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omicchii · 2 days ago

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WISHBOUND LOG [ENTRY 006]ㅤPRONE TO REACTION!

entanglement: tutor!kuroo tetsurō x bottom male reader

surface-level reading: you’re a literature major in a class you don’t belong to, stuck memorizing structures that won’t stay in your head—until kuroo offers to help. everything suddenly sticks a little too well, especially when he starts testing your recall with his hand on your throat and your notes slipping off the desk.

contents of the charm: university au, slowburn-ish, porn with plot, kuroo is MEANNN, library sex, hair pulling, dumbification, cockwarming, overstimulation, creampie, belly bulge, anal penetration (reader receiving), degradation, choking, kuroo calls reader’s ass a pussy like once, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, edging, 18.7k words

scribbled in the margin: IM TALM BOUT INNITTTTTT 😛😛😛 the amount of times i rewrote this bc i couldnt decide if i wanted plot involved or js jump straight into the smut is crazy. but i went for the long road bc the loml hikaru requested this + kuroo is actually my husband & we r legally married so i had to!!! ALSO I SEE EVERYONES REQUESTS IN MY INBOX AND TRUSTTTT i will be getting to them soon ‼️

this has to be the worst day of your life.

you’ve had a few contenders in the past—like that one time in high school when your pants split during a presentation, or the day you accidentally emailed your creative writing professor a google doc full of unhinged yaoi tropes instead of your final essay—but no. today might just take the crown.

the reason you even chose a literature major in the first place was because you had a deeply rooted, borderline spiritual hatred for math and science. you suck at numbers, formulas, logic—anything that didn’t let you romanticize a moment or spiral over a metaphor. you’ve made peace with it. and the universe seemed to agree, handing you a knack for analyzing poetry and writing decent essays under pressure. all was well.

until this semester.

not because the university suddenly changed anything, but because you finally ran out of ways to avoid the inevitable. you’ve been dodging your core curriculum requirement for two years—putting it off with every course planning loophole you could find, shifting things around semester after semester just to stay as far away from numbers and lab coats as possible.

but there’s nowhere left to run now. you’ve reached the edge of your degree plan, and the system finally caught up to you. the requirement stands: you have to take at least one math or science course before you can graduate. no amount of poetic suffering will save you this time.

and honestly, you’d rather dig your own grave than sit through calculus again.

so you went with the lesser evil—science. more specifically, general chemistry, which sounds like it could be manageable if you squinted hard enough. it was not. your brain just doesn’t work like that. you tried, you really did, but color-coded notes or crash course videos can’t save you from balancing equations and memorizing the periodic table.

and unfortunately for you, your aunt—your well-meaning, terrifyingly smart aunt—is a chemistry professor on the same campus.

you don’t even wait for the bell to finish ringing. the moment your modern literary theory class ends, you’re already halfway out the door, your backpack flopping wildly against your back. akaashi keiji, the one person in that class who manages to look effortlessly composed even during surprise quizzes, walks beside you at a much calmer pace.

"you look like you're being chased," he says mildly, holding the door open for you.

“i’m chasing salvation,” you mutter, nearly tripping over your own feet. “in the form of last-minute academic begging.”

akaashi gives you a sidelong glance, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you’re going to her office, aren’t you?”

“duh.”

he doesn’t say anything, but you can tell he’s trying very hard not to remind you that your aunt has already given you multiple chances to ask for help and you’ve blown them off every time because your pride told you it would work out on its own.

“tell her i said hi,” he adds eventually, raising a hand in parting.

“you can tell her yourself at my funeral,” you call back over your shoulder, turning around just long enough to wave—and that’s your first mistake.

your body slams into someone solid, knocking the air clean out of your lungs.

“shit—sorry,” you blurt, stumbling back. your hand automatically goes to the stranger’s arm to steady yourself, only for your brain to register broad shoulders, a plain black hoodie, and a sharp-boned face you vaguely recognize from some of the higher-level chem seminars.

the guy raises an eyebrow, one hand lazily tucked into his hoodie pocket. “you good?”

you nod quickly, brushing past him with a sheepish apology and a dramatic wince. akaashi’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh.

you speed-walk toward the faculty building, silently praying your aunt isn’t in the middle of grading or prepping for a lecture. the hallway smells faintly like coffee and disinfectant, and when you reach her office, you knock once before cracking the door open.

“auntie?” you whisper, poking your head in.

she looks up from her desk, reading glasses perched on her nose, red pen in hand. “don’t call me that in here. it’s professor suzuki on campus.”

you step in fully and shut the door behind you. “right. professor suzuki. favorite nephew’s emergency. do you have a minute?”

she sets the pen down and leans back in her chair, giving you the look—the one that says i knew you’d be here eventually.

“let me guess,” she says. “general chem?”

you drop your bag onto the ridiculously expensive couch, the leather creaking under the weight. professor suzuki doesn’t even flinch at the noise. you shuffle over to the chair in front of her desk—the kind that looks like it belongs in a therapist's office and not a university faculty room—and plop down with a dramatic, drawn-out sigh.

not even halfway through the semester and you already want to disappear into the floor.

resting your arms on her desk where there aren’t any papers or mysterious graded horror stories, you mush your cheek down on top of them, eyes half-lidded and full of suffering.

“this university wants me dead,” you announce into the crook of your elbow. “they’re actually trying to kill me.”

professor suzuki doesn’t look up from her red pen. “mm. that so.”

“you know what they did?” you continue, voice muffled and pitiful. “they let me get away with this for two years. two years! i thought i could graduate in peace without ever touching a periodic table again, and then—boom. degree audit. one missing core requirement. one measly little science credit.”

“you knew that requirement existed,” she says, flipping to another page. “don’t act like it ambushed you.”

“i was hoping it would quietly disappear,” you mutter.

“it didn’t.”

“i mean, math was obviously out. i’d rather throw myself into traffic. but science? really? chemistry? do they know how many formulas are in that class? gen chem is actual hell. hell with lab coats.”

“get to the point, drama queen,” she says, finally looking up. she rests her chin on her hand, one eyebrow raised. “unless you came here just to perform your own eulogy.”

you lift your head just enough to give her your best kicked-puppy expression. “let me join your class for the semester. please. i swear i’ll be a good student. i’ll sit in the front and won’t cause any problems. i’ll even participate. like, actively.”

her expression doesn’t change. “you? not cause problems for me? i give it two days before you start texting me during lab.”

“hey,” you say, grinning now. “that was one time. and i was bleeding.”

“you had a papercut.”

“it stung.”

she snorts and leans back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest. “so let me get this straight—you’re finally taking me up on the help i offered you three years ago? when you were in high school? the help you violently refused because, and i quote, ‘i’ll never need science again, auntie, literature is my calling’?”

you bat your eyelashes at her. “it is my calling. and i’m still being called. i just... need subtitles for the chemistry part.”

she groans but she’s smiling, the edges of her mouth twitching like she’s fighting the urge to laugh. “you’re such a little shit.”

“your favorite little shit,” you remind her.

“unfortunately.” she shakes her head and grabs a sticky note from the side of her desk. “fine. you can sit in on my class for the rest of the semester. i’ll register the override and add you officially. but don’t think for a second i’m going to go easy on you.”

“wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, already slouching lower in the chair like your soul is halfway out of your body.

then she fixes you with that look—the same one she used to give you when you pretended not to understand ionic bonds. “you’re going to need a tutor.”

you freeze. “do i have to?”

“you suck at science. i love you, but you do.”

you slump further into the seat. “i don’t even know anyone from chem. they’re probably all hyper-smart anime characters with tragic backstories and lab goggles. i’ll combust from the social anxiety alone.”

“god, you’re such a nerd,” she says, rolling her eyes.

you gasp. “excuse you, i’m a man of culture.”

“sure,” she says flatly. “a man of culture who once cried over an in-class physics demo.”

“i thought the beaker was gonna explode, okay? there was fire.”

she waves you off. “you’ll be fine. whoever agrees to be your tutor gets extra credit, so i’m sure someone will volunteer.”

“that sounds like bribery.”

“it is,” she says, unapologetic.

you groan into your forearm again.

but secretly, you’re relieved. maybe this semester won’t kill you. or at least, if it does, you’ll die under the supervision of someone who knows how to handle acid spills.

professor suzuki hums, leaning back slightly as she checks the time on the little silver watch around her wrist. “good timing, actually. i’ve got class in about fifteen minutes,” she says, reaching for the folder she’d pushed aside earlier. “figured i could use the first few to find you a tutor before we get started. you can leave once someone volunteers.”

you blink up at her from your spot on the chair, still half-melted into the desk. “wait—you’re picking one now?”

“no better time,” she says with a shrug. “do you have class after this?”

you groan, dragging your cheek across your forearm so you can look at the wall clock behind her. “not until, like, an hour from now. some boring elective i took to make up for a late credit. i don’t even remember what it’s called. something about literary movements and existentialism. depressing stuff.”

“perfect,” she says, pleased. “come with me, then.”

you sigh like you’re being sentenced to death but nod anyway, because unfortunately, she’s right. you’ve already delayed this requirement for five semesters straight. if you have to finally face it, then you might as well get it over with now.

the next ten minutes pass in a comfortable lull. you’re back to your usual slouch in the chair while she reorganizes her notes, prepping for lecture with the kind of relaxed efficiency only a veteran professor has. somewhere between page flipping and scribbling new comments in the margins, the two of you start talking again—this time about logistics.

“don’t act familiar with me during class hours,” she says, not even looking up as she writes. “doesn’t matter if the whole building already knows we’re related. i don’t want any weird assumptions about favoritism flying around.”

you snort. “as if i’ve ever benefitted from nepotism. i’m literally three years into this degree and just now confronting one science requirement.”

“exactly,” she says, and you throw a crumpled sticky note at her. she doesn’t flinch.

“rude,” you mutter, crossing your arms behind your head.

“i’m serious,” she says, finally glancing at you again. “you’ll be joining late, and you’re already behind. i don’t want people thinking you got an easy pass just because you’re close to me. i want you to actually earn your grade. got it?”

you roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “yes, professor.”

“say it like you mean it.”

“yes, professor suzuki,” you repeat, with just the right amount of dramatic suffering to make her shake her head in amusement.

at exactly 2:45, the clock above the door clicks quietly, and you watch her stand and start collecting her things. you push yourself up from the chair and grab your bag from the couch, slinging it over your shoulder. when she reaches for the small stack of lab materials on her side table, you step in before she can grab everything.

“i’ll carry that,” you say, taking two folders and a rolled-up diagram that’s poking out of a cardboard tube.

“look at you,” she muses. “finally growing up.”

“i’m carrying two folders and a paper stick,” you say flatly. “don’t make it a moment.”

still, she pats your head once, light and brief, and murmurs a quiet “thanks” before locking the door behind the two of you. the hallway isn’t too crowded, but it’s busy enough that you can hear the distant echo of conversation and shoes on tile as the two of you head toward the lecture hall.

somewhere along the walk, your nerves catch up to you. you’re quieter than usual, the knot in your stomach twisting tighter the closer you get. professor suzuki notices.

“don’t look like that,” she says with a laugh. “you’re acting like i’m marching you into the colosseum.”

you don’t look at her. “because you kinda are. you’re gonna ask the whole class if someone wants to tutor me. you’re making me announce how stupid i am in public.”

“you’re not stupid,” she says, giving your arm a light smack with the back of her hand. “you’re just dramatic.”

“same thing,” you mutter under your breath.

she rolls her eyes, lips twitching. “it’s better to get this done now while you’re still not officially on the class list. that way, once the paperwork clears and you’re properly enrolled, you can hit the ground running. besides, i’ll be doing this for the other students too. i doubt you’ll be the only one who needs tutoring. the class is open to freshmen this semester. some of them probably still think covalent bonds are dating advice.”

you huff, but you get the logic. it makes sense. you’re just not thrilled about the execution. being paraded in front of a room full of chem majors like some lost puppy hoping for a bone. and you really don’t want to look like you’re getting special treatment.

but you say nothing, tightening your grip on the folders as the lecture hall door finally comes into view.

your aunt pushes the door open, and the wave of chatter inside the lecture hall settles almost immediately. a few chairs squeak as students shift around to sit up straighter, eyes moving from her to the unfamiliar figure trailing behind—aka you.

you try to act like it’s no big deal, like you’re just another TA or a department assistant. unfortunately, you’re almost chewing your bottom lip off, which kind of gives away how close you are to spontaneously combusting from secondhand embarrassment.

you stand near the whiteboard while professor suzuki walks over to set her things down. she launches into the usual first five minutes of class—reminders about lab schedules, this week’s lecture topics, the upcoming quiz—and you zone out just enough to scan the room.

the lecture hall isn’t full, but it’s comfortably busy. you can tell by the way half of them are squinting at the syllabus on their tablets that most of the students here are freshmen or sophomores. a few familiar faces stand out as juniors, probably others who put this requirement off like you.

you’re mid-scan when your eyes land on someone you definitely weren’t expecting.

oh, shit.

it’s the guy you crashed into earlier. tall, sharp-jawed, messy black hair and an even messier hoodie, lounging in his seat like he owns the whole row. he’s got his chin rested in his hand, elbow propped on the desk, and he’s looking straight at you like he’s been waiting for the punchline all along.

you immediately look away.

“before we begin today’s lecture,” your aunt starts, and your stomach sinks, “i’d like to ask if anyone here would be willing to volunteer as a tutor.”

you resist the urge to melt through the floor.

“this student here—” she gestures at you without any hesitation, “—is a junior from the literature department. general chemistry isn’t exactly his strongest subject, and he’s fulfilling a pre-existing core requirement this semester.��

you wince, just barely, like the words had stabbed your pride. but to your surprise, you catch the quick flickers of understanding from three students in the third row—all of whom look around your age. one of them even nods a little, like yeah, man, we’ve all been there, and your shoulders drop a fraction as you let out a relieved sigh. at least you’re not the only one who tried to outrun the system.

you’re already preparing yourself for an awkward silence, the kind that always follows an open call for volunteers, when a hand shoots up halfway down the left aisle.

your aunt looks surprised. “kuroo?”

your gaze jerks toward the voice and—yep. it’s him. hoodie guy. elbow guy. the guy you slammed into earlier like a poorly written fanfic protagonist.

he shrugs, lazy and unbothered. “i don’t mind.”

you stare at him. not because you’re suspicious—maybe a little—but mostly because what. he doesn’t even know if there’s extra credit involved and he still volunteered? and he looks completely relaxed about it?

your aunt looks over at you with a face that screams told you so. then she turns back to kuroo and says, “great. meet me in my office after class and we’ll go over the details.”

she looks at you next. “come by before your next class. if you’re running late, i’ll write you an excuse slip.”

you nod numbly, still kind of trying to process the fact that you’re not walking out of here completely doomed. “got it,” you mumble, managing a quiet, “thanks,” before turning to leave.

you walk out in a daze, only half-aware of your own footsteps. you barely even register that the door’s closing behind you until instinct makes you glance back one last time. your eyes catch kuroo’s—he’s still looking right at you.

he winks.

you blink, confused, and then keep walking.

...well. he is handsome.

kuroo watches you leave the lecture hall with that same half-smirk tugging at his lips, lazy and amused. the door swings shut behind you, and he exhales through his nose, chin still propped in his palm.

honestly, he didn’t expect to see you again. figured your cute little clumsy ass was a one-time thing—the type to vanish into a crowd after bumping into him like some coming-of-age meet-cute. you were half-apologizing, half-flailing, hands gripping his arm like it was the only thing stopping you from toppling over. he should’ve brushed it off.

but then you looked up at him. flushed, frazzled, blinking like your brain short-circuited. and shit. he almost got hard right there in the middle of the hallway.

kuroo doesn’t do this whole crush thing. never really saw the appeal in fumbling over someone just because they smiled at you or read the same books. bokuto talks about it like it’s the second coming of christ—falling in love or whatever—but kuroo thinks most of it’s corny bullshit. maybe nice in theory, but mostly just a distraction.

but you… you made him pause.

he first saw you in the library, actually. a week or two ago. he was returning a few books from the chem and finance sections, ones he didn’t need anymore, and walked past the front desk just in time to see you sitting a few tables down.

chewing on the end of your pencil like it was personal. eyes fixed on some printed page with that same frustrated little furrow in your brow, like you’d been staring too long and nothing was sticking. probably literature stuff, judging by the length of the paragraphs and the lack of diagrams. you were reading it out loud in a whisper, trying to memorize, stumbling halfway through a sentence and going back to repeat it.

kuroo kept staring. couldn’t help it.

especially when you tugged at your hair with both hands, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “why the fuck am i so stupid” under your breath.

he’s not a pervert. he’s not.

but god, something about that—your brain fried, your lips mouthing words you didn’t fully understand, your pretty little hands clutching at your hair in desperation—sent a jolt straight through him.

he licked his lips, involuntarily. imagined what it’d look like if he was the one pulling your hair back, if you were trying to recite something for him while he fucked you deep, so deep your voice shook and you couldn’t even think straight unless he let you. imagined you blinking through tears, trying to remember a sentence he’d already memorized a hundred times over while his cock pressed up into you again and again, hard enough that he could see the shape of it in your belly.

he didn’t even realize the librarian had been calling his name until she sighed, walked around the desk, and tapped him on the shoulder like a disappointed granny.

“you’re all set,” she said flatly. “if you’re done staring at people.”

he blinked. nodded. thanked her. tried to act normal.

but he couldn’t stop thinking about you for the rest of the day.

and now, here you are again. trailing after professor suzuki like a panicked duckling, clearly about one dropped pen away from sprinting out of the room. you tried so hard to look unbothered and failed so badly. and when your aunt mentioned you needed a tutor, well... kuroo raised his hand before she even got to the incentive part.

it wasn’t about the credit. he just really, really wanted an excuse.

and now he’s got one.

it’s not like kuroo to zone out during class. especially not chemistry. he actually likes this stuff—understands it, excels in it, could probably teach it with his eyes closed if he wanted to.

but gen chem? he could do this shit in his sleep.

the only reason he’s still sitting in this lecture hall as a junior is because he transferred last year. new campus, new department, new bureaucratic hoops to jump through. some transfer requirement mess that forced him to retake general chemistry even though he’s already breezed through organic chem and upper-level finance courses back at his old university. annoying, sure—but easy enough.

so yeah, zoning out wasn’t a big deal. professor suzuki's lecture on limiting reagents and stoichiometry was just background noise to him at this point.

he’s staring at her, but he’s not really paying attention. his mind’s too busy replaying the way her nephew looked standing beside her—clearly wanting to be anywhere else, chewing your lip like it might save you from having to speak. wide-eyed, tense, clutching your bag like you were trying to physically shield yourself from the entire room. god. kuroo could’ve moaned.

he finally had a reason to talk to you. a real one. no more waiting around, hoping to catch you by accident. no more jerking off to the thought of what your voice would sound like, your face, your furrowed brow as you struggled to memorize whatever passage you’d been staring at that day.

it was pathetic, honestly.

you weren’t even someone he saw around often. hell—you probably didn’t even know he existed until your collision earlier, yet kuroo had been keeping an eye out for you long before that.

he even started helping professor suzuki carry her shit between lectures. she didn’t ask, and she definitely didn’t need help. but if there was even a chance you’d be in her office when he dropped by, he was gonna take it. he’d play the long game just to see you, just to maybe say hi.

not that it was hard to figure out who you were. bokuto's a blabbermouth. kuroo hadn’t even asked, just happened to be walking with him across the quad one afternoon when you came out of a building with akaashi.

bokuto immediately lit up. “hey, keiji! wait, that’s your friend, right? the one in lit? the one with the professor aunt or something?”

before kuroo could even blink, bokuto was rambling. how you and akaashi had the same major, how you were super close, how you were supposedly related to one of the professors on campus—though, in true bokuto fashion, he got it wrong and said physics instead of chemistry. thankfully, akaashi had caught up just in time to gently correct him after you said your polite goodbye and disappeared down the hall.

bokuto had launched into another round of Why Don’t You Ever Bring Him to Our Hangouts, Keiji, which kuroo silently agreed with. akaashi, in his usual calm way, told him that you were usually busy but he’d ask. that seemed to shut bokuto up for the moment.

kuroo didn’t say anything, didn’t press. just filed the information away like he always did. he was good at being patient when it mattered.

but he doesn’t need to wait anymore.

now he’s got you right where he wants you. not in a creepy way, not technically. but he is your tutor now. officially. which means he gets to sit across from you for hours, watch you squirm as he walks you through concepts he mastered years ago, listen to you stammer over the difference between molarity and molality like it was brain surgery.

and no one else gets to see that. not bokuto, not akaashi, not your classmates.

just him.

kuroo grins at the thought, chin still in his palm, eyes half-lidded as professor suzuki keeps talking.

this semester might actually be fun.

when professor suzuki finally dismisses the class, kuroo doesn’t waste time.

he gathers his things with practiced ease, tossing his notebook and pen into his bag before swinging it over one shoulder. a few of the freshmen seated nearby glance his way, clearly hoping for some kind of parting glance, and he offers a lazy, polite smile as he descends the stairs. someone shyly waves. someone else looks like she’s about to say something but chickens out at the last second. he nods at them anyway—charisma’s a curse, after all.

his focus shifts the moment he reaches your aunt.

“let me take that,” he says smoothly, reaching for the stack of materials she’s holding—the same ones you’d been carrying earlier, because of course he remembers which ones were yours. she raises an eyebrow, amused, but lets him take them without question.

they leave the hall side by side, their footsteps echoing down the hallway. the building isn’t empty, but it’s quiet enough that their conversation doesn’t need to be hushed.

“you know,” she says after a beat, voice casual, “i’m surprised you finally agreed to be a tutor.”

kuroo glances sideways at her. “oh?”

“mm.” she nods once. “you’ve turned down every request i’ve forwarded since the semester started. especially the ones from the freshmen. some of them actually asked for you specifically.”

he shrugs. “trying something new, i guess.”

she chuckles, clearly not buying it but not planning to press. “well, (name) is lucky, then. you’re one of my best students. if anyone can help him pass this class, it’s you.”

kuroo grins at that. a slow, easy stretch of his mouth like he’s already imagining how many different ways he’ll make you fall apart. oh, i’ll help him pass, he thinks, i’ll drill it into him so well he won’t forget a thing, even if he’s too fucked out to speak.

“i’ll make sure he does,” he says instead—tone light, charming, easy.

professor suzuki hums, unlocking her office with one hand. “also—i didn’t get the chance to say it earlier, but you’ll be receiving extra credit for this. it’s being logged officially.”

he nods. “appreciate it, professor.”

not that he needs it. he’d do this shit for free if it means he finally gets you alone.

before kuroo can spiral too deep into the fantasy—your voice catching on the formula, your pretty little mouth trying to get through the reaction pathway he just taught you while you’re pinned under him, squirming—there’s a sharp click of the door, and it swings open again.

you step in, chest rising and falling like you ran across campus, the door nudging closed behind you with your shoulder. your hair’s a little messy, your eyes wide and still dazed from sleep, and there’s a pink flush dusting your cheeks. kuroo doesn’t even pretend not to look. his gaze skims down once—quick, automatic—then lands on your face like he wasn’t already mentally bookmarking how good you look when you’re breathless.

your aunt levels you with a flat look. “where were you?”

you blink at her, still catching your breath, then rub the back of your neck as you shift on your feet. “sorry—i’m not actually late. i just kinda... accidentally fell asleep. outside. by the fountain.”

there’s a beat of silence, and then kuroo lets out a snort. it’s sharp and loud enough that you immediately turn to him, ears tinting red. he lifts one eyebrow, like he finds it charming. he absolutely does.

professor suzuki exhales, clearly trying not to laugh. “you fell asleep outside?”

“just for a little while,” you mutter, face heating as you glance between them. “like thirty minutes. maaaybe forty. the sun felt nice, okay?”

she gives you a long look and mutters, “you’re lucky no one reported a body.”

you groan under your breath and head further into the room, only for kuroo to suddenly step forward and pull the chair beside his out for you, smooth and easy like he’s done it a hundred times. you hesitate, eyes flicking up to his for a second, and then give a cautious little nod.

“…thanks,” you say, and lower yourself into the chair. your backpack drops beside you with a soft thud, and you settle into the seat a little stiffly, not quite used to the gesture. your fingers start tapping lightly against your thigh, the nervous habit kicking in before you can stop it.

kuroo watches you for a second longer, like he’s trying to memorize every twitch of your hand, every small shift in your posture, and then sinks into the cushioned chair beside you like it was built for him.

your aunt watches all of this unfold with a faint glint in her eye before she laces her fingers on the desk and clears her throat. “right. now that we’re all here, let’s talk details.”

you straighten up slightly, already preparing yourself for some long-winded explanation, while kuroo mirrors you—though even his version of sitting upright still looks unfairly relaxed. like he’s got nothing to prove, even if he kind of does.

“(name), you’re officially added to my class starting tomorrow. your name’s already on the override list, and i’ll upload the syllabus and past lecture notes to your student portal tonight. you can start catching up right away. and as for tutoring—kuroo here will be helping you out until the end of the semester.”

you glance at him, unsure how to respond to that. he just gives you a small smile, casual and harmless, as if he hasn’t been making you nervous since the moment you walked in.

“he’s one of my top students,” your aunt continues, and her tone shifts slightly—just enough to make you raise an eyebrow. “you’re incredibly lucky, (name). i’ve had half the freshman cohort asking me to assign him as their tutor since week one.”

kuroo chuckles quietly at that, running a hand through his hair and ducking his head a little like he’s being modest, but you notice the subtle way he straightens, the satisfied flicker in his eyes. if he had a tail, it’d be thumping against the floor.

“must be nice,” you mutter, voice light, “being the department’s golden boy.”

he grins sideways at you. “i wouldn’t go that far.”

“mhm,” you hum, unconvinced.

your aunt’s smile turns saccharine. “which is exactly why you shouldn’t waste this chance. seriously. don’t make me regret this decision.”

you blink. “you say that like i bribed you.”

“if you screw this up, you’ll be back to begging for help in discord group chats,” she replies, still sweet. “and we both know how well that went last time.”

you groan under your breath and slump back in the chair. “low blow.”

“anyway,” she says briskly, moving on, “you two need to agree on a schedule. this’ll only work if you’re consistent, punctual, and communicate properly.”

you glance at kuroo again. “i’m usually free tuesdays and thursdays. the time depends on the day, though.”

“that works for me,” he replies, leaning back slightly. “we can decide on the time day-of, based on when you’re free.”

you hesitate. “are you sure? that’s kinda last-minute.”

“yeah, but you’ve got the tighter schedule, right? we’ll go with your pace.”

“that’s…” you trail off, blinking. “weirdly considerate of you.”

he smiles. “i get that a lot.”

you huff out a small laugh. “okay, uh—mondays, i have literary theory at ten, then world lit from eleven-thirty to one. tuesdays it’s just creative writing at three. wednesdays are hell—back-to-back classes all morning, and then a three-hour discussion. thursdays, i’ve got poetry at eleven and then i’m done for the day. and fridays i usually just work my part-time at the bookstore.”

you pause, catching yourself. “sorry. that was a lot.”

but kuroo’s expression hasn’t changed. if anything, he looks more focused than before, like he’s actively filing every word away. “no, that’s perfect. helps to know what your week looks like.”

you blink at him. “you’re not gonna write that down?”

he taps the side of his head. “already did.”

there’s a beat of silence before you laugh, unsure if he’s joking. “what about you?” you ask, mostly to fill the quiet. “what’s your schedule like?”

“brutal,” he says, voice casual. “i’ve got upper-level organic chem three times a week, lab on fridays, and a finance capstone that meets in the evenings. plus a couple electives—data analysis and, uh, environmental econ.”

you grimace. “that sounds awful.”

“it is,” he agrees. “but i like being busy. makes the time i waste feel earned.”

you blink. “you waste time?”

“sure,” he says, flashing you a grin. “i’m wasting it right now.”

you stare at him, deadpan. “you’re literally doing me a favor.”

“exactly,” he says, still smiling. “i’m very generous.”

you open your mouth to argue, but your aunt cuts in with a dry cough. “save the flirting for after the exams, please.”

you choke. kuroo just hums, pleased with himself, and leans back. he looks like he’s already got the semester—and maybe you—all figured out.

your aunt scribbles something on a small pad of pink carbon paper, her pen moving with the same annoyed efficiency she uses when grading failing midterms. you watch her carefully write your excuse slip and mentally thank her for lowkey saving your life.

“here,” she says, ripping it out with a satisfying tear. she hands it to you, then reaches for her mug, blowing gently over the rim. “give that to your professor so you’re not marked absent. and tell professor tanaka i said hi. or something ruder, if he makes a comment about my handwriting again.”

you take the slip, folding it carefully so it doesn’t get crumpled inside your bag. “got it. hi from you. and possibly a side of passive-aggression.”

she waves a hand toward the door. “you’re both excused. now go before i change my mind and assign kuroo two more tutees just to make you suffer by association.”

you and kuroo exchange quick glances before you both mumble out a thanks at the same time. his voice is smooth, practiced. yours is somewhere between grateful and mildly concerned.

“see you later, auntie,” you mutter on your way out, and she hums in response, already pulling out another stack of papers from her desk drawer.

kuroo reaches the door first and holds it open for you with a loose, casual gesture, like it’s nothing. like it doesn’t make your chest clench slightly in that weirdly specific way guys do when someone’s unexpectedly polite. you hesitate only a second before stepping past him, nodding once in acknowledgment.

“thanks,” you say again, quieter this time.

he just shrugs, following you out into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft click. the hallway’s mostly quiet now—class must’ve started already—and your footsteps echo as you both start walking toward the stairwell. your excuse slip’s still warm in your hand.

you’re about to say something about how weirdly productive that meeting was when kuroo clears his throat and slows down beside you.

“hey—before you head to class,” he starts, and you glance over at him, watching as he scratches the back of his neck like he’s trying to seem casual about what he’s about to say, “mind if i get your socials? just so i can reach you for tutoring stuff.”

you pause for half a second before nodding slowly, already reaching into your pocket for your phone. “yeah, sure. that makes sense.”

he smiles. “cool.”

you open your profile, flicking to the screen that lists your usernames, and tilt the phone toward him. he leans in just a bit—close enough to see the subtle curve of his grin—but doesn’t touch your screen, just reads.

“got it,” he says after a moment, and then you see him tap something on his own phone. “followed you. that way if you forget something or wanna move sessions around, you can just DM me.”

you raise an eyebrow, a little amused. “and this has nothing to do with you wanting to see what i post at 2 a.m.”

he huffs out a laugh, shameless. “not nothing.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the slight smile tugging at your mouth. “you better not be the type to react to every story with those stupid emoji faces.”

“nah,” he says, slipping his phone back into his pocket, “i’m more of a serial liker. quiet, but very present.”

you snort. “great. now i get to overthink every post wondering if you’ve seen it.”

kuroo smirks, already walking ahead of you. “good. you should.”

you shake your head and follow, still feeling that weird buzz under your skin from how smooth that whole thing was. what he didn’t say—and what you don’t know—is that kuroo’s known your socials for weeks. he just hadn’t followed you until now because he figured it’d be creepy if he did it unprompted.

he’d already memorized your handle from a pinned campus event post weeks ago. he’s scrolled through your entire profile more times than he’ll ever admit. he’s just glad he can finally like your photos and swipe through your stories in broad daylight like a normal person, without it looking like something it absolutely is.

you check the time and start walking a little faster, excuse slip in hand. kuroo’s still beside you, steps in sync like he’s not in a rush at all.

“see you thursday?” you ask, glancing at him.

“you bet,” he says, already smiling. “just don’t fall asleep outside again or i might have to start checking up on you.”

you give him a look. “you say that like it’s a threat.”

“nah,” he says, hands in his pockets, voice low. “that’d be a promise.”

and see him on thursday, you did.

you walk into the library about five minutes late, hoodie hood pulled up over your head. your bag’s slung carelessly over one shoulder, and you can already feel the sweat starting to pool at the base of your neck from practically powerwalking across campus. it’s not your best look, but you’re here. that’s what matters.

the library’s packed, unsurprisingly. five p.m. means rush hour for panicked cramming, group projects, and people pretending to study just to feel less guilty about procrastinating. what is surprising, though, is the fact that kuroo somehow managed to snag a table—one of the larger ones, too, not shoved into some dimly lit back corner like you’d expected. he’s seated at the front, casually leaned back in his chair, a half-smirk already on his face as soon as you step in.

you make eye contact for maybe half a second before he raises his hand in a slow wave, like he’s trying to be helpful but also kind of enjoying the fact that you look like a walking apology. you don’t wave back, just move toward him quickly, slipping into the seat across from his and immediately pulling down your hood.

“hey,” you mutter, already digging through your bag for a pen, or maybe a hole in the ground to disappear into. “sorry i’m late. i—got caught up with this stupid group project and lost track of time.”

kuroo hums, the sound somewhere between amused and understanding. “group project, huh? must’ve been important if it made you break our lovely library date.”

you glance up at him, and yeah, he’s definitely messing with you—but it’s light, not mean. his expression says he’s more entertained than annoyed.

you groan softly, dragging a hand through your hair. “i know. i didn’t mean to run late. i rushed here as soon as i realized, swear.”

he watches you for a second, tapping his pen lightly against his notebook. normally, people wasting his time would’ve been enough to put him in a quietly bad mood for the rest of the day—kuroo’s the kind of person who runs his life on tight schedules and brutal efficiency.

but the way you’re sitting here, clearly out of breath, avoiding eye contact, shifting in your seat like you’re waiting to be scolded—it softens something in him.

he shrugs. “you’re here now, so i think that’s enough.”

you blink at him. “you sure? i know your schedule’s hell on earth.”

he just smiles a little, like it’s obvious. “for you? i’ll live.”

you pretend you didn’t hear that.

kuroo flips to a new page in his notes, pen already poised. “anyway. your first chem class is tomorrow, right?”

you groan again, slumping slightly in your chair. “yeah. nine a.m. i’m dreading it already.”

“don’t,” he says, that cocky little glint in his eyes lighting up again. “gen chem’s extremely easy. especially if you sit next to me.”

you glance up at him, cautious, not sure if he’s being serious. “...you want me to sit next to you?”

he raises an eyebrow. “obviously. class is boring as hell when you already know half the syllabus. might as well have someone to talk to.”

“right. someone to distract you while you ace everything anyway.”

“someone to make it slightly more entertaining,” he corrects, lips twitching like he’s fighting the urge to grin. “besides, if you’re sitting next to me, i can make sure you’re actually understanding stuff. double win.”

you nod slowly, trying to play it cool even though your brain’s still catching up. “alright. yeah. cool. i’m down.”

“thought so,” he says, smug.

you glance at the open portal on your phone, pulling up the list of uploaded materials from your aunt. “so… i actually tried looking through the files she sent. went through the intro modules and all that.”

“and?”

you deadpan. “i understood maybe five things.”

he snorts. “five’s generous.”

“it was like… matter. atoms. i think isotopes? and that’s only because i remember them from high school. everything else felt like it was in code.”

“you mean density? mixtures? significant figures?”

you blink. “okay, maybe i understood six things.”

kuroo laughs quietly, and it’s one of those sounds that makes it a little harder to be annoyed with yourself. “you’ll be fine. first few lessons are barely chemistry. it’s just science with a calculator. we’ll go through a few now, you’ll be breezing through by the end.”

“you say that like it’s guaranteed.”

“because it is,” he says, pulling out a familiar set of notes—neat handwriting, clearly labeled headers, even color-coded highlights that make your own half-assed attempts at studying look like kindergarten doodles. “these are from when i took gen chem back at my old uni. we’ll start with the basics and go from there.”

you sigh, glancing at his notes, already feeling the existential dread bubbling up. but you nod anyway. “alright. let’s do it.”

and kuroo just smiles, flipping to the first page, already ready to teach you.

your first session would’ve gone perfectly, if not for the completely unnecessary spotlight that came with it. kuroo was a great tutor—you had to admit that. sharp, patient, and scarily good at breaking things down without making you feel stupid. he walked you through the first few topics like he was reciting the alphabet, barely even looking at his notes unless he wanted to show you how he organized things visually.

everything from atomic structure to moles and stoichiometry was covered with the kind of ease that made you feel like maybe things would go smoothly. but it was hard to focus with the way half the library seemed more interested in your table than whatever assignments or group meetings they were pretending to be involved in.

and it wasn’t like you were being paranoid. they were staring. like, blatantly. whispering, too. you could hear it every time kuroo leaned over to point at something in your notebook, or when he let out a low chuckle at your half-baked answers, his voice stupidly smooth and just loud enough to turn a few more heads. some people didn’t even try to be subtle about it.

their eyes flicked between the two of you like you were some oddity that didn’t make sense. which was rich, considering kuroo was the main reason you were getting stared at in the first place.

it wasn’t a mystery. kuroo wasn’t the kind of guy people approached for academic help. sure, he was known for his brains, but he didn’t like sharing. he turned people down all the time, citing “schedule conflicts” and “other priorities” when in reality he just couldn’t be bothered. so the fact that he not only agreed to tutor someone, but was doing it publicly, and doing it well—it raised questions. and the fact that you were the one he chose, it raised even more.

still, you figured you could ignore it. grit your teeth, focus on the lessons, and tell yourself the staring would stop after the first session. spoiler: it didn’t. in fact, it got worse.

you sat next to kuroo in class the next day just like he suggested, and the whispers didn’t die down—they multiplied. it was like being the new animal in a zoo exhibit. your aunt had to pause the lecture halfway through just to tell the class, in that no-nonsense tone of hers, that if she saw another pair of wandering eyes, she’d be handing out pop quizzes until graduation.

she didn’t ask you to move, though. if anything, when you approached her after class and mentioned it, she gave you a firm nod and said it was good that you had someone to rely on. that he was a “very dependable young man.” you didn’t know whether to be grateful or concerned.

three more tutoring sessions passed. three more afternoons of students whispering, of people peeking over bookshelves and behind whiteboards like you were hiding state secrets with kuroo. and by the fourth one, you'd had enough. it wasn’t that you cared about what people thought.

it was the way they looked at you—like you didn’t deserve to be there. like you were some leech wasting kuroo’s time. and maybe that was your own insecurity talking, but still. you wanted to learn without feeling like you were under a microscope.

so, after glancing around the library and clocking at least two people pretending to read while side-eyeing your table, you leaned in just a bit, dropped your pen against your open notebook, and muttered, “hey. you mind if we move somewhere more quiet next time?”

kuroo didn’t even hesitate. his eyes flicked up from the diagram he was drawing, that slow, crooked grin forming as if he’d been waiting for you to say that since the moment you walked in. “sure,” he said easily. “know a spot.”

you looked at him suspiciously. “you do?”

“yeah. less foot traffic. no staring. just you and me.” he said it casually, but there was a glint in his eye that gave him away.

and you—clueless, tired, a little grateful—just nodded. “cool. that works.”

bingo. exactly what he wanted.

the following thursday at exactly 6 p.m., you found kuroo waiting by the library entrance, leaning against the glass wall like he had nowhere better to be, like he hadn’t just finished whatever ungodly schedule a chemistry and finance major had lined up for the day.

he looked too relaxed for someone whose brain probably ran on complex equations and market trends, scrolling idly through his phone until he spotted you. he tucked it into his pocket the moment your eyes met, lips quirking up into a half-smile.

“c’mon,” he said, pushing off the wall. “got us a better table this time.”

you didn’t ask questions, just followed him past the main study area and up a narrow staircase tucked into the far side of the library that you honestly didn’t even realize existed until now. apparently, the place had a second level—one quieter and slightly dimmer, with low ceilings and older shelves packed tight with reference books that nobody touched anymore. tucked between a pair of those shelves, with one wide table and two worn-out chairs, was your new tutoring headquarters.

it was perfect. barely any students in sight, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel sterile, just comfortably secluded. the occasional hum of the central AC, a flickering light a few rows down, the muted shuffle of someone turning pages across the floor. that was it. no stares, no whispers, no awkward sense of being watched.

just kuroo, already pulling out his notebook and flipping to a fresh page while you settled in across from him.

that session went smoother than any before it. with the pressure off, your brain finally had room to breathe, and kuroo made it easy to stay focused. he had clear explanations and the occasional dry joke when he caught you zoning out.

it was probably because of the privacy, or the fact that you were finally getting the hang of things, but you found yourself relaxing more than usual—leaning closer when he gestured at your notebook, making quiet comments you wouldn’t have dared to say out loud downstairs, laughing a little easier.

you didn’t even notice that kuroo had gotten a little touchier. a light hand on your wrist when you got something wrong and he wanted to correct the angle of your writing, a palm braced on the back of your chair when he leaned in to explain a diagram, his thigh brushing yours underneath the table once or twice—lingering long enough that it probably should’ve felt deliberate, but not quite long enough for you to call him out for it.

and honestly, it didn’t feel weird. it just felt... natural. so you didn’t pull away.

what did catch you off guard, though, was the way kuroo started praising you whenever you got something right. not the way he used to, with casual affirmations and smug nods. no—this was something else.

softer, lower, with a drop in tone that made your skin buzz every time he said things like “good job” or “that’s it, smart boy.” you told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that he probably just had a flirty tone by default or whatever. but it was getting harder to pretend it didn’t affect you, especially when you felt your ears heat up instantly and kuroo would pause—glance up from your notes, and grin like he’d just caught you in the middle of a crime.

“your ears are red again,” he said once, totally smug.

you mumbled something incomprehensible and hid them with your hands, biting back a groan as he laughed. it was quiet and teasing and way too pleased for someone who was supposed to be focusing on the solubility rules.

“you always get like this when i compliment you?”

“shut up,” you muttered, refusing to look at him.

he leaned his chin onto his hand, looking entirely too amused. “cute.”

you didn’t reply, mostly because you didn’t trust yourself not to combust. but also because, in the back of your mind, you knew he was probably doing it on purpose. pushing just a little further each time to see how far you’d let him go.

not like you were against it or anything.

the more sessions you had up there, the easier it got to be around him. you started talking more, asking questions even when you thought they might be dumb, opening up without really realizing it.

and kuroo listened. really listened. he asked things back, little stuff about your routine, your interests, the way your classes were going outside of chemistry. and whenever you shared something—even something small—he looked pleased. like getting you to talk was a win in itself.

sometimes you’d catch him watching you a little longer than necessary, eyes half-lidded, lips curled faintly at the corners like he was cataloging every little shift in your expression. but he never said anything about it, and you never brought it up.

you didn’t think you’ve ever stayed this long in the library for something that wasn’t a midterm you forgot about until the night before. it’s well past eight now, maybe closer to nine, and the only reason you’re still here is because kuroo hasn’t made any move to pack up—and neither have you.

technically, the study session ended over an hour ago. you went through today's lesson—buffer solutions, acid-base equilibria, and a lot of pKa math that made you want to crawl under the table and rot. and now, instead of reviewing anything, you're sitting with your legs crossed under the table, body turned toward him as you talk about whatever comes to mind.

there’s no real topic, no pressure to sound smart or interesting. you told him about the classmate you want to dropkick into next semester, he told you about how people who don’t label their glassware in the lab make him want to commit homicide. somewhere in between, he mentioned that he transferred because he wanted to be closer to family. you talked about your aunt, and he asked if she was always that intense as a teacher. she was.

it’s weirdly comfortable—just you and kuroo tucked away in your secluded little corner of the library, where no one else exists and the hum of the overhead lights is the only other sound.

you’re laughing at something dumb he said—something about acid-base titration being the most romantic form of chemistry because of “neutralization through mutual destruction”—and you let your head fall forward as you wheeze into the sleeve of your hoodie.

you don’t notice the way kuroo’s watching you, how his eyes drag down to the curve of your mouth when you laugh, the crinkle of your eyes when you glance up at him, the softness in your face that only shows up when you’re too tired to put up walls. you don’t see him licking his lips unconsciously, like he’s trying to commit your expression to memory.

“hey,” he says, voice quieter than usual, and it makes you look up.

you hum, leaning back a little as you meet his gaze. there’s a strange look in his eyes, something unreadable under the dim light, but you don’t get the chance to decipher it before he speaks again.

“don’t you think i deserve a reward for being such a good teacher?”

you blink, caught off guard. “...what?”

“your aunt’s been singing your praises, right?” he says with a smirk, propping his chin on his hand. “pretty sure you’ve never scored this high on a chem quiz in your life. and who do you have to thank for that?”

you narrow your eyes at him, half-suspicious and half-amused. the smirk’s there, yeah, but there’s something behind it—something that doesn’t feel like a joke. “what, you want money? do i look like i have a secret trust fund or something?”

he huffs out a laugh, head tilting. “no. not your money.”

then he lifts a finger and taps it against his bottom lip. “this,” he says. “i want a kiss.”

your brain immediately bluescreens. you stare at him. he stares back. “you—what?”

“just a little one,” he says with the casual audacity of someone asking for extra sauce on takeout. “after every session, if you don’t mind.”

you gape at him, jaw slack, ears going red so fast it’s embarrassing. his eyes gleam like he’s just hit the jackpot and your suffering is his prize. he leans in slightly, elbows on the table, watching you with a predator’s patience.

“you’re serious?” you manage to say, trying not to sound like your voice is going to crack in half.

he doesn’t even blink. just holds your gaze and smiles—slow and maddeningly confident. and that’s all the answer you need.

you rub at your ears with your sleeves, muttering, “you’re actually serious.” because if you say it again, maybe your brain will finally process it.

“so?” he asks, voice a little too pleased with himself. “what about it?”

you open your mouth, try to say something witty—maybe “dream on” or “work harder for it” or literally anything that sounds like you’re not immediately folding like a house of cards—but nothing comes out. because your head’s a mess, and kuroo’s looking at you like that, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close the two of you are.

so you sigh, palm dragging down your face as you groan out, “god, you’re insufferable.”

his grin widens. “i’ll take that as a yes.”

“shut up,” you grumble, heat crawling down your neck. “you get one. don’t get cocky.”

he leans forward like he’s already won. “too late.”

turns out, “just one kiss” was a bullshit deal from the start.

because by the time your next session rolled around, kuroo was already acting like it was a standard post-study ritual. stretching your arms after scribbling through chemical equations for two hours, closing your notes and packing up your pens, then kissing your tutor. completely normal!

you tried to play dumb when you stood up that evening, slinging your backpack over one shoulder as you reached for the remaining papers on the table, pretending you forgot the whole conversation. maybe he wouldn’t bring it up.

but kuroo, of course, leaned back in his chair with all the smugness in the world and said, “hey—aren’t you forgetting something?”

you blinked at him. he just tapped his bottom lip again, lazy and unhurried. he knew he already had you.

“you’re....” you trail off, eyes narrowing as your stomach did a stupid little flip. he just gave you that half-lidded look again, infuriatingly calm, and said, “a deal’s a deal.”

he refused to move until you gave in. arms crossed, legs stretched out under the table, looking like he had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to wait for you to cave. and the worst part was that you did. you leaned down and pressed a fast, awkward kiss to his mouth—barely a second long, just enough to shut him up—and when you pulled away, he made a satisfied little hum in the back of his throat.

you muttered a quiet, “happy now?” as you shouldered your bag, still refusing to meet his eyes, but he only stood up with a light stretch and that same stupid smirk. “very.”

you thought maybe it was a one-time thing. maybe he’d lose interest or drop the act or just forget. but no, it became routine after that. the same stupid dance every session: he’d remind you, you’d glare at him, he’d tilt his head, and you’d kiss him. quick, tame, and automatic.

it didn’t mean anything.

but it did. not in the loud, dramatic way that movies show it—no racing heartbeat, no crashing music, no sweeping monologue. just the heat in your chest that always seemed to rise as you got closer to the end of each session, the way your hands would suddenly feel too big—too clumsy, when you closed your notebook and realized what was about to happen. and the way kuroo would look at you the second you turned his way, eyes already expectant, like he’d been waiting.

you got used to it, kind of.

it got easier to lean in and press your lips to his. your movements weren’t as stiff, your face didn’t burn quite as violently. but it still flustered the hell out of you, because kuroo never reacted the same way twice. sometimes he’d close his eyes and smile faintly, content. sometimes he’d chuckle right after, low and quiet, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

once, he mumbled a soft “thanks” right against your lips, and you nearly dropped your water bottle on the floor trying to rush out the library.

you tried not to overthink it. sure, he teased you all the time. sure, he always sat closer than necessary when guiding your hand through formulas and remembered details you forgot you even told him. but that didn’t mean he liked you.

right?

still, every time you left the library with your bag a little lighter and your face a little hotter, you couldn’t help but think about the way his lips felt against yours. and the fact that you were starting to lean in before he even had to ask.

you aren’t sure what changed after that—maybe it was the lighting, dimmer than usual up here in your tucked-away corner on the second floor, or maybe it was the way kuroo kept looking at you tonight.

but whatever it was, something shifted the moment you leaned in for your usual kiss. you pecked him on the lips, meaning to pull away like always. fast, clean, no big deal.

except this time, he didn’t let you.

his lips stayed on yours, soft and warm and unmoving, just for a second. just long enough for confusion to curl in your chest. and then—his tongue, a slow lick across your bottom lip, hot and deliberate. you froze, a tiny jolt running down your spine, and the noise you let out wasn’t planned—just a small, startled gasp that gave him exactly what he wanted.

his tongue slipped in—smooth, exploratory, careful but sure of itself—and suddenly your hands were fisting the front of his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

“mnh—” you made a choked little sound against his mouth, not even sure what it was supposed to mean. surprise? protest? more? you didn’t know, didn’t have time to figure it out. because kuroo’s hands had moved up to your face—both of them, palms cupping your cheeks with a kind of gentleness that made your skin burn. his thumbs brushed your cheekbones like he was soothing you through it, even as he kissed you deeper, wetter, as if he wanted to learn the shape of your mouth from the inside out.

he wasn’t rushing. not aggressive or frantic, but slow and steady and annoyingly thorough. he wanted to explore the way you tasted, the way your breath hitched whenever his tongue met yours. he tilted his head slightly, nose brushing yours, and groaned low in his throat when your lips parted more willingly—when you responded without meaning to, letting him pull another soft, involuntary whimper from the back of your throat.

your grip on his shirt tightened, fingers curling into the fabric. you could feel his heartbeat where your knuckles pressed against his chest—fast, strong, and not as calm as he looked.

his tongue stroked yours again, slow and coaxing, and you felt yourself melt into it. your spine pressed into the back of your chair as he leaned in just a bit more, keeping your face between his hands like he didn’t want you going anywhere. the kiss got a little messier after that—less precise. your lips parted with a faint, wet hnngk, your breath catching when he sucked lightly on your bottom lip, just to see what kind of sound you’d make.

you gave him one—unintentionally, embarrassingly—a soft, breathy ahh— that you tried to swallow down the moment it escaped, but you could feel his smirk against your mouth.

“mm, you’re so cute,” he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough with heat.

“shut up,” you whispered back, breathless, too dazed to put any real bite into it.

he hummed—one of those amused little noises that buzzed against your mouth—and kissed you again before you could say anything else. his thumbs were still stroking your cheeks, his hands firm but gentle. he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you senseless or keep you steady.

you parted your lips again without thinking, breath shaky, and let your tongue slide against his—not confidently, not skillfully, but instinctively. you were following his lead, too flustered to overthink it. he groaned, low and appreciative, like you’d done something right, and it made your stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the warmth pooling low in your abdomen.

his mouth slanted against yours, and you followed the angle as if your body had stopped taking orders from your brain, chasing the taste of him, the feel of his breath, the way his lips moved against yours.

you didn’t even notice how long you’d been kissing him. didn’t hear the distant creak of the elevator on the other side of the building or the shuffle of shoes down the stairs. your world had narrowed to this—his hands, your lips, the quiet wet sounds of your kiss in the otherwise silent library, the tiny, embarrassing gasps you kept letting out whenever he did something new.

he pulled back just barely, lips still brushing yours, breath mixing with yours in the space between.

“you okay?” he asked quietly, voice husky and faintly amused.

you nodded—tiny, slow, not trusting your voice yet. “...yeah. i just—what the hell was that?”

“a kiss?” he offered, and you could hear the smirk creeping back into his voice. “you’ve been giving me practice ones. figured it was time for the real deal.”

you stared at him, face burning, lips tingling. “you’re unbelievable.”

“mhmm.” he leaned in again, brushing his nose against yours. “and you taste like spearmint.”

you made a strangled noise—somewhere between a laugh and a groan—and shoved at his chest weakly, still gripping his shirt. “fuck off.”

you guessed that was the beginning of the shift—maybe not a full tectonic plate movement, but something had definitely cracked loose inside kuroo the moment he got a proper taste of you. and the thing about kuroo was that he’d never been good at settling. not in school, not in leadership, not in anything that made him feel like he was holding back.

if he could get a little more, he would. if he could push a little further, he did. and now that you were part of the equation, he didn’t even pretend to hide that same greedy streak.

it stopped being a kiss-for-points system sometime in mid-march, right around the third or fourth time he kissed you so thoroughly you forgot your backpack on the library floor and walked halfway to your dorm with jelly legs and glazed eyes.

and now it was just... this. you’d do your two hours of acids and bases, titrations and thermochemistry, and then you’d end up pressed against him on the second floor, tucked behind tall shelves and peeling bulletin boards, lips tangled together.

you’d feel it coming before the clock even hit eight. the last ten minutes were always the worst—impossible to focus, impossible to listen to kuroo explaining anything about weak acid dissociation constants because all you could think about was the way he was already watching you from the side of his notes, eyes dark, mouth curved just faintly, waiting.

you started to fidget more—fingers tapping the table, foot bouncing. and kuroo, that smug bastard, would say something like, “you good? you look restless,” even though he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

it kept happening. and your body, traitor that it was, kept meeting him halfway.

so really, you shouldn’t have been surprised when things escalated.

you were half-seated on the table—same library table where you’d struggled through stoichiometry on. kuroo was between your legs, arms braced on either side of you like he was trying to keep you there, not that you were making any move to leave. your thighs were spread open around his hips, your hands locked around his shoulders as he mouthed at your neck like he was starved for it.

“ahh—nhn, kuroo—” your voice cracked embarrassingly as he sucked on a spot just under your jaw. his tongue traced the mark after, soothing the sting, but the damage was already done. your head dropped back with your mouth parted, panting lightly.

he didn’t answer. just gave a low hum against your skin before moving lower. his mouth dragged across your throat, tongue warm and wet, before his lips found the edge of your collar. you felt his hands slip under the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing up your sides.

“nnnnh—god—” you gasped as his thumbs rolled over your nipples through the fabric, pressing circles. “kuroo—”

“hmm?” he murmured without lifting his head, nuzzling just under your ear while his thumbs rubbed firmer, coaxing more quiet sounds out of you. “thought you were used to this by now.”

“not—like this,” you managed, legs tightening slightly around his waist. “fuck, this wasn’t—wasn’t part of the deal.”

“deal’s been null for a while now,” he muttered against your neck, his breath hot as he licked a stripe up to your jaw. “you haven’t exactly been protesting.”

he was right and you hated him for it.

his fingers pinched your nipples softly, just enough to make your body twitch off the table. your head tipped forward, forehead resting against his shoulder, breath shaky as heat curled in your gut, sticky and low and familiar.

“you like it,” he whispered, voice rough now, gravelly in that way that made your stomach drop. “your body’s pretty honest, babe. you’d tell me to stop if you didn’t want it.”

you whimpered into the crook of his neck, clutching his shoulders a little harder. he bit down gently on your collarbone, making you squirm. his hands finally pushed your shirt up and out of the way, dragging it over your chest to expose your skin to the air, and he didn’t waste a second.

his thumbs found your nipples again, now bare, and rolled them between rough fingers while his mouth followed, tongue flicking one and sucking until your legs tensed around his waist again.

“ngh—ahhh, shit—kuroo—” you could barely hear yourself over the sound of your own breath, uneven and high-pitched, as he licked over your nipple and closed his mouth around it, sucking slowly like he was trying to make you fall apart piece by piece.

your hands slid up into his hair, grabbing a fistful, and he groaned against your chest, one of his hands dropping to your thigh to steady you. he was hard—you could feel it through his jeans, the way he was pressed flush against you—and you hated how good that made you feel, how wanted.

“fuck,” you gasped, “we can’t—this is—we’re in the library...!”

“no one comes up here,” he muttered, lips dragging across your skin as he spoke, “you know that.”

“someone might—”

“then be quiet,” he said simply, with the kind of smugness only kuroo could pull off, and bit your nipple, just a quick little pinch of teeth that made your breath catch, burying your face in his shoulder again to muffle the noise.

you didn’t know when you started craving him, but you were past the point of pretending it wasn’t there. it didn’t matter if this was the last thing you expected to be doing with your tutor.

you wanted him. bad.

so you didn’t protest. not when he kissed you during your break between lectures, not when he started texting you more outside of tutor hours, not when he said “you’re coming early today. we’re starting before the session.” with that crooked grin like he already knew you wouldn’t say no.

and definitely not when you ended up like this—sitting on his lap, facing forward with your back pressed flush to his chest, the weight of him inside you making your legs tremble every time he shifted even slightly.

you didn’t expect him to actually keep going with the tutoring like this, but apparently this was some kind of experiment. a test of focus, he called it. and somehow, the asshole was making it work.

he had you cockwarming him, notes in one hand, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose as he read out loud from his tablet—completely unaffected by the fact that his cock was buried deep in your ass, thick and hot and pulsing every time you clenched without meaning to.

“standard electrode potential,” he said against the shell of your ear, his voice unfairly steady. “is the voltage measured under standard conditions—twenty-five degrees celsius, one molar concentration for solutions, one atmosphere for gases—”

you twitched in his lap with a choked little gasp, your fingers clawing at your own thighs because that was the only part of you you could grip without giving yourself away.

you’d been trying, really trying, to listen. but he was inside you. not just barely in—all the way in. sitting so deep it made you dizzy, the stretch still lingering even though it’d been nearly an hour. and the worst part was the fact that he wasn’t even thrusting.

he didn’t need to. just being full like this, surrounded, stuffed with him while he recited electrochemistry was enough to make your brain slide right out of your ears.

“mgh—kuroo,” you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to breathe through another wave of heat crawling up your spine. “i-i can’t—can’t think—”

“sure you can,” he murmured, so calmly it made your stomach curl. “you were doing fine a few minutes ago. come on, define oxidation.”

you blinked blearily at the notes he’d laid out in front of you, printed terms highlighted in blue. you knew this. you swore you knew this. he’d gone over it three times already, and you’d even said it aloud once—

“oxidation is… is—” your hips jerked forward before you could stop them, as if your body was trying to move on instinct, desperate for friction even though you knew he wasn’t going to give it to you. kuroo’s arm around your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him, keeping you locked down. the drag of him inside was subtle, almost nothing, but it still made you shiver. “ngh—i don’t know—”

“you do,” he says patiently. the pad of his thumb rubbed slow circles into your inner thigh, soothing and grounding but also not helping because your cock was leaking like a faucet at this point. “don’t pout. you’re not stupid.”

you whimpered again, trying to blink past the static in your brain. “fuck you.”

he chuckled against your ear. “already am.”

you hated how easily he said it. how his voice never wavered, even when your whole body felt like it was on the edge of crumbling. he wasn’t unaffected—you could feel that—but he was composed, in control, and you weren’t.

“oxidation,” he repeated, slower now, “is the loss of electrons. reduction is the gain. you can remember it with the acronym oil rig. say it with me.”

“i can’t say it with you if i’m about to fucking cry,” you groaned, face burying into your sleeve. it was damp. from sweat, from drool, from precum—you couldn’t even tell anymore. all you knew was that you were full. so full. your hole fluttered around him with every breath, with every word he whispered into your ear, and him just staying inside made your insides feel stupid.

he made you sit there—twitching around his cock, his free hand now gently dragging up and down your thigh like he was comforting a very dumb, very overstimulated pet.

“you’re close, aren’t you,” he said after a moment, and it wasn’t a question. “your dick’s dripping like you’re in heat.”

“shut the fuck up,” you hissed, humiliated, but your voice came out thin and needy, barely a whisper. “fucking hate you.”

“you’re the one grinding on me,” he said mildly, lifting his notes a little higher. “not my fault if this is the only way to get you to remember basic redox reactions.”

your head lolled to the side, your cheek resting against his shoulder. your brain was mush. full of fluff and static and kuroo’s voice echoing things that sounded like science but might as well have been a different language.

you blinked once. twice. swallowed thickly.

“oil rig,” you muttered, hoarse.

“good boy,” he said softly, and your stomach flipped.

your walls squeezed around him on instinct, and that finally got a reaction. a low grunt against your neck, half muffled, like he was holding himself back on principle. you felt his thighs tense beneath you, the shift of muscle under denim, and your whole body trembled at the thought of what he’d do if he stopped holding back.

“fuck—kuroo—please,” you whispered, shame forgotten. “please move, just a little, i’ll remember whatever the fuck you want, just—”

“nope,” he said, too brightly. “we haven’t even covered nernst yet.”

“nernst can eat shit,” you snapped, high-pitched and near tears. “i’m—i’m so fucking dumb right now—i can’t—”

“not dumb,” he murmured, breath warm as his lips brushed your temple. “just full.”

“f-full,” you echoed, so out of it you didn’t even realize you were clenching again, your hips twitching involuntarily. “m’full, fuck, i’m gonna—gonna—”

“no you’re not,” kuroo said, and wrapped a hand around your leaking cock without warning, holding it at the base like a leash. you sobbed.

“you’re gonna sit here,” he said slowly, “and listen to me explain how to calculate cell potential. and then, if you can recite it back, i’ll let you cum.”

you whimpered again, incoherent. drool slicked the corner of your mouth. the only thing holding you together was the rhythm of his voice and the steady heat inside you, thick and unmoving, keeping you dumb and pliant in his lap while the second floor remained silent but for the soft rustle of notes and the ruined little sounds spilling out of your mouth.

kuroo hasn’t stumbled once. his voice stays level, calmly reading definitions and equations. he shifts only slightly when he reaches for a new page in his notes, the movement casual, like he’s adjusting his position for better posture—not to rock the thick head of his cock straight into your prostate.

but it does, and you choke.

your whole body tenses when the fat tip drags against that bundle of nerves, your thighs squeezing tight around his hips, shoulders jerking. your head drops back with a soft, broken little uhhh—, and your vision goes fuzzy for a second. your eyes flutter, half-lidded and unfocused, mouth open and panting as heat pools low in your belly, thick and sticky and almost too much.

“fuck,” you whisper, voice barely there.

kuroo doesn’t even pause. “standard conditions: twenty-five degrees celsius, one molar concentration, one atmosphere pressure. standard electrode potential is measured under these conditions,” he says smoothly, as if he isn’t keeping you stuffed to the brim while he lectures you on electrochemistry. “what’s the difference between cell potential and standard cell potential?”

you reach under your hoodie without thinking, palm dragging over your skin, pushing the fabric up until your stomach’s exposed to the cool air of the library. your breath catches when your fingers press against your abdomen, right over where you can feel him from the inside. your skin gives just enough to mold to the obscene shape of him under it—thick and unrelenting, seated so deep you can trace the shape from the outside. you press harder, breath shuddering.

“oh fuck—kuroo—”

you don’t even finish the thought. just let out a whine, quiet and shaky, as your cock twitches helplessly against the soft cotton of your hoodie, still untouched.

“are you serious right now?” he asks, deadpan, and snorts when you give him the only answer you’re capable of—a high-pitched nghh— as you stroke your own stomach like an idiot. “focus.”

“i am focused,” you say, and your voice sounds stupid to your own ears, slurred and thin, too desperate to be convincing.

“on what?” he drawls. “me? or my cock?” his hand slides up your thigh, and his voice dips low, near your ear. “you gonna answer my question, or are you really too full to think?”

you try, but you know it’s a lost cause. you can’t remember what he asked. everything you are has boiled down to sitting on his lap like a plug, trembling every time he breathes too deep, hole clenching every time the angle shifts and you feel the pressure against that spot again.

his hand slips under your hoodie, warm palm flat against your stomach, pressing down right over that bulge with just enough pressure to make your thighs shake and your back arch. your moan is high and hitched and shamefully needy.

“look at that,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “can feel me right there. right where your brain used to be.”

you sob quietly into your arm, hips twitching despite yourself.

he repeats the question, slow and clear like he’s offering you mercy, like your brain hasn’t been wrung out and replaced with the unbearable ache of wanting him to move. “difference between cell potential and standard cell potential,” he murmurs, fingers steady on your thigh.

you bite your lip, force your eyes to focus on the paper in front of you even though the words swim and blur. the letters barely mean anything anymore. all you can feel is the press of him inside, the shallow rhythm of your own panting breath, and the unbearable stretch that hasn’t stopped pulsing since the first second he bottomed out.

“standard… is measured under fixed conditions,” you manage finally, slow and shaky. “cell potential is… is under real—real conditions. like… not ideal. just what’s happening—fuck—now.”

there’s a pause.

he hums. “mm. i’ll give it to you.” and then, cheerfully, as if he isn’t cockwarming you in a public building: “one more, and then we’ll take a break.”

your heart kicks up. you nod, biting down hard on your sleeve as you wait. you really hope this means what you think it means. he’s been edging you with his voice for nearly an hour, and you’ve done what he asked—you’re answering. mostly. good enough. he has to let you—

“okay,” you croak. “what’s the last question?”

you should’ve known he wouldn’t go easy.

“calculate the equilibrium constant,” he says, casual as anything, “given a cell potential of zero point one eight volts at twenty-five degrees celsius.”

you let out a sob—wet and pathetic and drawn out, as your forehead hits the edge of the table with a dull thump. your cock throbs where it rests, leaking miserably onto the hoodie bunched around your lap. you’re so warm, too warm, your whole body hot and trembling and pressed against him while he remains still.

“kuroo,” you whine, breath stuttering. “i—i can’t—don’t remember—fuck, you said it earlier, you said it, i remember the words, i just—just not the math—”

he clicks his tongue quietly, but there’s no malice in it. “sure you do,” he says, fingertips ghosting over that bulge in your stomach where his cock rests. “you’re not stupid, are you? come on, it’s right there. dig it up.”

you bite down on the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. and when he doesn’t say anything, just waits with that patient silence, you whisper, “n… nine point two times ten to the… sixth.”

another pause. a beat of silence. and then kuroo laughs.

you go limp with it.

“holy shit,” he says, delighted. “look at that. you do retain some info while full of cock.”

his hand sweeps across the table, knocking your notebook to the side and pushing your pens off without care. he’s careful with your laptop, slides it out of the way with one hand before he’s gripping under your thighs and standing like you weigh nothing at all, lifting you effortlessly and laying you down across the now-clear table without pulling out.

you barely manage a gasp before your chest hits the cool surface, arms braced awkwardly, and then he’s bending you over with one arm wrapped around your hips and the other braced beside you, his cock still buried to the hilt, his breath ragged against the back of your neck.

he starts moving before you even adjust. with no warning, he slams back in and sets a pace that rattles through your spine. “this is all you’re good for, huh?” he grunts, thrusts deep and fast and ruthless. “getting your guts rearranged on a study table.”

you try to nod. or say something. but all that comes out is a wrecked moan, your arms buckling as you clutch at the edge of the table for support.

your sweatpants are bunched at your ankles, cold air on your calves, but it’s the last thing on your mind. the zipper of his jeans scratches your thighs with every thrust, undone just enough to free his cock, the band of his underwear pushed beneath his balls, and every slam into you hits deep—deep enough to make you see stars, deep enough to make your brain hiccup mid-thought.

“so dumb for it,” he mutters, and you can hear the grin in his voice even through the panting. “had to fuck the answers into you just to make ‘em stick. is that it?”

“y-yeah,” you breathe, too fast, too hoarse. “please—yes—fuck—”

he keeps you bent over with a palm pressed between your shoulder blades, the table creaking faintly beneath you as he pounds into your ass, slick sounds echoing faintly in the quiet of the upper floor mixed with the broken noises that keep spilling out of your throat no matter how hard you bite them back.

“you’re such a fucking mess, (name).” he hisses, low and tight, thrusts not slowing in the slightest. “drooling over the notes, crying ‘cause you couldn’t remember a formula.”

you can’t look at anything. your eyes are squeezed shut, your face damp with sweat, and your mouth’s hanging open. his cock punches into your prostate again and again, and you lose whatever words you were about to say—reduced to a high, gasping moan as you clutch the table as it’s the only thing holding you upright.

his fingers suddenly tangle into your hair, blunt nails scraping lightly against your scalp before he grips tighter and pulls—dragging a full-body shudder out of you. your back arches with the motion, spine bowing as he draws your chest off the table and presses your body back into him, flush against his front.

the new angle has you gasping, blinking hard as the thick weight of him shifts deeper, cock driving in harder now that he’s got you bent like this.

“there we go,” he mutters behind you, and the satisfaction in his voice is clear. “that’s better.”

you’re not even sure what he means by that, but you can feel the difference. the change in angle hits your prostate sharper, meaner. every thrust feels like it’s knocking the air straight out of your lungs and sending it back in hot.

your stomach rises with each movement, the swell and fall of it exaggerated from the way his cock stretches you out, like he’s trying to fill space you didn’t know was empty.

the table under you creaks softly, a quiet chorus to the slow, steady slap of his hips meeting yours. your cock drags along the cool surface beneath you, twitching every time he bottoms out. the stimulation’s just enough to drive you wild—barely friction, but relentless.

your body rocks forward with every thrust and grinds you against the table in sync, every movement synced to his pace like you’re not in control of it anymore.

you bite your lip hard to stop yourself from making noise. your teeth sink into the skin so deep it stings, and even that’s not enough to stop the way little choked sounds keep slipping out. you can’t even tell if you’re moaning or whimpering at this point, only that your voice is too soft, too fucked-out, and it’s the only thing tethering you to the awareness that this is still a library. a public building.

the second floor’s usually empty this time of night, but the idea that someone could be wandering just below makes your pulse spike every time the slap of his balls against yours echoes louder than it should.

“you’re lucky no one’s come up here,” kuroo murmurs against your neck, breath hot. “bet professor suzuki’d love to catch her little nephew like this.”

you let out a noise—somewhere between a gasp and a whine—and he laughs quietly, clearly enjoying himself.

his hand slides up your chest, calloused fingers brushing over your nipple and pinching just hard enough to make your hips jerk. “wonder if she’d still let you make up that quiz you bombed.”

“shut up,” you manage to croak, but your voice breaks halfway through, too breathless to land even a fraction of the usual bite. your face burns hotter, humiliation mixing with arousal in a dizzying blur.

“aw, what’s wrong?” he says, voice still low and smooth, “don’t like being reminded your aunt’s basically the reason we met? bet she’d love knowing her favorite little nephew’s been drooling into her syllabus while i fuck the sense out of him.”

“kuroo—f-fuck—please—”

“please what?” he grunts, fucking into you harder, hands anchoring you in place as your body jolts with every thrust. “you gotta be more specific than that, baby.”

you can’t. you can’t say anything coherent. your brain’s sludge, your whole world narrowed down to the way he’s ramming into you, the way your cock smears precum across the wood with each grind of your hips. it feels endless—overwhelming in the way it builds without cresting, all friction and fullness and no relief.

“you’re so easy,” he mutters like he’s talking to himself, pushing your hoodie further up your back to get a better grip on your waist. “ask you a question and you cry. say her name and you whimper. touch your fucking nipple and you lose half your IQ.”

you nod, too fast, too desperate. “m’trying—trying t’keep up, i swear—”

“you’re not keeping up,” he says flatly, and you don’t even flinch. “you’re barely standing. just a dumb little fucktoy stuffed full of cock and pretending you’re still a student.”

“m’sorry,” you sob, “i’m—i’m trying to learn—”

he huffs out a laugh at that. “yeah? learning with your ass, then? cause your brain sure as shit clocked out twenty minutes ago.”

you don’t even deny it.

you’re too gone. too fucked open. too soaked in the rhythm of his hips slamming into you, the heat spreading out from your core like syrup in your veins, making you heavy and slow and so fucking good. everything else—classes, grades, reputation, your aunt—melts into nothing beneath the weight of his cock and the humiliating awareness that you’re taking it like you were made for it.

“so pretty like this,” kuroo says suddenly, quieter now, voice rough around the edges. “wasn’t supposed to go this far. but look at you. fucking melting around me.”

you barely manage to moan back, words lost, fingers clutching the edge of the table like it’s the only anchor you’ve got left.

you don't know if you're more terrified of the idea of someone hearing, or the idea that you want them to.

sweat beads down the side of kuroo’s face, catching in his jawline before it trails to his neck, his glasses half-slipped on the bridge of his nose like they're seconds away from falling off entirely. his breath comes out ragged, hot and heavy against your skin, and the groan he lets out when he slams in to the hilt again is something feral, low and rough, straight from the pit of his stomach.

“fuck, this pussy—nghh, shit—this ass,” he pants, hips grinding down as he pulses inside you. “swear to god, no girl’s ever felt like this. no fucking pussy in the world compares to what you give me—fuuuck—you feel insane—”

you shouldn't feel pride in that, you know you shouldn’t, but your whole body reacts before you can even think. your cock jerks and spills untouched, twitching hard as you cum again, thick spurts painting the floor and some splashing up to the edge of the table, sticky lines marking the wood.

you squeeze down around him, too tight, too much, and the choked moan he lets out punches straight through your core.

“hnnnn—god damn—you’re milking me—fuck—” kuroo gasps, voice breaking on the last word as his hips jerk forward and he cums deep, so deep you feel the way his cock throbs inside you, feel the hot flood of it filling you in waves like he can’t stop, like your body won’t let him. your eyes roll back, your jaw slack as your tongue slips out just a little, completely lost in the thick heat spreading through your gut.

he doesn’t even try to stay in when it gets too sensitive—pulls out with a wet, slick sound and curses under his breath when he sees your hole gaping. his cum drools out of you slow and heavy, sliding down to drip over your balls and onto the floor below, a few strands stringing between your rim and his twitching tip.

he stares for a second before he lets go of his grip on you and lets you collapse back onto the table, body limp and trembling, legs giving out entirely as your thighs spasm beneath you.

you whimper, not even sure what for—everything hurts in the best way, and you’re so sensitive it borders on pain, but it’s not enough to make you want to stop.

“look at you,” he murmurs, still breathless, and it’s more amused than mocking, like he really can’t help but marvel at the sight. his cock's still hard, still flushed and slick and dripping even after cumming, and he doesn’t give himself time to go soft before he’s moving again.

he rolls you onto your back with practiced ease, letting your legs fall open while he leans over you, and he lets out this short, hushed laugh when he sees your face—glazed eyes, red cheeks, drool sliding from the corner of your mouth.

“you look wrecked,” he says under his breath, and it sounds more like awe than insult.

you barely manage to lift your head. you’re too far gone to speak, too floaty to care about anything except how good everything still feels. your stomach twitches when he presses closer again, his shadow falling over you, his hands sliding under your knees to push your legs back up and fold you open. you can’t even brace for it when he leans down, tongue swiping slowly across your lips to clean the drool, and just as you’re about to exhale—he thrusts back in.

“ahhh—nghh, fuck—” the noise gets ripped out of you before you even know it’s coming, sharp and loud, echoing too harsh off the library walls. your hands scrabble for something to grab, nails scratching weakly at the edge of the table as your back arches up again.

his palm slaps over your mouth before the second cry can escape, holding you down as he fucks into the mess he made, his cum squelching inside you with every wet thrust. “too fuckin’ loud,” he mutters, almost to himself, but his grin betrays him, all teeth and smug heat. “someone’s gonna hear, baby. you want that?”

you shake your head, whimpering under his hand.

“yeah? didn’t think so,” he grits out, cock already pulling back and slamming into you with the kind of force that knocks every thought clear out of your skull. his hips smack against your ass, fast and unforgiving, fucking you into the table like he’s trying to make it split down the center.

he doesn’t just keep the same rhythm—he doubles down on it, like punishing you is instinct now, like your body’s only good for getting ruined over and over again under him.

you gasp out, or try to, but it cuts off into a whimper when his pace doesn’t even falter. “sh-shit—”

“better be quiet, baby,” kuroo mutters, voice rasped and half-laughing, like the heat in his throat is strangling him too. he leans in, mouth slamming against yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and spit and uneven breath. it’s filthy—wet noises filling the space between your mouths as your lips slide together, teeth knocking once when his thrusts shove you up the table again.

his hand never leaves your throat—rests there like a weight, warm and wide, fingers stretching around your neck.

you whine into the kiss—high, messy, humiliated—your legs locking tight around his waist like you’re scared he’ll pull out even though you know he won’t. you’re soaked inside, so much slick and spit and cum mixed between your thighs that every thrust sounds disgusting.

the table keeps creaking beneath both your weights, his hips slapping into you over and over with wet smack—smack—smack as you moan into his mouth, tongue slipping past his lips even though your jaw’s barely working. every breath gets eaten before it hits your lungs.

he pulls back, panting, watching you from above, eyes sharp under the mess of sweaty bangs stuck to his forehead. “you still with me?” he huffs out between thrusts. “still got anything goin’ on in that head?”

your eyes only roll back in response.

“that’s what i thought.”

his hand tightens as if he’s testing limits. your throat tightens under his palm and your cock jumps, spurting a little without being touched, a fresh drip of precum painting your stomach.

your moan comes out high and fucked and broken—“ahhh—kuh—kuroo—nnnhggh—” and your hand flies up to his wrist again, not to stop him, just to feel it, feel the heat of him clamped around your neck, the way his thumb presses into the hollow beneath your jaw, the way your pulse flutters like it’s panicking.

“you’re liking this way too much,” kuroo growls, hips slamming in harder, dragging every inch of his cock through your ass while he’s grinding the head against that spot inside that makes your whole body twitch. “you get tighter every time i cut your air.”

“hahhh—fuuuh—fuck, fuck—!” you sob out, the words barely forming before they dissolve into a series of whimpers. “please—please—” but there’s nothing behind it, no demand, just need.

he lets out a snort—short and incredulous. “please what, huh?” he thrusts again, sharper, your ass clapping back around him with a loud, wet slap. “please don’t stop? please split me open? please choke the last working thought outta my brain?” he leans closer, breath burning your cheek as he whispers, “not even sure you know what you’re begging for anymore.”

you cry out, your voice cracking into something barely human—“ahhh—nnnngh—kuroo—” and he grins, all teeth, sweat dripping from his temples onto your chest.

“listen to yourself,” he pants, his voice catching a bit with how tight you’re gripping his cock. “just fuckin’ whining, babbling, makin’ noises like that’ll earn you anything but more dick. but hey—” his fingers flex on your throat, and you moan loudly when he squeezes harder—“if that’s all you’ve got left, then that’s what i’ll take.”

you’re throbbing around him, whole body tightening up like a trap snapping closed, and the way you clench on him draws a groan out of kuroo’s chest, deep and hoarse. “fuckin’ hell,” he growls, voice cracking, “you’re suckin’ me in like a damn vacuum—how’re you this tight still? you get trained on the wrong end of a beaker or something?”

you try to say something back—anything—but it just spills out as, “aaahhh—hahh—hah—fuck—fuck—can’t—” before your mouth drops open, breath stuttering as your body rocks under his, your legs starting to tremble where they stay locked around his waist.

he reaches down, grabs your cock at last, and your entire spine arches off the table like you’ve been hit with a live wire. he pumps it once, twice—rough and fast, hand slick from sweat and spit—and you cum so hard you think your vision blanks out. it sprays across your chest, hits your chin, some even landing near his collarbone, and you scream for it—high, raw, cracked in half.

“f-fuckin’ knew you were close,” kuroo groans, hips jerking through the tight spasms of your hole milking him. “so goddamn obvious. you always cum the second someone touches your dick.”

you’re shaking, fingers clawing weakly at his arms, your voice a wreck of sobs and gasped vowels—“uhhhhn—nghh—hah—fuhhh—kuroo—too—too much—”

he doesn’t slow down. his hips are still driving into you, deeper, harder, chasing his own orgasm, his cock punching into overstimulated flesh, and your body spasms with every brutal slam of his hips.

“nah, baby. not done yet. you’ve got more in you. i’m not fuckin’ done using you—” and the sound that comes out of him when he buries himself to the hilt again is something obscene, guttural, half a growl and half a moan. “nghh—fuhh—shit—fuck—gonna cum in you again—stuff you full ‘til it’s dripping down your thighs and i still don’t believe your body’ll let me go.”

and you’re not even responding—just twitching under him, mouth open, tears beading at the corner of your lashes. all you can do is moan.

“ah—uhhh—kuh—kuroo—nnh—!”

kuroo exhales hard through his nose, jaw tight, sweat dripping off his chin as he peels your legs from around his waist. your thighs twitch as they’re lifted, knees folding awkwardly until he lets one drop, the other slung up over his shoulder. you’re already whining—quiet, pitiful—just from the change in angle, breath catching like you think it’s over, like he’s letting you go.

but then he runs a hand through his hair, pushing the sweaty strands back, and that grin creeps onto his face—sharp, tilted, unbothered. cock still fully sheathed inside you, twitching like it’s got a mind of its own, and you whimper when he starts moving again. slow just for the first thrust, just to feel your body react, then brutal right after. your sob catches in your throat, jaw falling open around a sound that comes out as a strangled, “nnnngghh—hahhh—kuroo—”

“what’s wrong?” he pants, voice thick with breath, eyes glued to the way you’re clenching around him. “thought you loved this shit. that dumb little noise right there?” he moans—“hnnh—fuck—”—as your hole spasms again. “means you do.”

you try to speak, but it’s just sound. “ahhh—uhhh—nnhhh—p-please—” and your nails are already back to digging into the wood under you, trying to ground yourself against the pounding he’s delivering now, your stomach jerking with every sharp shove forward.

his gaze drops, and the sight nearly breaks him—your belly bulging just slightly every time he thrusts deep, every time his cock drags up against your guts like it’s too big, too much. he groans—deep and shaky—eyes narrowing as he watches himself hit you from the inside. he growls, “your fuckin’ stomach reacts faster than your brain.”

then he reaches up, plucks the glasses off his own face, and without even thinking twice, he slides them onto yours. they sit crooked, fogging slightly from your panting. he doesn’t fix them. doesn’t need to.

because the second they’re on you, his cock twitches inside you hard, and his hand trembles on your thigh.

“jesus,” he mutters, voice cracked around the syllables, “you in my glasses—fuck, fuck—you look so fucking hot like this.” he moans through gritted teeth, hips slamming forward again, the sound lewd and slick. “you even know what two plus two is right now?”

“uhhh—ahhh—hah—” you can’t even pretend to respond. your body’s gone rigid beneath him, and every time he pounds in, it’s like your hole locks down and refuses to let him go. you’re shaking, twitching, your cock just barely stiff, drooling helpless across your own belly as the white ring of cum around your hole starts to foam from the friction. it clings to your rim and his balls like whipped cream, sticky and wet, strung between you in frothy strands.

“holy shit,” kuroo moans, dragging his hips back just enough to watch it stretch, then slam in again, balls slapping wetly against your ass. “look at this fuckin’ mess—look what i did to you.” he grits his teeth, eyes glassy now, focused only on where your bodies meet. “you hear that? that squelch?”

you nod, drool slipping from your mouth, and your cock twitches pathetically.

he leans forward, bracing himself over you, leg still hooked over his shoulder, glasses lopsided on your face as he slams into you faster. the sound is obscene—wet and constant, every thrust pushing his last load deeper and frothing it up until your rim’s dripping down onto the table.

“gonna give you one more,” he grunts, mouth right at your cheek, hips jerking faster, cock pulsing inside. “gonna fill you again, right in this same ruined fuckhole, and you’re gonna—ahhh—gonna take it—gonna feel me in your gut for days—”

“tetsu—! ahhh—hahh—nngghhh—! f-fuck—”

you moan like your whole body’s breaking. your cock jerks against your stomach again and cums—barely, just a few thick dribbles that pulse out with every clench of your walls. you cry out, voice cracking as you shake through it, and kuroo loses it.

“hahhh—fuck, fuck—gonna—!”

his cock slams into you one last time and he groans, mouth open as he cums hard inside you, hot spurts painting your already soaked insides. you can feel it—every throb, every pulse, every thick shot adding to the mess, until his cum is spilling out around the base of his cock and soaking down your ass in milky white rivulets.

his hips twitch through the aftershocks, cock still buried to the hilt, balls sticky against you as your bodies shudder in sync. he watches a fresh string of cum ooze out the side of your stretched rim, licking his lips with a pleased expression.

friday rolls around like a punishment.

you’re limping across campus with a spine that feels like it’s been rearranged by a medieval torture device. every step sends a dull ache up your back, sharp enough that you consider skipping genchem lab altogether. unfortunately, skipping would mean dealing with your aunt later—and you’re not sure who’s scarier: her, or the guy currently walking beside you with the most irritatingly smug expression known to man.

kuroo, of course, is whistling.

he keeps a hand hovering at your lower back, guiding you with just enough pressure to keep you upright but not enough to be obvious. it would’ve been sweet if he wasn’t the reason you could barely walk in the first place.

“you’re enjoying this,” you mutter under your breath.

he doesn’t even try to deny it. “me? never,” he says, tone light, eyes glinting with amusement as he glances over. “just being a supportive tutor.”

“you’re a menace.”

“technically, i’m on the dean’s list.”

you don’t dignify that with a response. mostly because it hurts too much to breathe deep enough for a comeback.

when you finally step into the lab, it’s like someone hit pause on the room. heads turn. a few students blink in surprise at the sight of you clinging to kuroo like he’s your personal cane. you pretend not to notice the quiet whispers or the way one girl subtly elbows her friend. your eyes land on your aunt, who’s standing near the front bench, fully geared in lab equipment and looking every bit the intimidating academic she always is.

her eyes sweep over you, narrow at the limp, then flick up to kuroo with suspicion. she doesn’t say anything at first, but you can tell she’s assessing every detail.

when you’re close enough—right in front of her, just out of earshot from the others—she leans in slightly and asks, voice low and clipped, “what the hell happened to you?”

before you can even open your mouth, kuroo cuts in smoothly, slipping his hand off your back like it wasn’t there to begin with. “he fell down the stairs.”

your eye twitches so violently it might qualify as a medical emergency.

your aunt gives him a long, scrutinizing look, the kind that probably scares freshmen into dropping her class. “is that so?” she says, unimpressed.

kuroo, unfazed as always, just nods. “yep. unfortunate angle. gravity’s a bitch.”

you stare at him like you want to stab him with a glass stirring rod. he smiles back, all innocence and charm.

your aunt turns to you next, clearly waiting for confirmation. you force your face into something neutral and give the weakest shrug in history. “yeah. stairs,” you mumble. “very slippery.”

her mouth presses into a line like she doesn’t buy a single word, but she lets it go with a sigh and moves past you, muttering something about lab safety and liability waivers.

you let out a breath once she’s gone.

“see?” kuroo whispers near your ear, voice laced with amusement. “i’m good under pressure.”

“you’re going to be the death of me.”

“but what a way to go.”

#wishes granted by omi .ᐟ #bottom male reader #male reader smut #haikyuu smut #kuroo tetsurou #male reader #haikyuu #hq x reader #kuroo tetsuro smut #kuroo tetsuro #hq smut #mlm smut #mlm #anime #anime smut #x male reader

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ryllen · 2 days ago

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" is this illusion called life ... is even mine ? "

" you are all ... just trying to play the role u're born in, as best as u could ... "

#i'm sorry i was just asking the computer to summarise lads things to me and i feel so sad now bcs #(i don't know if the information that were shared with me are accurate or all canon ; i kinda think it's not ; but)#some dialogues make it seems everyone (all other LIs) is blaming zayne for knowing a lot but not doing much for her #because he tried to protect the planet the most and doing everything else so subtly which hardly shows any effect on her #that's why he is trying his bestest now ; for mc and for whoever she is gonna end up with and bring the most happiness to her #zayne has the love that always seems ready to let go ............... i'm........................#tho anyhow canon mc is headstrong & strong willed so surely she will life to the fullest despite her fate ; she probably won't cry like tha #this is just me thinking with the way i think.... ; yea i am sad that the computer ranked zayne as the one who sacrificed the least for mc #anyhow i want to know the stories and lore but i am too lazy to read or sit through a whole companion myth i didn't pull #i am literally like a memory loss mc #lads #love and deepspace #lads caleb #lads mc #fanart #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace mc #love and deepspace fanart #lads fanart

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illumoria · 3 days ago

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"Kal-El !"

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⋆·˚ ༘ .⋆𖥔 ݁ ˖۶ৎ clark kent/superman x reader

content warning!!: fluff + angst-ish | calling him by his name–his real one

🏷️: @chuuchuutrainn @angel06babysworld @rafeysvenicebitch @alize2007 | click here to be added!

masterlist!

────────────────୨ৎ───────────────

"Clark?" You whispered against his skin, cheek pressing against his bicep as you scooted closer to him on the bed, your legs moving to tangle with his beneath the blanket.

He had his nose buried into a book, squinting at the words even though he had his glasses on.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" He replied, his eyes still on the page, his fingers fidgeting with the thin paper.

"Who's Kal-El?"

His arm suddenly tensed a bit under your cheek. Just barely but you felt it.

"Where do you–uh–Where did you hear that?" He replied, his voice suddenly shaky. Just slightly. But you noticed almost instantly.

He tried to maintain calm, now skimming over the words in his hands instead of actually reading them, but he could see the suspicious look on your face through his peripheral–and he knew you could tell something was wrong. You always could. No matter what.

"You said it. In your sleep," You started, gently taking his hand in your own, only to feel it trembling in your palms. "You said–Hey, are you okay?" You cut yourself off when you saw the nervous look on his face, immediately disavowing your words from before.

"I'm alright, don't worry about me I just.." He trailed off, reluctantly closing his book and placing it on the bedside table next to him before finally facing you. Properly. Something shifted in his expression then–a softness that cracked into vulnerability.

"Is it bad? Is Kal-El bad?I don't..I don't get it. Were you having a nightmare?"

He couldn't lie to you. Not when you were filled with so much genuine worry for him–He just couldn't do it. It was impossible.

"Kal-El," he took a deep breath, rubbing his lips right before speaking again, "Is my name."

An awkward silence filled the room as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, your lips parted–but nothing left them.

"Isn't–? isn't Clark your name?"

"No. It isn't." A beat. "Well I mean it is. It is my name it's just I have... another name. Kal-El."

"Kal-El." You repeated, slower this time, the name simply rolling off your tongue.

The sound of his name on your lips made something in him ache–in a way that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with being known. Maybe not completely. Not yet. But this? This was something. It was different.

It felt like he didn't have to hide himself as much anymore–given you still didn't know he was the one saving people–that he was Superman, but this little thing? His name? It made him feel...something that he couldn't even begin to put into words.

"I like it. I like Kal-El." You whispered, not asking questions, not prodding. It was better not to. You felt it in the way he stiffened when you touched him.

"He likes you too." He smiled, slowly relaxing, letting himself go soft again, leaning back into your touch like he craved it. Because he did. Clark needed you. And so did Kal-El.

line dividers: @/hyuneskkami

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wwinterwitch · 3 days ago

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shared announcement – johnny storm x fem!reader

summary: you and johnny prepare to share the big news to the family, unaware that sue and reed might have the same plan in mind pairing: johnny storm x wife!fem!reader word count: 1.9k tags: pregnancy announcements, just tons of fluff

a comment and/or reblog is always appreciated!

main masterlist | marvel masterlist

You take a deep breath, staring down at the test that reads a very definitive ‘positive’. Then, you look up at your reflection in the mirror, noticing how your hands tremble, so you bring them to your chest in an effort to anchor yourself and bring some comfort to your body as you process this.

It's a shock you can't quite shake, eyes traveling from the test to your reflection without believing this is actually happening. You notice how the tears begin to blur your eyesight just enough, feeling like you might start screaming with joy.

A few months ago, you and Johnny decided you were ready to welcome a new member into your family. Of course the two of you have your fears about it, but you love the idea of becoming parents together. It feels like the right time and the next big step in your relationship.

That pregnancy test marks the beginning of a new journey and chapter in your life, and the idea of it makes you feel so overwhelmed that you just burst out crying. Because you can't believe this is actually happening– that very soon you'll be welcoming a baby into this world. Because your body, mind and soul are unable to contain the amount of love you have for Johnny and this baby, it just overflows.

It's only when you manage to quiet your sobs that you finally exit the bathroom, test hidden behind your back, immediately heading towards the kitchen where Johnny is making breakfast.

“Hey, would you like bacon or–” he stops talking as soon as he sees you, immediately realizing you’ve been crying. He drops everything he’s doing to walk towards you, carefully placing both hands at your shoulders. He had absolutely no idea that you were taking a test today. “What happened, babe?”

You inevitably sob again as you offer him a smile, revealing the pregnancy test. He immediately takes a step back from you in utter shock as he stares at the device that you hold before him. “Is this– are you pregnant?” he asks in a soft voice, barely able to contain his excitement anymore.

You nod your head and he just immediately begins to cheer out loud, raising both arms up in sign of celebration before pulling you in for a hug. All you can do is giggle and continue crying when he holds you tight in his arms.

“I can't believe this,” he says, slightly out of breath. As he moves back enough to look at you, you immediately notice his eyes are teary and he can't stop smiling. “You're pregnant!”

“I’m pregnant!” you repeat with equal enthusiasm.

He places his hands at each side of your face, holding you with such care and gentleness that butterflies erupt in your stomach. Even after years together, he still manages to make you feel like you're falling deeper and deeper in love each and every single day that you spend by his side.

Taking a few seconds to simply admire your features, Johnny takes in your beauty and the way your eyes shine with excitement for the future ahead. It's the happiest he has ever felt in his entire life.

He just can't believe he's this lucky to have you as his wife and future mother of his child. This family is, and forever will be, his biggest accomplishment.

“You’ll be a wonderful mom,” he whispers, still admiring you– not just your physical beauty, but the breathtakingly beautiful woman you are on the inside too. “The best mom.”

“And you’ll be a great dad, Johnny,” you reply, noticing how the comment really gets to him because he can't hold his tears back any longer. You truly mean it when you say that Johnny will be the best dad in the entire world. He has the kindest heart and so much love to give when someone matters to him. He's admiringly selfless and compassionate too.

He leans down to kiss you. It's gentle and sweet, but incredibly passionate, trying to convey all the love and admiration he holds for you.

“I love you,” he whispers when the kiss ends, his smile widening just enough when you wipe away his tears. He hides his face in your neck shortly after, simply holding you in his arms as he takes in your scent. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” "I love you too," you whisper back to him. You can't help but giggle when he gets down on his knees before you, placing a kiss on your stomach. “Your mommy and I can't wait to meet you, little one,” he says in the softest voice, and it just instantly melts your heart.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Johnny barely lets you do anything around the house ever since you found out you're pregnant, preferring to do everything himself so you could rest. You've tried explaining to him that you don't need to be in bed all day, all nine months, but it's like he just doesn't want to understand it.

It's cute though, because he's been incredibly worried about you and your well being. And despite still refusing to let you do much, he's made some progress with understanding that you can still very much function on your own without him having to be there to do everything for you.

He was beyond excited to take you to your first doctor's appointment, holding your hand throughout the entirety of the ultrasound and asking a bunch of questions to the doctor. You feel very blessed to be doing this with Johnny, because he's been such an attentive and sweet partner so far. You can already tell that he'll be a hundred percent there for you when you need him the most.

All that's left to do now is sharing the news with your families.

You decide to stop by the Baxter Building today, heart beating fast in your chest as you walk closer to the building, Johnny shielding you from a few reporters that like to frequent the outside of the building in hopes of catching any new updates on the world's most beloved family.

Like any other normal day, you sit in the living room with your husband by your side, catching up with the rest.

“So, how have you guys been?” Sue asks the two of you, sitting on the couch opposite to where you and Johnny are sitting.

You exchange a look with him after that question, almost as if you're silently checking if he's ready to tell everyone. He reaches out to grab your hand, which lets you know the answer right away. “Well, actually…there's something Johnny and I would like to share,” you start with obvious excitement, feeling the way he squeezes your hand in anticipation. “I’m pregnant!”

“What?” Ben exclaims, beaming with excitement. “That’s great news!”

Sue’s smile drops immediately when she hears you, pure surprise on her face as she briefly turns to look at Reed before returning her attention to the two of you. “No, you're not!” she exclaims, covering her mouth with her hand as she stares at you in disbelief.

At first you think it's just her reacting to the news, but then you watch as she immediately starts sobbing uncontrollably. Next to her, Reed places a hand on her back as he tries to comfort her. He has this look on his face that only fuels your suspicion that there's something else going on. You had the impression that something was going on from the second Reed greeted you. He's just terrible at keeping secrets.

Your heart starts beating fast in anticipation, feeling like you could burst out crying if what you're thinking is true. You can't explain it, but you just know. “Are you pregnant too?”

All Sue could do is nod, and that's when you completely lost it. You immediately stand up from your seat to walk over to her. She stands up as well, pulling you in for a hug, both sobbing after finding out there's not only one but two babies on the way.

“WHAT?” Ben practically shouts at this point, joined by Johnny who also looks like he has absolutely no idea what is going on.

“This is insane!” Johnny continues, grabbing his head with both of his hands as he processes everything. “I’m going to be a dad and an uncle. You are going to be a dad and an uncle. And you are going to be double uncle now.”

“This is certainly a lot to take in,” Ben comments, his voice reflecting how shocked he is by all of this information being thrown at him all at once. “Congratulations, guys. A great journey awaits you.” Noticing Reed is way too quiet, he decides to check on his best friend. “Hey, are you alright?”

Reed snaps out of his thoughts, turning to look at him. “Yeah. I’m fine, it’s just…I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea of one baby. I wasn’t expecting two.”

“It’ll be awesome, man! Think about it. The two little cousins will have each other to play with,” Johnny says with obvious excitement, their reactions to the pregnancies a sharp contrast.

“I can't believe you're pregnant too,” Sue whispers, the two of you having your own little conversation while the guys chat. “I’m so happy, I don't think I’ll ever stop crying.”

It's a lot more than having two babies on the way. It's also the fact that the two of you get to experience pregnancy and motherhood together. That you'll be able to be there for one another in a way that no one else will be able to, and that this will be an experience that would only make the bond between the two of you even stronger.

You love Sue with your entire heart and she loves you just as much. Sharing this journey with her is one of the most wonderful gifts life could've given you.

When you finally move back from each other, you can't help but share a quick laugh as the two of you begin wiping your tears away. The scene of both of you looking so emotionally exhausted by the news is oddly comical.

“I love you,” you say to her, beyond excited for her to become a mom. You know how much she's been wanting this for herself.

“I love you too.”

As soon as the two of you pulled away, Johnny rushes towards her sister for a hug that she gladly accepts, grinning widely. “Congratulations!”

“Congratulations to you too, Johnny!”

Ben gently places a hand on your back when you walk over to him, offering you a smile. “Now you’ll have two babies at home to take care of.”

His joke makes you laugh, lightly shaking your head. “How do you feel about becoming a double uncle?”

“Oh, incredible! I’m great with babies. I just worry about Reed or Johnny having a nervous breakdown when the little nuggets get here.”

You can't help but notice the way Reed just stands there in complete silence as Johnny wraps an arm around his shoulders, once again excitedly discussing baby plans with him. “It looks like Reed is already having one,” you comment, noticing how vacant his expression looks. Of course he's happy, there's no doubt about it, but he does look absolutely terrified about having a kid.

“Well...in his defense, Reed is always at the edge of a nervous breakdown.”

#johnny storm x reader #johnny storm x you #johnny storm fic #johnny storm fanfic #johnny storm fanfiction #johnny storm fluff #fantastic four x reader

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pellucid-constellations · 2 days ago

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Look After You (1)

Pairing: Bucky x Celebrity!Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes has been in the business of protecting people since his pardon. You have been in the business of doing whatever the hell you want since birth, according to Bucky’s observations. But he’ll look after you—protect you with all he has. Because it’s his job. And maybe for other reasons.

Word count: 4.3k

Chapter warnings: Mentions of stalking and crime, annoyance to lovers, Bucky's POV

a/n: Ahhhh I can't believe I have a Bucky series going rn guys. This was so much fun and so seamless to write it really felt like 2021 again <3 I really hope you enjoy and I loveee reading comments and feedback 🥰

Series Masterlist ♡

Main Masterlist 🤍

Following his pardon, Bucky Barnes devoted himself to protecting people; after years of doing the opposite, he figured it was the way to go. He’d tried therapy, government work, even took a few community college classes to explore the world of engineering—none of it stuck.

It wasn’t that Bucky was incapable. Thanks to the serum and quite a few years of being alive, Bucky was actually very capable of very many things. But he never felt fulfilled. Something was always eating at him. Something that settled once he got into this line of work.

He’d approached it through the government at first, acting as a sort of protective agent for high-ranking officials and their families. And that was fine, but it wasn’t. The people he protected weren’t in any real danger—nothing imminent. They were mostly 60-year-old men having affairs and glaring at Bucky every time he tagged along to the “secret dates.”

Bucky found that he did not feel fulfilled again after one year of that work, so, he pivoted.

With his connections to the (former) Avengers, Bucky knew… people. And those people knew people who got themselves into trouble a lot. Foreign adversaries, high-profile stalking, witness protection; Bucky began to see it all, and it meant something this time. These people needed help, begged for it, and Bucky had the skills and means to protect them.

Everything was mostly short-term, and he wasn’t allowed to kill anyone… technically. It may seem easier to simply take out the cause of his clients’ woes, but that wasn’t what he did anymore. That, and doing so would put his pardon into jeopardy. So, Bucky protected them for the finite amount of time it took for the adversary to be neutralized by law enforcement, or for the amount of time it took for witness protection to finalize their case.

He did not become attached or invested in his clients for this reason. If he got invested, things got messy. Bucky needed to have a clear head to analyze situations and be a third party to the danger he was dealing with. Bucky didn’t have time to be worried or scared or even be angry at the situations his clients were in.

He was good at his job—seasoned, even.

And then he met you.

Bucky got the call on a Tuesday. Your file entered his classified email inbox shortly after he’d agreed to the case. He'd taken similar cases before—a celebrity with a crazed fan who wouldn’t leave her alone, an address leak, and a home invasion. It was all textbook stalking that Bucky could surely handle.

Your team had tried general security, but the home invasion had occurred under their watch, and they weren’t taking shortcuts anymore. Your safety was a top priority, according to the 500-word email drying out his eyes, and they would pay any amount to ensure it. There was also a charity gala coming up that you needed to attend and you just got the part in a new movie and blah blah blah.

Bucky didn’t need all the details.

With his gun and several other weapons lining his body, Bucky tucked the hem of his jeans into his boots and walked out of his Brooklyn apartment. You living in New York was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because he knew the area and didn’t need to hop on a plane and rent a car to get to you, but a curse because New York was huge, and it could make keeping an eye on you difficult. He was experienced and knew how to track, but if you slipped from his gaze, it would only take a second for you to be taken.

Bucky brushed away the thought as he mounted his bike. If you listened, which all his clients did, everything would be fine. The next few weeks would be a pain in the ass, sure, but you would end up alive, and whatever freak was sending you drawings and breaking into your house would end up in jail.

The bike roared to life and peeled off from the curb. You were staying at a decoy apartment in Queens, a far cry from your Upper East Side penthouse, which he was sure you loved. He had researched you in depth when he got the assignment, and in that short time, he learned that you enjoyed the finer things in life—dinner parties with your friends, expensive coffees, shopping trips followed by lying on the beach.

This entire ordeal was probably so harrowing for you.

Bucky looked within himself to find the morsel of pity, but then found it. Because although you were rich and loved by the masses, there was also a creep breaking into your house and possibly threatening your life.

It wasn’t his job to judge his clients; it was his job to protect them.

He parked his bike three blocks away from your apartment, going down a few wrong roads, before backtracking and making his way to the correct building. He hadn’t spotted anyone tailing him. Yet.

The apartment he had set you up with was modest and certainly not the worst Queens had to offer. It had the cliche exposed brick lined with fire escapes and paint-chipped signs advertising companies that no longer existed, but the inside had been remodeled recently, and you technically had the penthouse suite. Not that that meant much in a building like this, but he really had tried to make sure you were comfortable.

His efforts obviously meant very little. Bucky knocked on the front door in the pattern he had emailed you, informing you to never open it unless you heard that exact rhythm, but he didn’t get to finish. The door was ripped from its hinges on the third knock.

And there you were. Dressed head to toe in expensive athleisure, hair still freshly done from whatever treatment you’d gotten recently, you smiled at him while also looking thoroughly unimpressed. The opposite expressions still looked kind somehow, and Bucky was aware of the copious amounts of media training you’d probably undergone.

“Bucky?” you asked, greeting him like he was late for a housewarming party and not walking into an apartment with a Stark-level security system. “I was wondering what time you were coming! Talia mentioned we would be meeting today, but I thought it would be much later.”

Bucky looked over your shoulder to assess the space for a brief moment before clearing his throat and furrowing his brow. “I was told your other security team ended their service last night, so I would be starting as soon as they left.”

You blew out a light-hearted breath and swatted the air, “You could have started a little later. You already moved me all the way to Queens in this… very cozy apartment. I would have been okay for a few more hours.”

“I would have come earlier, actually, but your manager told me you requested that I not.”

“Earlier? Bucky, it’s 7 am. How much earlier can you get?”

Bucky raised his brows expectantly, and you gave a slight giggle that echoed discomfort, shifting to the side to let him in. He nodded to you and then counted each camera placed in the space. He looked for the locks on the windows next, and then felt the floorboards under his boot for the one that gave an inch. Good—everything was in place, and he knew where the closest weapon was if he were disarmed.

Bucky looked out the window next, eyeing the apartment across the street to see in. He knew they couldn’t see him as he had the windows blacked out, but—

“Um, could you take your shoes off?” Bucky paused his inspection when your melodic voice hit his ears. “I just like to keep outside germs… outside, you know? And if I’m going to be here a while, I think having house rules might help. You’re going to be here a lot, right?”

Bucky turned slowly, the window now at his back. You were still by the door, your hands intertwined by your waist, your host-like smile still wide on your pretty face. Bucky looked down at his boots that had too many things lining the ankles. He rubbed the scruff on his jaw and fought off the sigh building in his throat.

“Let’s sit down,” he instructed, jutting his jaw toward the couch in the middle of the living room.

You blinked, looking off to the side before sitting beside him. Too close. Bucky adjusted the legs of his jeans and scooted back a few inches, but you didn’t seem to notice the change. You only looked at him expectantly, your smile dimmed somewhat, but not enough to impede how bright and beautiful you looked despite the circumstances.

Okay. Odd thought.

He must not have his head on straight; your bubbly nature was confusing him.

His clients were usually distraught and panicky by the time they reached him. Like you, most had already exhausted lesser security details and had dealt with weeks or months of danger. Hell, it was only two weeks ago that you had woken up to a shattered window and pictures of you strung up in your kitchen.

But as he looked at you now… nothing.

No fear. No panic. In fact, you looked pretty happy, not counting the subtle sidelong glances you made towards the interior of the older apartment.

Bucky needed to remember that you were a movie star, born with an innate charm that you had honed since you joined the limelight at 16. Of course he was going to be taken by you. He was sure everyone was.

Bucky flexed the muscle in his jaw and set his hands on his thighs. “I do have rules we need to discuss. None of them are house rules, but they are all rules that need to be followed for your safety, alright?”

You nodded in what looked like jest. “Okay, yes. I’m being very serious now.”

He eyed you for a moment, and then continued. “First, you didn’t follow my directions at the door. You don’t open that door unless I’m the one opening it or if you hear the knock we’ve discussed. I’ll change it every week, and from now on, we’ll do it in person so it won’t be in writing. I shouldn’t be knocking, though. I’ll have a key.”

“A key to here?” you interjected, looking equal parts confused and disbelieving.

“Yes to here. I’ll be living next door for the time being, so I’ll be close while you’re sleeping. As soon as you’re awake, I’ll be over. So, to answer your previous question, I will be here a lot.”

“Isn’t that a bit much? My last team only escorted me—”

“Your last team didn’t have a super soldier whose only job was to protect you. They were also the ones employed when your stalker broke in. Things are different now because they need to be different. Do you know my past? The things I can do?”

Some of the humor melted from your face. “Yes.”

“Good. Saves time. I’ll be here every morning at 7 am. You’ll give me your itinerary for the day the night before so I can plan for it. Once I get here, we’ll have a check-in. Anything new, any changes, you report to me then. I drive you where you want to go, and I vet each person you see. I have a list of your close friends and family that I’ve already cleared, but anyone else needs a two-day notice. When we’re out, I need eyes on you at all times. You have to go to the bathroom, you tell me. You want to go home, you tell me. A stranger on the street asks for directions, and I need to know about it.”

“Bucky, I don’t really think—”

“Not done,” Bucky shook his head. “I’m giving you my phone number. You use it if you hear anything at night when I’m next door, and you use it when you can’t see me in public. You don’t use it for anything else, got it?”

“Yes, but—”

“The police and my guys are looking for whoever this creep is. They have a few leads, and I’m honestly more confident that we will find him before the cops, but it’s going to take a while. That means you’re gonna have to be comfortable with all of this for at least a few weeks.”

A pause.

“Done now?” you asked.

Bucky could feel his reproach building as he slowly nodded. You took a deep breath in and shrugged your shoulders up towards your ears.

“Okay, well, I don’t know who you’ve worked with in the past, but people in public are going to be asking me for a lot more than directions. If I leave the house most days, I get stopped by at least a dozen people asking for pictures or just saying hello. Do you want me to get their contact info one by one, or should I just ask for a pic of their social security card to speed up the process?”

Bucky jutted his jaw to the side in place of a response. You took that as an invitation to continue. “I also don’t love that I have to have my entire day planned out the night before. I like to be spontaneous sometimes, you know? I’m also on the waitlist for my workout classes often, and I can’t know if I’ll get off of it that far in advance. Wait, are you going to be like, in my classes with me?”

You kept going after that, complaining next that 7 am was too early, and then that he needed two entire days to vet your friends before you could see them, and then that you had to tell him when you were going to the bathroom because that was embarrassing and not right. Bucky listened to each word with his hands limp between his legs, his ass sinking deeper into the couch.

This was going to be a lot harder than he had anticipated, and not even because you were a celebrity. Because he had accounted for the fans and paparazzi, but he had not accounted for you being so nonchalant about a crazy person coming after you.

“Okay, okay, listen to me,” Bucky grunted, interrupting your spiel on good restaurants and why none of them would be in Queens. “I get it, okay? You’ve had to uproot your life, and it’s not fun. I know it’s not fun. But your life is the thing at stake here. Your. Life. The guy knew where you lived, knew how to get in—I saw the things he left. I don’t work paparazzi security details. I turn down dozens of cases a week because they don’t fit the level of safety that I work for. I took yours minutes after getting it. Does that tell you anything?”

You huffed and gave a poorly concealed eyeroll, but Bucky’s trained eyes caught the fists you were making against the couch cushion. He saw how your shoulders slumped an inch and how something deflated in your posture. Still, you didn’t relent.

“Alright, I get it, oh great and scary super soldier,” you laughed off, grabbing your phone from the coffee table. “Put your number in then. I’ll follow your rules.”

Bucky kept you in his gaze as he grabbed it from you and then handed it back. “Add me to the face recognition.”

“What? No way. Why on earth would you need that?”

“Can’t have secrets. And if there’s an emergency, I need to know that nothing will hold us up. Even if that’s just having a phone I can access.”

“You’re insane. I’m not giving you free rein of my phone.” You held the device close to your chest in horror, clutching it as if it would protect you from Bucky’s words.

He only sighed from a place deep within his chest. “Relax. I’m not interested in your texts or whatever else you have going on in there. In fact, I’m not really interested in anything that has to do with you other than your safety. So stop worrying about pilates and your brunches, okay?”

You scoffed, and then you scoffed again. Tapping the screen a few times, you held then held it out to Bucky, unlocked and ready for his invasion. “You sure are charming, aren’t you?” you gritted out.

He allowed a slight upturn of his mouth. “Enough to get the job done.”

On the third day of your protection detail, Bucky began questioning his sanity.

Y/N: Boooring right? I hate table reads when I only have like two lines

Bucky pursed his lips and glanced down at your text.

Bucky: I told you to only use this number for emergencies.

Y/N: A period??? What have I done to earn such anger from you :(

Bucky: What the hell are you talking about?

Someone from across the room called your name, pulling your attention from the pointless conversation with Bucky, and he almost sighed in relief.

As it turned out, you did not listen to his rules.

Well, that wasn’t entirely fair to say. You listened to some of his rules. Sometimes. You gave him an itinerary each night, but would you actually stick to it the next day? That was a question Bucky quickly realized he needed to ask. And sure, you stayed in his line of sight, but being a super soldier meant he could see very far away, and you sure did love to take advantage of that.

God and the texting. Bucky was pretty sure you did it to annoy him. He got good morning texts, goodnight texts, texts about the people in the room he was in, and if you liked the meal you were eating; each time you picked up your phone, it was as if you were programmed to send him a meaningless message.

The first morning, it had scared the shit out of him. You were the only person who had the number, so when he heard the notification ding on his nightstand, he jumped from bed and was halfway dressed in the hall before he read it. All you had said was ‘good morning’ with a winky face that personally offended him.

You thought it was hilarious when he came in a few minutes later—fully dressed—with a stern expression and a mean talk. Of course, that had done nothing to abate the constant text messages, and he was sure you would start calling him if he wasn’t constantly with you.

“Y/n, do you have a moment? I want to run you by the hair and makeup team we just hired.”

Bucky perked up from his storm of annoyed thoughts in the corner of the room. He kicked off the wall and hovered a few feet away as you nodded with a smile and made a joke he didn’t have context for.

Right, you leaving the room without checking in with him. Perfect.

Navigating through a sea of trailers on a lot with the sun beating down on him was almost nauseating. He caught the producer eyeing him a few times, with fear or concern, he couldn’t tell, and Bucky slid his sunglasses on to hide the fact that he was eyeing her as well.

And you, but that was for business purposes.

You looked more casual today, with a large college sweater pulled over fleece pants and shoes that Bucky knew you couldn’t run in if he needed you to.

“If those damn slippers fly off, I’m dragging your ass around New York like a sack of potatoes.”

“They’re comfy, Bucky. I’m not wearing running shoes to a table read.”

Bucky was learning—rather reluctantly—that no amount of fear or harsh talk was going to make you take things seriously. So, he was just going to have to be extra serious for both of you, even when you made it hard with your stupid emojis and the shimmery sunscreen you wouldn’t stop talking about that caught the sun just right.

God, you pissed him off.

You met the hair and makeup team, whom he hadn’t been able to research beforehand, and then introduced him to the hair and makeup team, the hand on his back entirely inappropriate and burning a hole through his shirt.

“Oh, wow, y/n, you have an Avenger as a bodyguard? How marvelous,” the hairstylist, Barbara, cooed.

Bucky offered her a smile that looked like he had eaten a lemon, and the middle-aged woman quickly turned back to you, gushing over your complexion and how it was going to work perfectly with the products she had.

Bucky didn’t have the mind to correct Barbara, and he also didn’t have the clearance to explain the real reason he was here. People didn’t know what you were going through, and they wouldn’t until the bastard was caught. It was safer that way.

Bucky didn’t miss the way you slunk behind him slightly when the conversation went to your past security detail and how handsome he was. She had seen pictures on Twitter, Barbara explained, and she couldn’t get over how tall and good-looking he was.

“Oh, not as handsome as you. Obviously, Mr. Barnes,” Barbara called, her hand landing on vibranium as she laughed and missed the fact that you had started picking at your fingers.

Bucky did not miss it. He did not miss anything.

“Thank you. We have to get going, though. Your appointment?” Bucky directed the question toward you, watching your expression shift back to effortless ease that made you look pretty in a way that was good for movies.

“Right, yeah. It was great to meet you, Barbara. I’ll see you when filming starts!”

The car ride back home was relatively silent, which was strange and almost alarming for Bucky. Granted, he’d only been in vehicles with you for a grand total of three days, but you always talked for the entire ride in his limited experience, and right now, nothing.

He surprised himself by breaking what he thought was welcome silence. “Those slippers hold up then?”

With your gaze down toward your fingers, you allowed a small smile to creep up. “They are not slippers, Bucky. They’re very fashionable right now. I’m going to get you a pair.”

“I’ll toss ‘em.”

“You won’t. I've been watching you eye them. You’d kill for the comfort, I just know it.”

“You know nothing. I hate those things. Can’t get anywhere with them.”

“I got around just fine.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and looked through each mirror in the car once, and then twice. He looked to you next, admiring—or observing, rather—the ease that didn’t look as fake anymore. You tapped your index finger on your thigh and then moved it to the car door.

“Hey,” you called out. He felt your gaze on the side of his face.

“Yes?”

“I know this isn’t part of the itinerary, but can we stop somewhere?”

Bucky found himself inside an entirely too-hot ice cream shop about ten minutes later. The older woman behind the counter was sweet, but everyone was a suspect to him, so he watched her carefully as you bent over to look at the flavors. He shouldn’t have said yes, but you were talking again, and he gave in too easily.

“You’re not going to look?” you asked, a sample spoon loose between your fingers.

“I’ll get vanilla.”

“Vanilla?” you exasperated, hand jutting to the tubs behind plexiglass. “But you haven’t even looked at the options. What if there’s something better?”

Bucky looked to the exit and then to the door leading to the back of the shop. He accounted for the camera in the far corner and stepped a few inches closer to you.

“Vanilla’s always good,” he simply offered.

“Right. I’m sure you’ve been getting that same flavor since, what, the 1930s?”

The older woman snickered and raised her brows, hoping for a reaction she wouldn’t get.

“Pick one, y/n. We’re behind schedule.”

You scoffed, one of your favorite things to do, and muttered, “Behind schedule to go sit on my ass at home.”

The reprieve from your sass apparently only lasted for the car ride, and Bucky did not ask what made you upset as he ordered his vanilla scoop and ignored your eye roll. He felt like he wanted to ask, maybe, but that was not his job. He didn’t get invested in his clients. That made things messy, unworkable.

You were fine, anyways. You bounced back after only a few words from him and a container that held more toppings than actual ice cream, so you were fine.

Bucky monitored the sidewalk as you stepped out from the shop and mindlessly meandered back to the car. He looked both ways, profiled two men who obviously recognized you, and then placed a hand on your lower back to usher you into the car. He held your ice cream with an unimpressed look as you buckled your seatbelt, and then watched your head as he closed the door. He locked it for the short jog over to the driver’s side, regretting his own ice cream as it slowed him down getting back in.

All the while, you tapped at your phone and dug into the sweet concoction that made Bucky sick just looking at it, not a lick of concern on your face.

“You could at least act a little cautious, you know,” Bucky deadpanned, pulling away from the curb after letting every car pass on the street. “Might do you some good.”

You knocked your head back on the headrest. “You need to chill out a little. You’ve been with me for days and nothing’s happened. You’re scaring people. You freaked that little girl out yesterday when she asked for a picture. She cried.”

“I was more worried about her dad,” Bucky grunted out. “And she didn’t cry. It was windy. Her eyes were watering.”

“Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes series

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saltysbiscuits · 3 days ago

Text

Silence Isn't Golden

Saja boys x reader

Warnings: Omegaverse, poly relationships, female reader, eventual smut, MDNI 18+

Chapter warnings: SMUT, MDNI 18+, Do NOT read if you're under 18!!

*Italicized is for the reader's thoughts. A/N: Annnnnd here we are! Enjoy the boys being both feral and loving with reader! Now, this like my first time writing smut so I'm really sorry if it's cringe. I didn't have time to proofread it, so hopefully there are not too many mistakes. Enjoy~

Previous - Next

Chapter 6.

You sigh, staring at the door once the boys close it, well, time to figure out something to do. You glance around the penthouse and notice it’s quite messy. You shake your head and start picking things up in the kitchen, which is probably the cleanest of the rooms. You gasp when you see your phone sitting on the counter, you must have forgotten all about it. Picking it up, you scroll through Spotify and press play on a random playlist, humming and singing to the music that comes on. You grab a broom sweeping up the floor while dancing with the broom. You grin when 'Soda Pop' comes on, swaying and mouthing along with the words. Humming to yourself you move to the living and chuckle at the pillows literally everywhere. You shake your head in amusement and move about reorganizing them, putting the color-coded pillows in their specific chairs. “P..p-pillow.” You stutter out, deciding to practice some words while you clean.

The next places to clean are the bedrooms, but the boys haven’t let you in their respective rooms yet, so you decide to just go to the room you were staying in until they allow you to enter their rooms. You clean what you can, the floor, organize the closet, make the bed, and pick up what laundry is in the room. “L-lau- laundry.” You bite your bottom lip, frowning at how much harder speaking is than you thought it would be. Carrying the laundry to the washing machine you start a load of laundry, sighing and running a hand down your face, suddenly very warm. ‘The hell. Am I really that out of shape?’ You glance down at your body but shake your head. ‘No? Not really. Maybe I’m just not used to housework.’ You shrug it off and head back to the kitchen, determined to make the boys a nice dinner for when they return. ‘What to make… Hmm.’ You pull out a recipe book, snorting at the title. ‘The Hottest Chef’s Hot Recipes’. It’s definitely Abby’s. You flip through the book, jolting at a sudden chill running down your spine. ‘Am I getting sick?’ You pour some water in a cup and down it, sweating again.

You shake your head, panting softly as you go back to the cookbook, or try to. As soon as you flip another page, heat flares and curls in your belly, going right between your legs. With a shudder you finally realize what’s happening. The suppressants have worn off. You stumble down the hallways on shaky legs, your skin heats up and the spot between your thigh’s aches. You stumble into your bedroom, ripping your shirt off nearly clawing at your own skin.

It’s so hot. ‘W-where are they? It’s so hot… s-so painful.’ You groan, stripping your shorts off. Everything is too much. You collapse on the bed, your chest moving frantically with your labored breathing. ‘So this is what a heat feels like… i-it’s so uncomfortable...’ Then the air shifts and everything feels a little more bearable. “Sweetheart?!” “Darling?! “Pretty girl, where are you?!” Several frantic voices echo through the penthouse. You whine softly, too worked up to even try and talk.

It's Baby who finds you, he turns the corner and his eyes immediately dilate. “She’s in the bedroom!” His call is followed by four pairs of frantic footsteps. They all pile into the bedroom and freeze, all their eyes dilating and glowing. “Oh, baby girl.” Romance purrs, crawling onto the bed and capturing your lips into a kiss, his hands running down your sides, sending tingles down your spine. “We’ll help you, make you feel allllll better.” Abby purrs next to your ear, slipping one hand behind you to unclasp your bra, which is promptly tossed somewhere.

Romance pulls back slightly to pepper kisses on your jaw and neck. “Sweet thing… so pretty for us.” He shifts to the side, allowing the others access to you. Abby starts kissing your shoulder, moving down to your chest. He presses a kiss to the swell of your breast before taking the nipple in his mouth, biting it lightly to draw a whine from you, only to soothe it with his tongue. You moan, eyes glazing over with the heat, clutching at Romance’s shoulders. Baby crawls between your legs, meeting your eyes as he hooks his fingers around your panties. “Eyes on me, baby.” He doesn’t break eye contact as he slowly slips them off, tossing them.

You shudder, a whine leaving you lips as the cool air hits your most sensitive parts. “Gorgeous.” Baby murmurs, his eyes fixed on your dripping slit. “So wet…” He runs a finger through your folds, groaning at how wet you are. “So wet for us.” He brings his finger to his mouth and licks it. “You taste so good.” Mystery growls, pushing Baby out of the way and taking his place. He kisses up your thighs, nipping before biting. You hiss at the sudden pain, which melts into a moan as he kisses your clit in apologies. Mystery scoots forward and looks up at you. “Going to devour this pussy baby.” He doesn’t give you any more warning before he’s diving in. His tongue is licking a stripe up your slit.

You cry out, hips bucking only for Abby to press a hand to your abdomen. “Nu-uh sweetheart. Let him feast.” Romance reluctantly moves from your neck, pressing his lips to your neglected nipple, allowing Abby to claim your lips. Jinu stands in the back, his eyes glowing and his hands clenched into fists as he takes his shirt off.

You look so wrecked already and they’ve barely begun. Mystery slips his tongue into you, his nose brushing your clit with each movement. You moan against Abby’s lips, fingers digging into his shoulders, small trembles going through your body. The heat curls tighter in your abdomen and with one more thrust of Mystery’s tongue you crash over the edge. Abby pulls back as you cry out, gushing on Mystery’s tongue. Mystery pulls back; his face soaked in your juices. He licks his lips, a purr rumbling his chest. “Delicious.” He purrs, crawling over you to press a bruising kiss to your lips. Jinu takes the empty space between your legs, patting your thigh. “You’re such a good girl for us baby. You look so beautiful when you orgasm.” He slips a finger into you, rubbing your clit with his thumb. You whine slightly at the stretch, hiss when he puts another finger in. “I gotta stretch you for us, pretty girl. We don’t want to hurt you.”

Baby grunts, sitting in a chair near the bed, his pants down as he palms his erection. “You’re enough to make us loose control.” Romance sighs dreamily, running his fingers over your chest, flicking your nipples. “So pretty…” Jinu slowly eases a third finger into you, gently thrusting and it’s not long before you fall into another orgasm. “So wet, I think you might be ready.” He steps back and slowly unbuckles his pants.

You stare at him, eyes blown wide from the heat and everything they’ve done to you. Your eyes trail down as his pants slip off and you gasp. While you have no experience with sex, you know he’s well endowed. He’s long and he has a good girth. He strokes himself a few times before crawling over you. “I’m going to slowly put it in okay, baby? You tell me if it hurts, okay?” You give him a shuddering nod, feeling the head of his cock gently prodding at your entrance. Abby tugs Mystery off you, allowing you room to breathe as Jinu slowly pushes in. You hiss, a whine falling from your lips. It stings, but you’re already really wet so he slides in pretty easy. He bottoms out with a groan and holds still. “You feel so good…” He grunts when your walls clench around him. He gently starts rolling his hips and you let out a choked sound, shuddering and rolling your hips to meet his.

He grins, his fangs on display. “Eager, aren’t you?” There was something else, you could see flickers of his patterns on his skin, as if keeping his disguise up was becoming a challenge. “W-want.. t-to see.. y-you..” You whimper out, feeling him so deep inside you. You want to see the real him while he takes you, same with the others. Jinu freezes, his hands on either side of your head. “Sweetie… you don’t know what you’re asking. I’m not… I’m not pretty in my demon form.” You try to shift, your breath hitching with a light moan as his cock shifts inside you. “W-want.. to s-see you.. I.. d-don’t care…” You reach up and cup his face, brushing his cheeks with your thumbs. “…please.”

Jinu’s resolves cracks as he looks down at you, how can he resist? With a shuddering sigh he lets the disguise drop, revealing golden eyes, purple skin, patterns, and claws. You gasp, trembling fingers tracing down his chest, fingers tracing the patterns. “S-so pretty…” Jinu looks down at you and seeing the love and acceptance in your eyes breaks something in him. He growls, bracing himself as he starts thrusting harder, not to hurt, but to prove just how much he loves you. You cry out, fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders and he thrusts into you, his own grunts echoing in your ears. You can feel the coil of heat in your abdomen growing tighter and tighter as he pounds into you. Suddenly the bond pulls taut, and your arm flares with light. The lion mark on your arm glows gently and Jinu bends down to kiss it, gently biting down on it. The bond snaps and your connection with Jinu is complete, whole. You cry out at just that moment, your orgasm crashing through you as the bond trembles through your whole body. Jinu groans, feeling the bond snap into the place as he spills himself inside of you.

He slumps forward, hovering over you but being careful not to crush you. “You’re beautiful…” He presses a kiss to your forehead and then your lips. “You’re my everything. I love you.” He whispers before slowly pulling out. You whine at the sudden emptiness, shivering at the feel of his release inside you.

Romance steps up next, naked and hard. He crawls up next to you, purring softly in your ear. “Darling... you did so good for Jinu. Will be a good girl for me too?” You nod, your heat already making you desperate for the next joining. “Y-yes… bu-ut..” You cough slightly on your words. “Shh, easy baby, breathe.” Romance rubs your back and gives you a glass of water to sip from, though you don’t know where he got it. “There, we go.” You whine and pull his hand. “W-want to see.. y-you.. a-all..”

You glanced around at them, hoping they understood exactly what you wanted. That you want to see them, demon and all. They all share a look before they start dropping their disguises one by one. Your breath hitches and you nearly start crying. “So.. pretty.” You whisper and they all tense. Romance nuzzles into your cheek before slowly positioning himself between your legs. “You don’t know what you do to us, Darling. You make us go feral.” He grins, pressing kisses up your neck as he slowly pushes in. You mewl softly, trying to buck your hips up into his. “Shh, have patience. I want you to feel good darling.” Romance is slow with his thrusts, savoring every second of being inside you. “So warm, so wet.” He moans softly in your ear, angling his hips to try and hit that one special spot inside you. “You make m-me feel so good darling…” He grunts, thrusting particularly hard. You gasp and moan, choking out a cry as he hits that spot inside you. “Ah~ There it is.” He growls into your ear, moving to nip at your jaw. He moves his hits to hit that spot every single thrust.

Your eyes widen and you cry out, squirming and clutching at his shoulders. “R-Romance-! F-faster-” You whine out his name, desperate for more friction. If you were of clear mind, you might find the sounds of your joining embarrassing and how fast he was making you fall apart, but you’re not and all you can do is beg for more.

“P-please-!” You whimper, you are so close, so close to another orgasm. You can feel the bond, it’s pulled so tight, you can feel it vibrating, wrapping around you and Romance like a blanket. Just a little more… With one more snap of his hips, you arch up into him, screaming out your release. Romance groans, burying his face in your neck as he fills you, only pulling back when the rose mark on your arm glows. He leans over, kissing it gently before biting it. It sends a jolt through both of you as your bond to him solidifies.

With a shuddering sigh, you wrap your arms around his neck, taking a moment to calm your racing heart. “So, so perfect for me darling. My one and only.” He mumbles into your neck, inhaling your scent like he would die without it. A growl snaps you both out of your reverie. Mystery stands at the end of the bed looking absolutely feral. Romance rolls his eyes and slowly pulls out, shushing you quietly when you whimper. “Alright, alright.” He grumbles, pressing one more kiss to your lips before stepping back to let Mystery take his place.

Mystery crawls over you, his cock longer than the Jinu’s or Romance’s with a slightly curved tip. You shiver, imagining how far it’ll go in you. He bends down, running his fingers through the mess between your folds, pushing the mess of both Jinu and Romance’s essence back inside. “So messy~” He growls, brushing your clit with his thumb. You twitch, a moan slipping from your lips. Every part of you is so sensitive, so alive. He leans down to your neck, burying his face right in the crook of it before biting. You let out a cry of both pain and pleasure, your legs wrapping around his waist as you cling to him.

Mystery pulls back, purring and licking the bite mark before shifting so he was lined up with your entrance. He looks down at you, his hair falling from his face. You stare into his eyes, and you see love shining back, along with his desire. You shudder when he enters you faster than Romance did. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, he’s so deep, further than the other two have gotten. “M-mystery-“ You choke out, your walls squeezing him like a velvet vice. He snarls, claws digging into the sheets by your head. “You’re so tight.” He drags one hand down to your belly and presses gently. You let out a wail, feeling him press down only amplified the feeling of him inside. With a grin he pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in. Your breath hitches and you let out a high-pitched moan, one hand gripping at his arm and the other digging into the bed. Mystery wasn’t slow, his hips snapping quickly as if he didn’t come in your right now, he'd lose himself. You cry out, back arching up into him, vaguely hearing Baby growl. “Fuck look at her… So pretty, so needy just for us.” Mystery ignored him and took one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking harshly before licking the sting away.

The pleasure aches higher and higher, until Mystery brings you in for a bruising kiss, just as he slammed in and spilled himself. You cry out against his lips, your walls clamping down and squeezing him hard. He groans, breaking the kiss to see his mark glowing on your arm. An eye with a star for a pupil. He wastes no time leaning over and biting, snapping the bond in place. You shudder, another wave of pleasure washing over you as the bond curls around your soul and binds you both together.

You tremble, overwhelmed in the best way. You shiver when Mystery runs his nose down your neck, nearly groaning at your scent. He curls around you tighter until Baby grunts, pulling Mystery’s hair. “Get off, there’s still two more of us.” Mystery growls back, pressing a kiss to your neck before slowly pulling out, snarling at Baby before backing off.

You look up at Baby, a tremble going through you at the look in his eyes. He looks more feral than Mystery did. “I’ve waited so long for this, you know? I’ve wanted you so bad.” He sits down next to you, but you’re going to have to work a bit for my cock, baby girl.” “Baby don’t-” Romance tries to intervene, standing quietly. “Shut up! I waited long enough for this.” He snarls angrily at Romance before turning back to you. He runs his fingers through your hair before gripping tighter. “I want to know how that pretty mouth feels on my cock, yeah? Think you could do that for me, baby girl?” You give him a shaky nod, slowly moving to sit up. Baby slips off the bed and stands, stroking his cock while waiting for you. Your legs tremble as you kneel on the bed, licking your lips before reaching out to stroke his cock yourself. You take a shaky breath and then wrap the tip of his cock with your lips, tentatively licking with your tongue. Baby groans, his fingers gripping your hair. “Y-yeah baby… like that.” He tugs your hair gently and you slip more of him into your mouth. You twirl your tongue around his tip and suck. He groans, his hips jerking slightly. “Baby girl… you’re so good…” You keep sucking him until he pulls you off. “T-that’s enough… I want to come in your pussy, not your mouth.”

He pushes you back onto the bed and hovers over you, already lined up with your entrance. “I’m not going to be gentle like the others. Better hold on.” He grins, all fangs with glowing eyes then he thrusts. You let out a surprised squeal, the obscene sounds of him plowing into you echoing in the room. One of his hands slides up your chest and lands on your throat, he doesn’t squeeze, just holds it there like he owns you. True to his words, he was rather rough, aiming his hips to hit your special spot over and over again. He groans when your walls tighten and flutter round him, pulling out and flipping you onto your stomach. He leans down over you and thrusts back in, not slowing down. “Fuck. S-so good for me baby. I’m so close…” You moan out his name.” B-Baby-!” You walls clamp down on him as you gush on his cock. He groans loudly, burying his face in your shoulder as he comes in you, his hips jerking. The lollipop shaped mark glows and pulses, drawing his attention. He sinks his teeth in, biting hard enough to draw blood. You whimper at the slightly pain the bond easing, binding you to him. Only one more. Abby stands off to the side, watching you shudder under Baby. He watches Baby tremble lightly; knowing he was feeling more than he would ever tell. Eventually he can’t wait anymore. “Alright, you’ve had your fun. It’s my turn now.” Abby grins, patting Baby’s back as he slips out of you. You whine softly, beginning to feel the effects of being taken so many times as you try to sit up. The moment you catch sight of Abby’s cock you freeze. There is no way in hell that’ll fit you in, not even after being stretched open four other times. Abby sees you face and shushes you. “You’ll be fine sweetheart. We’ll make it fit.” He sits down on the bed and pulls you onto his lap. You straddle his waist and can feel her cock rubbing on your folds. He grunts, rubbing his cock through your folds to lube himself up. He slipped two of his fingers into you causing you to whine. “Hush sweetheart. I need to stretch you a bit more. I really don’t want to hurt you.” He slowly thrusts with two fingers before adding a third. You moan softly, your walls fluttering around his fingers. “Are you gonna cum just from my fingers?” He grins and picks up the pace, you mewl and let out a quiet cry, coming on his fingers. He pulls his fingers out and brings them up to his mouth, licking them clean. “Delicious sweetheart.” He lifts you up and lines you up with his cock. “Just tell me if it hurts too much, okay?” He then slowly lowers you onto his cock. You gasp and dig your fingers into his shoulders, not only was he long he was thick. Like, really, really thick.” A-Abby- t-too much-“ You whine, breath hitching as he slides deeper. It stings, but it’s not overly painful. You let out a choked sound when he finally bottoms out, his tip pressing into your cervix. “F-fuck sweetheart, you’re so tight.” He grunts, barely keeping himself from plowing up into you.

You tremble against him, feeling like you’re going to melt into a little puddle. You’re so hot, overwhelmed, but so full and content. You don’t even realize, but you start purring. All the boys stare at you, sitting on Abby’s lap like that, yet purring like you’re a kitten. “Ah, sweetheart… I can’t hold back if you’re going to make that cute noise.” Abby nuzzles into the column of your throat and rolls his hips up. You cry out, walls clenching as pleasure washing through you. “Hell yeah… squeeze me like that.” Abby alternates between rolling his hips gently and utterly ruining you. You really don’t even know what’s real anymore. Your mind is so fuzzy with pleasure and all of them. They’ve ruined you in the best way possible and don’t ever plan on letting you go. Abby bottoms out with a loud grunt as he loses himself in you, filling you up. You scream, you body seizing up in one last mind-shattering orgasm. Your vision goes white, barely registering Abby biting the rock mark on your arm as it glows. The bond completely and you feel so whole and perfect, like everything is as it’s meant to be.

When you come down from you high Abby gently pulls out, murmuring how good you were for them and how well you took them all. “Such a good girl.” Romance appears in your vision with a soft smile and cloth, gently wiping you down, pressing kisses to the sore spots. “Bath’s ready.” Baby calls from the doorway, still in his demon form.

Abby scoops you up and carries you into the bathroom, gently lowering you into the tub. Romance slips in behind you, smirking at Abby before gently lathering a washcloth. “Why don’t you go help clean the bed and get it ready? She’s going to need a nap after all that.” With a grunt, Abby hangs a towel by the tub for when you’re done. “Fine, but you better not take too long.” Romance just smiles and gently washes you, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. When he’s finished, Baby appears and helps lift you from the tub. “Figured you’d need help.” “Or you’re just needy and won’t admit it.” Baby glares at Romance but doesn’t comment as they dry you off, brush your hair, and slip you into a t-shirt and shorts.

You’re barely conscious through all of it, barely mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’ to them. Baby picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and resting your head on his shoulder as he carries you back to the bedroom. The others had all changed themselves into comfier clothing and then they stripped the bed, remaking it with the fluffiest sheets they have.

They all watch as Baby carries you back to bed, sleeping soundly in his arms. “She so cute when she sleeps…” He gently lays you down in the middle of the bed and they all pile in around you, creating a big cuddle pile. Baby was hugging you to his chest and Mystery was cuddled up to your chest, resting his head there. Jinu was half on top of Baby so he could at least touch you and Abby as hugging Mystery from behind so he could hug you as well. Romance walks into the room after cleaning up the bedroom and pouts. “Really? You take all the good spots.” He grumbles, but crawls between Abby and Mystery. They all sigh, not really needing to sleep, but they want to be near you. “We’re staying home all day tomorrow. I don’t think I could do anything without thinking of her.” Abby whispers quietly, looking at your peaceful face. “Agreed. “We’ll just stay home and enjoy our omega.” Jinue agrees. The room goes silent after that, but the bond hums, this time completed and content. Finally whole. They were all bound to you now and you to them. They will never leave your side. No sin is too dark for them to commit, not if it means keeping you safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

taglist:

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#kpop demon hunters #saja boys #saja boys x reader #kpdh #kpdh x reader #kpdh jinu #kpdh abby #kpdh mystery #kpdh romance #kpdh baby #kpdh mira #kpdh zoey #kpdh rumi

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slutty4jk · 3 days ago

Text

KISS ME! | JJK › PART 3

Summary: You and Jungkook have known each other your whole lives. Childhood best friends turned almost something more. He’s charming, popular, and scared of commitment. You’re ambitious, guarded, and tired of being a maybe.

After one kiss changes everything, you realize wanting him isn’t enough if he won’t choose you back. But walking away is easier said than done.

University brings distance, jealousy, and new people. You’re ready to move on. He’s finally starting to realize he can’t. Not when it’s always been you.

pairing: childhoodbestfriend!jungkook x (fem) reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, kinda toxic but delicious, mutual pining, fluff & eventual smut

rating: 18+ (mdni!!)

word count: 6.4k 💌

warnings: emotional whiplash, mutual pining, possessiveness, unresolved tension, brief semi-explicit sex scenes, cheating, ghosting, jealousy, heartbreak, toxic patterns, emotional manipulation, blurred boundaries, self-sabotage, car accident (mild injury), family confrontation, guilt, vulnerability, difficult conversations about infidelity and neglect and kissing... again

A/N: Don't be mad... shit it about to go down, I swear. lmk what you think about this part Happy reading! - Ivy ₍^. .^₎Ⳋ

Taglist: @akirawhore @amarawayne @jahnaviii @crazyovayou @niniythv @dollyunjinz @yungies @caaally @aestheticalime @flaneuseonthestreets @goldenko-97 @lachimolalajeon @buckylov3r @labbbaaa @bts123746 @chxiosworld @qu3t @littlecherri @alessiamargaux @lokislittlemouse-library @enchantingeagleengineer @jeoncasino @minnie-mouser22 @tinytangerineangel @yourlittleslutcums @httpjeonlicious @uaremyserene @intro-bts @glossyxiaoting

please like, reblog, follow & scream into the void for more! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

KISSME!MOODBOARD | KISSME!PLAYLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST ⭑.ᐟ

The door pretty much slams into your face, and you stumble back, rubbing your forehead. "Ow," you grumble, frustration rising.

Jungkook peeks his head into the room, seeing you standing there. "Oh, shit, my bad," he says, his voice laced with concern as he opens the door wider. He steps in, closing the door behind him and locking it like he always does.

It’s a habit at this point.

You stop rubbing your forehead, a big red mark standing out. "What do you want?" you snap, unable to mask the anger creeping into your tone. You didn’t mean to sound so hostile, but this dumbass just hit you with a door.

“Sorry. Your big-ass forehead got in the way," he chuckles, clearly trying to lighten the mood. He knows you’re upset.

You scoff, slapping his arm. “Not funny.” You grumble. "Seriously, why are you here?”

"First of all, hi," he says, almost matter-of-factly.

“That’s it? Hi?” There’s so much you want to say, yet nothing else comes out.

"Yeah. You didn’t say hi to me back there," he replies, raising an eyebrow.

“What are you talking about?" you ask, genuinely confused.

"When I got here," he deadpans.

"It’s not like you said hi to me.” Your heart is pounding, and you hate that he’s trying to act normal.

What is he doing here? Why did he follow you to your room when his girlfriend was just downstairs? Your heart couldn’t deal with so much right now; you wanted to hug him, cry, and ask him why he didn’t choose you, but you stood your ground, arms crossed over your chest as if you were protecting yourself.

"You left before I could.” He countered that it was true, but he still could have said something first.

"Yeah, but you know what I mean.” He could have said something a long time ago, two months ago, to be exact. He could have been honest with you from the start, but he wasn’t, and he didn’t put much effort into saying anything to you, not when his girlfriend had spoken to you first.

"No, I don’t.” Is he acting stupid, or is he really that clueless?

You let out a frustrated huff, your fists clenching. Seriously? Does he really not get it? "You haven’t messaged me or even reached out to me for what? Almost two months?”

"I... I thought you were busy," he says, guilt bleeding through his voice.

"You seemed busy.” You glare at him, hugging yourself, trying not to let your eyes linger on him too long. He looked too good tonight. Unfairly good. But you weren’t about to admit that.

Your gaze drops to your shoes, the same stupid Mary Janes you wore a year ago when you were in a similar position with him.

That slow, ugly burn of resentment twists in your chest, igniting everything you’d worked so hard to bury.

You’d imagined him showing up alone. Maybe with flowers. Maybe with that boyish smile he used to save just for you.

Maybe he’d pull you aside and say he was sorry.

He scoffs. “You know what? Maybe I was.” He hated when you got like this, when you made him guess what was wrong instead of saying it.

"With your new girlfriend?" You bite, your voice thick with frustration, lips twitching from holding it all in.

"Oh? Is that what this is about?” His tone sharpens. He’s reading you like he always does, like an open book.

"What do you think it’s about?"

"What do you want me to think it’s about?" he presses, his voice low, edged with mockery.

"You’re smart enough to realize," you snap, your arms crossing tighter across your chest.

"I'm flattered—"

"What'd you come here for, Jungkook?" You cut him off coldly. "Why leave your girlfriend downstairs and lock yourself in my room with me? Just to say hi?”

"I—"

"I," you repeat, mocking. "You what?" Your voice cracks open, sharp and exposed.

He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t have to.

You just got played. And the worst part? You let it happen.

You were a fool to think he wasn’t talking to you because he was busy; he was just busy with other girls, and he never cared about you.

"Don’t be like that," he says softly, a frown pulling at his lips.

"Be like what?" you shoot back.

You saw them. You saw her speak with your parents and your family, fitting too perfectly into a spot that used to feel like yours. It made you sick. You wonder if she knows, if she’d still hold his hand if she did.

He stares at you like he can’t believe you said it out loud, like he’s shocked you're not playing nice.

"You don’t get to act surprised," you add, quieter. "You made it obvious.”

He doesn’t respond. And the silence says more than he ever could.

(THREE MONTHS AGO)

Jungkook didn’t know why he kept letting it happen.

He told himself it was a one-time thing. A slip, a mistake. But that lie stopped working after the third time… maybe even the first.

It kept happening. For almost a year now.

Every time he saw you, it was like a fuse lit under his skin. You’d look at him a certain way, and he’d lose all sense of reason.

He wanted you like he’d never wanted anything else: wild, stupid, and desperate. The way your body moved under his, how your hands tugged at his hair, and the way his name sounded on your lips.

It was enough to make him forget everything.

That night in your bedroom was no different.

Your legs were wrapped around his hips, pulling him in deeper, your breath catching with each thrust. His hands pressed into the sheets on either side of your head, his mouth at your throat, biting softly. Your nails scraped down his back, and he groaned at the sting. You closed your eyes and bit your lips, trying to keep quiet.

“Open your eyes,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin.

You did and it destroyed him. The look in your eyes, like he was everything you didn’t even have to say it. He could feel it in your body, in the way you held him, and in the way you trembled around him. Your lipstick was smeared, cheeks flushed, and lips parted in a silent moan. The little gasps you let out every time his hips met yours drove him insane.

“Kiss me,” you breathed.

So he did. Deep, slow and aching. Your tongues tangled, messy, and desperate, your fingers threading into his hair like you were trying to keep him there forever. His pace stuttered. Fuck. He was close.

‘I love you.’ It almost slipped out. It was right there, on the tip of his tongue

Instead, he bit his lip and, buried his face into your neck, let it rot with everything else he didn’t know how to say.

“Fuck, Y/N… I’m about to cum,” he groaned, voice hoarse.

“Me too,” you gasped, thighs tightening around him.

“Shhh… Let me take you there.” He kissed you again and rocked into you harder, deeper, chasing that edge.

You cried out his name, your body tightening around him, clenching, soaking, milking every last bit of him until he was shaking.

“Fuck,” he gasped, pulling out at the last second, letting his cum spill across your stomach in hot, messy streaks.

You lay there afterward, chest rising and falling, your hand reaching for his like it meant something and maybe it did.

You were soft and glowing and completely unaware. You didn’t know; you didn’t know he was still seeing other girls, didn’t know that this was killing him, and didn’t know that he didn’t want to stop.

That night replayed in his mind over and over; he’s never felt the want to say ‘I love you’ to any girl, so why was it that way with you? He wasn’t ready for that just yet, or at least that’s what he kept telling himself.

He wanted to experience different people, or that’s how he liked to put it. He didn’t believe that love lasted forever, at least not in that romantic way, so why should he even try? Once you started to get busy, he started coming up with excuses too. Maybe if he made you believe that you didn’t make enough time for him, he could let you down easily; maybe if you started to hate him, it would be easier for the both of you.

It was stupid.

Then it happened; he went out with Sara one night. The bathroom was small and humid and smelled faintly of cheap vodka and vanilla body spray. The bass from the party outside thudded through the walls, vibrating the mirror. Sara pressed him up against the sink, her breath hot on his neck, her lipstick already smeared across his jawline.

Jungkook had been sleeping with Sara on and off for about two years; they both knew what they were getting into from the start, but it felt easy with Sara there weren’t many emotions involved besides hers.

Would it be easier to keep her happy than it was to keep you happy?

He thought about it before...he thought about it a lot.

“What are we, Jungkook?” Sara whispered, bringing him back to reality, fingers grazing the waistband of his jeans. “You can’t keep pretending I’m just some girl you mess around with.” It was like she read his mind.

Maybe he had too much to drink; he couldn’t think clearly. He was letting his emotions take over. He thought about you and how he didn’t want to hurt you. He didn’t want to ruin whatever you two had left. He knew it was wrong from the very beginning to sleep with you, but he did it anyway, and he kept doing it because—

His thoughts moved like molasses. He wanted to answer, wanted to say something honest, but her hands were already unzipping him, pulling him out, stroking him slowly like she knew exactly how to shut him up.

His head thudded against the mirror behind him. He exhaled sharply, eyelids fluttering shut. He wanted to stop her, to say this wasn’t what he needed. Not from her, not here. But his body didn’t know the difference, it responded out of habit, not desire.

She sank to her knees, murmuring his name like a promise.

He looked down at her red lips, wet eyes, and dyed blonde hair and felt… nothing.

Not the kind of nothing that meant peace. The kind that meant shame.

"I’ve waited two years for you. If this doesn’t mean something to you, then I don’t know what I’ve been doing.” she breathed, mouth brushing the head of his cock. “I want to be your girlfriend.”

He should have stopped her, he should have pulled away. But instead he let out a breath and said it flatly, numbly, “Fine.”

Her eyes lit up, like she won something. She smiled, her mouth wrapping around him like a reward. It was nothing. No rush, no heat, just a hollow act he’d let happen.

When it was over, she stood and kissed him sloppily, whispering how much she loved being his, he didn’t even kiss her back. He couldn’t. His stomach was already twisting.

She walked out first, giddy and glowing. He stayed behind, washing his face in cold water, staring at the stranger in the mirror.

The rest of the night was a blur of hands and lips he didn’t want, laughter that felt fake, and Sara’s constant grip on his arm like a chain. He needed air.

By the time he made it outside, the buzz was turning into nausea. He staggered toward his car, hoping the night would just erase itself.

But then he saw it, his car. The place he kissed you for the first time, the same angle, the same night sky. He closed his eyes and saw you, heard your voice, and felt the way your fingers curled around his hoodie, grounding him.

What’s happening?

He got in his car, he needed to get home before Sara started looking for him. He thought about you on his drive home; his foot pressed on the gas unconsciously as if he wanted to get to you as quickly as possible, but he couldn’t go to your place, not after everything he’s done. He finally pulled into his neighbourhood; he wasn’t paying attention, though. Sudden bright headlights brought him back to reality for a moment before he swerved his car out of the way.

Then, SCREECH.

CRASH.

His car slammed into a parked vehicle on the side of the road.

Everything blurred. The sound of twisting metal, a flash of white, the jolt of his head snapping forward. When he opened his eyes, the windshield was shattered, and he could taste blood in his mouth.

How embarrassing, he thought to himself. He didn’t even bother moving; he stayed put, hoping someone would come to see him.

Flashlights shone on his face. A panicked voice came soon after. “Jungkook?” She almost screamed, “Call 911, call his parents, it’s Jeon Jungkook.”

He couldn’t think, and he couldn’t speak, all he did was shut his eyes.

The ER lights were cold and bright; his head throbbed. A nurse cleaned the cut above his eyebrow as he sat on a gurney, jaw clenched, heart pounding in a silent rhythm of regret.

The hospital smelled like disinfectant and loneliness.

Jungkook was lying on the hospital bed, head bandaged, arm covered in bruises. He had answered questions from the paramedics, the doctors, the police… all with the same dull voice.

“Had you been drinking tonight, Jeon?”

Yes. “No.”

“Is there anyone you'd like us to call?”

Yes. “No.”

He didn’t want to see anyone. Not even Sara, especially not Sara.

And yet, it was his parents who showed up first. His mother burst in like a storm, face drenched in tears, his father right behind her with a grave expression, as if the world had just collapsed.

The moment they saw him, they started talking, but their voices blurred into the beeping of the monitor.

“What were you thinking?” his mother sobbed. “You could’ve died, Jungkook! How could you be so irresponsible?!”

He said nothing.

“They called us at three in the morning! My God, your grandmother... we haven’t even told her yet; she’ll have a heart attack!” She went on, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Are you on drugs? Have you been drinking?” His father cut in, his voice sharper. “What the hell is going on with you?”

He lowered his eyes. The words hit like knives, but he had no strength to fight back.

“Tell us the truth, Jungkook. What really happened?”

He opened his mouth, but all that came out was: “Nothing. I got distracted.”

His father let out a bitter laugh. “You got distracted? That’s it? After crashing your car, that’s the face you make, and all you say is ‘I got distracted’?”

Jungkook clenched his jaw. Everything hurt: his head, his body, and his soul.

“Do you know how many people die in crashes like that?” His mother spoke again, softer now, but with the same pain in her voice. “You could’ve killed someone.”

And that was the worst part. Because deep down, he wished something had happened to him. Something worse, something that would punish him for everything he had done.

“I want to go home,” he murmured, without looking at them.

“We’re taking your keys,” his father said finally. “The car is a wreck anyway. But even if it wasn’t, you’re done driving. Until you are proven more responsible, do you understand?”

Jungkook didn’t fight it, he was too tired. He nodded slowly. “Yeah… okay.”

His mom sat beside him on the edge of the hospital bed, hands folded in her lap.

“You haven’t really been talking to us much lately,” she said quietly. “You’ve just felt… distant. Is something going on?”

There was no anger in her voice, just concern. The kind that made his chest tighten.

Jungkook kept his eyes on the floor, jaw tense.

He didn’t know how to explain it how everything felt like static lately. How he’d been walking around in a fog, barely able to string a thought together that didn’t end in guilt.

He knew they’d noticed. How could they not?

He nodded once, barely.

She didn’t push. Just reached over and gently ran her fingers through his hair, like she used to when he was younger like she still saw him as someone worth worrying about.

And somehow, that only made him feel worse.

“I… I’m sorry for worrying you,” he said softly, eyes still fixed on his hands. The words barely scratched the surface…

His mom drove him home the next morning.

She didn’t say much. Didn’t put on the radio. Just kept her eyes on the road, hands tight around the steering wheel like looking at him might crack something open.

And Jungkook sat there in the passenger seat, wishing the silence didn’t hurt so much.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he could say.

But deep down, he knew he missed you, he knew he was wrong.

And he had no idea how to come back from this.

Sara showed up that week, pecking his lips in the hallway; he barely remembered that night with Sara until she brought it up later.

By then, it felt too late.

He apologized. Told her it had been a mistake. That he wasn’t ready.

But she made a scene in the parking lot, started crying, and he panicked.

Would it be easier to be with Sara than with you?

Maybe.

There weren’t so many feelings involved; maybe that’s why it felt harder with you.

He apologized, told her he didn’t mean it, and said he was just… joking?

Her tears instantly stopped. “You shouldn’t make cruel jokes like that again.” she pouted.

Eventually, two months passed.

Sara was always around. Always calling, always kissing him, always talking like they were something real. She didn’t seem to notice how little he responded anymore, how his lips barely moved when she kissed him, or how his hands stayed limp at his sides.

To her, it probably felt like love. To him, it felt like being smothered with something he never asked for.

He’d been with her before. It used to feel easy, meaningless. But now? It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like anything at all.

He hadn’t had the guts to reach out to you. At first, he told himself he couldn’t, not without a car, not with Sara always around. But the truth was, he was scared. Scared of what you’d say. Scared of what it meant that he still missed you, even when he tried not to.

Then you texted him.

Just one message: I miss you ❤️

And he saw it. While Sara was curled into his side, tracing circles on his chest like she belonged there. His heart stopped. His fingers hovered over the screen.

He didn’t know what to say.

So he lied again.

Jungkook: Sorry. I fell asleep.

Your birthday was coming up.

His mom mentioned it offhand something about a backyard cookout your mother had planned and how they were invited, like always. And just like that, his chest tightened.

He thought about it for days.

Would you be mad if he showed up? Would you even want to see him?

Part of him knew he didn’t deserve to. But the other part, the louder one, couldn’t stand the thought of not being there. Not on your birthday. He’d shown up every year since you were kids. Wouldn’t it hurt more if he didn’t?

So when he finally decided, he told his mom he’d go.

He didn’t tell Sara.

He couldn’t show up empty-handed. That much felt non-negotiable. He paced his room for hours, tossing ideas in his head. What could he bring you? What could he give that wouldn’t feel hollow? Something small, maybe, but real. Something that said, I still care. Even from here. Even after everything.

Then it hit him. The gift.

He ordered it the same night, quietly, before Sara could catch wind. She’d lose it if she knew. She never asked about you directly, but she knew. She knew there was something between you two, something she could never quite touch.

And that scared her.

The following week, he met up with the guys at the park for a game of basketball. He hadn’t invited Sara, but she showed up anyway, a pack of iced tea bottles in hand, a tote bag on her shoulder, and that too-bright smile on her face.

“Brought you something,” she said, offering him one of the drinks. “Figured you’d be dying out here.”

Jungkook blinked, then took it with a quiet “Thanks.”

She sat on the bench, legs crossed, sipping her drink between cheers. Her voice cut through the buzz of the court, bright, high, and unmissable. And for a second, Jungkook found it… kind of endearing.

No girl had ever done that for him before. No one had come just to watch him play, to clap when he scored, or to smile like it actually mattered. When he missed a shot, she scrunched her nose and stuck out her tongue, playful and dramatic. He let out a breath of a laugh. She could be sweet. When she wanted to be.

After the game, she walked over and looped her arm around his. “You did good,” she said, kissing his cheek before he could dodge it.

He gave her a short hug and a quick peck on the lips, mostly for show.

He stood by the sidewalk, waiting. His mom had said she’d come get him, not that he had much of a choice these days.

“Sara, don’t,” he muttered when she glued herself to his side like static cling. “I told you. I don’t like PDA.”

Or maybe… he just didn’t like her.

“I’m your girlfriend. What’s the point if I can’t even touch you in public?” She whined, kissing his cheek again.

He sighed but didn’t push.

His mom pulled up and rolled down the window. “Jungkook,” she called, eyeing the girl attached to him. “Who’s this?”

Sara didn’t miss a beat. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Jeon! I’m Kim Sara, Jungkook’s girlfriend,” she said with a too-sweet smile.

“Girlfriend?” His mom raised her brow but smiled politely. “Nice to meet you. I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.”

Sara’s jaw twitched just slightly. “Oh, well… it’s still new. We’ve been dating for two months now.”

Jungkook gave his mom a tight, awkward smile.

There was a moment of silence before his mother decided to ruin his weekend with one question.

“Did he invite you to his friend’s birthday party this weekend? It’s just a cookout. I can let her mother know Jungkook’s bringing a plus one.”

Sara’s grip on his arm tightened just a little. She looked up at him, a gleam of something sharp in her eyes.

“He didn’t say anything,” she said through a clenched smile. “But I’d love to go.”

And that was that.

Jungkook sat in the passenger seat of his mom’s car, watching his life spiral out of control one passive decision at a time.

(PRESENT DAY)

What did you expect? An apology? Miracles? Something that said you mattered?

He shifts, uncomfortable. He finally decides to say something. "It’s not like that.”

"Then what is it like?" Your voice is rising now, shaking with something between rage and heartbreak. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you got a girlfriend, stopped talking to me, and now you’re trying to act like it’s no big deal.”

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes darting to the floor. "It wasn’t that simple.”

You take a step toward him. "It was. It was exactly that simple. You just didn’t care enough to say anything.”

He winces. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

And for a second, you almost feel bad.

Almost.

But then you remember the nights you cried alone. The hours you spent staring at your phone, wondering what you did wrong. Wondering why you weren’t enough.

"You didn’t just stop talking to me. You replaced me. Like I was nothing.”

His silence is deafening.

"You knew what this was. What we have," you say. Then correct yourself. "Had."

“You really threw all that away for her?” You can’t help but ask.

"We weren’t together," he says, too quickly.

"Right," you whisper. "But it still felt like it."

You look away, because looking at him makes your chest ache. Like your ribs are closing in. Like every breath you take around him costs too much.

He steps closer. "Y/N... just because it felt like it doesn’t mean it was real."

You slap his hands away.

Your voice trembles. "Then what the hell were we doing? Was it just a game to you?"

"No," he says. But it’s soft, barely audible. And it sounds like shame.

You take another breath, and it feels like swallowing glass. "You made me believe in something. You let me think there was something here. And then you just... vanished."

"I didn’t mean to," he murmurs.

"But you did. You did it anyway. That’s what matters."

His face falls. There it is, the crack.

"Well, get out of my room then!" you huff, pushing the words out through clenched teeth.

"But I came here to—"

"Came here for what? To tell me you’ve never really liked me? It was just a game, wasn’t it?” Tears well up in your eyes, and you feel like you're about to break apart.

"No." He steps closer, voice quieter now, almost careful. "I just… wanted to wish you a happy birthday.” His gaze lingers on yours for a second too long. "You know it’s always been my favourite time of year. Ever since we were kids. Celebrating you has always mattered to me.” He admits

"Okay? Thanks," you shrug, grabbing the door handle.

The room feels suffocating now, the weight of the conversation too much for you to bear. He’s been showing the complete opposite the whole time.

"Hey! Wait! I got you this," he says quickly, pulling out a small box wrapped in pink heart-covered paper. ”Open it."

You pause for a moment, stunned by the gift, but you still take it from him, whispering a small, cautious "Thank you" as you slowly unwrap it.

Inside is a delicate gold necklace: a single rose made entirely of soft pink jewels. Your breath catches. You blink, staring at it. You’d talked about this necklace for months, about how much you loved the design, how expensive it was, and how perfect it would look with your favourite outfits. But you never thought you’d actually have it.

Certainly not from him, to say the least. "You remembered," you whisper, voice smaller than you meant it to be.

For a second, the anger you’ve been holding onto starts to loosen, replaced by something softer. Something closer to being seen, all you ever wanted.

"Of course I did," he says quietly, stepping a little closer. "I know you’ve had your eye on it for a while. I saw it on your vision board…back when we made them together, remember? You went on and on about the gems, how bad you wanted it because it would go with, like, half your closet," he chuckles gently, a memory clearly replaying in his head.

Your chest tightens, and it’s not anger this time. It’s something warmer. More fragile.

"I just felt like getting you a gift. You deserve it," he adds, voice dipping low with something sincere. Then he pulls you into a hug, and despite everything, you melt into him.

The tension in your body slips away for just a moment. It’s safe here it’s familiar. "Happy birthday," he murmurs against your hair. "You look beautiful tonight.” He inhales the familiar scent of your perfume, intimate moments you two had spent in your room rushing back to him.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his arms still around your waist. His eyes search yours, gentle, quiet, and knowing.

You swallow. "Thank you," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. There’s silence between you both, your eyes locked.

“I’m sorry I brought her here.” He whispers, You don’t say anything, you just stare at him. Would it be stupid to believe him?

Finally, he takes the leap, kissing you fast and hard.

You freeze. For a heartbeat, you forget how to breathe. You should pull away you know you should but it’s like your body betrays you before your mind can catch up.

God, you missed him.

You didn’t realize just how much until right now. Until his lips are on yours, and the silence between you snaps like a rubber band. No Sara. No party. Just him. Just this.

And it’s wrong, every part of you knows it.

But you kiss him back anyway. Because for a moment, just one, you're tired of pretending it didn’t matter. That he didn’t matter. That he didn’t leave you aching for weeks, staring at your phone like it held answers.

His hands start to wander, slipping lower to your bum—

“Stop,” you gasp, breaking the kiss, breath catching in your throat.

You push him, not hard, but enough. He doesn’t let go. His grip tightens like he's afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his hold.

“Jungkook.” Firmer this time.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder, voice raw. “I know. I know I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have followed you.”

“Then why did you?”

There’s a pause. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment, you think he might lie. But he doesn’t.

“I don’t know,” he says. His voice is low, cracked around the edges. “You think I don’t know I fucked up? I do. I just… I couldn’t help it. I had to see you.”

You shake your head. The anger flares again, burning right through the softness in your chest. “That’s not fair. You don’t get to show up and act like this. Not after everything.”

He doesn’t answer. Just lifts his hand, cupping your face like he’s holding something fragile.

“I missed you,” he says. Quiet, with shame. Like it hurts to say out loud.

When he leans in to kiss you again, you turn your head, and his lips brush your cheek.

“Your girlfriend is downstairs,” you whisper. “What are you doing?”

Silence.

You see it flash across his face, Sara. The mistake he kept making, just to avoid facing the truth with you.

Still, he inches closer. His hands find your waist again, slow, desperate. His voice drops, rough and hungry:

“When has that ever stopped me?” The words settle like a bruise.

That sentence cuts something open.

You stiffen. And for a second, you see him not the boy you loved, but the one who let you cry alone, who kept you hidden while showing someone else off.

“Don’t,” you murmur.

“Hm?” He tilts your chin up again. “Besides, I don’t like her the way I like you.” His tone turns syrupy, dangerous, practiced, he leans in for another kiss…

and you kiss him back...again

Not because it’s right, not because you’ve forgiven him. But because you care too much. Because you’ve wanted this for so long it almost hurt. And deep down, no matter how much it broke you, a part of you always hoped he’d come back.

Some part of you still hopes he’ll choose you. for a moment, you let yourself believe it could mean something.

Still, deep down, you already know how this ends.

And you’ll remember that the second you pull away.

476 notes · View notes

pucksandpower · 2 days ago

Text

Fallen Angel

⟡ Chapter 6

⟡ Oscar Piastri x Sainz!Reader

You were supposed to be a good girl, a quiet wife, a family secret. Instead, you ran straight into the arms of the one man they loathe — and he’s not letting you go.

Warnings: religious trauma, toxic family dynamics, arranged marriage, purity culture, and possessive behavior

Series Masterlist

You try to build a life within the walls of a man’s penthouse.

Not a real life, of course — this isn’t real. You remind yourself every morning: this is temporary. This is borrowed time and borrowed space and borrowed mercy from a man who owes you nothing.

Still, your days take on a kind of rhythm.

You wake with the sun filtering through thick blackout curtains, slip barefoot across cold marble floors, and kneel beside the guest bed Oscar insisted you move into properly after the balcony incident.

You pray.

You pray longer than you ever did at home — longer than even your confessor back in Madrid would’ve recommended. Not out of virtue, but desperation. You pray to be forgiven. To be forgotten. To be made invisible to everyone hunting your name down. To be kept hidden, safe. To stop thinking about-

Him.

Because you do. Think about him.

Oscar.

At first, it’s just the way he moves — efficient and fluid. A kind of quiet confidence in the kitchen, the hallway, the way he throws his car keys on the table without looking. Like the space already bends to him before he even commands it.

Then it’s his voice.

Low, sometimes dry, sometimes soft enough to unsettle your bones. He doesn't talk much in the mornings, not until coffee’s in his hand and the world makes sense again. You learn to fill the silence with your own gentle updates — what pages you read, what dish you tried (badly) to make, what you saw out on the balcony.

He listens. He doesn’t pretend to care if he doesn’t. But he listens.

And then … then it’s his body.

His back when he stretches before heading to training. The curve of his throat when he tilts his head. The way his chest rises and falls when he’s fast asleep on the couch after a long, hot day.

It feels like a betrayal.

Not of him. Of yourself. Of everything you were raised to believe, everything you used to know with certainty. You're not supposed to look at men like this. Not even in secret. Especially not in secret.

You're not supposed to want.

So you double your prayers. You add a second rosary before bed. You journal out every thought that feels unclean.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, you write in looping pen strokes, even though no one will ever read it. I saw a boy’s smile and imagined the warmth of his hand around my wrist. I saw him stretch and felt heat in my chest. I saw him laugh and wished I could taste the sound.

You scrub the page with your fingers afterward, as if ink could be erased with guilt alone.

You burn your fingers baking tortilla española from a recipe you found in a magazine because you think the pain will realign your soul.

It doesn’t.

Oscar walks in to find smoke curling up from the pan and your eyes wet from the sting of oil splatter.

“Are you okay?” He asks, stepping in quickly.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“No.”

He reaches for your hand anyway, examines the red spot blooming near your knuckle.

“You’ve gotta stop trying to cook like someone’s chasing you.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. You’re always moving like you need to outrun something.”

You look away.

Oscar pauses. His thumb still rests against the edge of your hand. His touch is too warm. Too careful. It makes you feel-

“I’ll order lunch,” he says finally, letting go.

That night, you spend an hour just staring at your ceiling. Counting your sins. Recounting every word your mother once whispered to you about virtue and modesty and how the devil slips into the hearts of women through admiration disguised as affection.

You think of his voice again.

The way he had said, “You’re not a burden.”

The way he’d looked at your crucifix when he thought you weren’t watching.

You bite your lip and roll over, clutching your rosary so hard the beads dig into your palm.

You wake up with marks on your skin. Little circles of shame.

The next morning, Oscar catches you scrubbing the balcony floor.

“You know I have a cleaning lady, right?”

“She hasn’t come in two weeks.”

“That’s because we decided not to let anyone else into the apartment for now.”

You blink up at him, eyes dry from a night of restless sleep. “Right. Sorry.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that this week.”

“I am fine.”

“You’re on your knees on marble with bleach on your hands.”

“I like cleaning.”

“No, you like punishing yourself.”

You flinch.

Oscar crosses his arms. He doesn’t look angry. Just tired. “You don’t need to keep proving you deserve to be here.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.”

“I just don’t want to be useless.”

“You’re not.”

You hesitate. “I think I am.”

Oscar crouches beside you. “Y/N,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

You do.

“You’re not a guest here because you make good coffee or mop the floors. You’re here because you needed help. That’s it.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t even like me.”

He huffs out a breath. “You really don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“I-” He stops himself. Shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“No. Say it.”

“You’re not easy to ignore.”

Your heart skips.

He stands again. Walks away without another word.

You sit back on your heels, hands raw from bleach, and wonder if maybe that’s worse — being seen. Not just tolerated, not just pitied.

Not just a Sainz.

Just … you.

And you’re not sure what to do with that.

The next day, you stop cleaning. You let the apartment breathe.

You journal. You pray. You let your mind wander less. Or you try to.

You try to avoid him for an entire day. You stay in your room. You journal more. You pray again.

But the words feel different now. Less certain. Less innocent.

That night, you kneel by the bed and whisper into the silence, “God, please take this away. I don’t want to feel this.”

And you almost mean it.

Almost.

***

You shouldn’t write it down.

You know better than to confess something dangerous on paper. But your chest has been aching all day, lungs tight with the weight of unspoken words, and the quiet in the penthouse stretches long and strange. Oscar’s out again. Training, meetings, media — whatever drivers do when they disappear into the world that would eat you alive if it found you.

So you write.

You pull your knees to your chest on the edge of the guest bed and curl the little leather-bound journal against your thighs. The one with the gold-edged pages and the woven ribbon bookmark. You picked it out last year because it looked dignified. Holy. Respectable.

Now you’re scribbling in it like a girl possessed.

It feels wrong to say this. Even wrong to think it. But I need to be honest, at least somewhere. I think of him too much. I think of him all the time.

Oscar’s not like anyone I know. He doesn’t pretend. He doesn’t flinch when I mention faith, but he doesn’t tiptoe around it either. He tells me things no one else has ever said out loud. He sees right through me, and I hate it, but I also …

You stop. Breathe.

I also want him to keep looking.

You press the pen harder.

I dreamed about his mouth last night. I dreamed he touched my face. I dreamed I let him.

Your eyes sting.

I woke up wanting to cry. Wanting to scream. Wanting to feel holy again. I said three Hail Marys and showered for twenty minutes, and I still feel it. The weight of it. The hunger. I don’t know who I am anymore.

Is that what sin feels like? Wanting to be held and not knowing how to ask for it?

I am ashamed. I am ashamed. I am ashamed.

You slam the journal shut like it’s bitten you. Fumble to slide it back under your pillow, where you always keep it. Tuck it deep. Bury it.

You don’t realize, later, that you forgot to.

Not until much, much too late.

***

Dinner is quiet.

You’ve started cooking again. Slowly. Carefully. Small things. Nothing ambitious. Tonight, you made a simple lentil stew with paprika and soft bread. Oscar walks in around seven, hair damp from the shower, shirt clinging to his back. He says nothing at first when he sees you at the stove.

Just, “Smells good.”

You don’t answer.

You’re still not sure how to behave around him now. Not after what you wrote. Not with the memory of that line echoing in your head-

I dreamed about his mouth last night.

Your ears burn.

You sit across from him at the long marble island, pretending not to watch the way he eats with one hand, the other scrolling absently through something on his phone. Probably a racing report. Or a schedule. Or an escape plan, now that he’s seen-

No. Stop.

He hasn’t seen it. Of course he hasn’t. You always put it away. You always-

“I like the stew,” he says, setting his spoon down. “Little salty. But good.”

“Thanks,” you whisper.

Then, without looking up from his phone, he says, “Temptation’s a funny thing.”

You freeze.

The room stills with you. The silence goes glass-thin. Breakable.

Oscar doesn’t look at you.

He doesn’t have to.

Your stomach drops straight out of your body.

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” you say too fast, voice splintering in the middle.

“Don’t you?”

You shove back your chair.

He lifts his eyes now. Calm. Curious.

You can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I have to … excuse me-”

You don’t run. You walk, very fast, very quiet, down the hall and into the guest bathroom, where you shut the door and twist the lock like your life depends on it. Like the devil is in the hallway, and the only holy ground left in the world is behind this door.

You grip the sink. You don’t look at your reflection.

The panic builds fast and hot.

He read it.

God, he read it.

He saw the journal. He opened it. He saw what you wrote — every desperate thought, every unclean dream, every line about his body and your weakness and the way your soul keeps curling toward him like a flower toward sun.

And now he knows.

He knows what a disappointment you are.

What a failure.

What a girl who ran from a forced marriage only to fall into this must be. Must want. Must deserve.

You press your fists to your mouth and sob, quietly. Ugly and raw.

Then, louder, “Holy Mary, Mother of God-”

You slide to the floor and start praying between gasps for air.

“-pray for us sinners, now and at the hour … at the hour-”

The words collapse. Your lungs feel too tight. Your knees ache from the tile. You clutch your crucifix so hard the metal bites into your collarbone.

There’s a knock.

Soft. Once. Then twice.

You freeze.

“Y/N.”

Oscar.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Please go away,” you manage.

But he doesn’t.

“I didn’t read all of it,” he says through the door. “Just the page it was open to. I’m not in the habit of going through people’s secrets.”

You cover your face. Curl in tighter.

Silence.

Then his voice, quiet. Sincere.

“You don’t have to be afraid of wanting things.”

Your breath catches.

“I am,” you whisper.

“I know.”

A pause.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I shouldn’t have said anything at dinner.”

More silence.

You curl your knees to your chest and press your face into them.

“I’m not like you,” you mumble.

“I know that, too.”

Another pause.

“You think I don’t understand shame?” He says, voice low. “I grew up watching people hide everything they are just to stay likable. Just to stay marketable. Clean. Safe. Good boy image and all that. I’ve been told not to feel too much, want too much, ask too much. It eats you from the inside.”

You blink against fresh tears.

“I don’t know what I am,” you admit.

“You’re not bad.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you care enough to ask.”

You breathe. In. Out. In again.

Outside, the floor creaks. You think he’s left.

You’re wrong.

“I’ll be on the balcony,” he says, a little softer. “If you want air.”

And then he really is gone.

You stay curled on the bathroom floor another fifteen minutes, heart still hammering, shame thick in your throat. Then you slowly stand, rinse your face, and stare at your reflection.

Your eyes are red. Your lips are trembling.

But there’s something in them — your eyes — that looks a little more alive.

When you step out of the bathroom, the hallway is empty. A quiet breeze drifts in from the direction of the balcony. You follow it. You don’t know why.

And when you find Oscar leaning on the railing, shirt loose, eyes on the harbor lights — you don’t say anything.

You just stand beside him.

Close enough to feel his warmth.

Not quite close enough to sin.

Not yet.

570 notes · View notes

m3mento-m0rii · 2 days ago

Note

HIYA!!! First of all I am absolutely INLOVE with your writing!!! LIKE HOW IS IT SO GOOD?????? ❤️❤️❤️❤️ IVE SORTA JUST BEEN GOING THROUGH AND READING ALL OF YOUR HEADCANONS, WHAT IFS,ETC.

This is my first time asking for a request, so apologies if it sounds kind of awkward? Basically what if the saja boys S/O had a plushie of them but they gave the plushie more attention then them, how would they act??? (I have a very big bias to mystery and baby ❤️)

THANK YOU FOR LISTENING ❤️ LOVE YOUR WRITING AGAINN ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Plush Problems—

2.6k words; Saja Boys x Reader Masterlist | Requests paused!

You can't just replace them with the doll. That's simply incorrect.

A/N: Hi anon!! Thank you so much for your kind words, and I'm sorry it took me so long. It's been a busy week for me, but . . . yeah I'm back. Anyways I love to hear that you've been reading everything!! And your request isn't awkward, it's fine. Also, I interpreted your request initially as them gifting the doll to reader as well, but . . . I think it's still okay? I hope you enjoy!!

Jinu—

You had asked him to go to the store before he came over to get snacks! It was time for another one of your movie nights with him—a tradition that started when you tried to teach Jinu about pop culture. And as any good boyfriend would do, he ended up walking between aisles, hunting down all the snacks you had listed in your last text.

It had taken him a little longer, though, because in wandering around, he managed to get a little lost in the process.

Well, ‘lost' is a strong word. Perhaps better is ‘side-tracked’.

In his defense, stores are a lot different than how he remembered them!

Eventually, though, he was walking back to checkout, trying to remember how you said it worked. Passing displays meant to tempt you into last minute buys that you didn’t need—food, toys, plushes.

That’s when his eyes settled on a particularly special display. Small,stuffed, familiar faces that he’d come to see every day, outfits that meant costumes for most and average wear for him. Among them, the only one with dark hair—a plush. Of him.

And who likes plushes?

Jinu easily plucked it off the shelf, placing it carefully in the basket next to the other snacks. He offered a playful grin to the cashier, who looked between the mimicry and him almost gobsmacked.

» ⊱◈⊰

Your apartment was almost more familiar to him than his own. More homey, too—how could it not be, when you had filled it with things that proved a life lived.

Cute, too, with all the stuffies lying around, and whatnot. His favorite was the lopsided bear one on the couch.

“Did you find everything alright?” You asked, and Jinu rustled through the bags he carried—he flashed you something proud and knowing, pulling the little doll out from its plastic confines.

“Better.”

Gasp. Sparkles. The world lit up, and you pulled the little plush from his hands. “What? I didn’t know they were making this kind of merch for you guys already!”

“I just didn’t think they’d be in the stores so soon,” Jinu tried to say casually, secretly preening as you cooed over him. Just tiny. You beamed, taking him by the hand and pulling him quickly towards the couch. “It reminded me of you when I saw it, silly-!”

“Sit!” You laughed, sitting in the middle of the couch as you reached for the remote. Some classic slasher was on the TV, as it had been for the rest of the month, too. Jinu didn’t really mind—really, there was something fun in complaining about the dumb decisions characters made.

Except, there was one problem, starting easily about fifteen minutes in.

Why are you cuddling with the plush instead of him? It’s YOUR movie night, not the stuffy.

When someone’s being brutally murdered on screen, you pretended to cover the DOLL’s eyes instead of his. It can’t see. It lacks anything to perceive everything with! And you hold it close to your chest at the tense parts—even if you’ve seen this a hundred times—instead of nestling into his side for the experience.

He’s right there?

Hello??

Jinu doesn’t think anything of it. You know what? It’s okay. Little him can have you today, because he gets you every other day AND twice on Tuesdays.

Until you start intentionally messing with him about it taking his place.

“Your hand is free?”

“He’s already holding it!”

You couldn’t be serious.

Finally, though, Jinu had enough. A few days of enduring this blasphemous treatment resulted in him taking your hands, a grim expression on his face. He could feel your pulse jump under his fingertips. “We need to talk.”

Talk? What was there to even talk about?? Jinu watched you practically freeze under his gaze. Instant fear.

“About the doll.”

Instant laughter.

“Why are you laughing?? It can’t take my place, (Y/N)!”

“HE, Jinu, HE!”

He glared at you, gently shaking your shoulders. You couldn’t help but laugh at him, holding on to his arms. “What about your very real Jinu . . .”

“Are you jealous of—”

“No.” He quickly cut off. But your smile softened into something more affectionate, and his own expression shifted, too.

“I only love him because it’s you . . . but I guess the real thing is much better.”

Now? The stuffed copy of him lies waiting patiently on your bed, and Jinu did, too; but only one of them got to be in your arms. This time, it wasn’t the doll.

Take that . . .

Abby—

You were having a rough week.

It was just . . . one of those periods that everything seemed to test you. People stressing you out, too many dumb, little things that went wrong, swarming and spiraling into problems that felt impossible.

Lucky for you, you had . . . Abby!

. . .

Is what you would say, if he wasn’t finishing up a tour. Being an idol made him busy. Not because he wanted to be; he was always only a call away, but sometimes that also meant another city. Another country.

Nothing made Abby feel worse than not being there for you physically. What was possibly the point of his size if he couldn’t give you the best hug after the worst day? How could he fix this? What could he do?

Lightbulb.

You crashed into him the moment he stepped into your place, arms tying around his torso as you pressed your face into his chest. Abby laughed at you, pulling you tight, enough to remind you that yes, he was there, and you had him again. “Missed me, huh?”

Even though it was a tease, even though he smirked, he still felt a little guilty. Hopefully, this would solve that. You only hummed, sighing. Your body melted more into his, and Abby’s arms loosened. Just to reach for something.

“Okay, I know you had a rough week. I think I have a solution,” he lifted your head, presenting you with . . .

Little Abby!!

IMMEDIATE game changer.

Abby fell for the way your expression changed into something sweeter, the tired look on your face thawing into something more tender. “When did—where did you get him?”

He carefully dropped the plush into your hands, noting the way you handled it carefully, observing the floral print of his shirt, the small details meant to mimic him.

“A fan was selling them at our last show! Spitting image of me, right?”

You smiled, genuinely, the kind that you can see in your eyes, and he knew that he had done his job properly. “How was your trip, Abby?” And everything was fine again.

At least, up till the point you stopped talking about your day when he couldn’t see you??

He’d wait. Maybe you just forgot. Then, on the next call, you wouldn’t mention it again. You sounded okay . . . but, that didn’t mean he didn’t want to hear from you.

When he got back and you didn’t say anything about it in person, continuing past his slight pout without a thought, Abby gave in.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me about your day?” He raised a brow, watching expectantly.

“Oh, I already told lil’ Abby.”

“Okay, but what about me?” He felt like he shouldn’t even have to ask that question! Right?

But you seemed hesitant. Unsure. Your eyes flitted away from him, and he knew that it was more than just ‘forgetting’ to tell him. “. . . Did you still want me to tell you?”

What?

“Of course I do. It’s not to stop you from talking to me,” he gently pushed your head back towards his, but he couldn’t force you to meet his eyes.

“I don’t know . . . sometimes I feel like I complain too much. Or I’m too sensitive.”

How could you be? Abby didn’t think about those things at all. All he really thought was that you’d need some extra love the next time he saw you (which he was always happy to give, even if he teased you about it). Because life could be tough. Gently, he tapped your cheek, your eyes slowly meeting his brown ones.

“Look at me . . . I’m your boyfriend. You’re supposed to complain to me and I’m supposed to make you feel better. Just like you do for me.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

Abby huffed quietly, shaking his head. “It bothers me that you don’t think I wanna be there for you.” And he meant it. You were never a burden. He liked hearing about everything, even your problems, because it made him feel like he could be there. And if he helped you solve them, well, that was one weight of your shoulders and his. “You can talk to me about anything, alright? Even when I’m gone. Especially when I’m gone.”

Just like always, you found yourself in his arms again. And at the same point, the weight of them settled carefully around you. Real hugs were better than plush hugs, anyway (but don’t let lil’ Abby hear you say that).

Mystery—

Honestly, you didn’t know when the little copy of your boyfriend had become a part of your collection. You were just admiring all the plushes and . . . Oh, look. It’s there.

It felt kind of alive sometimes. You swore you didn’t move it around, but . . .

Though, it quickly became your favorite thing. And Mystery enjoyed seeing you with it, in those subtle ways of his. It might have been a slight source of pride, it made him smile, because . . . it made you happy. Seeing him made you happy.

The only problem? It was with you. ALWAYS.

Oh, Mystery’s come to flop into your lap? Little Mystery. Trying to wrap his arms around you? Little Mystery. He’s lying on your bed, trying to get comfortable against you amongst your sea of stuffies? Take one wild guess who sits atop them, king of them all.

Did you guess? Well, if you said, ‘Little Mystery,’ you’d be correct!

One day, Mystery is just watching you. Staring. His lips quirked into the tiniest frown, but it seemed more sulky than anything.

“. . . It’s in the way?”

“Huh?”

Mystery pushed the plush out of your reach, pulling you closer to him instead. “That.”

Your gaze flicked to the plush, once sitting harmlessly at your side. Now hunched over in a way actual Mystery could never be. “He’s just vibing.”

“He wants your attention. It’s my attention.”

“It’s still YOU.”

“Not if I can’t feel it,” Mystery insisted. “Put him up. Please.”

You nearly protested. Mystery had long since found a way to bypass that, though. All he had to do was shove those bangs of his out of the way, let you see his eyes, and look at that, little Mystery wasn’t a thought in your head.

Because little Mystery couldn’t compete with his soft, golden puppy eyes. And he couldn’t help but feel triumphant at that.

Romance—

It was a nice day. Just . . . the kind where the sky felt more blue than it usually did, and the sun more present, and the people more happy.

Romance noticed these things. He lived for these types of days. The world didn’t feel so terrible when people smiled and kids laughed, when the air was warm and the wind gentle. A good day!

For you, though . . . he hadn’t talked to you today, honestly. Not yet, he was supposed to see you anyway. But how could he guarantee you would have just as good of a day without having seen you yet?

Something caught his eye. He had to get it. All it took was a little pose, a picture, a simple, cute caption and you were blowing up his phone.

“DIBK YOU BIY IT??”

“WHAT STORE IS THQT?” “IT’S MY BOYFRIEND AOINGSOIN”

He grinned, taking the plush to the checkout.

Romance saw you about an hour later, holding the little (boy)friend up for you to see. And then you were running to him!

Oh, it was like a scene out of a romance movie. Somehow, the lighting seemed to enhance just at the sight of you, had he ever told you that? He playfully opened his arms, prepared to catch you . . . “Hi, love!”

Nothing. And an empty hand. A squeal, but not next to his ear, no gentle weight around his waist, nada.

You were cooing at the PLUSH instead.

Maybe it was more of a comedy.

“WHAT ABOUT YOUR VERY REAL BOYFRIEND??”

“What do you mean, he’s right here?”

Romance glared at you, walking away. Scorned. “. . . I’ll remember this.”

“WAIT it was just a joke. Romance, come back—!”

Baby—

Baby didn’t keep too many things fans gave him. He just . . . didn’t. There wasn’t that much value in some things, and he was gifted too much to keep it all.

There was an art piece, dusty and untouched in the corner by his desk. He kept a few necklaces and bracelets just so no one could say he didn’t wear their stuff. A little clay figure someone had made that Romance and Abby insisted he kept because everyone had got one.

This time, someone had gifted him a plush of himself. Perfect shade of candy blue locks. His little hat, puffy and perfect, overly sweet expression on his features. It was well made. It didn’t look like him, in his opinion (he wasn’t that soft looking, was he?), but it was well done. It would be a shame to just . . . throw it away.

But he didn’t want more things cluttering his shelves . . .

Who WOULD appreciate it?

“A fan gave it to me,” Baby offered up. “I thought maybe you’d want it instead. I mean, I don’t really . . .”

“I’ll take it!!”

You and baby Baby? BEST FRIENDS. He came everywhere with you! He was amazing! But most of all . . .

You could use him to get on Baby’s nerves.

Baby would reach for a brand new, open chip bag. You smacked his hand away. “That’s Baby’s??”

Baby gave you an incredulous look. “I’m Baby.”

“Baby Baby needs to eat, too!” You huffed, trying to hide the way your lips quirked up.

“HIS MOUTH IS SEWN SHUT.”

That wasn’t even the end of it. He tries to sit next to you on the couch? “That’s Baby’s spot.”

You couldn’t be serious. He stared, you stared back. His eyes flickered to the doll, then back to you.

“He can sit in the cracks.”

“RUDE.” So you put the plush in your lap. And you refused to let him touch you. Okay. Okay, fine.

The final straw, though?

How were you going to avoid one of his kisses!

You pushed his face away, ignoring the indignant twitch of his eyes as you stopped him from chasing. “What now?” He already knew you were going to say something dumb.

“Not in front of the baby.”

He only watched. You laughed, keeling over. He had something for you.

The next day, Baby was strangely pleased with himself. Not an annoyance (doll) in sight, nothing to get in the way of him and you; and you seemed to have realized that from the way you had stormed in.

Arms crossed. Expectant brow raised. No Baby in hand. “Why, pray tell, is Baby locked in a glass case screwed to my shelf??”

Baby only shrugged, continuing to scroll through some social app on his phone. “He got tired, but he still wanted to see.”

“You made him a little cellphone and a sign that said ‘positively do not open!’”

He only masked a mischievous grin, staring at you from over his screen. “What? He needed to be able to talk to Annabelle, duh.”

“BABY—!” » ⊱◈⊰

A/N: Okay, trying to get back into the requests! I hope you enjoyed, and see you soon!

—Captain Morii 🌤️

Morii's Business Class: @kpopmultistans @momentomoribitch @queensnowlake-wof

#saja boys x reader #kpdh fanfic #abby saja #baby saja #baby saja x reader #mystery saja #mystery saja x reader #abby saja x reader #romance saja x reader #romance saja #kdh jinu #jinu x reader #kpop demon hunters x reader

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kissandtellus · 3 days ago

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Hellooo ^⁠_⁠^ can you please write like a short story about the mc's child hearing clapping and weird noises at night HIHIHIHIHJIJI if yk, yk. And like asking them about it and Iike "Daddy why is mommy begging to spanked?" AHAHHAHAH I just wanted to see sylus react to that question and how it'll play out. Thank you (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)

The Birds & The Bees: LADS Edition

Synopsis: Your kids overhear interesting noises and your husband acts like he’s about to kill over.

Warnings: LI’s are embarrassing, Caleb’s contains smut, Sorta crack-ish, Fluff.

☁︎｡Zayne

It’s a bright and early Sunday morning. The birds are chirping the sun is shining, and your 3 year old….she looks a hot mess.

Her little hair is sticking up all over the place as she rubs her tired eyes with a balled up fist. Zayne, who is sipping his coffee and reading a newspaper, raises an eyebrow.

You frown and slide a pancake on her plate. “My poor girl…”

Zayne observes your daughter's entire personality shift, considering she was usually so bubbly and talkative in the morning.

"What happened?" he asks, a hint of concern in his voice. "Why couldn't she sleep?"

He takes a seat next to the little one, gently stroking her hair to offer comfort.

"You need more sleep, sweetie," he says, looking at her with a gentle smile. "You can't stay up late every night."

Your daughter huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “W-well it’s Mommy’s fault! She kept asking Baba for ‘more’! Baba, I thought we weren’t ‘sposed to be greedy!?”

Zayne nearly spits out his coffee. He stutters over his words and clears his throat.

"Your mommy doesn't know when to stop, does she?" he says, giving you a playful wink.

"You know, even grown-ups like to indulge a little sometimes. It's not about greed, it's about having a good time."

He reaches out and tousles your daughter's hair.

"But you're right, too much 'more' can keep you awake at night. Maybe next time, we'll have to set a bedtime."

You, on the other hand, are so red in the face you just want to pass away. “Sweetheart, what all did you hear?”

Zayne smirks, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction.

"Oh no, now you're worried?" he teases lightly before turning back to your daughter. "Alright, tiny eavesdropper—what exactly did Mommy say?"

Your daughter puffs her cheeks in thought before mimicking in a (terribly inaccurate) high-pitched voice- "'Zaaayyne~! One more time! Pleeease!'"

He barely holds back a laugh as you bury your face in your hands. "...Well. That’s enough syrup on your pancakes for the next decade."

☁︎｡ Sylus

Sylus is playing dolls with your daughter while you lounge in a nearby chair reading a book. Everything is well, before your little girl starts mimicking a VERY SPECIFIC sound you make when having…alone time with her father.

Your face flushes red.

“Sweetheart? Where did you hear that sound?”

Sylus stopped halfway, still in the midst of brushing the doll's hair, his gaze shifting from the doll to you in disbelief. The moment you mentioned the sound, it took a few seconds before the realization washed over his face. The brush slipped from his hand as his eyes widened.

A look of pure horror mixed with an underlying hint of humor flashed across his features as he slowly turned to his daughter.

"Sweetie.. Where did you hear that noise..?" He repeated your question, sitting the doll aside.

Your daughter only points a tiny finger directly at her father before going back to playing with the dolls, completely oblivious.

Sylus freezes like a deer in headlights, his ruby eyes darting from your daughter to you, the silence stretching as he internally debates between playing dumb or bribing everyone involved into forgetting this ever happened.

"Uh. Hah. Funny story—I think she got it from… Mephisto? Yeah, the crow. Crows can mimic sounds, right?" He flashes you that stupidly charming grin. “Definitely the bird."

Your daughter suddenly claps her tiny hands together and, in the sweetest, most innocent baby voice possible, squeals-

"Daddy’s kitten s’sooo good for him!"

Sylus chokes on air mid-grin—his entire face turning the same shade as his ruby eyes. He slowly looks at you, then back at her.

"Okay. New plan. We move countries. Tonight." He scoops up your daughter under one arm like a football and gestures dramatically toward the door with his free hand. "Pack light—we’ll fake our deaths in Switzerland."

Sylus is now frantically packing up his entire gun collection, muttering about witness protection programs and the Swiss Alps. Your daughter, thrilled by the adventure, is giggling and ‘helping’ by throwing her toys into the suitcases.

You stare at the chaotic scene, half-amused, half-apprehensive. You never thought that the sound you made during your intimate moments would spark an international family crisis.

“Switzerland, huh? Should I start learning German or just stick to 'meow' for communication?"

☁︎｡ Xavier

“Daddy, can I color the bear’s hat pink?” The younger twin asks as he reaches for the pink crayon. Your twin sons and Xavier were coloring at the dinner table while you cooked.

Xavier smiles, reaching out to pat his head. “You can color it whatever you like, baby.”

“Can I color my bunny yellow like my hair?” The older boy asks as he points to his messy, blonde mop-top.

Xavier nods. “Mhm, sure. And don’t you think I can’t hear you kicking your brother under the table, young man,” he added.

But then, the oldest twin mumbles and expletive when he accidentally colors outside of the line. “Shit!”

Xavier gasps, reaching out to put a finger to his son’s lips. “Hey, Language. Your mother would kill me if she heard you say that,” he sighed.

You looked over at your boys from the stove with a raised eyebrow. “What was that baby? Where did you hear that from?”

You asked your oldest son. The boy puffed out his cheeks. “I-I heard daddy say “Shit, you feel so good!’ last night!”

Xavier immediately choked on his own spit, face turning beet red as he slammed a hand over his son’s mouth again. Oh god oh god oh god—

"N-no! That’s—that’s not what happened!" He sputtered, flailing slightly before shooting you the most desperate, pleading look of his life.

His twin brother, ever the opportunist, perked up with a mischievous grin and chimed in: "Daddy said it when Mommy was making those weird noises too! Like ‘ughhhh Xavieraaaahhh~!’" He dramatically mimicked your voice (poorly) while flopping backwards in his chair like a swooning Victorian widow.

Xavier looked ready to combust on the spot. “Well it’s time for bed!” He yelped, scooping both giggling boys under each arm like footballs and sprinting for their room before they could spill more incriminating details. Over his shoulder, he hissed at you: "We are putting them in a boarding school!”

“They’ll—They’ll forget about it. It’s fine. Nothing happened,” Xavier reassured himself as he came back into the kitchen, though he sounded about as confident as a squirrel being chased by a big dog. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face into your shoulder.

“That’s not exactly what we were doing,” he added, though it was clear from the color of his ears that he wanted to change the subject. He kissed the lobe of your ear as if to plead for your forgiveness.

You smile up at your lover, brushing a piece of blonde hair away from those gorgeous blue eyes. “Oh? And what do you think I sounded like last night?”

"You sounded like you wanted to have a third kid," he joked with a playful grin on his face. He rested his head against your shoulder, his arms wrapping around you and holding you close.

"Maybe I can get you to sound like that again?" He purred, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "The kids are asleep, you know."

☁︎｡ Rafayel

Rafayel had a small, soft smile on his face as he watched his 4 year old daughter paint.

She was currently painting a picture, and she was quite dedicated to this task.

Rafayel approached her, kneeling down next to her.

"How's the painting coming along, sweetheart?"

The little lilac haired girl gave him a grin with missing teeth. But then her little eyebrows furrowed at her father and Rafayel could immediately tell she wanted to ask a question.

Seeing the look on his daughter's face, Rafayel chuckled. He knew that look well.

"Alright, out with it, sweetheart. What do you want to ask?"

Rafayel nodded slowly.

"That's right, sweetheart. We're not supposed to hit."

He looked at her with concern, wondering why she was asking such a question. He wanted to make sure she understood the importance of avoiding physical violence whenever possible.

"Why do you ask? Did someone try to hit you?"

She huffed and shook her head. “No…but why were you hitting Mama last night?”

Rafayel felt his face flush crimson in an instant. His eyes widened as he choked on nothing but air, a coughing fit overtaking him for a moment.

"W-WHAT— No! Sweetheart, I wasn’t hitting Mama! I would never—"

He pinched the bridge of his nose with a strained sigh before kneeling down to her level again, voice softening into something both amused and mortified.

"...You must’ve heard us… wrestling. Mama and I were just playing. Like how you and your friends roughhouse sometimes."

Was this what karma felt like? Absolutely brutal.

The little girl stared up at him for a moment in thought. Then the confusion came back and Rafayel had to suppress another groan. She was too young to understand.

“Does wrestling make Mama cry?”

He felt like his brain had just short-circuited. It was true that you had a strong reaction to his… ‘assault’.

He scrambled to find the right words.

"It-- I-- Um--"

He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself.

“...Mama was just surprised. It’s nothing to worry about, I promise. Mama… likes the game."

"Oh God, I swear I’ll get you back for this,” Rafayel grumbled internally.

But his little one didn’t look convinced whatsoever. “B-but she kept sayin’ ‘too much, too much Raf!’ Over n over! ‘N Papa didn’t stop!”

Rafayel was now mentally composing his own eulogy. He was sure you would kill him when she found out about this conversation. His ears burned so hot he could probably melt steel with them.

"...Okay. That— That sounds bad, but I swear it wasn't!" He ruffled her hair nervously, voice dropping into a hushed whisper like this was some top-secret mission debrief. "You know how Mama exaggerates sometimes when we play? Like when you pretend the couch is lava? It's just... like that."

(Dear universe: Please let a meteor strike me down before Y/n hears about this.)

"Besides, if I actually made Mama cry for real," he added with exaggerated solemnity, “do you think she’d still kiss me goodnight?"

The little girl pondered and pondered. Eventually, she seemed satisfied with her father’s reasoning.

Then she went back to her painting, her little tongue poking out with concentration.

Rafayel was still worried about what she heard and how she would perceive it, but he couldn’t help but smile at his daughter’s determination.

He ruffled her hair fondly and said, “You’re a good girl, sweetheart. Please don't tell Mama about this, okay? Daddy's going to be in big trouble if she finds out.”

☁︎｡ Caleb

Life was sweet.

You had a son who was now 7, all boyish charms and boy did he love his Mama.

But right now it was special alone time between ‘Mom and Dad’. Caleb had you bent over the bed, one of your own hands covering your mouth to stifle any noise while he drove into you from behind.

“A-ahh…Y/n…” he panted, his body pressing against yours. His breathing was heavy in an attempt to keep quiet, to keep the noises from waking your son from his sleep. “Y-you’re being too quiet,” he whispered with frustration, his hips bucking forward. “L-like this? I-I can’t tell if you like it.”

You try to block your moans with your hand, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I-I don’t want to wake up our son. H-he’s grouchy when he doesn’t get his 8 hours.” You laugh between a pleasured sob.

He whined. “B-but, if I don’t hear you, I… I can’t tell how well I’m… mmm… doin’…” he said, the hand covering your mouth slipping away so he could entangle his fingers with yours.

“Come on, love. Just a lil’ louder f’me,” he urged. With his free hand he stroked your skin, mapping every single scar and dip . “It feels good, doesn’t it? You like it when I… mmm… make you feel special, hmm? You can tell me,” he whispered, his voice husky.

It was almost like having another kid, both pining for your attention every time you turned around.

He pouted at you. “But you’re always giving him attention, I love ‘em but, you’re hardly paying any attention to me! I’m feeling kind of left out… you’re not going to let me down now, are you? Not my sweet-sweet girl…” he whined, his fingers tightening around yours. “I just want to hear your voice, is that too much to ask, love?”

His thrust grow more desperate and soon enough you are moaning out loud, praising your man for how good he was making you feel. “Mm fuck Caleb! S’too much! Gonna-gonna-“

He let out a shaky moan, his breathing labored as he started to lose himself. “C-come on… that’s it… m-more… like that… you know I love it when you sing to me,” he whispered into your ear, his lips nipping and kissing along your neck. “You’re so good… you’re driving me crazy…”

His praises lit a fire under you, but your walls were fluttering. “S’ mean to me Cal! So so mean~!” You purr, drool spilling from your mouth.

Your voice caught in your throat when you felt the headboard slam against the wall with force, causing a sudden silence followed by—“Mama?! Dad? What was that?”

Caleb’s movements stilled as his heart almost stopped beating. His body stiffened as he quickly yanked the blankets over both of you. You could hear footsteps padding down the hallway towards your room.

You expected him to stop, to just ask what was wrong. What you DIDN’T expect, was your loving 7 year old to come barreling in dressed in his super hero costume, and try to tackle his Father off the bed. “Let my Mama go!”

“What are you- ack!” Caleb was cut off by your son knocking him off the bed, the pair of them tumbling to the ground. There was a scuffle, your son clinging to Caleb’s neck while Caleb struggled to stand up. “Get off of me-!” He managed to gasp out. “Let go! How are you so strong when you’re so small?!” Caleb cried out, struggling to pry your son off of him.

You tried to pry a very protective boy off of his father while holding a sheet to your chest.

“Baby I promise it’s not what it looks like!” You try to plead with your brunette baby boy.

This is exactly what Caleb got for making a carbon copy of himself.

#love and deepspace #lads #lads x reader #lads smut #caleb love and deepspace #caleb lads #love and deepspace sylus #lnds zayne #lads rafayel #caleb x fem reader #sylus fluff #xavier lads #lads scenarios #lads reactions #lads x non!mc reader #lads x y/n #lads x you #lads au #lads fanfic

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xanaxwhorehouse · 1 day ago

Text

that’s my boyfriend

summary: short and sweet little piece of reader admiring Clark’s new article and his headshot (pictured)

a/n: sorry this is so short I’ve been travelling but wanted to get SOMETHING out. As soon as I saw that pic of him I immediately pictured fawning over it in front of him about how adorable he is 😫

no warnings, just fluff and not proofread oops..

—————————————————————————

“Claaark,” you taunt, heels clacking on the linoleum floor as you move towards his desk. there’s pep in your step, an excited bounce that makes him nervous. if it weren’t for the smile on your face, he wouldve assumed the worst and the proof of his worry would be spewed across his desk.

“uh oh,” he teases, leaning back in his chair. “whatcha got there, baby?”

“oh nothing, just the very first copy of the paper containing your golden goose of articles,” you smile, holding the paper over your chest. he freezes, searching your face for any indication of opinion on the article.

“did you- did you read it? did you like it?” he stammers, pining for your approval. did you hate it? were you about to laugh in his face and tear the paper in shreds infront of him? of course you wouldn’t - but that’s the thing about anxiety - it’s irrational.

it’s when you smile so big that he feels like he can breathe again. “of course it’s good- it’s amazing. everything you write is amazing. ‘m really proud of you, Clark.”

he can feel how rapidly his face turns the beet red. he saves the world daily, praised by millions around the world - but nothing compares to the warmth in his heart at hearing you, the most incredible woman he’s ever met - are proud of him. not Superman, Clark Kent. he can’t even speak. he thinks he’ll cry.

“ooh! and look at your picture on page two,” you move to stand behind him arms loosely around him as you lower the paper infront of him, distracting him from the tears that threatened to prick at his waterline. it doesn’t take him long to land on the small black and white picture of him in the bottom right corner where the article ends.

“look at you, Clarkie,” you coo into his ear, sending shivers down his spine. “my handsome boy.”

as if he wasn’t red enough already, the crimson shade on his cheeks grows with his sheepishness. he’s running his hands up and down your arms that stem from around him, hoping to return at least a fragment of the affection you’ve shown him. it never feels like enough, so he’ll spend the rest of his life trying.

“everybody in the city gets to see this,” you smile against his cheek, admiring the small photo. “but only i get to say you’re mine. ‘m so lucky, clark.”

“you? no, sweetheart, no,” he shakes his head, spinning around in his chair to face you. he cannot possibly let you think you’re luckier than he - you rocked his world. showed him a new love he’d never thought was possible, a feeling he’d never felt. you’re his world. he scoots as close as he possibly can, grabbing your hips to hold you closer. he’s looking up at you with all the love in the world. “im the lucky one. im so frickin’ lucky, to love you. to get to hold your hand in the street. to get to brush my teeth next to you in the morning. you’re everything, baby, love you so much. thank you for making me feel so cared for.”

your hands are on his cheeks now, softly swiping across his cheekbones with your thumbs. “always proud of you, clark, always.”

for the first time, when someone says they’re proud of him, he truly believes it.

—————————————————————————

another a/n: I have various Clark smuts coming 🫣🫣

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fiastomatocheek · 2 days ago

Text

NO DETOUR TOO FAR

requested: yes | req: dating quinn comes with getting the most random calls from jack and luke all the time because you’re the older sister they never had — but when one night luke and jack call you and tell you how everything’s going to shit in jersey because they’re both injured now, you and quinn get on a plane to help both of them, without a second thought.

pairing: quinn hughes x f!reader

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff, found family, domestic.

warnings: emotional vulnerability, mild injury descriptions, a few curse words (optional and mild), mentions of post-surgery recovery.

summary: dating quinn means loving him deeply but it also means becoming the older sister jack and luke never had. from random late-night cooking calls to emotional hockey check-ins, they’ve slowly become part of your heart, too. so when both brothers suffer injuries that threaten more than just their seasons, you and quinn don’t hesitate for a second. you catch the first flight to new jersey, armed with fluffy pancakes, jasmine tea, and the kind of love that never needs to be spoken to be understood.

fia’s note: dearest to my lovely readers, i’ve decided i’m going to start calling you all my sweet tomatoes because why not? it’s cute, and honestly, it fits the vibe 🍅💌 this fic was actually a request from back in may (i know, i know, it’s been a minute 😭), but i finally got around to finishing it, and i really hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. sending love always, xx.

tagging team fia ! — @fallinallincurls @dancerbailey3 @falsehood-03 @mashmashi @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk @kell9rs @alwaysclassyeagle @nokiaholland @macka @smiley-roos @silvenyy @bd147ms @voidvannie @itsonlyaddi @ruinix @when-im-with-you @puckinghughes @definitelynotdomanique @quinnintheabyss

fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | yap & fic

“Quinn,”

“Sometimes I think Jack and Luke are the little brothers I never knew I needed,” you murmured, breaking the comfortable silence.

The mug in your hands, your feet were tucked under you on the plush couch, and Quinn’s arm rested comfortably over your shoulders.

Quinn chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest.

“They think of you like that too, you know. Jack’s always asking if you’re coming to the next family thing. And Luke? He’s got this weird sixth sense for when something’s off with us. Like if you don’t show up to a game or miss a FaceTime, he’s convinced I screwed up somehow.”

You laughed into your tea.

“He’s not entirely wrong to suspect you.”

Quinn rolled his eyes, feigning offense. “I never do anything wrong.”

“Oh, really? That time you forgot our anniversary?” you teased, arching a brow.

He groaned, tilting his head back against the couch.

“Okay, one time.”

“One very memorable time,” you shot back, smirking.

He gave you a playful nudge, but the moment softened into something quieter, more intimate.

“Seriously, though,” he said, his voice gentle.

“They love you. You make it easy for them. You pick up every call, even the one where Jack asked how to boil broccoli at 1 a.m.”

You snorted, the memory vivid. “He said it was ‘urgent.’ Like life-or-death broccoli.”

“Don’t forget Luke’s emergency brownies,” Quinn added, grinning.

“He’s still convinced yours are magic.”

“I told him to wait eleven minutes before checking on them. He peeked at nine. Rookie mistake.”

You leaned into Quinn’s side, your heart swelling at the thought of the Hughes brothers. Jack would always calling you for everything from fashion advice to how to fix a botched smoothie. Luke’s quieter, more thoughtful check-ins, texting you about laundry detergent because it ‘smelled like home.’ They’d woven themselves into your life in the same effortless, comforting way family does, a messy, ridiculous, and irreplaceable.

Your phone rang on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with Jack’s name. It wasn’t unusual for Jack to call at odd hours, but something about the late hour made your stomach twist faintly.

You picked up before the second ring.

“Hey, Jacky. What’s up?”

His voice on the other end wasn’t the usual boisterous hum you’d grown used to. It was almost like a low, tired, and fragile.

“Hey… how are you and Q?”

You sat up straighter, concern creeping in.

“We’re good. About to head to the store for some groceries. You okay?”

There was a pause, too long for Jack, who usually filled every silence with a quip or a story. Then he exhaled, a shaky sound.

“Not really. Luke and I… we’re both out. Shoulder surgeries. Both of us. It’s… it’s been rough. For both of us.”

Your heart sank. You glanced at Quinn, whose expression had shifted to one of quiet alarm, his hand tightening slightly on your shoulder as he leaned in to listen.

“Are you… are you guys coming to Jersey anytime soon?”

Jack asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“I know it’s a lot, but it’s been bad. Luke’s trying to act chill, but I can tell he’s not. And I just… I don’t know. Thought maybe seeing you both might help.”

Your voice was steady, even as your chest ached.

“We’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

Jack’s breath hitched on the other end.

“Wait… seriously? Just like that?”

“Of course, Jack. Don’t be silly. You guys are family.”

You hung up and turned to Quinn, who was already on his feet, grabbing his phone.

“We’re going,” you said, not a question but a statement.

“Already booking the flights,” he replied, his fingers flying over his phone screen.

“Let’s pack and head to the airport tonight.”

Five hours later, with barely enough sleep and two carry-ons stuffed with essentials, your homemade pancake mix, a few of Quinn’s games for the boys, and a small tin of your ‘magic’ brownie recipe, you and Quinn landed in New Jersey just as the sun began to rise.

The Uber driver dropped you off outside Jack and Luke’s shared apartment, you pulled out the spare key Jack had insisted you keep ‘In case of emergencies… or if I lock myself out again’, gave it to Quinn and pushed open the door quietly.

Jack and Luke’s apartment smelled like burnt, probably Jack’s latest attempt at ‘cooking.’ You smiled despite yourself, but the sight in the living room stopped you in your tracks.

Jack and Luke were sprawled across the couch, both fast asleep, their slung-up shoulders propped awkwardly on pillows. Jack’s mouth was slightly open, a faint snore escaping, while Luke’s head was tilted at an angle that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. Their faces, even in sleep, carried a weight of vulnerable, exhausted, and unmistakably young.

You set your bag down gently, motioning for Quinn to unpack the essentials in the guest room while you tied your hair up and headed for the kitchen. You knew the drill. Flour, eggs, baking powder, a pinch of salt. The butter sizzled in the pan, and the familiar sound of mixing batter and flipping pancakes. You drizzled honey over each one, just the way Jack and Luke liked them, the golden syrup catching the light.

“You’re here,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and relief.

“I told you we would be,”

You said, crossing the kitchen to pull him into a careful side hug, mindful of his shoulder.

“Go sit. Breakfast’s almost ready.”

Quinn emerged from the guest room just as Luke shuffled in, rubbing his eyes with his good hand.

“Smells like your pancakes,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s because they are,” you replied.

“Come on, sit.”

The four of you gathered at the small dining table, plates stacked with warm pancakes and a pot of jasmine tea in the center. For a moment, no one spoke, just the soft clinks of forks against plates and the slow, deliberate chewing of warm food.

Jack broke the silence first.

“I feel like shit,” he admitted, staring at his plate.

“Like… not just physically. But like I let everyone down. The team. The fans. Ourselves.”

Luke swallowed, his eyes fixed on his mug.

“Yeah. I keep thinking I could’ve done something different. Dodged a hit, maybe. Or… I don’t know. I just feel useless.”

You reached across the table, placing your hand over both of theirs, your grip firm but gentle.

“Do you know how proud we are of you?” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

“You’ve been playing this game since you could barely walk. You’ve given your heart to it, every single day. A surgery doesn’t change that. It doesn’t change who you are.”

Quinn nodded, his expression steady but fierce.

“She’s right. This isn’t the end of anything. It’s just a detour. You’re still Jack and Luke Hughes, and you’re still two of the best people we know.”

You squeezed their hands.

“You’re not just hockey players. You’re good men. Kind, funny, loving little brothers we both adore. And if all you ever did was call us at 2 a.m. to ask how to boil broccoli again, we’d still be proud.”

Jack’s eyes glistened, and he looked away quickly, trying to hide it. Luke wasn’t as subtle a single tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away with the back of his good hand, a small, sheepish smile breaking through.

“I wish you guys could stay until we’re better,” Luke mumbled, his voice barely audible.

You exchanged a glance with Quinn, your heart aching at the vulnerability in Luke’s words.

“We wish we could, too,” you said softly.

“But we’ll be here as long as we can. And when we’re not…”

Quinn leaned in, his voice warm but firm.

“We’ll FaceTime everyday if you want. Or every other day. Four times a week minimum. Deal?”

Jack and Luke both nodded, their smiles returning slowly, tentative but real. For now, the surgeries, the rehab, the disappointment they could wait. Because this? This was family.

One evening, as the four of you sat on the couch with a pile of blankets and a muted hockey game on in the background, Jack turned to you.

“You know, I was kinda joking when I asked you to come. I didn’t think you’d actually drop everything.”

You raised an eyebrow,

“And miss the chance to nag you in person? Never.”

Luke laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in days.

“You’re stuck with us now, you know. No escaping.”

Quinn draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“Good. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Days turned into a week, you and Quinn helped the boys navigate their new routines from physical therapy appointments, medication schedules, and the occasional emotional breakdown. You taught Jack how to make a proper smoothie (no more blending entire bananas with the peel on), and you sat with Luke during his quieter moments, letting him talk when he was ready and staying silent when he wasn’t.

When it was time to head back to Vancouver, the goodbye was harder than you expected. Jack hugged you tightly, his good arm squeezing you like he didn’t want to let go. Luke with his hug was just as fierce, his face buried in your shoulder for a moment longer than usual.

“Call us,”

You said, pointing at them as you and Quinn stood in the doorway.

“Anytime. For anything.”

“Even broccoli emergencies?” Jack asked, a glimmer of his old mischief returning.

“Especially broccoli emergencies,” you replied, grinning.

As the door closed behind you, you felt Quinn’s hand slip into yours, his grip so steady.

“You’re pretty good at this big sister thing,” he said quietly.

You smiled, leaning into him as you walked toward the Uber.

“Only because I’ve got the best partner in crime.”

Flight home, both of you lost in thought. You knew Jack and Luke would be okay but more than that, they had you and Quinn, and that was a bond no injury could break.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes imagines #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes x f!reader #quinn hughes x fem!reader #quinn hughes fanfic #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x oc #quinn hughes angst #nhl fanfcition #nhl imagines #nhl fanfic

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wosospacegirl · 3 days ago

Text

Youngest Putellas - part 4

Summary: There was a shadow growing in the Putellas family, unnoticed, while everyone kept their attention on Alexia. Somehow, your mom's house and your city felt too small for both you and your sister.

Warnings: !!! mentions of self-harm and blood (pls don't read if it triggers you, r is sad here). plus alexia being a caring sister for once, misa being a sweetheart <3

Word count: 5.7k

A/n: after a whole month hehe

Marteslist here

Your hands were shaking as you chopped the shiitake mushroom. The cutting knife was creating a repetitive pattern that was driving you mad.

The smell of thyme, once comforting, was now nauseating.

Your kitchen was your safe space. You liked to cook. To create something from scratch. To take something raw and turn it into something nutritious, something with meaning and purpose.

The feeling of pride as you watched someone enjoy eating what you made was unmistakably better than making a goal; okay, maybe you were exaggerating a bit, but it came close, so close.

You had made risotto with mushrooms a dozen times. It was Alexia's favourite, and once you got that piece of information, you began cooking it every Friday back in Barcelona, but you hadn't made it since moving to Madrid.

Maybe that was why the Arborio rice looked intimidating. The Parmesan cheese too smelly, and the hazelnuts scattered across the counter seemed like a lot and not enough at the same time.

Everything was going wrong, and you couldn't tell why.

Actually, you could, you very much could.

It was Misa Rodriguez's fault.

You were happy to have her over, excited even, but you didn't know how to behave around someone you like (someone you had just realised you liked).

You knew what it was like to cook a meal because you wanted to impress someone, because you wanted to hear compliments coming from other people's mouths. You've been doing it with your family for years.

But it was different with Misa.

You didn't know how to cook for a girl. For someone you thought was pretty.

You wanted to make the best meal you've ever had, and wanted to make Misa happy.

But at the same time, your hands kept shaking, your stomach reminded you that you were hungry and thirsty and that it needed food too.

What if she hated your cooking? She would be surely hating a part of yourself as well. And you couldn't accept that.

Not right now, not at the point in your life where a rejection would feel like a knife to your heart.

You looked at the kitchen clock when it ticked loudly.

Fuck.

it was 6:34 pm. Misa would arrive soon, and you barely had anything ready. You spent too much time thinking and getting anxious about cooking than actually cooking.

You had postponed it as much as you could. You were an anxious avoidant, if that wasn't clear already. And that was another part of you that you hated.

The list was growing longer as you discovered more pieces of information about yourself.

The rice was almost done, though. At least you had to pat yourself on the back for that.

The salad was resting on the kitchen counter. You just needed to add the natural yoghurt to it and the baby spinach - oh - maybe some extra virgin olive oil would be good, too, but you didn't know if you had bought it last time you went to the market, things were so expensive in Madrid that—

The doorbell rang. And you froze.

Well, your whole body went rigid except for the hand cutting the mushroom, which led to the knife cutting right through your finger.

You winced in pain. No sound left your body as you curled against yourself. You didn't dare to look. Couldn't look.

You enjoyed the pain, but you didn't like blood (not anymore).

It was supposed to stay inside of you, not outside.

The knife hit the cutting board with a wet thud. The mushrooms had drops of blood on them now, a mix of beige, brown and dark red. The kitchen floor was smeared with blood, and some of it fell on your foot.

Blood, blood, blood. The smell of iron was filling the air, clinging to the scent of thyme. The doorbell rang again.

You were going to throw up. It kept pouring out of your finger. It didn't stop.

You were frozen, the pain wasn't doing its purpose of keeping you away from danger, of bringing you to security. It was, once again, trapping you in it.

The fourth time the doorbell rang, Misa's voice came with it.

"Hola, Putellas?" she said through the door, voice worried. "It's me… are you there?"

Misa was at the door. Misa. You were making a meal for Misa. But now it had blood on it. Now it was all ruined. Now it was—

Your finger throbbed. You looked down at it. It didn't look good; you didn't need to be a nurse or a doctor to say that.

You grabbed the kitchen towel and wrapped it around the cut, soaking the blood.

Its fibres were getting into the wound. It didn't feel natural. There shouldn't be cotton in your bloodstream. You cursed.

You looked at the mushroom once again, tears prickling in your eyes. The door. You had to answer the door. Misa was there, still waiting.

You took a step closer to the door; you wrapped your finger a second time, you didn't want Misa to see you bleed. Blood was private.

You opened the door just an inch, just enough for part of your face to poke through it. You kept your wounded hand behind the door.

"Misa... hi!" you said happily, your voice came out way too forced.

Misa smiled when she saw you. She was wearing a hoodie and black jeans. Her hair was down, something you didn't see often. She looked very pretty.

You wanted to invite her in. She looked warm, her face was welcoming, her presence safe; you wanted to rewind your day, start over, let this happen the way it was supposed to.

"Hey, Putellas," she said, her tone began happy, but then it turned confused. "Is everything okay?"

"I-I'm sorry," you said, trying to smile, but by Misa's face, she could tell it was fake. "I-I'll have to cancel tonight's dinner."

"Why?" Misa asked, getting closer to the door, suspicious dripping in her voice. "What's happening?" She tried to take a look inside your house, but with how narrow the opening was, she could barely look at anything.

"I-I got hurt," you said, "Small little thing, b-but I didn't finish cooking so there's no food and—"

"You got hurt? Where?" Misa asked seriously.

"It's nothing," you said. You didn't want her to see you like that; you couldn't.

"Let me in, sí?" she said gently.

"No," you said, surprising yourself with your firm tone. You placed your foot on the door, creating another barrier. "It's nothing."

Misa was silent, looking at you as if you were a scared animal that could bite at any time.

"If it's nothing," She said quietly, looking you right in the eyes. "Then why are you crying?"

You didn't notice you were crying. Your hand, the uninjured one, went to your cheek. Completely damp. You didn't mean to cry, not in front of her, not in front of anyone.

"I-I'm sorry," you murmured.

As you moved to close the door, Misa gripped onto it. She pushed it open firmly, making you move your foot that was behind the door, and you almost lost your balance.

As she opened the door, you felt trapped. You held the kitchen towel tight against your hand, but the pain only grew, so you softened the grip a little bit.

Misa's eyes were scanning you, trying to find where you were hurt and then her eyes fixated on your hand. She didn't say anything, she just held your forearm firmly as she reached your other arm.

"Did you cut it?" she said softly, examining it.

Her touch was gentle, her voice too, she didn't seem mad, didn't seem angry. You cried even more.

Misa didn't question it; she thought it was because of the pain.

You were twelve years old.

Mama was out on a work trip for the week, leaving only you, Alba and Alexia at home.

Alexia was trying to be the responsible one, but in her nineteen years of maturity, there was only so much she could do.

On the first night, Alba disappeared.

Alexia had called every single one of her friends, begging them to tell her where she was. But none of them did. So she went to you.

She questioned you angrily if you knew where Alba was, her voice was sharp and desperate. You were scared,

The questioning didn't last long. She saw your eyes, how confused you were, and how small and young you suddenly seemed compared to her.

She sighed, sat on the sofa, holding the bridge of her nose.

"Mami's gonna kill me if I call her and say Alba's missing," she murmured, but it was enough for you to hear.

You were standing next to her, hands trembling. Scared for Alba. Nervous for Mami, wanting to fix everything so Alexia didn't seem so lost.

She had a game in two days, so she couldn't be stressed about this.

You didn't know how to fix things yet, didn't know any words that would help Alexia. So you tried cooking.

While she stood there, her ear to the home phone, you went to the kitchen to make spaghetti.

It was an easy recipe. Boil the water, add the pasta, then chop the tomatoes, onions, and spinach. Mix everything together and top the pasta with the sauce. Very simple.

You had learned it last year, when Papa passed and Mama was too sad to leave the bed.

During one night, you saw Alexia crying in the kitchen, murmuring to Alba that she couldn't keep on training and being responsible for everybody's meals.

So you took matters into your own hands.

You could hear Alexia's voice from the kitchen, but it didn't matter; nothing mattered while you were cooking.

Alexia had bought you a new knife set. She didn't say anything, just left the box on top of the counter as if it weren't the best gift in the world.

The knives were precise and sharp. The tomato juice barely had time to stain the blade; it was so fast that part of it sprayed across the cutting board.

It was a very good knife. Too good.

You had blinked at the wrong moments. That's why you cut your finger.

It wasn't because your mind was telling you to do it.

It wasn't because your mind told you it didn't remember what colour your blood was.

No.

It was because you blinked. It was because you weren't paying attention. You didn't mean to do it on purpose. You didn't mean to hurt yourself.

Of course you didn't. It was just a wrong blink.

When the knife sliced through the meat of your finger, you kept quiet, watching the blood dripping and mixing with the tomato juice on the cutting board.

Red. Your blood was red, just like the tomato.

Now you could breathe properly. Now you knew the colour of your insides again. But with that knowledge came a price.

Pain.

The pain didn't stop. You didn't know what to do. You were frozen in place, knife to your hand, still sliced through your finger. It didn't cut all the way in; you still had your finger. It just wasn't intact. It wasn't whole.

You were scared to take the knife away. So you didn't.

You looked at the microwave clock. It was 7:56 pm.

You looked down at your finger again, Alexia's voice in your ear, she was pacing the living room now, you could tell she was still nervous just by the pattern of her steps.

You looked at the microwave again. 8:16 pm.

The blood kept coming. The knife was still there.

The pain was washing over you. It hurt. But you had felt worse. It felt several times worse when you watched unknown people laying your Papa to rest in the dirt.

This was nothing, absolutely nothing compared to that.

So you stood there. Feeling. Feeling something.

Physical pain was good, better than grief. At least you could see and indicate what was hurting you.

Most of the time, you couldn't even pinpoint what caused you pain. Now you did. You liked knowing.

You were starting to feel lightheaded. Your feet ached from standing too long. You didn't want to call Alexia, didn't want to bother her, she already had to worry about Alba.

Minutes passed. You waited, but didn't know for what.

Footsteps approached. You looked around the kitchen frantically, searching for something, anything that would make the wound and blood disappear. But there was nothing.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You pressed your lips tight, trying not to cry, but you failed.

"I found Alba, gracias a Dios, she's at—"

Alexia froze completely as she stepped into the kitchen, her mouth still open with unfinished words.

"Perdón," you said in a small voice, looking at Alexia, trying to read her body language, trying to think of what to say.

Alexia's eyes moved from your face to the cutting board. To the knife. To the blood. Everything was red... the counter was carmine.

"Mi corazón, what—" She took a step closer, grabbing paper towels and placing them on top of the knife, over your finger.

Her voice was so soft. Her fingers were so gentle on you. It made you cry harder. You missed Alexia.

"No, no," she said, in a false calm voice. "No llores, it's okay." [don't cry]

Alexia said it was okay, but it was like she didn't know what to do. She didn't seem like your older, wiser sister now. She seemed like a kid, uncertain and scared. Just like you.

Alexia took your arm and placed your injured hand against your chest, telling you to hold the knife in place. To not take it off.

"We're going to the hospital, sí?" she said, already placing a firm hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the house.

But as soon as the word hospital hit your ears, you froze. Not even Alexia's guiding hand was enough to make you move.

You looked up at her, cheeks wet, lower lip trembling. "No. No-no hospital," you stammered, panic completely setting in. "No-- ca-can't go again."

Understanding washed over Alexia's face. The last time you saw Papa, he was in a hospital. You hadn't been to any hospital since he passed. You couldn't go.

"We need to go, mi amor," Alexia said tenderly, sounding just like Mama.

Mama. You wanted your mom. You missed her. You wanted her by your side. Your crying turned into sobs, and Alexia wrapped her arms around you, bringing your head to her chest.

She kissed your head. "I'm gonna make it better, te prometo," she whispered. "But we need to go to the hospital first, sí? Vamos."

You didn't have the strength in your body to fight. Air was barely getting into your lungs. You could barely breathe, let alone run away from Alexia.

Your hand throbbed too. You wanted to fix it. You wanted to fix everything that was wrong with you. If Papa were still here, none of this would be happening.

Alexia opened the passenger door and helped you in before going to her own side, getting behind the wheel.

"Just wait a little longer," she kept saying, but it seemed like it was more for her own sake than yours.

Alexia drove like a madwoman. It startled you, she was always the most boring driver ever, and followed every rule completely.

But it seemed like making sure you didn't die from blood loss was more important now.

You were getting closer to the hospital. Alexia parked awkwardly in front of the hospital doors and helped you out of the car, holding your arm, trying to keep you from moving it.

She barely had to say anything when you walked in. As soon as people saw a young girl dripping blood, there were nurses all over you.

Alexia didn't leave your side. Not when the nurses told her to. Not when the nurses yelled at her. She stood next to you, rigid and unmoving.

You were taken to a white room that smelled like antiseptic. Your whole body was shaking as they placed you down on a chair, Alexia's hand on your shoulder, grounding you.

"I know you want Mama and Papa," Alexia leaned over, murmuring in your ear. "But I'm here, sí?"

You didn't even realise you were calling for them. Didn't realise you were speaking at all. Maybe you were dissociating. Trying to forget you were in a hospital.

The mere thought of being here was frightening, but the way Alexia kept looking around at the walls, it was clear it was a shared trauma between the Putellas.

The nurse slowly took the bloody paper wrap from your finger. The knife was still there. She moved your hand from side to side, and you winced. Alexia held your shoulder blade tensely.

"Con cuidado, que le está doliendo mucho," Alexia said sternly. The nurse completely ignored her. [Be careful, it's hurting her a lot]

"You're going to need stitches," the nurse said. "But there's good news… the knife didn't reach any important nerves."

"I'm going to take the knife out now," she said, not looking at Alexia. "Do you want to stay here? There will be a lot of blood."

Before you could even breathe, Alexia was already nodding. "I'm not going anywhere."

The nurse nodded and picked up an injection.

"This is for local anaesthesia," the nurse explained, looking at your eyes. "It will hurt for a few seconds, but then you won't feel anything, sí?"

You nodded quickly.

"You are her sister?" the nurse asked Alexia. "You'll need to sign a form for me to be able to care for her." The nurse moved her chin, directing it to a table in the room where papers lay.

"It just says that you are responsible for her and any medical decisions while she's here."

Alexia nodded, but didn't move.

The nurse waited, the shot ready in her hand. "Now."

Alexia's eyes moved from you to the nurse. "I'm not leaving her."

The nurse looked at Alexia as if she had had this conversation several times.

"It's five steps. Go. The longer you take, the longer she'll be in pain."

Alexia sighed angrily before walking to the table and signing the paper with more force than necessary. In less than a minute, she was already at your side.

"I-I don't want to," you said as soon as the nurse was ready to give you the anaesthesia. You retreated, trying to get away, but the small chair you were in and Alexia's hand kept you in place.

"L-let me go," you said once again, trying to mirror Alexia's usual stern voice.

"No," Alexia said, jaw locked. "It'll be quick. You need the stitches."

"I don't." You tried to move again, but then Alexia leaned over and held you down with her arms.

The nurse in front of you looked tired.

"Mira, niña," she began. "We can do this the hard way or the easy way. The hard way is that I get a bunch of nurses to hold you down while your sister waits outside. The easy way is to fix your finger with just us. What do you want?"

The nurse barely waited for your awareness.

The injection stung sharply and quickly on your skin; after a minute of waiting, the knife was finally taken from your wound.

You cried from pain, but also for your knife. Alexia had just bought it for you. You didn't want to leave it at the hospital… no, you wanted to keep it.

"I'll buy you another, cariño," Alexia said in your ear as she followed where your eyes were looking. "Did you like them? Do you want another set?"

You were ready to answer when your eyes fell to your finger again. The cut was deep, so much blood. You wanted to throw up.

Alexia held your chin gently, making you look at her while she cleaned the tears from your cheek. "Talk to me, cariño. Do you want another set?"

"S-sí," you nodded, trying not to think about the nurse working on your finger. "I-I want a-a salad set."

"Yeah? okay, I'll buy it for you," Alexia said, her voice steady and soothing. "After here we'll go home, then I'll take you shopping."

Before you realised it, the nurse had already finished the stitches.

"All good," the nurse said, getting up from her chair. "Try to stay away from cooking for a little while, sí? Be more careful, it could have ended way worse." The last bit was directed at Alexia.

Alexia's jaw tightened, but she just nodded. Her hand found yours (the uninjured one) and squeezed.

The nurse wrapped your finger in white gauze, explaining something about keeping it dry and changing the bandage.

But her words felt distant, and a little muffled too. You kept staring at your wrapped finger. It looked wrong.

"Come on, mi amor," Alexia said softly, helping you stand. Your legs felt unsteady, and you were too tired.

The walk to the car was quiet. Alexia kept her arm around your shoulders, guiding you carefully.

The hospital smell clung to your clothes... you wanted to take a shower. Alexia opened the passenger door for you before getting into her seat

"Alba? Did you really find her?" you asked, feeling comfort in being in the car, comfort about going home.

"She's fine. She's at Luisa's house. She said she forgot to tell me. I'll pretend to believe it." Alexia started the engine, looking at you out of the corner of her eyes. "I'm worried about you, though, not her."

You didn't know what to say, so you just looked out the window.

Barcelona felt different during the night, you didn't realise how long you and Alexia were inside the hospital until you saw a city clock, it was past midnight.

"The cutting board," you said suddenly. "It had blood on it."

Alexia was quiet for a moment. "I'll clean it up when we get home."

"And the counter?"

"I'll handle it, too… don't worry, petita."

You wanted to protest. The kitchen was your space. Your responsibility. But your finger throbbed under the gauze, and you felt (once again) so tired.

"Will you really buy me the salad set?" you asked, your voice low.

"Te prometo." Turning her head to you, before turning to the road. "Tomorrow, if you want."

"Okay." You leaned your head against the window, watching Barcelona pass by. "Can we get ice cream too?"

For the first time since this whole thing started, Alexia smiled. Really smiled. "Sí, cariño. Whatever you want."

For a moment, you almost felt normal again. Alexia was talking to you, being nice. It almost felt like life before Papa passed.

But when you looked down at your finger, you remembered. The pain came back, but not the physical kind.

It was that familiar ache that had settled in your chest a year ago, the one that had made a home between your ribs and wasn't planning to leave any time soon.

Your finger was there, stitched up… but you remembered how, just hours ago, you had known exactly what was wrong, exactly where the pain was coming from.

And despite everything (the hospital, the blood and the stitches) part of you already missed that clarity that came with the pain.

So you did it more times than you could count.

Misa's fingers were still gentle on your forearm, her eyes catching on old scars scattered across your hands and fingers. You tried to tell her, between cries, that they were from other cooking accidents when you were younger.

She hummed, and then her eyes fell to the new cut, the one still pouring blood.

"Let me see," she said quietly, already unwrapping the blood-soaked towel.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to see her reaction.

"It's deep, I think," she murmured, then wrapped your finger in the towel again. "Let's go, I'll take you to the hospital—"

"No," you said, pulling your hand away from her. "I'll take care of it. I always have these kinds of accidents."

She looked at you suspiciously. "You'll take care of it? How? And what do you mean you always have these accidents?"

You went to the bathroom while Misa stood by the door.

You knelt on the floor and opened the bathroom cabinet, taking out a small first aid kit. You put it on the counter, holding your towel tight as you searched for the antiseptic.

You caught your reflection in the mirror. You had stopped crying now, but your nose was red, as well as your cheeks. Your clothes, too, were stained with blood.

You exhaled before taking the towel away and opening the faucet, letting the water wash away all the blood. You had grown accustomed to this happening; almost all of your fingers had little scars on them for the very same reason.

You knew how to read a wound, to know when you needed to actually go to the hospital for stitches or when you could just make a homemade bandage.

The cut on your finger was bad-ish. If you went to the hospital, you knew they would give you a stitch or two, but it wasn't that bad. It would heal on its own. You just needed to keep it clean and closed tightly.

That's what you did.

You hadn't noticed Misa standing in the bathroom doorway. She was quietly watching you, arms crossed, but her eyes were careful, taking in every single one of your actions.

You tried to ignore her presence, focusing on the makeshift bandage you were creating.

After a few minutes, you felt that the bandage was secure enough. You looked at it, moving your hand from side to side. You could move your fingers, but it hurt.

No cooking for you for the next week. You would also have to be extra careful during training.

"Didn't take you for clumsy," Misa finally said.

You gave her a side glance. "More like absent-minded," you murmured.

"Guess we'll have to take a rain check on that risotto," she said.

"Sí," you agreed, still too scared to look at her face. "Perdón."

"It's alright," she said, then took a step closer. Her hand landed on your forearm, turning you around. "Can I see it?" She looked down at your bandaged finger.

You nodded, reaching your hand out for her. She examined it, analysing and studying, as if she had been a nurse in another life.

"It looks good," she said. "Professional even."

"Sí."

"Do you do this a lot?"

You knew she was trying to be casual, trying to sound like she didn't care that much, but you could tell she was trying to pry information.

"Not a lot," you lied. "Just went to the hospital a lot for cutting my finger while cooking when I was a kid. I watched the nurses, so I kind of learned how to deal with it."

"Not a lot of kids go to the hospital for cutting their own fingers."

You didn't say anything.

"Do you have pain medicine?" she asked, tilting her head. "If you want, I can go to the pharmacy, get some for you, sí?"

You smiled sadly. "I have painkillers, thank you, though."

There was silence between the two of you, the only sound being the faucet dripping. Neither of you moved. You stayed in front of her, rigid. She was, too, but softer.

She let go of your arm and said carefully, "I don't think you're okay."

"It's just a small cut," you said.

"Not talking about the cut."

You looked at her warm eyes, how they seemed to be reading right through you.

"I think you should leave, Misa," you said.

"Do you?"

"Yes, please."

She nodded, taking a step back.

"Are you okay here alone, though?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," you said. "If I need anything, I'll go to your apartment."

"Good, you do that," she said, and then, unexpectedly, she leaned over and kissed your cheek, her lips warm against your wet skin. "I'm just a few floors away. I'm a light sleeper, so just ring the doorbell."

You felt your cheeks getting red. "Okay, thank you."

"Bye, Putellas," she said, and then she turned around and left the bathroom. You heard your front door closing, and you were alone again.

You were having breakfast the next day, the cup warm in your hands, and the smell of coffee comforting, hitting your nostrils almost like an old memory.

You had woken up to Misa's message. She had woken up thirty minutes before you and asked if you were okay. You replied quickly, telling her 'sí, thank you' before starting your morning routine.

You loved routines.

You always had breakfast at the same time every single day. You always drank the same coffee, made the same way. Routines brought you safety; you knew what to expect at all times.

What you didn't know to expect was a video call coming from your sister. Alexia was calling you. And you were, once again, frozen solid. You let it ring once, then twice.

Why was she calling you? Did something happen with Mama? Alexia never called. Alexia wasn't a morning person; she always slept late. She appreciated a good sleep.

When the third call came, you pressed accept and waited a few seconds until her face appeared.

She seemed to be sitting in her bed, holding her phone with one hand. Her jaw was locked in place. She looked worried.

Before you could say anything, her voice came through.

"Was it bad this time?" she asked straightforwardly.

She didn't need to explain what she was talking about. You already knew. You just didn't know how she knew.

"No," you told her, looking at the window, not wanting to make eye contact, not even through the screen. "Just a cut."

"They're always just a cut, though," Alexia said.

"Did Misa tell you?" you asked, pressing your lips tight.

You saw her face, how she didn't want to tell you, but it was obvious.

"I didn't know you two were friends," Alexia said.

"We aren't, not really."

"Then why was she having dinner at your place?"

You were never rude to either of your sisters, especially Alexia. But right now she was ruining your day, ruining your coffee. It didn't even taste good anymore…it tasted bitter.

You didn't want to remember everything that happened last night. You didn't need Alexia to remind you of this part of yourself that you hated so much.

It was like all the sadness, the need for attention, the need to be accepted by your sister, it was all shifitng into something sharper and dangerous. It was all turning into something that was unfamiliar to you; you didn't like it.

It was anger. Pure anger. Anger was a very well-known feeling for your sister, not for you. You found comfort in sadness, melancholy, not in rage or resentment.

"I don't need to explain anything to you," you said, feeling proud that your voice came out cold. "Not anymore."

"I know you don't," Alexia said, rolling her eyes. "But I wish you would."

You let out a dry laugh. "You wish? Then why haven't you called me in three months? Why have you been to Madrid for games and didn't even bother to visit me?"

"I've been busy, petita," Alexia said, matching your tone. "I can't run around you all the time."

"Run around me?" you said. "I'm not asking you to run around me. I'm asking you to call from time to time, just like Alba does. You don't fucking love me, and I don't know why."

Alexia froze.

Her whole face went still.

For a moment, you thought it was your wifi connection, but then you saw her blink. Saw her mouth open slightly like she was going to say something, then close again.

"I do love you," Alexia said slowly. "It's just…hard."

"What is hard?"

She waited a few seconds, as if tasting the words on her tongue. "Being around you."

The words hit you like a slap to the face.

You nodded reluctantly. Your hand went under the table, pinching your thigh, trying to keep yourself together. Trying to keep from crying.

"Being your sister, Alexia," you said, your words coming out more quieter than you meant them to. "It's like walking on glass. It hurts, it stings, and I don't know why I keep trying."

"I don't mean to hurt you," she said, emotionless. You couldnt read her face now.

"But you keep doing it," you said. "And I'm tired of feeling hurt."

Alexia's jaw tightened on the screen. She looked away for a moment, then back.

"Then why do you keep hurting yourself?" The question came out more impatiently now, frustrated.

You knew the focus was back on your finger. "Did you go to the hospital? How many times have you cut yourself since you moved? I thought you had it under control now."

"I do have it under control," you said. "I'm not a kid anymore. I know how to care for myself."

"You've been doing that since you were twelve," Alexia said, each word careful. "The first time I thought it was an accident, but then it kept happening and—"

"I have it under control," you said again, more firmly.

Alexia held the bridge of her nose through the screen.

"Have you told Mama about it?" she asked after a few moments of silence.

You shook your head. "No."

"Do you want me to tell her?"

"You already know the answer to that," you said.

You and Alexia had been having this same conversation for years now. The outcome was always the same.

"I have training," you said. "I need to go."

Alexia was quiet, reluctant to end the conversation there.

"Okay," she said, as if not believing you. "Take care of your wound, por favor. Put some alcohol on it, and don't forget to clean it."

"I know, Ale," you said, your voice a bit softer now. Tired. "Don't worry."

"Te amo," she said, and then turned off the phone.

The screen went black before you could say it back. You stared at your reflection in the dark phone screen for a moment.

Right now, you didn't know if you would have said it back anyway.

A/n: whenever I write youngest putellas, I feel like playing dolls once again hehe I hope you guys liked this chapter, I know it's a bit more heavy than the other ones. But I still enjoyed writing it, hope u enjoyed reading it.

Tag list: @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16 , @wosohk04 , @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics @riyaexee @miaereen @kiwidreamersstuff

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