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#crackling clay
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Wax & Slime Cracking Clay Cakes by emikoffujio
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vegas-lights-stims · 2 years
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|| via emikoffujio
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robinsceramics · 3 days
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The magnificent catbeast thrives in snowy conditions; its gorilla-like arms are theorized to help compensate for the weight of its neck.
image description: a big, sturdy creature made of porcelain. It has a catlike head, thick limbs, and a leopard-like tail. The white clay is covered with a translucent pale-golden glaze that has crackled, leaving little lines all over the sculpture.
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mechahero · 9 months
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Clack clack.
The sound of claws clicking together fills the quiet, but not empty bedroom. It seemed like it was one of those days where time seems drag on and the day feels like its gone on longer than it should. The noise, at least, takes Lambda's mind off of things.
It's almost soothing in a way. Though, he's not sure if soothing is the right word to use. But with the thoughts that had been bouncing around his head, he's at least appreciative of this distraction. You really can't go wrong with clicks that sound juuuust right. Focusing on the sound seems to make the thoughts he'd been contending with earlier melt away. He smiles.
Clack clack.
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lyn-druid · 1 year
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I'm so happy to announce that I have an INPRNT store! It's a totally reliable shop where you can buy my illustrations in print format in different sizes. It reaches anywhere in the world.
The next photos are the Illustrations that are available. When there are discounts or promotions I will announce them. If you happen to buy one, please tag me to see them!
My store here!
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birdsongisland · 1 year
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Id : a video and pictures of two small ceramic teacups and one big enamel mug with a plate as a saucer. The two teacups are smaller than the palm of a hand, made in white clay, one has a flower shape while the other is a regular teacup. The mug is made from white clay and enameled with a blue bottom ring, blue and yellow eyes above it and on the handle. The bottom of the mug inside has spiky blue and yellow shapes. The plate has a spiky yellow border with blue dots. In the video, lifting the mug from the center of the saucer reveal a blue iris and pupil sculpted with extra thickness./end id
Whoo after years this is finally done! Not too bad for a first project born of an insomnia scribble :)
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leowifefang · 2 years
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when a character has a voice thats crungly.. crunkly, crispy, crunchy, crackly etc etc. Extremely Good
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echidnana · 9 months
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for yall 🩵🩵🩵
WHOA these are SO COOL!!! we watched it like three times it's so satisfying..... thank you so much for sending it to us ❤️❤️
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tigersmoondesign · 1 year
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One more crackle before I fire some horse hair, please.
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slu7formen · 1 month
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Luke will find any excuse to be next to you, even if it’s risky for your secret situation.
slu7formen’s masterlist | luke castellan masterlist
The sun beat down on Camp Half-Blood with the fury of a thousand fires, turning the asphalt paths into giant grills for slow feet and baking the cabins insides like ovens. Chiron, being the smart centaur he is and reading the campers tired and sweaty faces like a book, declared a day off. Now the beach, usually a chill place to be at, was now a scene of joyous chaos. Laughter and shrieks echoed through the air as campers splashed, sunbathed, and competed on swimming races.
Luke, however, walked in much later, his usual smirk plastered on his face. As he approached his spot that he shared with his friends at the top of a large rock, he found his friends sprawled like a pack of sardines, their bodies glistening with water and their eyes glued to the opposite side.
“What´s so interesting over there?” he asked as he placed his own towel and belongings on his spot, right at the edge of the rock.
"Interesting?" Travis Stoll drawled, his voice breaking. "That´s not-, that doesn´t even cover it. It's like the goddess of beauty herself decided to show us how perfect her daughters are"
"Goddesses, Luke" Connor Stoll sighed dramatically, almost drooling as he didn´t even turned his head towards his friend. "Actual goddesses descended from Olympus”
Luke followed their gazes, his smirk widening as he saw the object of their collective obsession. Across the shimmering expanse of the water, a group of Aphrodite's daughters had claimed their own little oasis down on the sand. They lay draped on plush towels like exotic flowers basking in the sun, their designer sunglasses reflecting the harsh glare.
Pink bikinis, strategically revealing hidden curves and glimpses of sun-kissed skin that whispered tan lines just waiting to be discovered. Satisfied sighs escaped their lips as they surrendered to the heat, their bodies molding to the soft embrace of the towels like warm clay. Their laughter, light and airy, drifted across the water, punctuated by the clinking of ice against glass as they sipped chilled fruit juice. Perfect, rounded cherry red lips, glossed with a hint of shimmering pink, seemed to hum a silent song of invitation to those who stared too long. Lips that begged to be kissed, to taste the sweetness of a handsome camper.
Soft pop music, like a flirty summer breeze, carried the melody of carefree days and endless possibilities. The air crackled with a tension as subtle as the scent of sunscreen and coconut oil that easily reached the boys´s nostrils.
"Pink" Travis groaned, his voice thick with mock despair. "Why is everything so pink?"
Chris Rodriguez, his eyes glued to the scene across the beach, barely registered his friend's complaint. "Shh, dude, you´re interrupting"
Luke, however, couldn't help but chuckle at his friend´s dramatic comments. He scanned the scene for a second before taking a seat on his towel – the plush towels, the designer sunglasses, the perfectly manicured nails, the hair shimmering with highlights. It was a picture straight out of a beauty magazine, for sure, but it was starting to feel suffocating.
"Do you think they ever breathe?" Connor whispered.
"Doubt it" Travis chimed in, finally blinking after what felt like hours. "They probably absorb sunlight and flower perfume through their skin"
Chris snorted. "They're daughters of the goddess of beauty and love, what can you expect? They're-…"
He cut himself off, his gaze landing on one figure in particular. A girl with hair the color of spun sunshine and eyes that sparkled like the Mediterranean Sea.
“…Gods, look at that hair”
"Guys, calm down" Luke said, despite the grin threatening to split his face. "They're just girls.” He pointed out. He would´ve stopped the conversation there if it wasn´t for his friends´s stares right after he stopped talking, all of them sharing that ´Are you kidding?´ look. “Well, okay, maybe incredibly beautiful, impossibly glamorous girls, but still just girls."
"Just girls, huh?" Travis scoffed. "Those are your average looking campers? They look like they bathe in rosewater"
Chris, still mesmerized by the girl with the sun-kissed hair, chimed in, "How do you even begin to approach something like that?"
Luke chuckled, watching their exaggerated reactions with amusement. "It's not that hard, you know," he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Maybe if you guys spent less time staring and more time talking, you wouldn't be so intimidated."
The challenge hung in the air, a silent dare for them to prove him wrong. Connor, ever the instigator, jumped on the opportunity.
"Alright, Castellan, if it's so easy for you, do it" he smirked. "Go over there and talk to any one of them, impress them, make them laugh, do whatever you need to do to avoid getting your ass kicked”
His brother chuckled. "Let the man have his delusions, dude. He´s not-“ He stopped mid-sentence, jaw dropping open in a display of cartoonish shock.
Chris, following Travis's gaze, mirrored his friend's expression. They all stared at Luke, their eyes wide with disbelief, as he strolled down the rock towards the group of Aphrodite's daughters with a —questionable— confidence.
"What the hell are you doing?" Connor yelled, his voice squeaking.
Ignoring his friends' stunned shouts, Luke descended the rocky outcrop towards the sand. "Castellan, you madman!" Chris hollered, his voice a mix of shock and admiration. Luke wasn´t nervous, not exactly. More like a mix of excitement and the thrill of pushing boundaries. His gaze focused on the girl that was declared as his target. You.
With your hair long enough to be braided with endless flowers, and eyes that held the sparkle of the brightest diamond, were oblivious to his approach, your attention consumed by adjusting the straps of your pink bikini, a delicate task that showcased the smooth expanse of your shoulders and the tantalizing dip of your back.
He gently placed his hands on your shoulders, the heat radiating from your sun-kissed skin was intoxicating, the delicate scent of coconut oil amplifying his senses. His fingers, strong and calloused, squeezed gently, sending shivers down your spine.
"Hey, princess" he said, his voice low and playful.
You turned around, smile blooming like a summer flower as you met his gaze. "Luke" you greeted, your voice laced with a hint of surprise.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked with gentle charm.
"Of course" you replied, patting the space beside you on the towel. “Thought you were only gonna stare all day”
“Why?” he asked, not exactly trying to play dumb.
“Let´s just say that they´re a little too obvious” one of your sisters said, pointing with her chin towards the other side of the lake, where Travis, Connor and Chris, still stared at the scene with wide eyes and parted lips.
“Yeah, well” Luke started. “The scenery is definitely something" he admitted, his gaze lingering on yours for a beat too long. "But I´m the one interested in company, not just staring"
One of your sisters raised her view from the magazine she was reading, an approval head nod towards your direction.
"Smooth, Castellan" you cooed, unable to hide the pink blush on your cheeks. "Well done”
Your conversation flowed effortlessly, a mix of lighthearted banter and teasing remarks that only you two fully understood. You spoke of your day as your voices dropped to hushed tones when you exchanged details of your recent secret night encounters, and reminisced about stolen kisses exchanged in the quiet corners of the camp.
He then reached for a slice of pineapple.
"Care for some?" he offered, extending a piece of pineapple towards your mouth.
"Thank you" you said, gracefully taking the fruit between your lips, eyes on him the whole time, still shining even under your dark sunglasses. His thumb caught a bit of your lower lip, secretly wishing he could taste your lips right there and then.
You leaned back, savoring the sweetness of the pineapple and the stolen touch of Luke's finger on you. His gaze held yours, along with a red blush creeping up his neck.
Across the beach, right on the other corner over a hot rock, the Stoll brothers and Chris remained frozen in disbelief, practically jaw slacked.
"D-did he just-?" Travis stutered.
"Touch her?" Connor finished, his own voice thick with shock. "Like they´re friends?"
"Friends?" Chris scoffed. "Is that how you think that friends behave? As if they-"
His sentence was cut short as a giggle, light and mesmerizing, drifted across the water. Their eyes darted back to the scene, where Luke and yn were now engaged in what appeared to be a lively conversation. Luke, the now notorious ladies' man and best swordsman, was leaning in close, his hand resting casually on her lower back. yn, the living proof of cabin 10's grace and beauty, was radiating amusement as her fingers made its way to Luke´s curls.
“Well…” Chris began. “He actually doesn't look half bad talking to her."
"Yeah" Connor conceded, his brow furrowed in thought. "But how? Since when do they know each other and get so-, touchy?"
"Maybe they share some extra classes together" Travis offered, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Like... 'Advanced Flirting Techniques for Demigods' or something."
As the boys focused more about Luke´s flirting technique and less on the girls, your conversation with Luke kept going on and on, still fresh as the fruits you were enjoying, and as exciting as the hot sun crashing into your skin like golden liquid.
"You know," you said, leaving a piece of watermelon back on its place as you whispered, low enough for only you and Luke to hear. "you're not supposed to be here."
Luke tilted his head slightly, feigning innocence. "What do you mean?"
"You're not supposed to be talking to me" you continued, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Not after last night."
A slow grin spread across Luke's face, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Last night was quite a night, wasn´t it?" he admitted, his breath tickling your ear. "Could you make it better tonight?"
You looked at him with confused eyes. His thumb began to draw circles on your lower back. "Tonight?" you said, feigning innocence. "Do we have plans? I hadn't heard anything about it."
Luke's grin widened. "Well, it´s not like I planned it" he admitted, his voice becoming casual. You knew he has lying, of course he planned it. "But I was hoping you might be interested in meeting again"
"Another meeting, huh?" you repeated, your voice dripping with curiosity. "What kind of meeting are we talking about?"
Luke leaned in closer to your ear. "Does my cabin sound familiar to you?"
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a delicious mix of excitement and apprehension swirling within you. You both knew that sneaking out after curfew was risky, specially into someone else´s cabin, but the thought of spending another stolen night with Luke was simply irresistible.
“That could work” you managed to say. “What else?”
A playful and excited sparkle flickered in his eyes. "Bring something sweet" he whispered, a low rumble emanating from his chest. He momentarily eyed the untouched red strawberries. "Meet me by the west side after everyone's at the campfire. We can enjoy the view and then..." he trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken, his gaze dropping to your lips.
The heat of the sun seemed to intensify, mirroring the warmth rising in your cheeks. "And then?" you prompted, unable to resist teasing him a bit.
"And then," he leaned even closer, his voice barely a breath, "we can continue what we started last night."
Your breath hitched. The memory of his touch, his kisses, sent a wave of desire through you. You knew sneaking out was forbidden, a risk that could lead to serious consequences, but Gods, who cares?
"Alright, big boy" you whispered, a playful smile dancing on your lips before standing up, starting your way into the lake for your own heated situation. “See you later, then"
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Video
Cracking Clay Solar System by 도도미Dodomi
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1800titz · 1 month
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HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D
CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.
WC: 6.6K
slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency
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Clay is innately erotic. 
Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second. 
Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night. 
It’s a cute shop. 
Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort. 
Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery. 
He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.
Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.
“Hello.”
His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.  
“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him. 
Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 
“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.
The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote. 
“Oh, I’m just looking.” 
The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge. 
“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”
Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples. 
“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.” 
She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.
It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.
“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.” 
He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there. 
“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.” 
He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?” 
The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.” 
One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?” 
Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.” 
Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment. 
Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.” 
“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.” 
Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence. 
“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.” 
Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.
She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels. 
“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 
“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.” 
Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 
“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink. 
“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.” 
It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space. 
He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy. 
“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.” 
The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate. 
“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.” 
Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin. 
“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.” 
The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.
She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s. 
Yeah. 
Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay. 
“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.” 
“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.
Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work. 
“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue. 
Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs. 
“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length. 
She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt. 
“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”
Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.
“Take your bracelet off for me.” 
The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”
But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me. 
It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows. 
“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off. 
She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up. 
“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“
Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again. 
“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders. 
Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more. 
“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”
Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones. 
“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”
The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior. 
“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”
Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child. 
“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.” 
He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs. 
“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together. 
As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider. 
Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it. 
“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert. 
Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top. 
“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.” 
Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together. 
“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.” 
The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.” 
She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic. 
“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.” 
She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes. 
“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things. 
“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.” 
“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?” 
He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.” 
“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece. 
“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.” 
As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?” 
Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.” 
“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“
If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin. 
“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”
Y/N swallows.
“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?” 
“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.” 
“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.” 
“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.” 
A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.” 
This is The Turning Point. 
And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—
But then it clicked. 
“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.” 
Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both. 
For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash. 
“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from. 
The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.” 
Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?” 
“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”
His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?” 
Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.” 
Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling. 
“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting. 
Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.” 
Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed. 
“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.” 
Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.” 
“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.” 
“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her. 
Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it. 
“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?” 
“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”
Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.” 
Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights. 
“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”
Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.” 
All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time. 
Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres. 
She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay. 
“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with. 
Christ. 
“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands. 
Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face. 
“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.” 
The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again. 
“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.” 
Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features. 
She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.” 
“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.” 
Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation. 
“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.” 
“Thank you. What now?” 
“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.” 
Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse. 
She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?” 
Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.” 
The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?” 
Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“
Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet. 
“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging. 
The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?” 
Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.” 
“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.
The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.  
Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”
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literaila · 2 months
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house rules (roommate au)
gojo satoru x fem!reader
summary:
"satoru keeps an infinite amount of space between him and everyone else."
warnings: mentions of alcohol and drinking, slight angst, mentions of tampons (terrifying), suggestive comments, absurdly long, alternate universe characters
a/n: to all of my frequent readers--i have never claimed to be sane :)
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*
in the broad spectrum of things, opening the door in nothing but your bathrobe and a ridiculously bright orange clay mask is not the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you. 
oh no, puking on your first ever date at seventeen definitely takes the cake. finding your seventh-grade friends bent over a table reading your diary--in which you wrote many explicit things about them, not to mention, yourself--might be even worse. riding your bike into the pond by your house in front of all of your--much older, much cooler--neighbors, even. picking up your coffee in your favorite cafe and spilling it, which was not only devastating but humiliating because you managed to spill your mocha on every other drink waiting there (effectively banning you from returning) still haunts your dreams. even walking down the street and trying to pretend like you didn't just trip over air in front of every single one of your peers still lingers in your mind, waiting for a moment of peace before it attacks.
you're used to the feeling of dread in your stomach and the nights spent thinking about all of these moments, like a scrapbook in your mind--just there to make your skin itch. 
but, it does get a little bit worse when you realize the man you've opened the door to is none other than a potential roommate; and when you remember that you forgot he was coming. 
or when you have to pull your robe tighter around your abdomen just to make sure that you don't give this man a show before you even shake his hand. 
"is this apartment 214?" he asks, looking right at you--and your legs, naturally--with a confused grin on his face, but grin nonetheless. 
so immediately you slam the door. 
you turn around, with wide eyes, face crackling from the movement, and check your phone frantically. yes, it is the 18th, and yes it is 11:32, which means he was supposed to be here over a half-an-hour ago. 
and also you've just slammed the door in his--satoru gojo, the only person who's even bothered to respond to your ad about an available room--face. 
oh, fuck. 
so you groan, refraining from knocking your head against the door just in case he can still hear, and open it again. a little bit less this time. 
"gojo?" you ask, voice rough and slightly irritated. 
"the one and only. i'm pretty sure this is the right apartment," he says, and you don't fail to notice his tone of voice as he continues, "but if it's not, then fate must've brought us together."
you narrow your eyes, hoping that he doesn't notice the specks of dust that ebb from your skin. "you're late." 
"and you're less than dressed." 
"i thought you stood me up." 
he snorts. "so you started an impromptu spa day? or was this supposed to be another perk of the apartment?" 
you glower, opening the door a bit more just so he can see the fury in your eyes. "i don't think someone who doesn't even text to cancel has any right to judge my self-care practices." 
"i didn't cancel. i'm here." 
"you're late." 
"so i've heard..." he drawls. 
you blink at him, and he blinks back--or at least, you're assuming. because he's wearing sunglasses even though it's cloudy outside. 
and he's aggressively taller than you. he might not even fit through the door. 
you don't look away, waiting for him to break. which he does because you're well-practiced in men of his standard. "so, are you going to let me in?" he asks. 
"are you going to apologize for being late?" 
"i'm sorry that i'm late," he says, immediately, with an air of fake sincerity. "i got stuck in traffic. i would've called, but my phone died." 
"really?" 
the smile reappears, as if from magic. "no, but did it make you want to let me in?" 
you glare even harder--which is tough, honestly--and begin to shut the door. until your plan is interrupted by a foot. "excuse you," you say, to this man, who you already hate. and his stupid chelsea boots.
"look, i'm sorry. i'm trying to ease the tension--because honestly i wasn't expecting to get an eyeful this early in the morning, and you seem uncomfortable--" 
you slam the door against his foot again. 
gojo doesn't even wince. "and also, you're, like, the only person with a room in the middle of october. and i... could really use a place to put my bed. so, can i look around, at least? i'll keep my eyes closed every time i'm facing your direction. i can even give you my rent money today if it works out."  
something in his voice already implies that it will. 
and, well. despite your very short robe and your very dry face mask, he is the only person who's even inquired about the room. and you desperately need a roommate; someone to clean up with, someone to make coffee for, someone to argue about toilet paper direction with, and, most importantly, someone who has money and can keep you from getting evicted from the only place you've lived since high school. 
so you sigh. think about moving back home and suffering at the will of your parents. 
it takes about three seconds to say, "will you wait out here while i get dressed?" 
an eyebrow peeks out from behind the sunglasses, as white as his hair. "how long?" 
"ten minutes. maybe twenty." 
"do you have a chair?" he asks and moves his foot from the door. 
and so you close it without answering and rush to your room to find something that's still clean. 
there's nothing that you'll actually wear, but satoru gojo doesn't deserve your fresh appearance anyway. he can have day-old wrinkled jeans and a t-shirt you got when you were twelve. 
as slow as humanly possible, you remove the face mask, trying to keep your hair out of the way, and think about putting on makeup--which you probably would have done, had you remembered he was even coming--but decide not to. 
in reality, it only takes about seven minutes for you to look mostly presentable and get rid of the mugs you left cluttered around the dining room table. 
but you wait an extra four, just to mess with him. 
and then, eleven minutes later, you open the door again to the man leaning against the wall, playing what looks like candy crush on his phone. 
you attempt a fake smile. 
"hey," he says, with that same grin, "you have clothes." 
you drop your face. "i will close this." 
he isn't phased, just pockets his phone and leans in to look behind you at the entryway. 
you roll your eyes, but open the door anyway, and usher him in. he rubs his feet against your welcome mat and toys with a keychain you have hanging from a coat rack, then looks to you, like he's waiting for a tour. which, you guess, he is.
"there's only two rooms, one bath. it's not very big, so if you need a lot of space..." 
"i can manage," he says, and follows you as you walk into the kitchen. "did you decorate?" 
"um... sort of." 
"sort of?" 
"i, uh, had a roommate before and he bought most of the decorations before i moved in. but i've added a few things. i'm not picky about aesthetics." 
gojo hums. "why'd he move out?" 
"we were together and he cheated on me," you say, flatly, as you have been for the past month and a half. "and then told me i couldn't use his netflix account anymore after i broke up with him." 
gojo merely blinks and gestures toward the wall behind you. "so you didn't buy that dancing frog thing?" 
you turn around, rolling your eyes. "no. i forgot that was there." 
"okay, good, 'cause that's hideous." 
you snort, but nod your head and walk down the hallway. gojo's footsteps follow you as you open the door to his potential bedroom. "it's the bigger of the two," you tell him, "but the bathroom is next to mine." 
"did you change rooms?" 
"what?" 
"when your ex moved out. why take the smaller one?" 
"oh," you rub a finger against the wall, rubbing dust off of it. "it was his room before we got together. and then we shared my current room. this was his man... den?" you try, shaking your head. "gaming room? slaughterhouse?" 
gojo snorts. 
"what?" 
"oh, nothing," he says, airy like he's teasing you. "just curious."
you step back so he can walk around, check the carpets for stains, or look for drywall you could've hidden a body behind. but he doesn't, only watches you as you furrow your brows. 
"you're not going to look around?" 
"it looks like the pictures." 
"yeah, but what if there are, like, bugs in the carpet? blood on the walls?" 
"are there bugs in the carpet?" he asks. "blood on the walls?" 
"not that i know of..." 
"great, then it's perfect," he says, and steps out of the room again, whistling as he goes. 
this time, you follow him, like he's the one giving the tour. 
he pauses at the door a couple of feet down. "this your room?" 
"yes." 
"can i see?" 
you scowl. "no. what do you mean 'it's perfect?'"
"i mean, i'd like to live here. it's nice. besides the frog." 
you lean against the wall, trying to inspect him for any mechanical parts. is this a ploy? some joke? "you've barely been here five minutes." 
"twenty with all the time i waited outside..." 
"you can't just take one look and say 'yup, this is good.'" 
"can't you?" he asks, challenging. 
"no." 
gojo's grin seems to widen, impossibly. "well, i'm not picky." 
and somehow you doubt that. 
but you don't get the chance to tell him that, or anything else, because he leans against the wall, still smiling at you, and asks, "so, are we roommates now?" 
"you haven't even seen the lease. or heard about the house rules." 
"house rules?" he repeats, dubiously. like you're making this up (which you are). 
"yes." 
"such as?" 
"no..." you pause, 'cause this is a fickle argument. something about his stupid smile makes you want to argue with him. or maybe it's the hair. or the sunglasses. "murdering anyone in the apartment." 
he laughs, unexpectedly, and sighs. "well, i guess i'll take my murdering someplace else." 
"and... you can't leave any utensils in the sink." 
"okay." 
"and i'm not cleaning up any beard shavings, or sharing my tampons with you, or any people you have over." 
"these are very extensive," he says, unserious. "anything else?" 
"i..." your brows furrow. "no hogging the bathroom. hot water is fickle. and you have to recycle." 
"it might be challenging, but we'll figure it out." 
"these are not negotiable." 
he only continues to smile at you. 
eventually, after staring back with a frown that feels slightly permanent for more than a minute, you sigh again. at least you won't have to worry about moving out. 
"fine. you still want to live here?" 
"mmhmm." 
"okay," and you stick your hand out for him to shake like this is a business transaction. 
and it seems that you'll be seeing a lot more of that grin in the future. 
*
living with satoru gojo is not... well, it's not hard. he's a normal enough roommate. 
he pays his rent on time and doesn't touch the coffee you make in the morning most days--coughing when he does. he man spreads on the couch and watches movies way too loud and doesn't hang his bag up at the door, preferring to, instead, set it on the counter like a maniac. he whistles when he walks, and wears his stupid sunglasses 80% of the time, and grins at you when you're irritated, and, honestly, he's not really half bad. 
he doesn't leave any huge messes for you to clean up (mostly because he doesn't use the kitchen or the dining table ever). he doesn't invite people over that keep you up all night (because he's gone most nights). and, actually, he keeps the bathroom quite clean (even if he takes up well more than half of the shower space with his weird face creams and deep conditioning treatments). 
but satoru gojo is hard. 
it's not what he does, but rather who he is. with his infuriating good looks--taking up most of the fair share for the rest of the population--and his subtle charm, which, if you didn't know who he was, might actually work on you, and his morning voice and his messy hair and just the way he lives. 
like breathing is just what he's supposed to be doing. like he doesn't need to worry about a thing because nothing should matter if he decides he doesn't want it to. 
so easygoing and naturally intuitive and far too exhausting for you. 
because, as a fatal flaw of your own, you love to mess with him. somedays you'll hope he shows up just so you have someone to fight with. just so you'll be irritated instead of stressed, frustrated instead of exhausted. 
it's kind of addicting, in a way. and masochistic, but you've never claimed to be completely sane. 
and honestly, gojo's just asking for it. 
after a mere month of living with his aura around, you come to expect his cockiness. you live to take him down a notch.
so when he's up this early in the morning, whistling like it's his god-given right, you scowl at him just as he enters the room. 
"woah," he says, sliding on a bar stool in front of you. "starting early this morning?" 
"you're banned from talking to me until noon." 
"is this about the ice cream i ate? cause there was only a little left..." 
"no it's--" you pause, frowning at him. "you ate my ice cream?" 
he lays his entire torso on the counter, pathetically. "i was dying, okay? low blood sugar was going to kill me, and i couldn't see anything else but that ice cream and it wasn't even very good anyway, so, really, i was saving you from having to endure the rest of it." 
"you ate my ice cream?" you repeat. 
"i'll buy you more. a better kind. and then you'll understand that i was doing you a favor." 
"i might kill you." 
"i thought we banned homicide from the apartment." 
"i was going to eat that," you whine, shoving his hands away from trying to grab your mug. 
he smiles, too bright for so early in the morning. "yesterday you told me sweets weren't an appropriate breakfast." 
you scoff. "yeah, cause that's all you eat. you need a green smoothie or something in the morning just to keep your heart beating for the rest of the day."
"my heart beats very well, thank you. wanna feel?" 
you roll your eyes and sigh into your mug. "i'll be expecting three pints of ice cream as an apology later tonight." 
gojo has already moved on, typing away on his phone, probably to some groupies he manipulated into loving him. "i can't. it's flip night at laurent's tonight, and suguru has already threatened me into coming." 
"why did you say laurent's like i'm supposed to know what you mean?" 
"laurent's," he repeats, looking at you.
you blink. 
"the bar?" he questions, like you're crazy. 
"okay, sorry, i don't exclusively hang out at bars filled with frat boys." 
"it's very sophisticated,” he corrects, his frat boy nature very obvious. “i mean, i frequent there." 
you laugh. 
"clearly you've never been." 
"i'm still expecting ice cream." 
he sits back in his chair. "i have class all day." 
"like you've never skipped a class." 
"encouraging ditching?" he asks, mock appalled. "what kind of roommate are you?" 
"the kind that doesn't steal her roommate's food. just get one of your servants to pick it up.”
gojo waves a hand at you, and that statement, apparently. and then he types another thing into his phone—to said servants you assume—and grins again. his face must’ve missed the feeling. "how about i buy you a drink instead? you can come with me tonight. meet my friends. maybe make some of your own." 
"haha," you cross your arms. "if they're as bad as you, then i'm good." 
"you'd probably love them. they also like to torment me, even though i'm pretty and perfectly nice to them." 
"i seriously doubt that." 
his eyes--oh, yes, this early in the morning he skips the sunglasses--sparkle like gems. "i have to play wingman for suguru, but it probably won't take long. you can mingle. meet someone. i think you could use a way to relieve some of that stress." 
"oh, you mean the stress that you cause?" 
gojo grins and you realize that you've fallen into his trap. "i'm willing to help out whenever you like," he says, deviously, "you just haven't asked yet, sweetheart." 
"nor ever will," you grind out.
gojo hums and taps his fingers against the countertop. the two of you stare at each other, grin matching scowl, and eventually, he loses the contest. "so, can i plan to steal you away from eternal solitude at six?" he asks.
and just because he's right--in his weird, satoru gojo way--you nod. it might be nice to get out of the house; and meet people other than the lost freshman at work. and because you know that gojo will continue to bother you about it otherwise. he’s a very difficult person.
as if proving it, he grins all pleased with himself, so you add, "but you're buying all of my drinks." before he can get too ahead of himself. 
*
it's not nearly loud enough in this bar. as soon as you walk in, you're sure of it. 
because even with a band up on the stage, singing about loving someone or money or drugs, you can still hear gojo as he flirts with every single living thing in his twenty-foot vicinity. 
he's got his grin on, styled his hair all fancy, and his clothes are signature in the way that you've probably seen him wear the same thing fifty times. maybe in a row. 
but the people in this bar don't care. no, they flirt back like they already know who satoru gojo is. and maybe they do. 
you don't really care, but you do have to drag him along so he can show you where you're supposed to sit and tell you the names of his friends before you get drunk enough to forget. 
it takes three minutes of trailing after gojo like a lost puppy to remember that you hate going out. that you hate everything about your so-called roommate and you should've shoved his invitation down the drain along with him. 
as if gojo can hear this thought, he peeks over his shoulder, smirking at you. "enjoying the view?" he asks, and you try to trip him by stepping on his heel. 
unfortunately, he only swings around, walking backward through the crowd like it's going to part for him. 
oh, wait. it does. 
you frown at him. 
"what? you don't like the music?" he pouts because that would personally offend him, of course. 
"where are we going? i think we've passed that table four times already." 
"i have to say hi," he says like this is obvious. "it's rude to just walk into some place without greeting everyone." 
"do you own this bar?" 
"what? no." 
"then find your friends so we can sit down," you grumble, trying not to lose him in the sea of people. it's unlikely that you've ever seen a bar this packed. more like a club, honestly, but you wouldn't put it past gojo to lie. 
eventually, he does lead you to a table, announcing, with a flourish. "don't worry, everyone, i'm here," while he bows--because of course he does. "and," he adds, "i brought a stowaway." 
you peek around his shoulder to meet three people, all staring at him with the same unamused expression. one, suguru--from the many photo albums and 'trips down memory lane' gojo has bombarded you with--gives you a little wave. the other two just continue to stare at gojo. 
"everyone, this is y/n, my favorite roommate. y/n, that one is suguru," he says, pointing towards him, "which you already know. the short one is shoko, and the blonde one is--" 
"nanami," you cut in, "hey." 
gojo frowns, looking between the two of you. "you know each other?" 
"we have analytics together," you answer, sliding in to sit across them, next to gojo, naturally. "i usually cheat off of his notes." 
"she gets me coffee," nanami adds, like this information is imperative. 
gojo grins again. "why didn't you say anything nanamin?" 
"because i didn't realize." 
"who else could i have been talking about? do you know several pretty girls named y/n? you a player?" 
nanami has a very familiar frown on his face, and is about to say something when suguru seems to kick gojo under the table. "satoru, i told you to stop referring to other people as 'players.'"
gojo merely rolls his eyes. "can't fight the truth," he says.
you almost smile. almost. but your eyes drift over to shoko, who sighs. "how'd you get stuck with this one?" she asks, not harsh, but not quite soft. 
"he promised me alcohol." 
she nods knowingly. 
speaking of, you turn towards him. "you and i both know there's only one reason i'm here." 
gojo flicks your forehead, but stands up. "i'll be right back," he says, "don't miss me too much." 
and you all watch as he walks away, conveniently stopping at least four times to talk to several different people. 
you groan. "he's not coming back is he?" 
"he will," suguru says, not quite reassuringly. "probably. in an hour or so." 
you cover your eyes with your hands and listen as the three of them laugh at you. 
*
it probably is an hour or two later that you see gojo again. 
you'd fallen into smooth conversation with his friends, talking about classes, and dancing, and the fact that you all shared a common enemy. it was easy enough, talking to them, like ripples in a pond. but surely if gojo had stuck around, it would've been more of a tsunami. you could see the appeal--at least for someone like your roommate. they all seemed responsible enough. 
but shoko, after a twenty-second lull in conversation, decided she was better off drinking at home, and nanami quickly agreed. watching them, compared to gojo, disappear into the crowd was a different experience. 
you bite your cheek unnervingly, wondering if it made you a bad roommate to want to let gojo suffer here alone and walk home by himself. 
suguru pats you on the shoulder when he stands up a moment later, brushing his pants. "i'll go find satoru," he says, softly. you feel that same irritation when you realize that gojo had probably lied to you about coming here for suguru. it was almost infinitely more times likely that suguru had come here for him. "do you want me to tell him you went home?" 
"how likely is it that he'll go home with someone else and it won't matter if i wait for him anyway?" 
the dark-haired man considers this with a sly grin on his face. "if i tell him you left, he'll find someone to cling to. but if you're here he'll go home with you. probably drunk, though." 
you run a hand through your hair, waving him off. "it's fine. i'll wait, then. but tell him that the homicide clause doesn't apply to outside the apartment." 
suguru laughs, not questioning this, and walks away. 
you sit there, toying with a glass someone had left behind, watching the people around you dance like it really was a club. with absolutely no one watching. not even god, evidently.
as usual, gojo lied--even though you hadn't really believed him when he said this place was sophisticated. the clear air of stale beer and vomit is enough to prove that.
you almost laugh bitterly, but then a mop of white hair appears in the chair next to you, and his grin is wider, larger than you'd remembered. 
how long had that taken? 
"hello hello, roomie," he sings, leaning close to you. he moves his chair, shuffling across the floor so that he's near enough to touch. "i heard you were threatening me again." 
"you could hear that over the sighs of your fan club?" 
gojo giggles, like he's in on the joke. his breath falls on your face. "i like it when you tell me you're going to murder me, you know." 
"of course you do. how much did you drink?" 
"it's not the quantity," he whispers, "it's the quality." 
"your friends told me you could get drunk off of hand sanitizer." 
gojo leans back, his long legs knocking against yours. "are they spreading those rumors again?"
you kick his foot away from yours but don't say anything. his eyes seem somehow wider right now, even behind his dark shades. almost like you could see them. 
you blink, and gojo does it back. his lashes fluttering just enough to tell.
it almost makes you smile. laugh a little bit at his innocence--especially right now, when he's clearly not himself--some more unperturbed version of who he normally is (if that's even possible). he probably wouldn't even remember if you did laugh at him. but you refrain anyway. 
gojo gasps suddenly. "oh! let's go to the store. you want ice cream, right?" his elbow slides onto the table as he rests his chin on a hand. 
you kick his foot again. "i wanted a drink," you correct, "but apparently you got distracted." 
"'s not my fault," he almost slurs, sadly. 
"are you ready to go home?" 
"i'm ready to leave. so we can get your ice cream. want to share a spoon?" his grin is unabashed. you could tell him that he is a vile, disgusting creature right now and he would probably agree. 
you don't, for whatever reason. 
"i don't think anywhere's open, and i don't want to drag you around while you're this drunk." 
he taps your thigh with a finger. "hey. i'll have you know that i am a very proficient walker." 
"oh, really?" 
"learned when i was a kid and everything." 
"wow, gojo, i'm very impressed," you deadpan, and look around. "do you need to say goodbye to suguru?" 
he frowns. then points to himself. "gojo," he repeats, and into the crowd, "suguru." 
like he's an actual toddler.
you shake your head and stand up, still looking. "can you text him?" 
"i guess," he mumbles, getting out his phone and almost dropping it. he frowns like this is deeply upsetting. 
so you grab it from him. "what's your passcode?" 
"one one one one." you look at him with a brow raised. "cause i'm number one," he answers, pridefully. 
you scoff, but look through his texts anyway, and tell suguru that you're taking him home--and never ever coming out with him again--and then hand it back to gojo. 
he smiles at you. you roll your eyes. 
then he grabs your hand, and begins to pull. "c'mon before they find us," he says, and it doesn't make any sense. 
but were you really expecting it to? 
*
perhaps the aftermath of drunk gojo is even more entertaining than the actual thing. 
shoko hadn't been kidding when she said he was the worst drunk--and even worse when hungover. 
how do you know this? oh, because you woke up at one in the afternoon--perfectly respectable for a saturday--and as soon as you dared to even open your door gojo was already groaning about the noise. so you slam it a little as you leave. 
there's a grunt, like a dying cat, and two minutes later he is walking into the kitchen with slits for eyes and cotton for hair. you're not sure what he's wearing--some video game shirt--but it's wrinkled enough to match your roommate's appearance. disheveled and slightly peeved, he's almost glaring at you--like he's capable of such a thing.
you try not to laugh. 
"where's the bacon?" he asks, almost slipping off of the counter as he leans on it. his hands rubbing at his eyes. 
"sorry?" 
"wheres the bacon?" he repeats, his voice a different register this morning. "i need emergency bacon." 
"so make some. there's a pan and probably a package in the fridge." 
he whines, falling against the counter again. his natural habitat. "i can't make it, i'm dying. you really want your terminally ill roommate to cook for himself?" 
"i want my overdramatic roommate to act like an adult for a change." 
he blows a raspberry, and his face is hidden beneath the tile of your table. you can only see his hair, which looks surprisingly soft for his state. 
"did you lose some pigment in your hair?" 
gojo snaps up, immediately, gasping. he pulls a strand so he can look at it, blinking rapidly. his panic quickly fades, and he blows the strand out of his eyes. "it's just dirty." 
"from what?" 
"i forgot to buy new bedsheets," he grumbles, once again hiding his face. 
"your bedsheets are dying your hair?" you ask, with a raised brow. 
"they're dirty," he repeats, rolling his eyes as he sits up. "i need to go to the store." 
"um..." you look at him as he slumps against his own body, feeling greatly concerned for his survival abilities. "you buy new bedsheets?" you confirm, "instead of washing them?" 
he waves a hand, blowing you, and your clearly audaious sentence away. "bacon," he says, flatly. 
you roll your eyes. "pan," you point, "stove." 
gojo looks like he might start crying.
and it might be his state or the fact that you don't think you've ever seen him like this--in the month you've known him--all lost and confused and a little bit ruffled at the edges. gojo's snark is usually in its top form when you see him in the morning. 
so, just this once, you grab a pan, and turn on the burner. 
"i'll be expecting payment for my time," you say, as you grab the bacon from the fridge. 
and maybe you get your first real smile from your roommate. 
*
you're lying on the couch reading a book when he appears, swarming like a fly. 
"hello, roommate," he says, uncharacteristically pleasant, and then he sits on your legs. you try to kick him, but it proves futile because apparently he's a giant, so you wiggle your way out from under him and sit up, frowning. 
"don't you have a room?" you ask. 
"i could ask you the same thing," gojo tries to tickle your feet, but you move them away before he can. your frown turns into more of a glare. "what?" he asks, "we can't hang out?" 
"no." 
gojo pouts. "but we're roommates," he says as if it's an explanation. like being roommates binds your souls and forever intertwines the two of you. 
"we are roommates because i had an extra room and you had money. that doesn't seem like thrilling grounds for friendship." 
"well, how about the fact that i let you use my hair dryer the other day?" he lays down on the other side of the couch, smirking at you. "that's a friendly thing to do." 
"that's the polite thing to do. i'm trying to train you. speaking of which..." you point towards the floor, "down boy." 
he takes off his sunglasses, throwing them on the coffee table--which probably explains the broken mug pieces you found in the trash the other day--and lays back with his arms behind his head. his eyes are closed. "i can't be trained." 
"clearly." 
you sigh and relax in your corner of the couch, picking up your book again. his presence lurks like a nightmare, but, you figure, eventually, he'll get bored. 
you just can't entertain him. it's like the advice you'd give to a kid being bullied: they only care about your reaction... 
as if proving your point, after twenty-seven seconds of silence, he opens one eye, peeking at you. "whatcha reading?" 
"a book." 
he plucks it right out of your hands, inspecting the cover. how he got across the couch in 0.2 seconds, you don't know. 
"what is this?" he asks, snickering a little. "word porn?" 
you take it back. "it's called romance, gojo. not that i'd expect you to be familiar with anything of the sort." 
he smirks, laying back down. "i have references if you need proof." 
you shake your head, flipping him off, and continue to scan the words on your page without retaining any information. 
seriously, his presence is impending doom itself. 
"it's okay," he whispers, "you don't need to be embarrassed. everyone craves intimacy." 
"i crave my fist on your face." 
he snorts. "that's not very friendly." 
you sigh, dropping the book again so you can look at him and his obnoxious eyes. "look, i'm tired, it's been a long week, and if you don't leave me alone i'll probably lock you outside." 
"probably?" 
"it's that or throwing you out the window." 
gojo laughs once again, but mimes zipping his mouth shut. you roll your eyes and open your book again. your feet are entwined, but you don't mock this--if only because you're sure that gojo will start an argument about it.
the quiet lasts for two minutes and then he turns on the tv. 
you groan and he laughs at you.
*
you're getting used to having him around, at least. and in turn, his friends. because they seem to be a package deal. 
after that night at the bar, gojo--apparently--feels much more comfortable having them over. trying to bake cookies with shoko or interrupting what's supposed to be a study session between the four of them. 
at least, you think, watching this happen, that you're not the only person forced to endure him. 
but it's kind of... nice to see him act like a normal person, for once. to get teased by someone other than you and pout like a begrudged younger brother. the person who invites his friends over for game night (getting aggressively angry every time he loses) isn't satoru gojo, the man whom everyone is drawn to. he isn't some drunk guy charming everyone around him or a roommate that you just happened upon. 
he's just another college student, laughing along with people who aren't nearly as bad as him. 
and, naturally, you find yourself intertwined with these 'hang-outs' because the apartment is small, and you don't want to be left out--no, you choose not to think about how pathetic it is that satoru gojo has more friends than you do, so please don't bring it up. 
and it's on this night when you're not playing uno with the four of them, but rather, watching behind all of their backs and trying to mess with gojo as much as possible. 
you pretend to be idly cleaning in the kitchen, when really you're standing behind him, mouthing to suguru what color he has whenever he's about to win. 
"hmm," the sly-mouthed man says this time, "green." 
shoko puts down a seven, and gojo groans again. "seriously?" he asks, but begins drawing cards. 
you try--and fail--not to giggle behind him. to which, of course, he turns around with an obvious glare in his eyes. "what are you doing?" 
the sink isn't on, and there are no dishes to be seen in the kitchen. nonetheless, you point uselessly to the roll of paper towels on the counter. "cleaning." 
"you're cleaning air?" 
"sorry, i didn't realize i was banned from loitering in my own home." 
he turns back around, looking at suguru for a moment, then back at you. it's very hard to keep the smile off of your face, especially when nanami looks like he's about to break and shoko is pretending to rifle through her cards again. 
how many times have you done this to him? oh, just a mere eight. 
to be fair, it would've ended a long time ago if gojo wasn't such a sore loser. 
he looks back and forth once more. then he frowns. "what are you doing?" 
"do you want me to go hide in my room, gojo?" you ask, trying to scowl. "because i will. i was just trying to be hospitable--" 
"nanamin," he interrupts. "go." 
so another round of cards is placed, and this time suguru plays normally, keeping his face straight to not draw any suspicion. you lean against the wall, enjoying yourself. 
(don't tell anyone, but this is the most fun you've had in a while). 
and then, after a couple of rounds go by, you finally clear your throat. gojo turns to glare at you through his sunglasses and says "go stand behind suguru if you're going to watch. i don't trust you." 
you raise your brows but do as he says. 
and when shoko has to draw the next time, you smile and tap a couple of times on your thigh. 
suguru does his best impression of gojo's grin, and says, "draw four," to shoko. 
she smiles back. turns to gojo. "draw four," she repeats. 
and he stares at the two of them, then the cards stacked on top of each other, and then to you, right across him. "what are you doing? i know you're doing something." 
"satoru, she's just watching--" 
"no, she's smiling." he looks back to you, "you're smiling. you don't do that unless i'm in pain." 
"so you just assume that you're losing cause i'm... what? drawing your cards for you? shuffling the stack so only you get the bad hands?" you cock a brow at him, willing yourself not to look at anyone else at the table. it would only end in disaster. 
"i--" gojo runs a hand through his hair. then he sighs and begins drawing his eight cards. 
and several rounds later--with gojo losing once again--you've begun moving around the table like you're inspecting each player. gojo doesn't let you look at his cards though. 
and it takes a while before he notices anything. particularly after suguru wins for the third time in a row. 
he looks at everyone--brows pulled together, irritated eyes hiding behind his sunglasses, and his cheeks are flushed from how frustrated he is--and as soon as you start laughing at his face, everyone else does too. suguru throws his cards down and shakes his head. nanami shuffles the deck while trying to keep his laugh muffled--but it's there. and shoko is outwardly laughing at him, pointing at gojo and then at you. 
"are you guys stealing the cards?" he asks, almost disbelieving, his voice so childlike that you start laughing even harder. "look at the deck! it's half the size that it was." 
and then he's standing up and inspecting you, sticking his hands up your sleeves and finding dozens of cards hiding there, falling onto the floor. 
gojo gasps in outrage, but it doesn't even matter to you. 
everyone else is clutching their stomachs and gojo begins to pout. "you're all traitors," he's saying, and "how long have you been doing that?" and you almost can't breathe-- 
so yeah. you don't really mind these kinds of nights. and you don't complain about the messes gojo and his friends leave behind. 
*
you shouldn't have given suguru your number. this much is obvious. 
but, to be fair, you weren't exactly thinking when you were talking to him about a self-help book you'd picked up, and he was mentioning a podcast, and then he was taking your phone and putting himself in it--which, in itself, should not be dangerous--telling you that he'd send you a link and that you should let him know if you liked it, and that was that. 
and really, there shouldn't be any repercussions to this. suguru is your sort of friend, and sort of friends can text on occasion. 
except for the fact that he's also satoru gojo's friend. so when you wake up at ten--silently thanking yourself for taking a day off before a week of back-to-back classes and work--he's already texted you, and it's obvious that you failed somewhere in life. 
maybe when you accidentally invited a demon into your house and allowed him to stay. 
from suguru :p : 
hey satoru is supposed to be in class right now and he won't answer me 
can you please kick him awake? 
but maybe it wasn't a mistake. because at least you have a good excuse to give gojo a bruise. 
so you creep down the hall, reluctantly knocking on his door even though it ruins the element of surprise (you're not a monster) and listening as there's no response. 
gojo must be asleep. or dead. honestly, you might've killed him in your sleep--wouldn't be the first time. 
so you peek the door open, realizing now that you haven't been in his room since he moved in, and watch as a figure slithers under the covers almost before you notice. gojo is completely covered except for the foot he's left hanging off of the side of the bed. 
"get up," you tell him, looking around at the sparse decorations he's put up. there are books, candy wrappers, and socks all over the floor, but it's not the messiest room you've ever seen. which is slightly surprising, considering all that you know about gojo. 
he whines from under the cover, turning so you get a view of exposed skin on his back. "sleeping," he says as if you might believe him. 
so you creep over trash and textbooks and pull the blanket right off of him. 
gojo is already looking at you, pouting. his hair is in his eyes and his mouth is puffy--probably from kissing his pillow in his sleep. "what if i was naked under here?" he asks you, very seriously. "i don't let just anyone see that, you know?" 
"you're wearing the same silk pajamas you wear every night." 
he tries to pull the blanket away from you, his fingers peeling yours away. he huffs. "it's the principle. you don't just wake a man up from slumber." 
you snort. "did you travel a century in your sleep?" 
"yes, now go away." and then he falls back into the blankets, his words muffled. 
"you have class, your highness. i've been sent to fetch you." 
one eye appears from under the blanket. "how do you know my schedule?" 
"telepathy. now get up." 
"i can't," gojo fake coughs. "i'm sick." 
"suguru said you'd say that." 
he groans, turning over and muffling a few explicit words that sound like a curse upon his best friend. 
you poke his back. "did you sleep through your alarm?" 
he doesn't answer. his body has gone limp like you might not notice that he's there if he stays still for long enough. so you pull his hair, turning his head towards you. "you're not usually this whiny in the morning," you tell him. 
"why are you so mean to me?" 
you hum, pretending to consider it. "i think it's the hair. i find it pretentious." 
"i could sue you. discrimination is very serious. i've got a good lawyer, too."
"i'll sue back for mental damages." 
he laughs, and wiggles from your grasp. 
you sigh and finally sit down at the edge of his bed, observing the lollipops he's left lying on his bedside table. gojo's bones seem to crack as he sits up with you, moaning the whole way. 
you're silently observing him--with his slightly red eyes and heinous mouth. you're not used to seeing him like this in the morning; usually, he's chipper and annoying. when he walks into the kitchen in the morning you half expect him to start singing. 
but this gojo is tired. he rubs at his eyes. "did suguru text you?" 
"yup." 
"he's a terrible friend." 
you nudge him, almost like an agreement. "why aren't you in class?" 
"what's even the point of going? it's not like i get a reward."
"i think the reward is graduating, but you might have to fact-check that one." 
he nudges you back and then takes your hand. his fingertips are soft as they trace the tendons and veins he can see on your skin. his hands are softer than you'd have expected. his eyes are wary as they look towards the floor, his mouth twisting in displeasure. but he doesn't stop touching you, he does so idly that you almost don't notice. "i have an a in the class," he tells you, "and i already know most of the material so why would i go to every lecture?" 
maybe it's the way he says it; so sure and nonchalant, in his typical over-dramatic fashion. maybe it's just that he's never mentioned any of his classes to you, or the fact that he's taking any. maybe he's just crazy--that's the most likely option--but you're suddenly curious. 
"what class is it?" 
"theoretical physics." 
you whistle, shaking your head. "and you already know most of it?" 
gojo drops your hand and looks at you. his eyes are wide. maybe he's just realized that he's been talking to you this whole time. "when i was a kid my, uh, my dad had a bunch of textbooks in his office that i used to read through every time i got in trouble," he grins, "which was a lot." 
"i can imagine." 
"well, it turns out you can only read something so many times before it becomes ingrained in your brain." 
you pull at his bedsheet. "do you have a test today, or something?" 
"no, suguru just thinks i'm lazy." 
you laugh, because he is. gojo rolls his eyes at you so you don't say it. you're a little bit surprised, actually. you knew that gojo wasn't stupid (or at least, you might've known) but there's something about the proof of it. like you can't just read right through him. like maybe there's still more to learn about your roommate and maybe there always has been. 
or maybe you're just tired, and he's always had the strange ability to draw irrationality out of you. and also he's an idiot.
"i just..." he starts and his smile fades, but only a little bit. he keeps a layer on while he peels a layer off. "i mean, i like the class. math is cool. but i just don't feel like it today, you know?" 
and there's something about his voice as he says it. steady and true, as always, but softer. but compeltely honest. 
and you've heard him complain about a million things, like every time you and suguru talk about something he doesn't understand or when the door isn't unlocked when he gets home, or when you won't add his one shirt to your laundry. you've heard every whine and every groan come from his lips. 
but he's not complaining about this. just confiding. 
and there's such a drastic difference that it takes you a moment to respond. 
but you do eventually. "yeah, i know," you tell him and rest a hand on his thigh to squeeze. 
and the way that gojo looks at you after--like you might just be saying it to make him feel better--is perplexing. his eyes are blue and maybe you've just noticed this--just started to realize that you're actually sitting with him like a normal person. and that he actually looks grateful. 
you shake your head, willing yourself to look away, because maybe there is something sort of magnetic about your roommate. and it feels impossible to only have noticed this now. to realize how warm he is next to you, and how your muscles tense up when he shifts. gojo is looking at you, and it might be the first time.
so you stand up, flicking his chin. "i'll tell suguru that you're puking your guts up." 
"really?" 
"yup. but next time you sleep through a class i'm going to wake you up by pouring ice water on your face." 
he grins. "cruel." 
"and i'll record it." 
you step over candy wrappers and dirty socks as you leave his room, and as soon as the door is closed you sigh in relief. you're probably better off never opening that door again.
*
it's a ridiculously cold night when he shows up. 
you're sitting at the front desk in the library, pretending to study for a mid-term, and trying to smile at the fifth lost library card you've heard about tonight. you got this job at the beginning of the year, and it pays horribly. but at least you can sit around and study, most weekends it's quiet enough to take a nap, and no one tends to bother you when you're drooling all over the reception desk. 
most weekends, that is, because as soon as he walks in through the door--letting in air so brisk that it has the potential to kill you--it gets significantly louder. 
because satoru gojo is not affected by trivial things such as snow, or blizzards, or the fact that the library is supposed to close in less than ten minutes... 
still, you don't really notice him--a rare circumstance that you will question later that night--until he's right next to you, breathing in your ear. 
"slacking on the clock?" he asks, and just for a moment, you almost disembowel him with the pen you're holding in your hand. 
but then you grunt, used to this sort of intrusion from your roommate, and push his head away. "how did you find me?" you ask him, because, honestly, this job is just an escape from his neverending antics at your house (no, it doesn't matter that you got the job before you knew that such an annoying person could possibly exist). 
"i microchipped you in your sleep," gojo says, smoothly, sitting in the chair right next to yours, swiveling around. "i thought i told you about that?" 
you blatantly look at the clock and ignore him. "you know that the library closes in seven minutes?" 
"...and?" 
"so go torment someone else," you answer, standing up with a stack of fileable papers, "i'm busy until eight." 
"i'll help," gojo says, eager as always, and takes half of your stack. "where to?" 
it is from two months of experience that you know he will not leave you alone. even if you chew off his fingernails and keep them to make into necklaces, gojo will follow you around as long as you make it clear you don't want him to. 
so you walk towards the copying room, smiling at all of the sleep-deprived students you pass by and rolling your eyes when gojo does the same. 
"how did you even find the library?" 
gojo walks like he has absolutely no equilibrium; knocking into you every couple of steps, and then falling in the other direction. it must be a consequence of all of his strenuous leaning. 
so he bumps into you as he replies, "tracker," like it's obvious. 
you snort. "no, seriously. i didn't think you knew that libraries existed. aren't you allergic to reading?" 
"hey!" he tries to trip you. "i'll have you know that i am very studious. top of my class." 
"that's why you pay suguru to write your papers for you, right?" 
gojo makes a small noise in the back of his throat. "he doesn't write them," he grumbles. "well, not all of them." 
you snort and open a door for him to follow through.
"my study group meets here on wednesdays," gojo answers, finally. 
"you're a part of a study group?" 
"where do you think i go all of the time?" 
you briefly consider this, setting the papers down. "cemeteries to mourn all of the people you've annoyed to death, probably. or your girlfriend's house." you shrug.
gojo sets his stack on top of yours, diligently lining them up. "i don't do that every night," he drawls, rolling his eyes. and then he winks at you. "and i don't have a girlfriend. thanks for asking." 
you mess up his stack and turn away from him. "sorry, i meant girlfriends as in plural. girlfriends." 
"nope, again." 
gojo follows closely behind you as you begin to lock up all of the spare rooms, turning off lights and looking for any lost items. "commitment issues?" you ask, fake sympathy clouding your voice. 
"sweetheart, if you want me, then just say that. you don't need to pretend to worry about anyone else." his cockiness is infuriating, but you don't even bother to scold him for it. you turn towards him with sharp eyes.
"do i seem worried to you?" 
"no, but you're a bad actor," gojo hums, fingertips grazing along your skin as he inspects your face. "denial is serious. you might want to see a doctor." 
"you would know," you answer, glaring and pulling away from him. the two of you walk as people begin to trek out of the library, no longer held captive by the idea of studying. 
gojo is much too close, as usual, his sweater brushing against yours. 
"how'd you even know i was here?" you ask him, after a minute of silence. 
"please," he answers, grinning down at you. "i got a PI as soon as you gave me my key." 
you squint. "did you actually?" 
he laughs. "no. you told shoko, and shoko told me..." 
you nod, clearing the desk of your things, tossing your bag at gojo for him to carry. "so why are you here?" 
he clears his throat, unplugging the cord to your computer and wrapping it around his hand. "i was walking by, and i thought i'd see if you wanted to come with me for drinks after your shift."
"drinks?" you repeat, taking the cord from his hands. 
"flip night." 
you groan. "i am never participating in that again after what happened last time." 
"it wasn't that bad." 
"i had to drag you home and you almost threw up in my hair." 
gojo smiles. "consider yourself lucky." 
you push him out of the way and put your coat on. then you turn off the lights and push in all of the chairs, gojo not helping at all. "i didn't even get my drink," you remind him. 
"okay, so let me make it up to you."
and his voice is a bit different. still arrogant, naturally, still smiling and easy--but maybe he means it? maybe beneath his, frankly, soft exterior, he feels bad for getting drunk before you could? maybe he's not actually a complete monster? 
you laugh that thought away as soon as it comes.
you sigh. "are your friends going to be there?" 
"yes, our friends are. they suggested i invite you." 
you sigh--again, because the air is quite thin when gojo is around--and consider it. for just four seconds. but eventually, you shake your head. "i can't," you tell him, looping your arm around his so you can drag him out of the building. 
"why not?" 
"i'm tired, and i still need to study for a test on monday..." 
"do it in the morning." 
you give him a blank look. "i won't want to study if i'm hungover." 
"then don't study." 
you let go of his arm, shivering from the cold. gojo, of course, is not wearing a jacket, or even a little bit bothered by the air. "you're a terrible influence." 
he grins. "i get it from you." 
you shake your head, keeping the smile off of your face. "maybe some other time? when it's not freezing, and i don't have a big test?" 
gojo looks like he wants to argue with you some more--which he usually does--but eventually, his grin ebbs into something simple and he nods. "okay, but you have to come next time i ask." 
"no. what if i'm sick, or something?" you definitely would not put it past him to ask you as a method of torture. 
"that's what alcohol is for." he sticks out his hand, too big and too sly. 
but you relent, shaking with him, and rolling your eyes.
"okay, gojo. have fun. do not wake me up when you get home." 
and you turn to walk away, but his hand catches your wrist. "what are you doing?" he asks, brow furrowed. 
"...going home?" 
he lets go of you and flicks your forehead. "you're not walking back by yourself," he says, like it's a crime. "c'mon." 
and he falls into pace with you, even with his longer legs and fervent energy. 
"this is stupid--" you start to complain, but gojo reaches for the strap of your bag, sliding it off of your shoulder. he then slings it on his own, and pulls you in a bit closer by the hem of your jacket. 
he doesn't say anything, just shoves your hand in his pocket, and whistles as he walks you home. 
*
its a couple of weeks later when you're standing at the door again, trying not to open it more than necessary. 
but, really, how wide is too wide? will a half-opened door signal any longing? will he think that you want him back if you open it more than three inches to pass him his box of stuff that he'd left behind and take your key back? 
how do you navigate the trade-off of a frog statue that will probably haunt your dreams till the end of time? 
"key," you say, without any pleasantries, not bothering to even really look at him. 
even though he looks just the same, your ex. still the lying cheater you'd almost fallen in love with. 
is it wrong to miss his netflix password more than him? 
"thanks," he says, and you've probably been standing there with him for thirty seconds when a head appears on your shoulder. 
white hair gets in your eyes, and you try to push gojo away, but he's already intruded on this exchange and you know he's not going to leave. 
"go away," you tell him, not very softly. 
"hello," gojo holds his hand out over your shoulder, because, again, he is ridiculously tall. "i'm--" 
"key," you say again, swatting his hand away. 
your ex looks at your new roommate--with all of his charm and irritating sunglasses and perfectly shaped teeth--with obvious disdain. you want to push both of them out the door and live here by yourself forever, but unfortunately, living prices disagree. 
so you grab the key from his hand, give him a bland smile, and slam the door with gojo's fingers still in between. 
he pulls them back just in time, still almost on top of you, and smiles when you turn around with a scowl. "a friend of yours?" he asks, slyly. he's about as subtle as a third-grader.
"no." 
he messes with your hair idly, pretending to fix it. "i noticed an obvious absence where our dancing frog used to be." 
"i told you, that's not mine." 
"so you gave it away?" 
you cross your arms. he is far too close to you. "you told me it was hideous." 
"it was," he nods, vehemently, and you know his eyes are grinning at you behind those dark shades. "but now there's an empty spot on that shelf." 
"we can put your tongue there when i cut it out," you give him an innocent smile and walk past him to sit on the couch. your pocket burns with the key you put there, metal like an obvious stain on your skin. 
it's not that you care about him anymore, really. you don't, not even when you lay alone at night and think about him. it's more that... he doesn't think about you. he didn't, and he wouldn't have, even if you were still together. 
is it wrong to be wanted by someone whose opinion is worth about as much to you as a penny you could or could not pick up on the street? should you crave being cared about by someone as awful as him?
you want to throw his key in bleach. maybe take a dip yourself.
gojo follows you, throwing himself down on the couch, and brushing you as he does so. he is very used to this kind of proximity, and the annoyed look you give him. "so that was your ex?" 
"yes." 
there's a brief pause, and a nice person might leave it like that. might try to console you, tell you better off. but satoru gojo is not nice, and he probably never has been. "really?" he asks. then clicks his tongue. 
you interrupt whatever obnoxious statement is supposed to follow: "if you're about to say that there are a lot of more eligible bachelors, including yourself, then i'm going to say that you should probably make a zillow account." 
gojo pinches your thigh. "i would never say something like that." 
you look at him, just barely able to make out the shape of his eyes when he's this close. "you told me that last week when i was complaining about dating apps." 
"well, it was true then." 
you roll your eyes. 
"i wasn't going to say that anyway." 
you hum, relaxing into the hold his legs begin to have on yours. despite his abrupt and terrible personality, gojo is very warm. and he's already intruded into so much of your space--your home, your head--that it almost feels normal. 
with his thighs pushing against yours and his fingertips trailing up the back of your neck. 
you should slap him away, but you don't. 
the last person you cuddled with was the same man who gave you the greasy key in your pocket. 
you look at gojo with inquisitive eyes. "really? no bad pickup line? you were going to say something meaningful?" 
"would've blown your mind, but you interrupted..." he teases, and pulls on a strand of baby hair. 
"whatever will i do now?" 
his hand falls from your neck, and if you weren't as comfortable as you are currently, you might think about what he's doing. 
like the fact that you haven't even questioned this, or his following you around, or the fact that he knew you needed someone to pull you away from that door. 
you don't think about that, but maybe you should. 
still, his hand wraps around your shoulder, and you slump against him without question. 
"i was..." his voice is softer, calmer than you've maybe ever heard it. it should jolt you away from him. it should do anything but keep you planted on the couch right next to him. "i was just going to say that i'm glad he's an idiot." 
"getting turned on by my pain?" 
he laughs. "no, but, i mean, your pain my gain." 
you don't even notice it when he slips off his glasses, his fingers curling around your forearm. 
"where else would i find a roommate that threatens me with bodily harm?" he asks, right in your ear. 
it's true enough, you guess. and at least for a moment, you don't want to rip off his arms. 
and gojo mutters something that sounds like "stupid," but you aren't listening.
*
gojo has called in your agreement; that is the only reason you're sitting at the bar, watching him dance around with shoko--purposefully stepping on her toes--and sipping on some drink he ordered for you.
it's terribly sweet and reminds you of lotion but you drink it anyway. it's not like you bought it, and you're sure that gojo wont buy you anything else until finish it. plus it's giving you a light buzz, just enough to feel comfortable sitting there, and not like you want to run away.
it's not as busy as it was last time, the music slightly quieter, the air in the room less stiff. gojo seems less energized tonight--considering that he hasn't abandoned any of you to talk to the houseplant in the corner--even with the dancing. 
which he is terrible at. it's like watching an eight-month-old learn how to stand. or a man trying to impress absolutely no one. his limbs move like they aren't even attached to his body.
"is he drunk?" you're asking suguru and nanami--who have been sitting there longer than you have. "i didn't see him order anything." 
nanami laughs and suguru ruffles your hair. "that's satoru completely sober." 
"...are you sure?" 
"yeah, he doesn't usually drink. even that," he nods to your drink which you're sipping with a wince, "is too bitter for him." 
you raise a brow, watching shoko frown at him, and then nudge him away. "he drank last time i came, though?" 
suguru nods, looking away like he knows something you don't and nanami snorts.
"what?" 
"he was nervous last time," nanami answers. he's got less than a smile on, but it's better than the frowns you've observed sitting next to him in class. 
your brow furrows. "about what?" 
suguru is about to answer, nudging nanami not very subtly, when the very topic of conversation pops up, bumping into you as he squeezes himself in between you and suguru. his presence is an interruption in itself, but he's smiling like he always does, acting like he's been there the whole time. 
you might've pushed him away a week or two ago. now you just sigh and move a little so he can fit.
"did you miss me, sweetheart?" he asks you, leaning against suguru. "don't worry, i'll dance with you next."
"no, and i don't dance." 
gojo rolls his eyes. "everyone dances." 
you look pointedly between him and the group of people dancing in the middle of the room. an image of him almost tripping over shoko makes you smile. "well some people shouldn't." 
suguru laughs and gojo grins even wider at you--his hair is slightly sweaty and his eyes are peering at you over the glasses sitting on the edge of his nose. "let's test that theory," he says, taking a step back. his tone is nothing less than suggestive. and his fingers wiggle towards you, beckoning for you to follow.
there's a twinge in your stomach and you adjust in your seat, frowning at him. "i told you that i don't dance." 
"well, i do. and you owe me for last time." 
you balk. "owe you for what? making sure you didn't get murdered on the street?" 
gojo pouts, his face so unserious and completely genuine at the same time. "you made me dance all alone. you didn't even come watch." 
"you left me--" 
"just one dance?" he asks, leaning in towards you. his eyes are sparkling. "i'll get you another drink." 
"you'll get me that anyway." 
"i'll let you pick it this time." 
"that's usually expected, you know?" 
he ignores that, "c'mon," he pleads, "you know that you want to." 
"i don't know that, actually." 
and then someone coughs behind gojo and you realize that your friends have been listening to this entire interaction and that you'd completely forgotten they were there. how long has he been standing like that? just two inches away from your face? 
"just go, y/n," shoko says, "put the rest of us out of our misery. i've been listening to him whine all night." 
"hey--" gojo turns, his voice defensive. 
but you take another sip of your drink, sighing as you stand up. "fine," you tell him, rolling your eyes when he turns to you with a smile. "one dance, and you can't ask me for anything else tonight." 
his teeth are like rows of knives. sharp and inviting. "okay." 
he holds his hand out for you again, and you take it, feeling that strange pull in the pit of your stomach. 
it's probably just the alcohol, though. 
*
you don't know how long you've been dancing with gojo. 
it started with one dance where he didn't do anything except twirl you around and sway with you, like he'd accepted the fact that you weren't exactly light on your feet, singing along to the music in your ear, making snide remarks about where you'd placed your hands. moving them like pieces on a chess board.
his breath was hot on your ear. condensation on a glass. 
and then you'd gradually moved to letting him lead you, after who knows how many songs, following his steps and not apologizing when your foot slammed against his, or when you bumped shoulders with him, probably creating marks on your skin. 
and then his hands were on your hips, his chin resting against your shoulder, and it felt almost nice to be dancing with him. almost relaxing to forget momentarily about where you were and who you were with. it shouldn't surprise you that you're comfortable with him, but it does. there's no worry about the way you're looking at him or if anyone is watching the two of you--but then again, you might be slightly drunk. 
gojo hasn't commented on how long the two of you have been dancing, and evidently, you've let the alcohol sway you into staying for more than just another song. 
so now, with his lips on your ear, you're almost smiling into him. your heart is fast, and the adrenaline rush you're experiencing is a pleasant thing; if someone ripped out your heart right you wouldn't even notice.
"see?" gojo says, his voice just a murmur with all of the music swimming in your ears. "you're not so bad." 
it sounds like something else to you.
"you won't be saying that in the morning," you tell him, stepping on his toes, but he doesn't pull back or move too quickly. if you thought rationally about his movements you might notice that everything he's doing is slow; like you're an animal he's trying not to scare. 
"i'm used to it," he pulls back a little bit. "shoko does that too." 
"'cause you deserve it." 
he laughs and leans in, so you follow him. 
are you just swaying now? or is he leading you in something more complex? a dance you've never heard of, or a simple in and out? 
you don't know, and you really don't care. 
after a moment, you sigh. "i've never danced with anyone before," you whisper to him, almost like not saying the words at all. it might be a lie, you're not quite sure. 
your words are just thoughts now with no sort of intervention between your brain and your mouth. intoxication fills your lungs. 
"really?" 
"mhm," you hum, "no one's ever asked me." 
"i don't believe you," his voice might be teasing, or serious, or he might be barking at you.
you laugh anyway. gojo's hands are firm against your skin. he feels kind of hazy, like a dream. so you laugh again. 
"you okay?" 
"i think i might be a little drunk." 
he snorts, his breath short. "really? i didn't think you'd be a lightweight." 
"you're a lightweight." 
"yeah, but you already knew that. i only drink when we come here, anyway. nanami doesn't like having to drag me home." 
"you're heavy," you agree, looking up at him. you can see his eyelashes from under his glasses. you can see his tongue as he moves it, and the tip of his nose. you can almost feel it when he swallows.
"sorry," he teases. his face looks different under these lights. it looks different when you're looking at him this close. 
"you're kinda pretty," the words fall from your mouth as you think them, and you grin. "huh." 
it shouldn't be an odd realization, but it is. his skin is almost translucent, and his mouth is sinful. his eyes are wide and bright and satoru gojo could be a sculpture if he wasn't a man.
gojo looks down at you, his brows raised. "you just noticed?" 
"i don't look at you a lot." 
"oh, please," he shakes his head. "i've caught you staring." 
"i only stare when i'm worried that you're a robot planted by aliens or something. you say weird things." 
he laughs, and his hands squeeze your waist. he could stab you in the back right now and it wouldn't even matter. you're not even worried about it. he could flirt with you all night and you don't think you'd quite mind.
you giggle at the thought, heart beating fast with every breath that comes from him. 
"what?" 
"you're not a bad roommate, you know?" you ask him, but maybe you're asking yourself.
"i'm not?" 
"no. you're actually... kinda considerate. my old roommate--my ex--he never wanted to go anywhere with me. he wouldn't have asked me to dance." 
"why not?" 
"i think he thought i was stuck up. or embarassing. or not worth it," you breathe, almost airly, the words are true but they don't matter to you. not like this, pressed up against him. "i don't know." 
gojo's brow furrows. "how?" 
your brows furrow. "how what?" 
"how could he think you're not worth it?" he repeats, and you laugh back. because it's a joke.
"you'd have to ask him." 
"i don't think i'll ever be talking to him," he answers, voice rough. "it wouldn't be good for either of us. and i don't trust people with such terrible taste." 
you giggle at the thought of the frog sculpture, the disgusted look on gojo's face. you can almost see through him.
"you shouldn't," you answer, not even thinking.  
there's a moment where the room is quiet, everyone inhaling at the same time, and then exhaling. you feel like you fit here, somehow. like everything is moving at just the right place. this silence is a comforting feeling, the bubbles bursting in your stomach reiterating it. 
"hey," gojo says, interrupting that feeling. 
"what?" 
"you're a good roommate, too. you're not stuck up. or embarassing." 
"i'm not?" 
he smiles at you. "well, you're a little mean." 
you smile back. "only to you, satoru." 
his face drops, but you don't notice. you lean against his chest again, your eyes fluttering shut. if you were focused enough, you could feel his heartbeat. but you don't. and you don't watch as he swallows. as his voice falters, for only a single second.
but you do look at him when he says, "my friends like you." 
"they do?" 
he laughs, pushing his sunglasses back up on his face. "wasn't it obvious?" 
you shake your head. you're not sure how long you've been standing with him, or if it even matters. you're not even sure if you're still in the bar, or your bed, being covered with your blanket, tucked in by gentle hands. 
how long has it been now? 
"i like you too," gojo whispers, "just so you know." 
and you could be at home, with your roommate. you could be right next to him. it doesn't matter, because you only whisper, "good," and then it's all gone. 
*
when you wake up the next morning, gojo is already laughing at you. 
your headache is a curse. your mind is in shambles. and your body aches with the manipulation of only one person. 
you hate your roommate and his terrible taste in drinks and that he doesn't even say anything when you slump against the counter, not even bothering to make fun of you or complain about how terrible you are when you're drunk. 
he just smiles easily, ruffling your hair.  
and when he starts to cook some bacon in the pan, you don't say anything, but you go and stand next to him, letting him hold you up. 
there are no words. only the popping of oil in a pan. 
and that feeling, of course. because it wasn't the alcohol. 
*
so maybe satoru gojo is your friend. you will not admit this to anyone aloud, but you concede a little bit in your head, because it's a fragile place there, and you're a terrible liar. 
and so maybe you hang out with him sometimes. 
it's not just the game nights or study sessions anymore. you sit on the couch and play with your phone and he sits down next to you. he'll rub your feet, or massage your legs and you let him. 
only because he's kinda good at it, of course. 
and sometimes you'll turn on a movie and he'll appear out of nowhere, complaining about whatever you picked, but laying down nonetheless. and after several minutes he'll move closer to you, resting his head on your thigh. and you might play with his hair, but only because it's unreasonably soft. 
and some mornings when you wake up and make yourself breakfast, not even trying to be quiet, you'll make a little extra. but it's not for him, it's just a coincidence. 
and he stops by the library on his way home from suguru's, or some girl's house, and the two of you will walk home together, talking about class, or the weather, or whatever gojo wants. you let him do this, because it's usually dark outside, and you don't like walking home alone. 
and if he barges into your room sometimes--obviously not knocking--you only complain a little bit. and then you let him lay in your bed and mess with your things. 
but only because it's the easier option, of course. 
and you've missed the feeling of having someone near. and satoru gojo is easy to be around. 
*
"gojo," you gasp, as soon as the door opens in your face. and then you scowl. "don't you knock?" 
he pushes you so he can move past, raising a brow at you. "i live here." his hands are empty, and he's not wearing a coat again. just a weird button-up probably more expensive than your share of the rent. how he's survived over two decades, you're not sure. 
your brows furrow at him. "well, you could give some warning if you're going to kick open the door. what if you broke my nose?" 
"well, why were you standing right in front of the door when i kicked it?" gojo mimics, flicking you away, then looking down to your hands where your wallet and keys are piled up. "you going somewhere?" 
"to the store." 
"it's eleven." 
"why thank you for that update, gojo. i really appreciate it," and then you move beside him to open the door. 
but gojo grabs your hand, making sure to roll his eyes at you where you can see it, and pulls you away so he can step in front of the door. "what could you need from the store right now?" 
"i need stuff." 
he crosses his arms, uncharacteristically stern. "like what?" 
"stuff. girl stuff. you wouldn't get it." 
he gasps, mouth dropping. "oh no, did i steal too many of your tampons again?" 
"first of all, that's against the apartment rules, so you better hope not. second of all, please move," you glare at him. "i need to hurry." 
"you can't leave right now." 
"i believe there's such a thing as free will..." you try and push him away, but he doesn't budge. "and you're not the boss of me." 
"it's too late for you to walk to the store. go tomorrow." 
you cross your arms. "when have i ever listened to you?" you ask him, feeling that familiar irritation crawl up your skin. 
but then gojo is pulling your arms apart and resting them at your sides and saying "stop that," as a gentle chide. and that irritation molds. you push his hands away. 
you want to push his hands off of the edge of the earth just so that he'll never touch you again.
"seriously, gojo, i need to go. they close at midnight." 
"you can't walk to the store by yourself in the dark." 
"i can do whatever i want." 
"then i'm locking you in your room until tomorrow. you're grounded." 
you poke his shoulder. you can't decide if he's serious or not. his voice is always teasing, and you can't see enough of his eyes. and you can't trust a single thing he says. "when did you become so overbearing?" you ask him, trying not to grind your teeth. 
"when i realized how weak you are." 
"weak?" you balk at him. "i'm not weak. please retract that sentence before i accidentally punch you." 
"you can't even push me away from the door. i'll take my chances with your fists." 
"that's because you're irritating me," you tell him, as you try to do it again. "anger distracts me." 
he laughs at you, leaning even further against the door. 
"gojo," you whine, trying to pinch him away instead. "stop being an ass. just get out of the way." 
he holds a hand to his chest, offended. "i am showing concern about your safety," he claims, shaking his head at you. 
"you are ruining my mood." 
"oh, good." 
you scowl. "move. right now." 
"that was very intimidating," he grins at you, "but maybe try again." 
you groan and try to stab him with your key, which he pushes away, still smiling, still completely the worst. 
"i--" you sigh, "i don't like you very much." 
he snorts. 
then you pout at him, fluttering your eyelashes. "please, gojo. i'll be back in fifteen minutes." 
"what is that?" 
you frown. "what?" 
"what's wrong with your face?" 
you throw your arms up, shaking your head. then you mutter another thing about hating him under your breath and finally turn away. you set your keys and your wallet on the counter, pouting as you sit down on the couch. 
gojo is there a moment later, laughing at you. "was that supposed to be convincing?" 
"don't talk to me. ever again." 
you shake your head, fed up with him and everything about this living situation. how are you locked in your apartment right now?
gojo tilts his head back, and then pauses for a moment.  
"then how am i supposed to ask if you want to come with me to the store?" he asks, nonchalantly. "i need some stuff." 
and you should be angry at him--you should probably break one of his fingers or cut his hair off in his sleep. you should tell him that you hate his company and that if he ever tells you what to do again-- 
but instead, you jump up from the couch, smiling at him. "let's go," you say, quickly, before you change your mind. 
and you don't get to see it when gojo smiles back at you, softly. 
*
"hey," he whispers, "you shouldn't sleep here." 
gojo is shaking your shoulder gently, his breath on your face, his voice soft--even in the haze of disrupted sleep. there's a warm feeling in your belly as he speaks to you, an unknowing smile on your face.
"hmm?" you answer, trying to remember who you are and why you're here. who he is.
"it's almost midnight. what are you doing on the couch?" gojo is helping you sit up. his hands are ridiculously warm, and you don't think about how nice they feel on the bare skin of your back. 
"gojo?" 
he laughs. "the one and only. c'mon, i'll tuck you in." 
"did you just get home?" you must still be sleeping, because his hands are so soft right now. and his voice is so quiet--like the creaking of an old house. 
"yeah. are you going to get up?" he's kneeling in front of you, and his face is bare. you almost want to laugh at how bright his hair is even in the dark. 
"where were you?" 
he shakes his head, smiling up at you, and moves from the floor. "c'mon, sit up," he beckons, trying to get you to move your head from its place. you wince. eventually, he gives up and your heart almost disappears when he picks you up, tapping your legs so that you'll wrap them around his waist. 
you do it, but only because you don't want to fall. 
"why are you so tall?" you complain as he carries you to your room, feeling much more awake when you're this high in the air. 
gojo snorts. "i'll take that as a thank you," he whispers in your ear and sets you on your bed. then he sits on the edge and takes your socks off, pulling the covers out from under you. his movements are slow as he covers every inch of skin he can see, his breath the only sound between the two of you. 
it's colder when his hands move, and he looks at you for a moment as if trying to make sure he's satisfied with his job. 
"are you going to make fun of me for this in the morning?" 
gojo grins, squeezing your leg as he stands up. "probably. but only a little." 
"okay," you yawn, blinking as he backs up towards the door. 
"night, sweetheart," he whispers to you, and then a flash of hair is all you see before your door is closed and you drift back to sleep. 
and in the morning you wake up and can't remember how you got in bed. gojo doesn't say a thing. 
*
satoru gojo can say so much without saying a single thing. 
when he burst into your room--surprising you because you hadn't realized he was home--throwing himself on your bed and mumbling something about hating his life, you didn't say a word. 
and he'd sat there for ten minutes while you typed out a paper on your laptop, glancing over to him every couple of minutes, slightly worried because he hadn't moved an inch. 
you've seen a lot of his moods recently. you've seen him excited about some movie you didn't understand, exhausted after a long day of classes, angry when suguru and you leave him out of a joke. but most of that, you assume, is just him being himself. every feeling he has is probably seven times larger than the average person's.
but now that he's groaning into your bed, you can tell, just from the way his body deflates, that there's something wrong. you could see it when he walked in the room, and felt it because he'd told you he was getting dinner with his parents tonight. 
but if you know one thing about him, it's that he won't talk about it if you ask. 
because after a couple of weeks of spending more and more time with him, you'd quickly realized that you didn't actually know much about his life. he doesn't tell any stories about his childhood, or high school years--minus the ones that he tried to suffocate suguru for letting slip. he doesn't mention his parents much, and when he does, it's nothing but the bare minimum. he mentions classes so offhandedly that you hadn't even known how extensive his studies were until suguru was teasing him about an award he'd gotten a couple of years ago. 
he could talk to you for hours on end, but he wouldn't say anything. 
so after realizing this, you'd resorted to asking suguru about it.
that night, gojo was asleep on the floor between your feet. his hand was under his head, and he was snoring loud enough for you to notice. you'd sat down to watch a movie with him after he'd claimed that you and suguru were losers for being tired at this hour and that he was the youngest of you all. 
suguru only smiled a little bit at your question.
"satoru keeps an infinite amount of space between him and everyone else," he'd said softly, into the warm air of your apartment. "even with me, and i've known him since we were kids. his family..." he trailed off, shaking his head.
you'd frowned. "what?" 
"he's always been too much for them, in a way. i mean, you know, he is too much most of the time. but he does all of it purposefully; the arrogance, the bravado. i don't know... i think he just wants to control whatever image everyone has of him. to the extent that his personality is based on pushing people away, just so he can figure out who's actually going to stick around." 
you'd watched him then, with his fluttering eyelashes--his sunglasses lying on the ground next to him--and his bright hair. the gentle movement of his lips as he dreamt. he was softer like this, less forceful, less of a burden, and more of a boy.
and beautiful, of course, but that's an offhanded thought you wouldn't acknowledge.
"so, he doesn't talk to you about--" the words felt wrong, and you almost felt guilty for talking about him like this, with his best friend. but still. "--important stuff?" 
"he talks to me about a lot of things. but, no, not really. i get a long-winded rant sometimes, but not often." 
"then how are you supposed to know anything about him?"
suguru smiled at you, looking between you and gojo like there was a secret he didn't want to tell. he sighed. "satoru doesn't really tell me any of the important stuff because we've known each other for so long. i understand how his family is because i've watched him deal with them. i can guess how he's feeling based on his expression. but for people he hasn't known as long, like you, getting to know him is like i-spy." 
suguru didn’t need to elaborate. you got it.
like trying to find little hints of him hidden between all of the mess. you'd snorted and agreed. 
and it feels even more true now, with him cowering in your blankets. but still, you say nothing. 
you get it, to a certain degree. vulnerability was one of the feelings you liked to push away; secrets were only supposed to be coveted by you. getting close to people was a dangerous thing, risky in its own way. 
but, thinking that gojo doesn't trust you--couldn't trust you... it's more irritating than it should be. and maybe that's just because you're arrogant, and think yourself to be trustworthy. or maybe it's because you trust him, in your own unique way, even with all of his too much and extremeness. 
you don't say that to him though, just like he doesn't say anything to you. 
"hey," you push him with a foot. "are you drooling on my comforter?" 
there's a moment of silence, then gojo rolls over. "not a lot." 
you roll your eyes at him and type another sentence--a collection of words that have nothing to do with the actual essay you're writing, naturally--waiting for him to say something else. 
and, predictably, he does. "why aren't you paying attention to me?" 
"i'm busy, gojo." 
"no, you're not." 
"i am doing homework." 
he looks up at you. his sunglasses are somewhere on your floor. "well, then you're definitely not busy," he grins. 
you swat away a hand that tries to steal your computer. 
"aren't you supposed to be at dinner?" you ask him, trying to seem like you don't care about the answer. 
he sighs again. "canceled." 
"why?" 
"my dad had a meeting or something." 
"oh." 
you let the silence wade for a minute or two, trying to be discreet when you watch his face for any signs of discontent. but gojo just has his eyes closed. his hands above his head. 
eventually, you nudge him again. "did you eat anything?" 
he shakes his head. 
"do you want me to make you something?" 
an eye opens. he turns over and rests his head on his hands, squinting at you. "are you being nice to me?" 
"not intentionally." 
he snorts, poking you, almost in awe. "you are." 
"i'm just trying to make sure you don't die, okay? who knows what you've eaten today." 
he crawls up your bed, sitting right next to you so he can rest his head on your shoulder. and you should push him off, but you don't. "it's okay. i'm not very hungry." 
"that's not what i asked." 
gojo laughs against you, his hair brushing against your neck. 
you shouldn't say anything more. you shouldn't even entertain him and his antics, and you shouldn't even care (but you do. for some, stupid, infuriating reason). 
so you look at him, and your voice is soft when you ask, "you okay?" to him, hoping that it doesn't seem too intrusive. wishing that you didn't actually care if he was or not.
gojo's eyes meet yours, and for a brief moment, you get that feeling again. 
that feeling in your stomach that makes you want to jump away from him. that makes your hands want to shake, and your voice fade. that feeling that you know--too well, too much--but can't get rid of. 
like an itch you're not really supposed to scratch. 
gojo swallows. "yeah," he answers, with no grin, no conceit. "i'm okay." 
and it shouldn't feel like a relief to hear, but it does. you nod, look away, and go back to your computer. back to your actual life, which shouldn't have any satoru gojo in it. 
but a minute later he adds: "i'd be better if you made me dinner, though." 
and you pull on his hair a little. you try to pretend like his smile doesn't fill you with butterflies. 
*
this shouldn't be happening. 
it's the only reasonable thought running through your brain at the moment. the only echo you can discern, the only words you can make out in the jumble of anxiety and horror running through your mind. 
he should not be this close. 
gojo had only picked you up from work once again, his easy smile meeting yours as soon as he walked through the door--you'd been waiting, wondering when he was going to show up. 
at seven-thirty he was there, letting in the cold air and sitting in the seat next to yours, complaining about the fact that you had a job that diverted your attention away from him while you rolled your eyes. 
he sat there for the half an hour remaining in your shift, distracting you. 
two months ago you would've kicked him out. would've called some make-believe security. 
but you just listened while he talked to you about space theories that didn't make any sense. 
and then he'd grabbed your bag for you, turning off the lights before you could, pushing in chairs while you organized the reception desk. 
and his hand grabbed yours before you thought to notice--swinging along while the two of you began the walk home. 
and halfway there, gojo stopped, looking up at something. "hey," he'd poked you. "look at the stars." 
you'd done it, begrudgingly, squinting. "i can count, like, three." 
"there's at least five." 
"why did you stop me to do this? it's cold." 
"because they look nice," he argues, looking down at you. "you have no eye for beauty." 
and, really, you might've agreed with him. you might've pushed him away from you and told him to hurry up and you might've not cared at all. 
but you could see his eyes, just a little bit, behind his sunglasses. and his smile was alabaster, and that feeling--that gasping for breath, trying to hold on to anything feeling--was there again. 
and it was poking you. like a push in some direction. like a laugh telling you that you were too afraid to do anything. 
you were looking at him. right at his face and the only thing you wanted to say was that he was wrong. 
he was wrong because at least you knew that he looked beautiful. 
but those words wouldn't leave your lips--that thought couldn't leave your head--so you were only staring at him. wishing that you'd never let him into your apartment and that he hadn't started becoming a person to you. 
it wasn't fair like this. 
"what?" he whispered, his smile dropping, like he could tell there was something wrong with you. like he knew you that well. 
if he'd kept on smiling, you wouldn't have done it. you wouldn't have pushed up on your toes and leaned into him, and you wouldn't have kissed him like you did. 
like you're doing. 
and it would've been fine because you never would've started this knowing that it would eventually have to stop. 
and even though it takes him less than a second to kiss you back--his lips molding to yours like an automatic reaction--you know that you shouldn't be doing this. 
that you can't be doing this. not with him. not like this. 
so when gojo's hands move to your waist, his breath even in your mouth, you push at his chest. and you want to run away. 
"i'm--" you swallow, trying not to taste him, the bubblegum flavor of him, and almost flinch away. "i'm sorry." 
gojo's mouth is frozen from where he stands two feet away. his hands are in the air like he doesn't know what to do with them. "you..." 
and you've never heard him speechless before. just the idea of it makes you blurt out whatever comes to mind. "i shouldn't have done that," you tell him, and, "i didn't mean to--i don't--" you shake your head. "sorry. i'm sorry. can we forget about this? can we get home because i'm really cold?" 
"you kissed me," gojo says, so simply. 
the words are another blow to your heart. you were hoping that he wouldn't have noticed. 
and wince and watch him, his face as it shifts, moving with each thought in his head. 
"gojo, i'm really--" 
"no," he interrupts, taking a step towards you. 
"what?" 
"that's not my name." 
you frown. "yes it is?" 
he shakes his head. "no, it's satoru. you've said it before, you know. you should keep saying it." 
"when have i said it?" you ask, momentarily blinded by how he demands this. who is he to demand anything? 
"when you were drunk." 
you scoff. "i'm not just going to call you by your first name cause you want me to," you tell him, "who do you think i am?" 
and then satoru laughs, shaking his head at you, his grin full-force on his face. "are you serious? you kissed me and now you don't want to call me by my first name?" 
you freeze. "i said i was sorry about that," you say, weakly. 
you feel like who you've always felt around him. not as easy, not as cool, never as smooth. you feel like a child caught doing something they're not supposed to. you want to run away from him, but he knows where you live. 
"you're sorry?" 
"i didn't mean to." 
he quirks a brow. "you didn't mean to?" 
"it was an accident?" 
he takes another step closer. "it was an accident?" 
"are you just going to keep repeating everything i say?" you ask, voice hard. this must be a dream. 
satoru shakes his head at you. "no, but i have a question." 
"...okay." 
"if i try to kiss you right now, are you going to try and murder me? i know that we're away from the apartment right now, but it would really ruin the mood." 
you stare at him. 
it must be answer enough because he steps forward and he kisses you again. but this time, it feels less mechanical. his lips are soft and smooth as they push against yours--and he pushes like he's demanding something from you. like he knows more about what you can give than you do. 
and he grins against you like he's doing everything exactly right. 
but when satoru pulls back, your eyes stay shut. you try and banish the feeling in your stomach from your body, but it doesn't respond to idle threats. 
"we shouldn't do this," you whisper to him. you don't open your eyes. you don't want to see his face and fall victim to another one of his schemes. 
"why not?" 
"the last time i kissed one of my roommates..." you imply, hoping that you don't have to tell him that you're scared. 
"oh, right," he brushes some hair from your face. he has not moved an inch away from you. "i forgot that you're experienced." 
"wasn't it obvious?" 
he laughs, and then nudges your cheek with a finger. "look at me." 
you shake your head. 
"c'mon, just a little." 
his voice is so soft. satoru is whispering like it's just for you. and you've never heard him like this and you don't think you want to see him. 
"please, sweetheart?" he asks, one last time, and you have to. if only to put yourself out of your own misery. "good. now listen--" 
"don't tell me what to do." 
he rolls his eyes. "listen," he repeats. "i know you don't like me very much. and i know that you only keep me around for my rent money and my pretty face--" 
you kinda want to hit him. 
"--but i've wanted to kiss you for weeks. and i'm not good at the..." he swallows, blinking just briefly. "all of the telling stuff, but i want to be. with you. for you." 
you're not sure if that's the end, or if it's the beginning. your eyes are stuck on his smile, and you're not listening to anything he said. 
he's very close right now. so accessible. and it's just another reason to want to push him away. 
satoru clears his throat, nudging your head with his nose. "and i'm tired of shoko and suguru calling me a coward, so it'd be great if you'd mention that you kissed me first." 
your brows furrow. "you told shoko and suguru?" 
"i didn't say anything," he almost swears. "they tricked me into admitting it." 
"when?" 
"...the day after i introduced you to them." 
you pull away to observe his face. "really?" 
he groans. "stop looking at me like that," he says, "it's mean." 
you almost smile at him again. then close your eyes. "okay."
"havent you listened to anything i've said to you?" he asks, rhetorically. "i flirt with you every day." 
"you flirt with everything." 
"mmm, true," he leans his chin against your head, breathing you in. "now that i've poured my heart out for you, can we go home? it's cold out here, and i'd rather make out on our couch than that bench over there." 
"who said anything about making out?" 
"please," he wraps an arm around your shoulder, and smiles down at you--with all of the typical swagger--and maybe this time you let him. 
*
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theblueflower05 · 8 months
Text
Tizin(Entangled)| Part Three
A/N: Ah, and we’ve made it here! The first two chapters were like the worst kind of edging- I always just wanted them to be in love lol
Word Count: 11k(of almost pure smut. I’m sorry)
Warnings: Cursing. Talks of past trauma. Oral sex(female and male receiving), Penetrative Sex. Loss of virginity. Submissive Male. Femdom. Neteyam’s a munch.
Summary: In which Neteyam goes into heat, and makes it clear that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. Omega Neteyam x Alpha Female Reader
<Part Two(previous)
>Part Four(next)
Series Masterlist
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It’s never over,
My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder.
It’s never over,
All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter
- Lover, You should come over. Jeff Buckley
Last Time:
“Ma Y/N” Neteyam calls to you clear and true. He’s chosen these words carefully, they don’t stick in his throat “I am yours if you’ll still have me”
Only then do you notice that the black Pearl necklace that you had strung together for him hangs around his throat.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
A clear symbol of his acceptance of your courtship.
The crowd, chalked full of all members of the village-gathered close for the Iknimaya ceremony-, had gone still. Or maybe that was just him, his brain working too fast, not able to compute everyones movements as they fought to catch up with him.
Neteyam’s never been that scared before. His heart pounded in his ears like waves battering shore, his stomach queasy- a storm brewing inside of him. Hurricane levels of emotion stirring in his taut belly. He’d faced open battle, sprays of bullets and fire in the skies, with less fear in his chest.
Many things had happened at once.
Ronal’s outraged hiss.
Tonowari’s sway, as though he had taken a physical blow.
Gasp’s. Laughter. Shrill calls of protest. Neteyam can barely hear it over the rushing of his own blood in his ears.
He doesn't look, doesn't pay attention to any reaction but yours. Nothing matters but you, you in the sea of blue.
You're stunned, your pretty face slack with surprise. Ocean eyes wide and plush lips agape. He wishes he had been able to tell you, that night in the forest. That his feelings didnt come as such a surprise.
So Neteyam wait’s with bated breath- his heart in his throat but somehow also in his hands as he offers it to you- the entirety of Awa’atlu as his witness.
You could say no. You could reject him in front of everyone. Make him the village fool who had dared to declare his love for the next Olo’eykte.
The bold outsider.
Silly Omega.
Instead, a smile tugs at your lips and Neteyam lays his bleeding heart at your feet.
When he awakes, its to glittering rays of sunlight streaming through the cracks in the blinds. For a moment, Neteyam feels the disorenation that he’d been accustomed to. The familiar confusion as he drifts back into the world of the living, the dream state left behind.
He still expects to come to in his family's keklu, the one he’d grown up in. The one he’d left behind deep in the Forest with the rest of his childhood.
He wonders if this odd vertigo will ever leave him. If he’ll ever rouse from slumber not missing the earthy smell of moss and leaves and greenery.
The shock of waking, especially for the first couple of months, used to be cruel. It was jarring, the home sickness. All consuming and miserable. He’d hid it well, as he does all things. But he wanted nothing more than to fly home on ikran back as fast as the wind would take him.
He wakes to golden rays of light- in a mauri that’s not his own.
And that familiar pang of homesickness doesn't threaten to choke him.
As he blinks sleep from his amber eyes, he takes in his surroundings. Acquainted to him now. Its decorated finely- clay pots with overflowing herbs. Finely beaded Sun catchers and windchimes that sway in the breeze. A sunken fire pit in the center that crackles. Woven rugs. Hung tapestries. A warm bed mat, piled high with quilts.
Home is a subjective word, Neteyams learned. To most it’s a place, a house. Four walls and a roof. To his father it’s his family; Neteyam himself. His siblings. His mother. To the Metkayina it’s the sea.
Neteyam has found his home-
It’s here. In your Mauri. In your arms.
You’re still peacefully asleep beside him. Your eyelashes kissing your high cheekbones. Your wild mane is everywhere. Spread out on the cushion you lay your head upon. On your face. On his. Strands of it tickle his nose.
You’re beautiful, always. But like this is something else. Soft and sleep warm and so close that he can trace the pattern of your Tahni.
Neteyam thanks the Great Mother for his affinity for early mornings- his internal clock had always been wound tight. An early bird, Jake had deemed him.
You’d sleep until deep in the afternoon if it was allowed.
Most days he’s awake before you, and he loves it. He loves these moments where he gets to watch you. Uninterrupted by responsibility or by your teasing- “What are you looking at me for, huh, Forest Boy?”
As if you don't know. As if he could pull his eyes away.
Greedily he feasts on the sight. You’re tucked in close, on your side, him on his back. Your arms and legs thrown around him, the delicious weight and feel of you pressing down on him. Keeping him cozy far better than any blanket ever could.
He takes his fill of this feeling. Of how content he is with you wrapped around him. Your cheek smushed to his shoulder. Your breath puffing on the side of his jaw.
It’s all so right.
It's bone deep.
He’d realized it the first night he’d spent with you. He belonged here, amongst your things.
Like your eclectic knick knacks and your plants and your well loved soup pot. He was yours. He thinks maybe he has been since the moment he touched down in Awa’atlu. Since the very first time he met your curious gaze. And it used to fucking terrify him. Because all he’s ever wanted was his anonymity and you’d taken all of him without even asking first.
That fear had turned to annoyance- and that annoyance into fondness because you. You are relentless and contagious and Tonowari should’ve known that Neteyam had no chance when the Olo’eyktan had assigned you as Neteyam’s karyu. Fondness had morphed into something else- something that lit his belly on fire and made his blood hot. It was no longer a crush, it was an obsession.
He’s obsessed with you.
He’s drowning in his feelings for you. In his need to be closer to you.
He’d crawl under your skin if he could. He’d crack open his ribs and place you in the center, right next to his heart. It was yours anyway. He’d given it to you. Didnt you want to feel it, bloody and beating in your hands?
No. No, that still wouldn't be close enough.
Neteyam thinks that maybe he’s going crazy.
And you just lay there. In his arms. Resting soundly.
He stews in it, in his head, while the sun climbs higher in the sky. You’ll need to wake soon. Your duties will call you out of bed, steal you from his embrace.
He holds on even tighter at the thought, his nose snuffling into the crown of your head. You smell so good. Bright like fruit and deep like petrichor. Its intoxicating, he breathes it in greedily. Your scent coats his nasal passages, drips in his throat. He can’t help it, he’s nuzzling at you, pawing at you.
In your sleep you turn from him. Desperate to stay in the land of dreams for just that much longer. You go from your side your your back, your legs still somehow tangled with his.
You’re perfectly on display for him now- hair fanning behind you like a halo. Your eyes are still closed and your lips are pursed in the cute way that only happens when you’re sleeping or pouting- he watches your heartbeat in your throat. Your pulse fluttering so near your scent gland. Your delicate clavicle.
You don't sleep with clothes on. There's no reason to, they’ll just tangle in the night. He’d embraced that habit of yours when he spends the night- it’s nice to wake up without his tweng twisted around his legs.
Your body is naked, all of that seemingly endless supple turquoise skin and the swirls of black ink that make up your tribal tattoos.
The only thing marring your bare skin is the courting that he’d made for you. Made of fresh water pearls iridescent shells and stones he’d brought from the forest- you hadn’t taken it off since he’d presented it to you
He can't look away from the curve of your tits and the nipples that top them. Soft from the warmth of your combined body heat. His teeth ache, he wants to chew on them.
Your smooth belly, your wide hips. The mound of your pussy.
Neteyam’s nostrils flare and saliva pools in his mouth.
It’s his greatest fixation, he thinks as he reaches out, his deft fingertips ghosting lightly over your skin. He really has no control over it- no matter how much he tries. Every day in your presence, every night in your bed, it just gets worse.
He grazes the stripes that adorn your arm, the underside of your breast, your naval. He’s memorized your patterns now. He’d know them in a sea of Na’vi. Would be able to point you out without needing to see your face.
Home is this moment, your scent mixing with his own. Your bed has become his nest. The quilts and cushions smell like blossoming romance. The beginning of something long and concrete.
Home is the way you feel under the pads of his fingers. The way you sigh in your sleep- your nose scrunching as you turn your head deeper into your pillow.
Home is between your thighs. Always hot and moist. Ever welcoming to him. An embrace from his dearest friend.
How had he gone all of those years without this?
Neteyam had always been an Omega with a healthy appetite. Even though he’d never acted on it, he’d wanted. Of course he had. He’d gone through his heats crying for a knot, and could be caught on multiple occasions staring at the female Alpha’s of the Omiticaya with longing gazes.
Now that he knows the heat and the comfort of your pussy, he’s sure he couldn't give it up even if he tried. It's silky to the touch, the folds unfurling with his feather light caress.
He wants to taste but knows that his tongue will surely wake you. So instead he just feels, lightly. Watches his own hand play between your thighs. It’s something you’re more than happy to let him do while you’re awake.
You’d be okay with it this way, wouldn't you? If he explored while you're sleeping…he really should've asked but he just can't wait. He’ll apologize later if he needs to.
A vision of you putting him on his knees and demanding he kiss at your feet in apology makes him bite his bottom lip hard to stifle a groan.
You get wet for him so easily and he feels so lucky.
Your pussy slicks up at his touch even in your sleep. It’s heady, it makes his cluttered head feel even heavier. It makes him feel like you’re his.
He doesn't mean to. Really he doesn't.
But his head goes from resting on the cushion next to yours. To resting in your neck, nose against your scent gland. And the moment he's getting your scent potent and right from the source any control he might have had is just gone. He’s under your spell, he’s drunk the potion that is your pheromones.
He’s circling your sticky clit a bit too roughly. His body curled around yours, his hips grinding into your side. His lips moving against your gland.
When you wake its with a breathy moan. Your lashes fluttering and your plush lips parted. Your fingers go tight around his wrist, the one that's between your legs.
“Teyam?” Your voice is groggy and sleep laden around his name. It’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard.
“Good morning, narlor(beautiful)” your tendency for pet names might be rubbing off on him a little bit. Plus, is it not true? Are you not the most beautiful woman he’s ever met? The title belongs to you.
He kisses on your scent gland. Then behind your ear.
“It is a good morning indeed” you purr, spreading your legs even further, pressing his hand even deeper into your cunt with your grip on his wrist “You’re so bad, Tey”
“Never that” he whispers, his sharp canine catching on your jaw. “Aren't I always good for you? Waking you up in the only way I know how. You’re a real pain in the morning, you know”
You giggle and its so sweet it makes his stomach hurt.
“Ah, so it's my fault that you can't keep your hands to yourself?” you’re very cheeky, even in those first moments awake.
Neteyam pecks the corner of your lips, before breathing his words into your grinning mouth “It’s all your fucking fault”
When he kisses you it's all tongue.
He wants to taste you, he licks into your mouth. Behind your teeth as his fingers plunge deep inside of you. You gasp and suck him inside, your hands coming up to fist his braids as his hips still grind. His dick rubbing against your bare hip, unsheathed- throbbing and wet and hard as stone.
It’s a needy thing. All too quick as he chases both of your releases. You ride his fingers until you’re squealing, never breaking the messy kiss and he comes with a grunt. Shooting off against your skin.
If he rubs the layer of his cum in before he lets you up to ready for the day, that’s his own prerogative. Scent marking has become a thing for him as of late. He doesn't pay it too much mind.
Neteyam just watches you hurry around your mauri.
You get dress, the plum tweng and twinkling shell top look perfect on you. You brush your waist length hair until it falls in uniform waves around your shoulders. It looks like an oil spill, all dark and shiny.
“Watcha staring at, sayrip(handsome)? Haven't you had enough for now?” You tease with a feline smile and knowing eyes as you catch him ogling you. He just rolls his own and gives you a half hearted hiss- before going and busying himself with making breakfast.
It’s domestic. It’s becoming his routine- his new norm.
Ever since that day on the beach where he had announced your relationship and his intentions to everyone, he spends most nights here.
They’ve begun to bleed into one and other. Has it already been over a month, just shy of two? How?
Time passes so fast when he’s with you. He loses track of it as he loses himself to you.
When you’re both dressed for the day, and eating a hot mix of grains and fruit, you reach over to trace along his side.
Neteyam had completed his rite, he was a fledged member of the tribe now. A hunter and known warrior. He’d gotten the markings to prove it. They were painful and slow healing on his tender skin but he’d taken it(with a flurry of curses during the hours of poke and stick)
Now there's sprawling black from his left hip to just under his armpit. A helluva place for his first marking. His father and Tonowari had both winced when he announced his desired placing, pointing at his ribs naively.
It’s all but healed, but still you fret over it. You’ve see infected tattoos before and they are not a pretty sight “I will go to my mother today, and ask her for more salve”
“No” Neteyam shakes his head at once “That’s not necessary, please don't. It feels fine”
Ronal had made her distaste for him known.
She had been the most outraged at his claim on you. Her eldest daughter. The next leader of the Metkayina. When you’d made it clear that you accepted Neteyam, you wanted him and returned his affections it had ended in a screaming match.
Both of you stubborn Alpha’s. Neither of you willing back down.
The pregnant Tsahik honestly scares him a little and he’s trying his best to win her respect, or at the very least, her blessing to be with you.
“You have spent years rejecting any and all suitors we have suggested and yet this boy offers himself to you and you accept? Without a second thought? He hasn't even properly courted you! It’s a disgrace!” Ronal had shouted and Neteyam felt like dirt because she didn't speak lies.
He should've been doing more, earlier. Instead of denying his feelings and bad mouthing you to his family.
He’d stood outside of your family’s large Mauri. Waiting for you. Listening to the conversation within, his tail hanging low between his legs.
“You have never ever suggested anyone that I wanted. Isn't it enough that I care for him and he cares about me in return? He’s the first person who's ever cared about me!” You’d wailed back “You've never given a shit about finding someone who actually cares about me for me and not for my title!”
Tonowari had broken the two of you up soon after that and you’d stormed out of the entrance with angry tears in your eyes.
It’s safe to say that the tension is still there and Neteyam is trying to keep his distance and keep the peace.
“My mother is Tshaik and takes her duty to the people seriously. You are one of the people now. She will heal you whether she wants to or not” You say simply but with finality. A challenge. You have been challenging Ronal ever since that day. Defending your precious relationship with tooth and nail.
He appreciates it- but feels no less guilty.
Neteyam just squeezes your hand, the one inspecting his all but healed tattoo “I will be fine, please. I think right now distance is for the best. I’ve told you I will have my mom or Tsireya look it over if it starts to lean towards infection, I promise”
You argue and he argues right back. In the end, it’s time that makes the decision.
Your father is outside, waiting for you. He greets the two of you with a smile and a nod. It was time to start rounds.
Tonowari is kind to Neteyam. He accepts the union, and has been trying to keep peace between you and Ronal.
You just sigh. Admitting defeat and get up, “Fine. Just don't be stupid and let someone know if it starts to feel hot again”
“I will. I was going to go home soon anyway. I need a change of clothes” It feels odd to call his parents mauri home. Again, he thinks of what that word means.
“You may as well bring your things over, you spend most of your time here anyways” The way you say it is conversational. Off hand. Factual. You’re fastening your shin guards as his brain is misfiring.
“...All of my things?” Neteyam asks, gobsmacked.
“Obviously. Aren't you tired of going back and forth? Seems exhausting to me. If you need help bringing it all- we can do it tonight if you’d like”
And is it that simple? That he suddenly lives with you? Permanently? Because you are acting as though it is.
“Um?-” Neteyam starts all so eloquently, words not coming out but your father is calling for you. You don't have time to decipher him.
“I will see you later, yes?” you reach for him, holding his face in your hands. He’s still reeling but nods all the same.
“Be a good boy today, won't you?”
You kiss him, a wet smack of a thing, before you’re gone.
And he’s sitting there. He’s pretty sure you just asked him to move in with you.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It is.
Simple.
Neteyam doesn't have much; being uprooted from the forest had left him with barebones. When packing to flee, Jake had instructed them to keep it light.
Somehow you make sure that all of his belongings mesh perfectly with yours. His few woven tapestries line the walls of the mauri perfectly. His weapons are now stored with yours. You even set the teapot that he’s so fond of, the one with intricate carvings that his Grandmother had made, on display in the middle of the living area. Every morning you brew him strong beaned pekoe.
You are so good to him, and he isn't even officially yours.
…but he wants to be.
Neteyam thinks of it day in and out, a fuzzy feeling in his stomach.
As he goes through the motions all he can think about is the way that he wants to be yours. Officially. He wants to wear your bite. The thought is dizzying and sizzles under his skin.
He knows that his heat is inching, creeping near. Has a gnawing feeling that it will arrive earlier than usual. He could blame these feelings on his hormones, on his natural cycle-
But in truth. You affect him more than his own body ever had. And considering how intense his season’s had always been, that was saying something.
He’d always been good at shoving this down, this part of himself. The neediness. The call of his inner Omega that screeched at the moons bi-annually. Heats had always been a nasty business for him- days of writhing in pain, desperate for a knot. Back in the forest Mo’at would drug him up. Teas and tinctures and salves, his body covered in herbs in an attempt to quell his raging hormones. His heats are strong, his grandmother had whispered when he was thirteen and lost to his first time. Strong heat, strong heart. Strong leader.
Funny, he felt anything but in those times of mindless need.
He’d try to warn you about them, about how he gets during his season, and you’d just giggled. Stroked his face and told him you couldn't wait. “I do enjoy a good challenge, I’m sure i’ll be able to keep up”
He wonders if you’ll be making jokes when both of you are in the thick of it. And then, he wonders what it will be like to have a partner.
And that thought is maddening.
Too big and obtuse in his brain, he cant think of anything but. Cant focus enough to be useful during his hunt. His bounty for the day is pitiful, nothing but a net of small fish. He’d down right missed a juvenile Naltusa(shark like creature), the aim was off. Lucky beast, He supposes it wasnt its day to return to Eywa.
Neteyam hauls the nets onto the shore with a few of his fellow hunters, a little quicker then normal. Fast hands and bulging biceps. He hopes he doesnt look as eager as he feels, all he wants to do is get back to the village. Back to you.
“Some days are more abundant then others, we can give it another try tomorrow. The tides should be on our side then, they’re very shifty in the warm season” Kenai’s a cheery Beta that Neteyam has come to grow fond of. Him and his mate Akemi are close friends of yours and they’ve taken him under their wing so to speak. He appreciates it.
“Naltusa meat is nasty sort, any way. Too tough- we’d be picking it out of our teeth for weeks.” Akemi adds. He’s a huge bulking mountain of a man and if Neteyam didn't know better he would have thought he was an Alpha. Instead, everything about Akemi is Beta soft, from his words to his pheromones.
“Even mighty warriors miss sometimes” his little brother shoves him with his shoulder good naturedly.
Lo’ak and Roxto surround them as well, neither with the markings of adulthood quite yet- if they wanted to attempt their own Iknimaya in the next cycle they figured it would be the best to ‘hands on train’. It's really an excuse for them to tag along, ride the waves. Catch a glimpse of the pretty girls that sway in the shallows, working on collecting from the crab traps.
Neteyam just grins good naturedly with a shrug “Gotta miss a couple times and give you the chance to catch up, don't I?”
A hunter who doesn't gut his own catch isn't much of a hunter at all, no matter the size of the bounty. Dirty work had never strayed Neteyam. Even though back in the forest the other hunters had jabbed about him being too pretty for it.
He listens to his companions chatter, content. His hands are moving, keeping busy. He doest add much to the conversation and that's okay.
He’d been an easy baby, Neytiri told the stories. Barely a peep, no crying or fussing. A quiet child, eager to escape into the thick trees whenever possible. Most had been impressed with his first kill, the fact that he'd accomplished it at such a young age. They grilled him, excited and envious then laughed at his answer. All he’d done is be silent.
The sun is so bright and strong on the isle’s, reflecting off the sea like a mirror. Even late in the afternoon when they return to the village.
Neteyam’s finally started to adjust to the intense rays but still, he longs for the damp sweet shade that came with the forest and its unbreachable canopy’s.There’s sweat beading from his hairline and down his back. He rubs at it with the back of his hand-
“Are you okay, my friend?” Akemi asks after Neteyam has stopped yet again to catch his breath.
“Fine, just hot”
“Don't worry, the storms in the evening will bring cooler weathers. You’ll have to hold our girl close though, she hates ‘em” Akemi grins as they walk along the spongy netted pathways.
“Why?” Neteyam inquires as they sidestep a group of giggling younglings and the Narisi’io(Nanny) that chases them “Is she scared of them?”
“Oh, she’s terrified” Akemi grins knowingly “She has been since we were little, but don't tell her I told you that. You know how she is, always pretending she has no fears. But a little thunder- Eywa forbid lightning, and she’s all but hiding under her bed mat”
Neteyam knows it's stupid but he’s almost jealous that Akemi knows all of this about you. He only wishes that he could’ve seen you, small and ornery. If he can only get in tales, then he’llgreedily take it “Really? She’s never told me that. Anything else I should know?”
Akemi laughs and leans into Neteyam’s space conspiratorially “I will tell you all you need to know- and most you don't. You’ll have to come by soon, spend the evening with us. My Kenai makes the most delicious shellfish stew, don't you, Tiwayn(love)?”
Kenai just chuckles and blushes as Akemi waxes poetic about the thick roux and mix of spices.
Neteyam smiles at the couple. He thinks he knows what that feels like now. To love someone so much that you want to sing their praises to anyone who will hear.
He spots you in the distance, like some sort of beacon. His eyes can find you in crowds so easily now, it's like his body has been rewired to hone in on yours.
You're just outside the big Mauri and he figures the meetings must be over. You stand in a group of elders and tribe leaders. You're smaller than most, your frame so easy to tower above, and yet you hold your own. Shoulders squared and head high. It makes something in his belly bloom. Pride, he thinks.
Yes, he understands Akemi’s need to tell everyone just how amazing he thinks his mate is.
Neteyam has a stupid smile on his face. He just knows that Lo’ak is two seconds away from making fun of him, as usual, for being undeniably whipped-
And Neteyam cant even deny it.
Sometimes, he doesn't like the way people look at you.
Most look at you with adoration, reverence and warmth. Some with heat and lust that makes his hackles rise. The occasional glance of exasperation because of your bold nature. He knows first hand what it’s like to feel all eyes on you, all the time. Knows that you mostly try to ignore it or are so used to it you no longer feel the stares.
There’s one member of the clan that looks at you in a way that makes Neteyams fingers itch for his tstal(dagger).
Vaeyu is everything Neteyam has come to know about Alpha’s and all that he hates. Tall and big and brooding, he uses his body like a weapon and his sharp words and condescending tone like a threat. And that would be enough for Neteyam to dislike him in general.
But.
Its the way that Vaeyu looks at you that cements Neteyam’s distaste for the Alpha.
All sharp and judgmental, or when Tonowari or anyone of importance is around; sickeningly sweet and perpetually bordering condescending.
Neteyam noticed it, even though he hasn't told anyone. The microaggressions. Vaeyu will take any and all chances to dig at you. They’re small things, conversational. He says it with that even voice- a smile on his face. What truly confuses Neteyam is the way that you react. He expects bloodshed; your sharp fangs and that dagger that you keep on your hip at all times go unused. You just…allow it.
Even now when the Alpha approaches you, you just seem to close up. Your arms folded over your chest and your jaw ticking as you grind your teeth. To anyone else it may seem normal. But he knows you.
“I fucking hate that guy” For a moment Neteyam thinks that he’s spoken his thoughts aloud, but the words had come in Akemi’s deep timbre. “I wish he’d just stay away from her.”
“Me too, he seems like a real dickhead” Lo’ak agrees, remembering when the Alpha had joined in on the teasing with Ao’nung and his lackies. The difference between them and him? Ao’nung was a juvenile who didnt know better. Vaeyu a fully fledged adult with a family. Cruelty and ignorance have different tastes.
Neteyam doesn't need to voice his distaste, it’s written all over his face.
There’s any so much he can take. You look so uncomfortable and that just will not do. His feet are carrying almost without his permission. He needs to protect his Alpha. Needs to make sure that you’re okay. There's really no other thoughts in his head, its like fuel.
“See you later, bro! Told you he’s down bad-“Lo’ak calls from behind him rolling his eyes at Neteyam when he gives the group a halfhearted wave.
Your eyes light up as they connect with his. Your whole body just relaxes, like a flower unfurling in the sunlight. “Neteyam, what’re you doing here, I thought you were hunting”
Neteyam’s arm goes around you and he can sense your slight shock. He isn’t a fan of public displays of affection and even though you insist that it’s okay, he knows you crave it.
As his hands rest on your soft warm skin he doesn't think he’ll ever be letting it go again. Fuck it, he cares not who sees.
Actually in this moment there's one person he actively wants to see.
He leans in to press a kiss to your cheek, but his eyes never leave Vaeyu’s. The Alpha is tall and obnoxiously broad, he likes letting it be known. Funny, the way Neteyam stands just as tall and never has to flaunt his size.
“All done for the day, I thought I’d come find you and see if you are as well. I hoped we could spend the afternoon together” Neteyam tells you and it’s half true.
It's not a hope. You’re done for the day whether you like it or not. “Are we done here?” he presses.
It’s not really you he’s speaking to.
Vaeyu’s eyes dance with fire. Anger at being challenged by an Omega…but something else. You cant into Neteyam’s touch, your arms going around his middle as you reach up to kiss at his jaw-
And, ah. Neteyam is able to identify that other emotion. Jealousy.
“Come, I am quite hungry. Are you going to feed me, Sayrip(handsome)?”
“Of course I am, come. Let's go back to our home” If Neteyam emphasizes the word our, it's because he’s not sure Vaeyu saw him move his things in the other day.
As the two of you walk away, backs turned, Neteyam shoots the Alpha one last look. His golden gaze sharp and cautioning as his long thin tail wraps around your upper thigh.
An obvious claim
Vaeyu looks away and Neteyam roars in victory. Internally, of course.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
He’s thrilled that you let him tug you along, past the Mauri. You dont question it as he leads you down onto the beach, away from the village and into the thick trees. You make him bold in a way that he never had been. You follow him deep into the bush. Trudging along beside him.
When the rocky cliff face come into view you start questioning again “Seriously, where are you taking me, Teyam?”
“I need you to trust me, and listen, very closely” Neteyam instructs, letting go of your hand to step closer to the rocks. He looks up, to the naked eye the wall of rock looks solid, vine covered and towering. “Stay behind me and make no sudden movements”
The chirp that leaves his mouth is sharp and shrill, followed by a chattering squawk. There is only moments between before it is returned.
Hidden atop the cliffs, the Sully family ikrans had made their new roost. The nesting grounds were high up and nearly in accessible- to anyone who couldn't climb that is. Usually he’d be happy to meet his mount well above the ground but he highly doubts you could make it up that high.
The screech that the beast lets out as she glides down, answering Neteyam’s call, is loud and shrill. Landing right in front of him, kicking up the forest sand beneath her great wings that she stretches ominously. Her jaws snap threateningly as she stands on her hind legs.
Neteyam can hear your fearful gasp from behind him.
“Nimwey” He sighs at the entire display and reaches out to push her mouth shut “Must you be such a brat?”
The ikran had always been so dramatic, such a show off. She actually had one of the most docile natures he’d ever seen in her kind. The point is only proven as she shoves her massive head into his chest- nearly knocking him over. His sweet old girl.
There is a disbelieved laugh behind him, certainly a little hysterical
“This is Nimwey, I have flown with her since I was thirteen” Neteyam speaks slowly, turning to you with his arms still full of scaled beast “She is very sweet but please. Approach slowly”
“Sweet? I am not sure of that…” you’re hesitant, feet rooted as you watch the entire scene. What is completely normal to Neteyam is so far beyond foreign to you.
He knows the feeling.
“I have wanted to introduce the two of you, but there has been no time. And she’s been nesting, haven't you momma?” Neteyam speaks to the ikran like one would a child and not a man eating winged predator. He connects his kuru to Atanzaw’s and the bond curls around him like an embrace.
“We share Tsaheylu, she will not hurt you” Neteyam reassures because Nimwey wouldnt. Not when she can feel for herself what he feels for you.
Your steps are slow and calculated as you approach and once your close enough he reaches for you, and with his hand cradling yours, leads you to press your palm against Nimwey’s side, “Feel her strong lungs, and her heartbeat. She is Eywa’s creation as all are, she’s not scary as she seems”
“She’s so beautiful” you whisper as you run your fingers along her scales. Nimwey is stunning, painted in shades of Azure and Emerald with shiny scales and iridescent wings.
“She is. Something the two of you have in common” Neteyam waxes poetic and the side eye that you and Nimwey shoot him is very insulting.
“I remember the day that you rode in on her. I had never seen anything like it- they don’t get this big here. I’d heard legends of ikran riders from far away lands but never thought I would live to see it” your tone is awe laced and it goes right to Neteyams head.
“Would you like to take a ride with me?” Neteyam had brought you here for this reason. He wants to take you, far away. If only for a bit.
“...You are serious?” You look at him, then at the ikran, then back at him.
“Don't you want to be apart of those legends? The great Metkayinan Olo’eykte who rode an ikran?” Neteyam grins as he says it. He knows your adventurous nature, knows that your need to experience and throw yourself head first into life will lead you to agreeing.
“Is it not dangerous?” You don't say no and he knows he’s already won, he squeezes your shoulder, gently disconnects from the bond, and goes to a nearby tree, climbing it quickly.
The Sullys had stashed their riding gear close, so that they could saddle their mounts in a hurry if need be.
“No more dangerous than swimming in the open ocean. At least in the sky there aren't Akula” Neteyam assures, returning with a large saddle and harness.
“In the water you can't fall to your death” You point out in a deadpan, watching him work. He’s quick and efficient as he is in most things as he bounds his ikran in her riding leathers.
“I would never let that happen” Neteyam reassures earnestly, he was one of the youngest riders to date, he feels more in control in the sky then on ground most times “You do not have to, of course. But I want to share this with you”
“Then take me on a ride, Forest boy.”
You look all too adorable as he slide’s Kiri’s riding visor down over your forehead. He wants to smush your face between his hands like you always do to him. He wishes he had his fathers human camera on him.
He mounts Nimwey carefully, can feel her through the bond. She wants to fly, it had been too long since they’d taken to the sky together.
“Come, Y/N” He pulls you up. In front of him, much to your distress. He want to be able to hold onto you, adjusts you on the saddle until you settle, back against his chest- his arms around you as he holds the reins. “Move with me, when I turn lean with it”
“Any other pointers?” you’re shifty and excited and it bleeds into him. Into the bond. Nimwey braces for flight.
“Don't close your eyes” He speaks it into your hair- before yipping out an ikran call, sending Nimwey into action.
Neteyam will never forget his first flight. The way it had felt to soar high above the clouds, the rush that came with the wind whipping through his braids. It is the most exhilarating experience that he can recall having, he had never felt more free.
Watching you getting to experience your own first is something special.
He wants to cement it somewhere deep in his brain, wants to share it with the Spirit Tree so that he can relive it over and over. He never wants to forget the smile on your face or the way your eyes sparkle with childlike wonder. Flying over the ocean is a beautiful experience, watching the water sparkle where the sun touches it is breathtaking- it brings tears to your eyes.
He takes you everywhere- far out, past Three Brothers Rock and up into the frothy misty clouds. The two of you soar around the isles, laughing and pointing out things you see- a flock of brightly colored Fkio. Fast leaping Naltusa that spin as they breach on cresting waves. The living breathing coral pulses just below the surface.
You like it the most when he flies fast, and banks against the wind. Your thrilled laughter and screams chime in his ears, not lost to the whooshing wind. An adrenaline junkie, his father had deemed you. Just like Lo’ak.
He never wants to come down, would be happy to spend the rest of his days in the air with only you and Zuli as his companions, but life has other plans.
The storms have started to roll in, the clouds ugly and bruised with perspiration. It’s only a matter of time before it starts to rain- when he tells you so you tighten in his arms. Going rigid. Fuck.
“We won't be able to make it back to the village in time, and flying in the rain is dangerous” He hollers apologetically- he couldn't have picked a mild sunny day to do this?
“We should seek cover- here. Head for the Cove of the Ancestors- there are many caves that we use for ceremonies, we can wait it out there” You instruct and Neteyam yanks gently on the reigns, leading Zuli to the instructed destination.
The Cove is breathtaking as ever, Neteyam had only just been allowed at the sacred space after he had passed his rights and earned his place as Metkayina. The Spirit Tree glows, bright and purple under the waves that are much gentler here, guarded by the high dome like cliff structures and floating rocks that protect the tree.
You lead him to the mouth of one of many caves, its big enough for Nimwey to fly straight in. It is good timing, the first fat drops of rain have just started to fall from the sky.
The cave is up high enough around that most of the waves can only lap at the entrance; there is a large fire pit in the middle and torches mounted on the walls. You scurry quickly around, eager to get a fire going.
“What is this place used for?” Neteyam wonders as he works on getting the torches lit.
When you speak your back is still turned to him as you spark flame to the big pit in the center “There are many like this littered along these lower cliffs, the people here to be close to Ranteg Utralti(Metkayina Spirit Tree). Mostly for prayer circles, fertility ceremonies, mating”
Neteyam’s lower belly swoops and his cheeks burn. “Ah, that makes sense…”
He goes through the motions that have been so ingrained in him, checks the perimeters and makes sure that all is secure before pressing the com on his neck. It’s staticy, the connection is rough due to the weather.
“Pathfinder to Devil Dog, comming in, over”
“I read you, Pathfinder. Where are you? This storm is wicked”
“I'm in a cave with Y/N, out near the Cove of the Ancestors, we’re safe and dry-We’re gonna wait it out here”
“Are you sure? If you need me to, I will come in for extraction”
“I am sure. We’ll head back as soon as its clear”
“Stay safe. Keep in contact”
“Roger that”
It is nice here, dry and warm from the fires. Lit by the flickering light of the torches and the glow of bioluminescent flora and fauna that grow on the walls. A soft moss that acts like a cushion covers the harsh rock floor.
Nimwey has left- the old girl doesn't care if it's wet. They’re near prime hunting grounds and from experience he knows the ikran does some of her best work in the rain. She’ll come back, with a full belly for her chicks, when he calls.
You’re near the back wall, lounged against a large rock, legs stretched in front of you and crossed over each other. You may look casual, but Neteyam can see the way that you keep anxiously eyeing the rain that falls in heavy sheets outside. He sits a few feet away, giving you distance if you so want it.
How had this gone so sideways? He just wanted some time with you, all to himself. And now here you we’re, stuck far away from home during a storm and it was completely his fault. This is why he’s never been impulsive, he sucks at it. Such an unlucky skxawng
“I am sorry” He whispers with a wince as he focuses on the fire. On the same day he’d learned you’re scared of storms, he’d flown you out into one.
“What for?” You ask, your big eyes turning to him. So confused and soft that it only makes him feel worse.
“I know you don't like storms, and somehow I got us stuck in one” he grumbles, a little embarrassed. He feels like a shit partner. What kind of Omega was he, leading you out into the wilderness with no food, nothing?
You just smile a little and scootch closer to him until you're pressed along the side of his body “You can't control the weather, Yawntu(my love). No need for apologies” you lean your head on his shoulder and he noses at your temple. Your hair is still all mused and messy from the flight “How did you know i'm afraid of storms?”
At that moment the cave lights up as a blinding flash of lightning strikes and splinters across the sky- followed by a ground shaking clap of thunder.
You jump, a gasp caught in your throat and Neteyam pulls into his lap, hugging you tight in his strong arms.
“I don't know, just a hunch” he teases after a moment, breaking up the tense moment. You laugh but it's forced and you’re stiff as a board. “Can I ask why they scare you so much?”
“What’s not to fear? They’re destructive and uncontrollable- we’re usually protected from the big ones, by the reef you know? But sometimes they slip through. Though far between its always flooding and chaos” you explain and huh, he guesses that makes sense.
Back in the forest he loved storms- but he had always endured them from the comfort of his family Keklu high in the trees, safe from floods and damage.
“This one will not last long, the clouds were low” He reassures in a low voice as he strokes the fly away hairs away from your face “It will pass before you know it, Yawntutsyip(little love)”
“I bet I seem pretty pathetic right now, huh? An Alpha who’s afraid of a little rain” You frame it as a joke, but there’s too much self-depreciation laced in.
“Not at all, it is normal to have fears. Tuk’s an Alpha and she’s scared of all kinds of things”
“She’s also seven years old!” You exclaim aghast at his horrible comparison and he sniggers, brushing your thick hair away from your shoulders so that he can press kisses there.
It’s easy to distract you.
The bubble of conversation that the two of you cocoon yourselves in feels safe and hospitable. It’s one of Neteyam’s favorite things; the way that he can just talk to you. About any and everything. He doesn't care what the subject is, he listens raptly to your words and the minutes fly by.
You end up shifting, lying on your sides, facing one another. Your chin is propped in your hand, elbow on the ground.
The council meeting today had been boring, mostly talks of village construction which he finds amusing that you have such a distaste for. When you mention Vaeyu and his desire for an expansion on his Mauri Neteyam scoffs. One of your dainty browbones raises in question.
“I just…do not like him. At all” Neteyam gripes.
“We can agree on that, but he has high rank so I’m forced to keep cordial with him” You sigh with a roll of your eyes “I fucking loathe politicks”
This is the opening that he’s been waiting for and his curiosity about Vaeuy bubbles to the surface “Do you know him well?”
“Well enough, his parents are close with mine”
“I see…” Neteyam drawls, and he should let the subject drop. Really, he knows. “Is there anything more?”
“Why? Has someone said something to you?” You sit up a bit and yeah. Yeah he knows that there is so much unsaid. “Has he?”
“No, but I have eyes. There’s some sort of history there. He’s extremely disrespectful to you and I’m not sure why- or why it is allowed” Once Neteyam starts it all flows out of him “I keep expecting you to break his jaw and you just allow it. I’m confused, is it just his rank? Because you outrank him in every sense of the word-”
“Neteyam” You sigh, but he keeps going.
“I know that Alpha’s have their own way of handling things that I don't care to understand-
“Neteyam, please”
It’s sharp and cuts his sentence off. He’s ticked off and down right jealous and you look suddenly very upset again.
“I do not ask about your past partners out of respect…and because it really doesn't matter who you were with before you met me” After a moment of tense silence, he chooses his words very carefully “You were with him, right?”
He expects you to get defensive like you have in the past. Maybe sassy. Put him in his place a little bit.
Instead you droop with shame.
“Yes” you admit and he frowns. It’s not that he’s disappointed in your sexual experience, the same as you aren't in his lack there of. But Vaeyu?
“I know what you’re thinking” you roll onto your back, staring at the glowing cave ceiling as you speak “Why that asshole?”
“Well…yeah” Neteyam replies so unsmoothly, he wants to face palm.
“My whole life has been planned out for me and I’ve learned to be okay with that. Really. The only thing I’ve ever wanted for my own is the chance to choose who I give my heart to” Neteyam knows the sentiment and stays quiet, giving you the space to speak.“Vaeyu was always older and his family was close to mine so he didn't treat me as just the chiefs daughter. I thought he might like me…for me”
The tale that you proceed to weave makes him sick to his stomach.
You had been young and naive and preyed upon by someone you trusted. Vaeyu touched you before you long before your Iknimaya and then dropped you when he’d been unable to get you to submit. Neteyam swears to the Great Mother that if he ever gets the chance, he’ll kill that motherfucker.
“I understand him, in a way,” you whisper, still not looking at Neteyam.
You cant see the way his face scrunches all the way up “And what fucking way is that?”
You bite your bottom lip hard and in the dim light, your eyes shine dangerously. “I’m…a lot . I can understand why someone would be hesitant to bond with me. I won't fool myself into thinking that I am everyone's ideal of a mate”
Neteyam’s chest seizes painfully and it feels like a part of him shatters hearing you speak about yourself in such ways. His poor sweetheart. He reaches out- he wants to dig his nails onto you and shake you because how could you think that you are anything less than magnificent?
Instead his fingers gently trace along your arms, before his hand settles on your chest. He presses his palm to the place above your heart.
“Oel ngati kameie” He says the words that his soul had known. Known since that very first one on one training session. He thinks that maybe he'd known before he was born. His past selves must have loved you, too.
You turn to look at him, tears creepingg down your cheeks “You don't have to…”
Neteyam had always thought that he was put on Eywa’eveng to be a good son. Brother. Hunter.
But now suspects that the All Mother may have created him to find you. And love you, wholly. To love every part of you that others had deemed undesirable.
“Oh baby,” He whispers the English endearment,
“Loving you is as easy for me as breathing. It’s not something I have to force myself to do. It is not a hardship. I’m sorry if anyone made you think differently”
His hand goes to your face, still with gentle touches, but you cup it in your own and press down firm, grounding you both. Your eyes are close, as though your bracing against coming impact.
“All I think about is bonding you. I want a life with you, Y/N” That is an understatement. He wants to wake up with you every morning. Wants to hunt with you. Wants to cook every meal. Wants to see you round with his children, wants to fill your shared Mauri to the brim with little ones that have your eyes and your wild streak “Let me show you”
When he lets go of you, it's so that he can reach behind himself and pull his thick shiny braid over his shoulder.
He offers his kuru to you. Because it’s yours already. Has been, just like the rest of him.
Your eyes follow his movements, widening as you realize what his intentions are. Just for a moment, before they go gentle and you reach for your own braid.
The two of you sit up, both propped on your shins. Kuru’s in hand, the lavender tendrils squirm. Reaching blindly in the dark, desperate for connection.
“Are you sure you’re ready,Neteyam, truly?” even then you have to question it and it makes his need to prove his dedication to you that much stronger“I don't want you to regret this”
“I want to be yours” Neteyam states simply because that is his truth. “I don't need a big ceremony, I couldn't care less about things like that, honestly . We’re here, at the Spirit Tree, in front of Eywa. That’s all that matters to me”
The distance between the tendrils is shortened, then closed. They twine together seamlessly, as though they had always meant to.
The bond is sealed and he can’t help but gasp.
He, as most Na'vi, had spent his life thinking about Tsaheylu. What would it be like to share the sacred bond with another? He’d imagined it, daydreamed about it when he got lonely. Listened to stories both scandalous and reverent.
Nothing could prepare him for the reality.
It’s all consuming and overwhelming, euphoria sings through his veins at being connected to you.
You and Neteyam blur.
Two souls into one being. He can feel you inside of him; your strong wild heart beats within his own chest now.
You collapse into each other: Neteyam slumps, leaning into you. Head falling into your bosom, his cheek smushed against your skin. You welcome him, wrap your arms around his neck, cradling him that much closer.
Why had no one told him it felt like this? He should’ve bonded with you the moment he met you. He wants to crawl under your skin and never come out.
“Yours” he slurs, still unable to open his eyes at the onslaught of intense stimulation “I’m finally yours”
Your joy is bright and eclectic, your love all consuming. He can feel the way that you want him. That you yearn for him. To you he is all things; strong and tender. He’s both the inky night with all of its danger and rough uncertainty and the soft gentle rays of first light during sunrise. He is nuanced and dynamic; you do not just see him as an Omgea. You see him as a person; your equal.
“And I am yours” Your voice echos in his head without you having to speak. “All of me, Neteyam. You can have everything”
His fingers trail along your turquoise skin, groping, taking handfuls of you. Your clothing is stripped, slow and revenant. He’s seen you before, gotten to suckle at your breast and taste your sweet cunt, but it feels different now. New. Every inch of bare skin is a revelation to him.
You’re less graceful than him, more hedonistic. It goes straight to his head, is undeniably sexy as you tug at his tweng roughly- yanking it off his body and manhandling him until he lies flat on his back.
“Fuck, Nete” you groan. He knows what he looks like, he can see himself through your eyes. Liked out on the cave floor, his braids sprawled around his head like a halo. His legs are open and his body lax. He’s the perfect picture of submission.
He’d only ever do this for you “You can have everything” he echo’s your words back to you.
Neteyams already rock hard, his cock peeking out from his puffy swollen slit. The sloppy pumps you give him are only precautionary really, making sure that he’s completely unsheathed before you mount him, your thick thighs spread wide, knees caging in his thin waist.
He can feel the warmth that radiates from your center, the apex of your body calling out to him. His hips rise, seeking it out and the tip of his cock spears through your wet pussy lips.
He hisses at the friction and you just smile, grabbing his girth and aiming it right at your pulsating hole “Slow my love, you’re bigger than anything I’ve ever taken”
His cock jumps in your hold and then you’re sinking down on him.
A crack of thunder rattles the cave but Neteyam doesn't hear it, not really. He feels like his head is underwater, his ears filled with fuzz as your body envelopes him. You take him all the way to the hilt, until your pussy kisses his smooth pubic bone.
There is no greater connection a Na’vi can have, he’s closer to you then he had ever been to anyone. Your kuru’s still connected in Tsaheylu- your bodies joined in harmony.
He can't look away from you, his tawny eyes are glued to your pretty face. Your brows are drawn tightly together, your nose scrunching as you pant. When you circle your hips he lets out a whine that's down right pathetic.
It’s like once the both of you get a taste of that friction, all rules are off.
The need for more is maddening, has you both wriggling and clashing. It’s not the sweet loving making that most think comes with the first time. Neteyam loses his virginity in a desperate frenzy.
He may be submissive, comfortable with being that for you now but he will never be passive. He chases not only his pleasure but yours. His hips snap, hard as they can, up and into you. Watching with his mouth hung open as you bounce atop of them in rough little jerks.
“Oh” you can't catch your breath around the trusts that knock the air from your lungs “G-g-great mother!”
He needs more leverage, needs you close. He reaches for the necklace he’d strung for you. So pretty around your throat, swaying in time with your heaving breaths, and tugs you down onto his wide chest, holding you painfully tight there as he continues to pound you from below.
With your face buried in his neck you have access to his sensitive gland, you worry it with your teeth for a moment “Neteyam- please, let me” you speak right into his skin
“Y/N” his voice is desperate and husky in your ear “Do it. Bite me, fucking knot me. Do it” Your fangs sink into his gland as your body locks around him tight and Neteyam goes limp. Literally. His secondary gender takes over completely. He’s been marked and knotted by his Alpha. He doesn't need to move, does not need to think.
He has you for that now. To take care of him.
He comes with a whine shooting off inside of you as you rhythmically pulse around him. He wants it to take- wants his cum to fill up your womb, to have a piece of him living inside you forever.
In the haze he can barely hold his head up, his arms and legs are useless and loose and your a heavy comforting weight above him. He’s too deep in the post-coital bliss to realize that the rain has slowed to a light drizzle or that the fire is close to being out.
You coo at him, rubbing him down with gentle massaging touches “You’re okay, Paskalin(honey). You did so well for me” you nuzzle at the side of his jaw.
Its quiet sept for the crackling of the dying fire and your sweet comforting hums for a while as the two of you lie in a mess of tangled limbs, still just basking in the connection. It takes him a ridiculous amount of time to formulate the thoughts in his head to words,
“Alpha?” he calls for you and you purr at the name.
“I think I’m going into heat”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Neteyam had been correct, of course. He could read the signs of his own body well enough. He’d managed to fly the two of you safely back to the village before he’d lost himself to his primal needs.
That was days ago, how many he doesn't know. All he knows is the eclipses come and go as the two of you barricade yourselves in your home. Your bed mat has been turned into a nest of blankets and quilts and cushions- it smells like your combined pheromones and feels like heaven.
The people celebrate the mating of their future chief joyously. Neteyam had proudly displayed his bloody neck, his long hair pulled back so that all could see the mark your canines had left on him.
The mauri is littered with gifs; baskets of fruit and folded leaf pockets full of sweet steamed meat. Jugs of water and juices and wines. Cakes and sweet rice in clay bowls.Tapestries and woven throws. Necklaces and bracelets.
The clan takes turns coming to the closed mouth of their Mauri and saying their prayers, leaving the gifts behind as an offering. As a token of good fortune.
The celebration drums haven't stopped and play in a constant rhythm that flows in through the windows.
Your families had checked in multiple times, leaving their own gifts. Jake and Neytiri had left a large blanket that they and Neteyam’s siblings had scented. The combined scents of love are palpable. He’d added it to the nest. His mother had helped him unbraid his hair before leaving, freeing his long inkky locks.
Your mother and father; Olo’eyktan and Tshaik had brought salves and tonics, medicines to get you through. Your mother kisses both of your heads as she sings a slow, soulful song. There is nothing to do but accept the mating, it had been performed at the Spirit Tree and bleeded by Eywa. Neteyam had almost cried when she patted his head before leaving. He hadn't realized just how desperately he wanted her approval.
His heats had always been dreaded miserable times. He’d dreadfully count down the days to them and then struggle through with only his hand and the potions his Grandmother brewed.
This one is so different from anything he knew. He spends his days doted upon. You spoil him rotten with hand fed bites of food and endless rounds of knotting. With sponge baths and massages.
If all heats were to be like this, he knows that he’d start to greet them with eagerness instead of dread.
He thought he knew about sex. Had spent months exploring with you in your secret spot in the forest; but holy fuck. He really hadn't known shit.
The two of you take each other in ways that Neteyam had not known existed. Hours of tantric love making that ends in him literally collapsing into slumber. Its rough and hard and slow and passionate and everything in between. He’s orgasmed so much that he’d lost count. He’d forgotten what it was like to wear clothes, to be without your touch.
He knows his heat is sadly weaning to an end. The fire in his blood has begun to cool, satiated by his Alpha.
…He still cant keeps his hands to himself.
Touching turns to kissing and kissing turns to you licking every inch of his sweaty bare body. Neteyam is squirmy and sore but lets you get at what you want, his thighs parting easy and wide so that you can slide between them head first.
Fucking Eywa. How had he lived without your mouth for twenty years of his life?
You’re so good with it; all fast talking and sweet kisses. He loves those plush petal like lips so very much.
Especially when they’re wrapped around his cock. You suckle him where he’s hard so perfectly, rubbing his length all over your face before taking it down your throat. Neteyam knows he wont last long, he never can when you do this…
Especially not when you begin to drift lower, mouthing at his sack, pulling at his ballls with careful little nips. Neteyam knots his long fingers in your long thick hair, his hips raising as you give his furled ass hole a wet open mouthed kiss.
It’s still swollen from your previous assault on it; you’d shoved him full so many times in the last week. He’d ridden your face and your fist and your tongue more times then he could count.
He’d never really played with himself there before you, couldn't get over the burn and awkward angle that came with his own fingers. But All Mother, you’re so good at this.
You suckle on the wrinkled skin, getting it all wet and messy and loose as possible with your tongue before you slide your fingers into his tight body. Neteyam groans and throws his head back so hard his neck hurts.
You’re so familiar with his insides now, its all to easy to find his sweet spot. That bundle of nerves hidden far inside that makes him scream every time you touch it.
“Please” Neteyam blubbers as you prod at him “Be gentle, Ma Muntxa(mate). I'm still so sore inside”
You snort, rolling your eyes meanly “You think I’m not? Should I keep my pussy away from you because you hurt it when you jack hammer into me like a man possessed?”
He just whines and clenches down on your dainty fingers.
“This hole is mine, Neteyam. It’s mine to do with what I please. If I want to lick it, fuck it. Spread it open and watch it flutter for me. I will, and you’ll let me, won't you sweet Omega?” You speak to him in a tone that’s all Alpha and it makes his core shake.
He’d always loathed being called by his designation, but he adores it when you call him your Omega now. He just bites at his lower lip and nods.
You’re finger fucking is slow and hard; a prostate masssage that leaves him shaking and gasping. His chest heaving so hard that his lungs hurt as you work him inside out. Internal orgasms feel different, they’re more intense and yet his body can push out multiple at a time.
You watch him dirty his own pretty striped belly over and over with his own milky cum.
By the time his third orgasm rocks through him his thighs are shaking and muscles are cramping up. He’s running away from your touch, his hips shifting away from the finger fucking at every turn. The oversensitivity has his ears twitching and tails whipping under him. All he can do is hold on for the ride.
“Enough” he begs for mercy, his tone high and whiny and nasally from the overstimulated tears escaping the corners of his eyes and rolling down his temples and into his hairline “I feel like I’m gonna pass out. I cant- I cant”
“Awe but look, baby. You just got fully hard again. You dont want to try to fuck me?” You chide with a tut of your tongue as you pull away from his groin. Wiping your messy mouth on the back of your arm as you pout.
How is he the one that is in heat, and he still can't manage to keep up with you? He gives a hysterical, non believing huff of laughter “I do not think I can. You broke me”
You rub his calf for a moment, getting that contracting knot out before sitting back on your haunches “I dont know, I think you’re underestimating yourself”
Your movements are so fluid, a taunting teasing dance for only his eyes as you arrange your body infront of him in a way that he never in his wildest imagination could’ve imagined.
You face away from him, on your hands and knees and then drop your chest low until the whole top half of your body is pressed against the bedding. Your ass is still high up in the air, jutting out in a clear offering. When your thick tail moves, revealing the plump slick lips of your cunt and the tiny tight ring of your asshole
Neteyam’s eyes almost fall out of his head.
You’re presenting. A move so submissive that most Alphas look down on it. Only Omegas and Betas present. What you’re doing for him is utterly unheard of.
You reach behind yourself, your small hand tugging at the thigh jiggle of your asscheek, spreading even further “It’s all yours, Neteyam. Come take care of me”
He groans, hie eyes rolling as he bites hard at his knuckle “What am I going to do with you, woman?”
But he’s already zeroing in, ready to give you exactly what you please.
“Love me forever” you suggest innocently with a giggle.
“Ay” Neteyam’s chest hurts, so heavy and full, with all of his feelings for you. How is he supposed to keep them contained in his body? He loves you like he’s never loved anything before “I think I’ll do just that”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
This chapter was the most exhausting fucking thing i’ve ever writtem my GOD. Between the smut and all of the emotion? Yeah it almost took me out.
Do we like super long chapters? Or should I separate them into multiple little ones?
I def expressed some real feelings here through Y/N, that feeling of not being enough? Fucking painful and we’ve all been there.
I also hate rain and was the victim of flooding this year so that was a nice release lol.
Vaeyu is a creeper and better sleep with one eye OPEN.
Neteyam and Akemi are such a fun duo and I can't wait to explore them in the future.
PLEASE GIVE ME SOME FEED BACK ON THIS ONE GUYS. It mentally drained me and i need replenishment.
Next time we get to see her rut!
As usual I wanna thank my Omegaverse besties for keeping me sane and inspired! @cinetrix @tiredmamaissy @tru-blubelle @imperihoe @eywascall
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fightingchancestudio · 5 months
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I just love the delicate little crackles in my crackle glazes. Each die is compleatly unique, like a fingerprint. 🥰
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As the die cools in the kiln, the glass contracts more than the clay body, causing it to have this effect. 😮
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Restock Nov 7 at 6pm ET
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