed, wasn’t obvious enough.

“Just ‘cause…” His voice sounds nothing like his own. He’s a looming presence behind you now, tugging and toying cautiously with the strap now, two fingers fiddling with it before brushing against the skin underneath. You’re on fire, actively unravelling and burning under his touch, blazing in the full force of his attention.

You turn the faucet off. The glasses have long overfilled.

The silence presses, neither of you reach for the cups, his fingers ghosting, touching, tracing your neck, that long line of your throat, and you had long forgotten about trying to stay calm. Your chest tightened, body reacting violently to the relentless, unfamiliar touch on your neck and shoulders, his fingers toying with the strap even more, as if enticing it to fall off.

Then he pulls away, hands grabbing your hips, hard, as if to anchor himself, or you, before he’s gone, feet nearly soundless as he sits back down on the couch.

Rage almost blinds you.

You grab one glass, downing it in one go, the water swelling over your lips and running down your neck, catching and soaking the neckline of your tank top as you chug to cool some of your frustration. Naruto stares, watching, as you set it down and grab the other glass, turning and walking back to your book.

He grabs your wrist when you pass by him, pausing you between his legs. Doesn’t look up at you, not even when he presses a kiss onto your pulse point, tongue flicking out and finally tasting that salt, eyes fluttering close as his breath fans over the wet skin. The glass trembles in your grip, knuckles going white as you involuntarily straighten up. You place it on the table in front of the couch, before turning and letting yourself out of his grasp.

Naruto looks up, thinking he’s just pissed you off, mouth already open for apologies and asks for forgiveness, but you surprise him by grabbing his face and lifting it, making him stand as you chase his lips with your own, kissing him as he rises to his full height, pressed fully against him, before you pull away, hands on his shoulders as you stay standing on your tiptoes.

His hand curls around your waist, resting on the rise of your ass, the other grabbing holding of your jaw, thumb and forefinger pressing into your cheeks, making your lips purse. He pulls you in close, and hovers. Hovers because this is him asking, asking before you both start this dance in earnest, and you answer, letting him pull you into him once more.

The kiss is wet, your lip-gloss smearing against his skin as he nips at your lip, before pulling back, pulling back as he laughs a little as he twirls you around before setting you down on the sofa. Your eyes stray down, especially since the flexing lines of his abs are in your sight, his chuckle ringing straight through you.

“My eyes are up here, pretty.”

You flick your gaze back up to him, watch as the sun hits and scatters in his hair, painting a golden glow onto his head, strands soft and fluffy, falling over his eyes, his blue, blue eyes, which look murky, glowing as they pin you down. There is heat in his eyes-not heat, hunger. Hunger and starvation clawing through the surface of his irises like fire, and it was all for you. Only you.

He bends, standing in front of you, caging you as his hands settle on the head rest of the couch as you tip your head back to let him kiss you again. He groans into the kiss, especially when your mouth is so soft, open, so wanting, your hands sliding over his exposed skin as if to memorize, to feel how he is when you’ve got him like this.

Fingers trail over his throat, pausing to feel the vibration as he ‘hmm’s into the kiss, pressing against his Adam’s apple. He wanted to feel every bit of you, to devour every bit of your lips, to know the taste of his spit mixed with yours, to know what it’d taste like when you tell him so.

One hand tips your head back even more, both of your eyes hooded, eyes locked as your brows furrow, hands climbing up his skin, over his shoulder, scratching the hair at the nape of his neck. It makes him go insane, makes him deepen the kiss, climbing over you as you both slide onto the couch now.

He trails his hand down your hips, pausing at your thighs, and he waits. But you don’t hesitate, don’t overthink, pulling his hand down until it makes contact with the swell of your thigh, saying his name in one breathless whisper. And then?

He’s all over you.

He’d been going insane too, his own game driving him to the edge, it had been too long, he was too impatient, was going fucking berserk, and he completely broke every restraint holding him back as he proceeded to blow your mind.

His knees push your legs apart, legs set wide as he presses kisses into your skin, tracing a path down over your body-your skin, licking, biting, kissing, claiming. Your straps fell like sin, shirt bunching at your waist, and he mouthed at every exposed inch of skin, trying to burn you into his memory using his mouth, his tongue. You’d always been quiet, never making much noise in the way that would be torn from you, but now?

Fuck, you were so noisy.

It drives him insane.

“God,” He was back up, attacking that sensitive spot under your jaw, voice breathless and shot to hell, “Took us long enough, need you s’bad, pretty.” He says your name, tasting every letter, every syllable, every tone and accent as he noses against your jaw, “So pretty, making all those noises you try so hard to hold in. Let me hear ‘em. All of ‘em”

But you can’t really answer, head tilting back as your hair piles up against the armrest, eyes fluttering close as you gasp when his mouth starts to make its way over the swell of your breasts. He circles, like he always does, but you have a feeling it’s not to tease, but rather because he’s being methodical in his worship, carving a path of devotion onto your skin, into your soul.

But you can’t think any longer when his hand reaches up to flick one nipple, and you keen, shoulders caving in as your face crumples. He watches, using every touch, every taste, every kiss to study you.

His mouth closes over the other one as he pushes your shirt down lower, making sure you can’t rub your legs together for any friction, hands and legs pressed against you, holding you as he systematically breaks you down.

Naruto can hear your sounds. Can hear them before his mouth feels it, in the little tremble, his name catching in the back of your throat as his callused hands traced the outline of your shorts, mouth pressing on the sensitive skin of the inside of your knee, eyes never leaving your face, marks already blooming on your skin as you writhe in his grasp.

Watches, learns that his name spilling from your lips in that sinful way was just another word for please. Presses his hands against your thighs to spread you, to finally taste you in the way he’s been dreaming about, shuffling back up, pressing kisses and nipping at the skin of your stomach and hips as he pulls your legs over his shoulders.

You're panting, hard, looking down at him with a ruined expression already, and he can’t wait to see what will happen when he finally starts. He kisses the skin right above the waistband of your shorts, slowly dragging them down, inch by inch, following the dip of your hip bone as he narrows onto your core.

Your thighs are quivering, and he loops one arm under and over, enclosing your thigh as he pulls you, pins you down, hooking his finger into your shorts and dragging them down, down and off until they’re gone, settling himself between your legs again. His other hand sneaks up, brushing your tit, calloused thumb swiping across as you buck your hips towards him.

You plead out his name, hands finding his air, brushing it out of his face with such tenderness before grabbing it back, and he makes it his personal mission to see if he can get you to pull on it. He flicks his tongue out, tracing the edge of your panties with his tongue, hears the shrill whimper tear from your throat the second he does.

You’re wet, soaked, a dark spot on your lace, and it nearly makes him die, right there, but he flicks his tongue over it, tasting, not giving enough pressure for it to do anything. He looks up, watches as you look down at him with furrowed brows, eyes barely open.

“You got this messy when I just touched you a little?” he hums, low and teasing.

The sound that breaks from your throat when he grazes his thumb over your folds and finds you soaked-panties pulled away, hanging off of one trembling ankle- have him swearing under his breath, jaw going tight, shoulders pulling back and taut as though he’s barely keeping himself in check.

His groan is guttural, from deep within his chest, like it takes restraint never seen before just to hold himself back from devouring you right there. His cheeks are flushed, tan, hot skin searing where your thighs cage his head, hooded blue eyes gone smokey, pupils blow wide, glancing up at you then back down, studying, memorizing, learning, looking. His hair clings to his forehead, sweat-slick skin resting on the inside of your thigh as he brushes his knuckles through your slick, ghosting over your clit but not lingering yet.

Your thighs twitch, jaw clenching as your hands spasms in his hair, fisting just a bit before he feels you claw them open, as if trying not to give him the satisfaction, but your eyes are fluttering shut and your lips part around a breath anyways. You breathe his name, soft and tentative, as if you don’t know that you could ask.

He was going to show you, in great detail, why you would never need to ask again. He was yours for as long as you'd have him.

“Shh, baby, I got you” his lips brush against your skin, tongue wetting his lips, “Just let me taste ya’, pretty, make you feel so good.”

And that’s all the warning you get before he devours you.

There’s no more teasing, no more circling, no wait, no hesitation, just tongue, mouth, and hunger.

He groans like he’s been starved, like he’s been aching for eons to have this, have you, relief tearing its way through his body as he buries his mouth in you and licks. His hands clamp down on your hips, brushing the bone before grabbing your thighs and hauling you towards his mouth even more. Your nails scratch his scalp as he whimpers against you, tongue slow and exploring at first, buried so deep into your cunt you’re surprised he’s still breathing.

Your eyes squeeze shut as a shaky breath leaves your open lips, head falling back as you mewl, relief and pleasure crashing through you. His voice vibrated through you, and his sloppy movements sped up. His nose nudges the crease of your thigh as he exhales sharply against it. That tongue is wicked, evil in its accuracy as it finally flicks up against your clit as your hips jump, his grin curved against your skin.

He was so mean, so good, so, so good in the way he attacked your cunt, sloppy and messy and so precise as he targeted your clit. The sounds you both were making were obscene, snapping through you, making your back arch as you moaned.

And when you moan, his lashes flutter as his eyes roll back into his head, as if just the sound of you is enough to undo him entirely. His moans and groans as he finally feasted, finally ate his long awaited meal, vibrated through you, the sloshing sounds of your pussy as he made a mess of you. It was so much, too much, all too much, and your hand was tangled in his blonde strands as you let out a gasp.

He tightens his grip on you, holding you still, and you can feel his jaw flex, the edge of his cheekbone brush against your thigh with every ‘sluuurp’ of his tongue. He was practically purring against you, lost in a haze of your taste and sounds.

“Naru-!”

He hones in in response, more focused, lapping and sucking in a rhythm, focusing on one spot as he feels your chest heave with the force of your whimper. You twitch beneath him, and he lets out a sound of satisfaction, mouth working hungrily.

He’s messy and ardent to please, tongue flicking down, tasting the entrance of your cunt as your hips buck, hard. You tug his hair, roughly and without thinking, and he groans-loud-straight through you. He shudders, hips grinding into the couch just from your sounds, your taste, you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his nose pressed up against your clit, sliding one hand down, before pushing one finger inside you, slow, thick and deep, curling like he knows exactly where you need him. He pulls back and then sinks in two, without warning, without mercy.

Your back bows, lifts right off the couch, sweaty skin peeling right off as your breath stutters. He curls his fingers around, watching as he hits this one spot that has your eyes blow wide open, mouth parting as your hips jump.

Your body arches into him, and he hears you make a sound he’s never heard before-something so wrecked, so raw, so ruined. His free hand presses down on your stomach, grounding you, not letting you run, making you take every bit.

Naruto’s lips pull your clit in, before letting it go with a ‘pop’ and you can’t help but let out a pathetic whimper. "Look at you,” his eyes flick back up to your face as he scissors fingers and presses against your walls, hitting that one spot every time, “Made for me, so good just for me, so fuckin’ tight.”

His fingers work this slow, maddening rhythm, pushing in and out as his thumb plays with your clit as he watches you, eyes flicking up to your face where your hair sticks to your temple, sticky in sweat, and back down, where he watches his fingers disappear into you, loud and messy.

Your vision swims, the room too hot, his fingers too perfect, and your thighs twitch against his head. You mumble something about crushing him, but he just lowers his head, tongue joining his fingers as your voice reaches a higher pitch, the knot in core tightening. “Such pretty sounds, all for me. So pretty” he murmurs, holding you down as he picks up the speed even more, “This pretty pussy, all for me.”

He watches every twitch, every tremble, every gasp and moan and whimper of his name, every expression you can’t hide, “So close, so close, can fuckin’ feel it. Gimme it all, pretty, let me have all of it.”

Your eyes roll back into your head as you tense, shattering under the onslaught of your orgasm crashing through you. It's loud, loud and unforgiving, crashing through you like thunder, soaked and he moans into it, so desperate and unfiltered. Your legs clamp around his head as he groans into you, licking long stripes up your sticky slit. Every press of his swollen lips was followed by a swallow, and had you jolting and whining.

“Taste so good, so, so, so good, you taste so good, pretty girl” and he’s murmuring, lost in a haze as his fingers don’t leave, slowing down and making you ride out your high, coaxing out every tremor, every sound with love and devotion and such sweet tenderness.

You press his head away, weakly, breathless and spent, and he loves it.

He lifts his head, resting it on your thigh, staring down at you as he slides his fingers out. They’re wet, shiny in your slick, and he slowly rubs his knuckles up and down, watching you jump and twitch every time. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the blue in them, hair dishevelled from your fingers, from the tugging, sticking to his flushed forehead, skin damp from sweat. His lower face is coated in you, and he swipes his tongue over his lips, looking straight at you as he does, savouring the taste of you still, breaths shaky.

“You okay?”

You nod, barely, dazed and spent and utterly ruined, ears ringing from the high, catching your breath. You close your eyes as he kisses up your body, each one delicate, soft, reverent, like he’s anchoring himself in this world, mapping you out once more.

He doesn’t speak much, mumbling praises into your skin as if it’s instinct, worship. He kisses you again, slow and deep and messy, but jumps when he feels himself pressed against you, his shorts the only barrier between the two of you, your breath catches as you whine, pulling him in for another kiss, wet and sloppy. He lets you taste yourself on his tongue, groaning as your hips roll against him without meaning to.

Sliding one finger across the underside of your breast, watching as you mindlessly pressed further up into him, into his touch. He pulls away, letting only your breaths surround the space around you as he watches you watch his finger, watches as it swirls and glides on your skin, watching how your chest stutters.

You both are grinding against each other, and you touch his chest with trembling fingers, feeling and following every line of muscle, making his breath catch in his throat and his lips pull into a sneer.

You both lock eyes, and something snaps once more as you shove his pants down, muscles in your neck jumping as you crane your head forward to kiss him again. You move pushing him up and against the couch as you straddle him, gasping into the kiss when you feel his hard cock rub against your dripping pussy, the tip catching your clit before you both settle.

His cock is massive, and you’re debating whether it'll even fit or not, but you're feeling like a champ today, so you let go, especially since he made you cum so hard you’re still seeing stars.

“Let me?” You whisper out the question, and his hands caressing your skin, sliding over your stretch marks, teasing and tracing your skin, following some pattern. But he wanted to hear you say it, wanted to see how filthy you’d be.

“Let you what?” He mumbles, tangling his fingers in your hair as he kisses it.

“Let me sit on your dick…” and his jaw drops, faux-shock written on his face as you pout. He pulls you in, kissing you softly as his chuckles ring through you, before abruptly stopping when you roll your hips.

“Sure,” his mouth sucking softly as that sweet spot under your jaw, “Take every inch and make me proud, my pretty girl”

You situate yourself, his head catching in your fold that makes you choke on a gasp, and he watches, hips sling forward to give you more space, an amused but needy grin on his lips. You chew your lip as you push yourself on, panting hard as he coos, rubbing tight precise circles on your clit to ease the burn, rubbing the side of your waist.

You both work together now, and he helps ease himself in slowly; tenderly. The stretch burns, hot and electrifying, but so fucking addictive as he fills you inch by inch. Your breath shatters as he bottoms out, whole body jolting as you claw at his forearms, thighs straining to close, his name breaking apart in a helpless little breath, a thing that breaks before you can even get a word out.

“I got you, s’okay, just breathe,” he says, massaging your sides, holding as he helps you move, “Takin’ me s’good already.” his words are slurring together as you both pant. His face is flushed, red and sweaty as he stares where you both connect, shiny in your slick. Your walls are tightening around him as he keeps pushing and pushing and pushing. It makes your head fall back, makes your soul twist.

He fucks you slowly, watching as you make the cutest faces for him, fall apart on him, over him, moving, letting him support you as you bring him closer to his high, his demise.

Soon he’s pounding into you hard, that same slow rhythm that has you falling forward in his arms as he plants his feet to slam into you over and over, angling his hips that make him go in deeper somehow, your jaw falling open as you pant and moan against his ear, writhing and twitching in his hold as he moves you up and down on his dick.

“Fuck, baby, you’re falling apart-wann see-wanna see you fall apart on my cock,” he pants, furrow in his brows as he finally quickens his pace, “how’re you s’ gorgeous, pretty girl?” and he’s moving smoothly and controlled as your second orgasm slams into you by surprise, and he presses a quick kiss to your temple.

You moan out his name, burying your face into his neck, clawing at him back as he doesn’t stop, pounding into your poor pussy, and there are tears clinging to your lashes, eyesight going blurry.

You don’t understand how he has so much stamina, don’t understand how he’s making you feel as if your spine is turning into rubber. But you can feel the next one building. He pulls back, forces you to sit up and watch, his mouth pressing kisses onto your tits, precise movements driving you wild as you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders.

Soon, he reaches down with his thumb to circle your clit again as you keen, high and breathless, and his hips pumping into you savagely that makes white flash in your vision, clit feeling like liquid heat as white-hot pleasure tears through you. You can tell he’s close. You brush one hand over his lower abs, briefly, and the flex under your fingers, and he’s begging for permission to finish in you, and you nod.

And he’s tracing something onto your clit, and when you focus hard enough, you feel it; N-A-R-U-T-O. He’s writing his own fucking name onto you. The realization pushes you over the edge.

You break. Again.

Your body collapses onto him as you cry out, sobs tearing through you as you let out a soundless scream, voice cracking as you chant his name out in prayer, in salvation and ruin.

Your walls clench, hard, around him, and he groans, fucking you through it, chasing his high. He stares at you, mouths at you, touches you, tastes you as the golden sunlight illuminates you as you break apart.

“There ya’ go, that’s it, that’s it-”

He talks you through it before his voice cracks-breaks- right in the middle as his hips jerk, a guttural groan tearing through his chest and throat, a strangled cry of your name, hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside, thick and so much that it spills around the edges, coats his base in a pretty white ring.

He crushes you into his arms, panting as you both shake and shiver through the after shocks. He stays there, buried in you, as if you knocked any possible capability of thought from his mind.

Naruto rests his forehead against the plane of your collarbone, even as you move on trembling legs to let him pull out, face crumpling as he spills out. He wipes away as much as he can, kisses you softly as you both fall down on the ouch, tangled limbs, bodies breathing in tandem. You’re sticky with sweat, glowing in the afterglow.

“You okay?” He murmurs into the skin of your shoulder.

“I guess,” You sigh, running your hands through his hair in a failed attempt to tame it, “Even though I can’t feel my fucking knees.” your voice is thick with exhaustion, lacking the bite the word usually would have.

“So mean to me for what?” He whines, nuzzling into your cheeks, “Right after I had you sounding like that-”

Your smack cuts him off, a smug smile playing on his face as he laughs, too satisfied, too exhausted to fully pull off the smugness.

“I’ll run you a warm bath soon, don’t worry,” he says into your hair, eyes half lidded as he pulls you close, warming you up with his body heat, “Give me five minutes, then I’ll give you the whole package, princess treatment and everything, pretty”

“Good” you hum out, closing your eyes as he hugs you, holding you a little longer.

And the only thing that runs through his head is how much he loves you, and how much he needs to hold onto you right now, because if he lets go now, the world might stop.

⇝ 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥! 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯

@so-uncute

[sur-i-ki]

Okay another one shot because I am losing my damn mind. I think I've lost it, officially.

College AU, nerd reader, smitten naruto. Can you tell I have favourites? Edit; holy 2.0k words. I don’t like it, which is why it’s left where it is. Idk do we want a part 2? Part 2

Naruto wouldn’t consider himself to be dumb.

At least, not anymore. Sure, when he was younger he didn’t have the best grades, but his poor, overworked and underpaid teachers couldn’t be bothered to give him the extra attention he needed. Thankfully, two teachers, Mr. Iruka in middle school and Mr. Kakashi in high school, gave him the guidance and tools he needed to excel. And excel he did.

Now as a pre-law student at a prestigious university, Naruto was doing well. Not perfect, like Sakura, a rising pre-med student with a double major in criminology and neuroscience, or particularly skilled, like Sasuke, who was at a neighboring police academy, bringing in top scores, especially in detective work, just like his older brother. Naruto had his own strength: his hardwork and his charisma. He could talk to a wall and get it to move, and had formed a strong networking circle, built off of his parents’.

And it didn’t hurt that the three of them always had study sessions together. There were others he met, during breaks and stuff, keeping in touch with his high school friends who moved away as well.

Naruto remembers one instance very well. It was the summer after first year of undergrad, and he had a few days to catch up with everyone before he began his internship. Imagine his absolute surprise when he walked into a cafe and saw Shikamaru completely transformed. Hair long but tied up in a half-up half-down, a baggy shirt and matching pants. Basically, he’d completely transformed, and in such a way, Naruto even noticed the girls walking in giggling and glancing at their group. And he knew he needed tips. He’d pulled up in stained, black sweats and a minecraft hoodie, for goodness’s sake.

“Shi-ka-ma-ru!” each pause accented with a smack to the back, “What the heck is this?”

That got him the nastiest side eye ever, but Shikamaru grumbled out a reply regardless.

“Me and Chouji finally ended up listening to Ino about fashion. Landed three interviews and a couple of dates when she dressed us, and we just” he shrugs, “kept to it, I guess. It’s such a drag though.”

He hadn’t even finished speaking when Naruto's phone was already out in his hand, fingers flying as he texted his favourite (and only) blonde friend.

Needless to say, Ino worked her magic, and taught him because “God, Naruto, I swear you’re the only one who ever listens! Sakura’s always too busy, and I still dress the boys because sometimes, they’re so annoying-!” and viola! Naruto’s fame skyrocketed on campus. Along with this and his position on the varsity basketball team, he always walks out with flowers, chocolates, and cards after every game. Of course, he made an effort to style Sakura and Sasuke as well, which they didn’t mind because they had one less thing to worry about.

All of this is to show that, you know, he lives a life. Good social circle, tight-knit friends, a tad bit of popularity. Maybe it got to his head a little. Gave a swagger in his step he didn’t have before. Few well placed smiles and a couple of details remembered, and he could have a dinner date with any girl on campus.

Well, almost any girl.

They were about half way done the fall term, when there was a new addition to the study group. Sakura dragged you into the room, making quick, whispered introductions as you smiled at them, phone glued to your ear and a laptop in your arms, bag swollen and bursting at the seams. His initial thought was that you were another Political Science student, as he vaguely remembers seeing you in some of his classes, but based on the intense science-y jargon you were spouting into the phone, he feels slightly confused.

But what really caught his attention, as you put your stuff down and shook everyone’s hand, is that you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Nothing like what you see on social media, although he would not bring that beauty down, but an ethereal, unique type of beauty that would’ve started wars in the past. He definitely would have, no questions asked. Your hands, surprisingly, had calluses, and the smile you flashed at him as you wrapped up your call could have made him fall over, if he wasn’t already sitting.

You introduced yourself in earnest. Another pre-med, doing a combined engineering and economics major, and had bumped into Sakura at a volunteering event. The two of you had immediately hit off, and when Sakura realized you went to the same university, she invited you to join their study session as well.

“I hope I’m not intruding…” You said at the end, giving a shallow nod to the three of them.

“Of course not, the boys don’t mind, right?” Sakura replied, kicking both of them under the table with a smile that promised death if they disagreed.

As Sasuke mumbled out some words of agreement, Naruto took this opportunity to get a few words in.

“You said you were taking economics as well? I think I saw you in my 356 class last year, with Professor Anko?” and your body gave a faux-full-body-flinch at the name. He chuckled at your reaction, realizing you were just as dramatic as he was, and loving it.

“Please never say that name around me again, I’m pretty sure I just got a PTSD flashback.” you laughed, and then the two of you were quick to start talking, bonding over shared classes and trauma. He thought he was getting somewhere. Clearly, there was a vibe, with the way you smiled at him, the eye contact, and with how much you laughed at his jokes. He was sadly mistaken, because you were just that attentive with the others, and behaved the same with everyone, to make them comfortable.

Case in point, when asked about your calluses, you brought up the martial arts classes you take, and training at a nearby gym, which caught Sauske’s interest. He soon joined the conversation as well, the both of you talking. You mirrored him completely, down to the accurate pauses, lack of energy, and calm overtone. He watched as his socially challenged friend flourished under your attention, talking more and letting his personality shine through. You adapted, matching his energy and vibe.

Contrary to popular belief, Sasuke was not shy, just quiet and not very well versed in the art of small talk. Once he got to know the other person, then it was smooth sailing, but he had, more than once, said something a little too bluntly, and suffered for it. Telling an aunt that she needs to stop feeding her baby because “I’m pretty sure that’s an unhealthy BMI for an infant.” is not appropriate thing to say five minutes into meeting someone, and “Jeez, Sasuke, can’t you have just a bit of tact,” with an elbow in his ribs from his cousin Shisui. Naruto had folded himself in half from laughter during that, hiding in the corner.

But here, he can see the sure confidence in Sasuke’s words, and you take every savory and unsavory comment and question in stride. The same thing occurred when Sakura finally looked up, joining in after her readings. So you were social, clearly. It didn’t mean he didn’t have a chance.

You two had one class together, which he offered to walk to you, and you accepted. Win. Then as you dove into your world of AutoCAD and differential equations, he debated asking if he could walk you back to your dorm. Which at the end of the session, you accepted as well. Another win.

Except, as the semester progressed, he realized that as much as you were smart and social, you were severely lacking in the matters of the heart. Which is his pouty, whine-y way of saying that you were either unfazed by his moves, or just didn’t take them for what it was. Walking to class, brushing shoulders, as he bent his head down into your space to ‘hear you’? Oh, wow, you had a friend hanging off your other side. One on one coffee dates? Well, apparently engineering majors carry laptops everywhere, and soon Sakura and Sasuke crowded into the booth as well, making it an impromptu study date. Smiles, fueling your caffeine addiction, late night calls and playing roblox, anything, everything, nothing worked.

For the longest time, he thought he had no hope, until one day, during winter break, he talked to Sakura. He was promptly swatted on the head.

“Smart girls require a different approach to romantic attention, idiot. Besides, maybe if you opened your goddamn eyes, you’d be singing a different song.”

And open his eyes he did, because this semester he had three classes with you, which meant more opportunities to make headway. Stretching after sitting in a particularly long lecture, he didn’t squeeze his eyes shut. No, this time, he watched you, out of the corner of his eye, and saw you eyeing him with interest. You glanced at his abs peeking out, just a bit, before moving your eyes away to pack. He was on cloud nine the entire day.

Naruto is exceptionally good at hyperfixating. This time around? Studying you, without outright interacting with you. What style, color, body language makes you look at him a bit longer, a bit more with intent. He slowly adapted, learned that if he spent an hour before the lectures learning the content, you’d give him a wide eyed stare when he answered your questions like nothing. Saw you looked at him more when he listened, asked when he didn’t know. Seeing him being confident, slightly more cocky made your ears turn red. And the day he found out you thrived on verbal sparring? His foxy side came out, and class became a series of whispered wars and giggles. It made you touch him more, hands on his arms, ruffling his hair and what not.

Something shifted, and somewhere in all of this, he realized you were getting bolder. The both of you had become this flirty friendship thing. No longer were “study dates” crashed by other friends, walking in the halls with just you, doing side quests together to ‘unlock’ secret places on campus. And the times when you were in a particularly sweet mood, you’d complement each other, genuinely, and sometimes your sincerity had him turning his head away to hide his blush. The two of you grew closer together, and he knew where you were and what you were doing almost always, and vice versa.

One instance had even Sasuke staring at him flabbergasted, with Sakura’s jaw hanging opening when she had asked-

“Where is she? Did she get lost?”

Naruto glanced at his watch. “Nah, she’s probably getting her coffee and protein shake from the cafe, should be here in 10.” as if he was conversing about the weather. Sasuke pinned him with his incredulous look.

“...Why do you know that?”

Sakura chimed in, “And how did you answer so quickly?”

He smiled sheepishly, but didn’t elaborate.

Some nights, he'd lay in bed thinking (daydreaming) about you, about how you leaned into his space more, tilting your head up while stepping closer, or pulling him down by the collar to point something out in the crowd. He’d obediently nodded along, trying to hide the fact that the smell of your perfume made his head spin in the best way, drunk and intoxicating him until all he could think, hear, and feel was you.

But you were so infuriatingly dodgy! It drove him insane, made his head spin with thoughts of just bursting out his feelings for you during the tense moments.. His hand would be next to your’s, and he sees it twitch, knows that maybe, you want to close the gap too, but don’t. And he doesn’t know why. He can feel your stare on him sometimes, can see the way your bright eyes follow him when he decides to go shirtless for a run, can see the way you glance at his mouth. But you flake on him, you call him “a great friend” and sometimes he feels like he’ll die, trying to decode you to understand.

He doesn’t care though. Can’t care, not when you smile at him like that, saying his name in that voice of your’s, and that new nickname makes his brain stop working.

You’re so oblivious. Good thing he is a patient man (he isn’t, but for you…)

⇝ 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥! 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯