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foreveia · 6 months ago

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palentine’s day ⤨ kuroo tetsuro

⨭ genre; fluff, childhood best friends!trope, valentine’s day special!

⨭ pairing; kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 18.5k

⨭ description; kuroo suggests a “palentine’s day” when you both admit to being adults with no sense of a love life on valentine’s. that being said, obviously he becomes yours.

⨭ warnings; profanity, alcohol, suggestive dialogue

⨭ a/n; guys i made this over the course of like one day. it's literally NOT proofread at all (i am not sober rn and will do so tomorrow morning) so if ur early, deal with it. jk thank u so much for reading my bullshit on ur valentine's if ur reading this also check out 'in full bloom' aka pt 1 of my valentines gift to tumblr

edit; gave up on proofreading so if u find any mistakes. well

song i listened to writing this: 'pretty in pink' by lostboycrow

one.

JFK stands for ‘John F. Kennedy’ International Airport, but as you wait in the masses outside the pick-up zone, you can’t help thinking that it should really stand for ‘Just Fucking Kill’ yourself.

You tend to avoid the airport as much as humanly possible since TSA agents are evil and you always get lost, but today, you’re forced to be here: Kuroo’s flight lands in ten minutes, and he whined so much about the cost of an Uber to your apartment that you finally gave in and agreed to pick him up yourself.

Predictably, you’re already regretting it.

The arrivals area is a literal zoo: people standing way too close, aggressively waving handmade signs that say things like Welcome home, Papa! and Jorge & Melissa 4Ever!, and a seemingly endless stream of passengers getting on and off flights. A man in a suit shoves past you, nearly smacking you in the face with the obscenely large bouquet of roses he’s carrying, and an elderly woman parks herself directly in front of you with a luggage cart, as if she has no idea that you exist. Meanwhile, Kuroo is nowhere in sight.

Leaning back against a pillar, you sigh and clutch your coat tighter around yourself, because despite being a major international airport, JFK still hasn’t figured out how to keep the cold air from blasting in through the automatic doors. The little icon next to Kuroo’s flight says baggage claim, which means you probably have another fifteen minutes before he actually appears—maybe more, if he’s being slow (which he always is).

You pull up your messages.

(3:27 PM) y/n: hurry up tetsu: awh, miss me? 😘 y/n: keep it up and i’m leaving without u

Shoving your hands back into your coat pockets does little to restore warmth, and the irritation building in your chest isn’t helping. You should’ve just let him suffer through the Uber surge pricing. He deserves it: you’re already letting him crash at your place for the week, rent-free.

Your phone buzzes again.

(3:32 PM) tetsu: omw. don’t leave me 🥺 tetsu: remember when u were a baby and followed me everywhere?

You scoff, choosing not to dignify that text with a response.

What a bitch. It’s been years since you last saw him, ever since you moved to NYC for your PhD and he stayed in Japan to work for the JVA, but some things never change: he’s still the same guy who kept you humble your whole childhood, who was your older brother’s—and by extension, yours—sole and only friend, who was the coolest person you knew as a kid because he was in second grade and you were still a kindergartener. You grew out of it by the time you both hit middle school (though he, unfortunately, never grew out of reminding you).

And now he’s here, in your city for a full two weeks as he promotes some upcoming tournament. You guys call semi-regularly, but it really is different when he’s here in real life and in person, because you can no longer just hang up when he starts to get annoying.

That’s when a pair of arms suddenly loop around your waist.

A startled jolt runs through you, heart seizing in your chest before the familiar scent of his overpriced department store cologne registers. Funny how smells bring back memories; he’s been using the same Armani Acqua Di Gio bottle since your undergrad years (you’re both shocked and impressed that he hasn’t finished it yet). His arms squeeze lightly, then drop away.

“Hi, babyface,” he coos, smirking.

Spinning around, you glare at him for still clinging to that dumbass childhood nickname—he overheard your parents call you that literally once, and has insisted on it ever since. He’s probably the sole person left in the world who refers to you that way, but whatever—you’ll tolerate it for two weeks.

Kuroo stands there, dragging a comically oversized suitcase behind him. Honestly, he doesn’t look all that different from the last time you saw him, three years ago when he and Kenma sent you off at Haneda Airport. He’s still got the same stupidly tall frame, same messy bedhead that somehow makes him look effortlessly cool instead of disheveled and gross, like it should.

But he’s older now. More… grown up. His face is leaner, more refined, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he smirks, as smug as always. It’s not that he’s annoyingly attractive, you tell yourself: his confidence is just so in-your-face, it’s impossible not to notice.

“Took you long enough,” you huff, crossing your arms.

He holds up a paper cup from some overpriced coffee joint inside the airport. “In my defense, I needed this. Been up since three in the morning.”

“Oh, poor you.” You roll your eyes. “Let’s just go. I’m sick of this crowd.”

“You Kozumes are all the same,” he grins, but when you turn to lead the way, he swings an arm around your shoulders with easy familiarity, guiding you through the herd of people clamoring for their reunions. The crush of bodies is suffocating—someone smacks into your elbow with a backpack, and you shoot them a dirty look. Kuroo just laughs and steers you closer to him, like he’s shielding you from a crowd of middle schoolers who haven’t learned personal space.

“Where’re you parked?” he asks, glancing around. The overhead speakers crackle as an announcement for a flight to Chicago booms through the terminal.

“Garage 4,” you say, just loud enough to be heard over the noise. “It’s, like, a mile from here, so get ready to hike.”

“Sounds like fun,” he drawls. “Can’t wait.”

A scoff slips out, but the tug at the corner of your mouth betrays you—there’s something about him that makes you nostalgic for days when running around after him and your brother was your favorite activity. You guess old habits die hard; he still reaches back when you fall behind, still makes sure you’re not lost in the crowd.

When you finally reach the elevator, the two of you squeeze in with half a dozen other travelers plus an extremely disgruntled-looking airport employee. Kuroo tries to maneuver his luggage behind him without bumping everyone’s ankles, which, of course, is a losing battle.

“Sorry,” you mutter to the group while jabbing the button for the garage level.

The elevator lurches upward. From the corner of your eye, you catch Kuroo’s sideways grin.

“What’re you staring at?” you ask after a moment, realizing his gaze is fixed on you.

His lips twitch. “You. I haven’t seen you in forever, remember? Trying to see what’s changed.”

You resist the urge to smack him because this space is way too cramped for violence. “What’s changed is that I have zero tolerance for your bullshit now.”

He lets out a loud laugh, drawing a few curious glances from the other passengers that should make him feel more embarrassed than it does. “Sure, you do,” he murmurs, leaning in. “That’s why you came to pick me up, right?”

“I should’ve let you take the subway. You’re lucky I’m so kind and benevolent.”

Unfazed, he grins. “I’m very lucky,” he agrees, voice dropping an octave that sends a weird heat through your cheeks.

Thankfully, the elevator dings and the doors slide open, saving you from having to come up with a retort.

Stepping into the parking garage, the cold air slams into you instantly—JFK has no business being this miserable in February. Tucking your chin deeper into your coat, you exhale sharply and brace yourself against the wind.

Kuroo whistles low under his breath, dragging his suitcase along the pavement with a clatter. “Damn. This city really doesn’t give a shit about warmth, huh?”

“Welcome to New York,” you deadpan. “Now shut up and walk faster before I lose feeling in my fingers.”

He chuckles, shoving one hand into his coat pocket while gripping his suitcase handle with the other. You can hear the low hum of an airplane overhead, the distant honking of taxis below, the way his footsteps fall in sync with yours. It’s strange—how easily he slots back in, like no time has passed at all.

Your car is parked at the far end of the lot, tucked between an SUV and a sedan that’s way too close to the line. “There,” you say, pointing.

Kuroo groans. “You weren’t kidding about the hike.”

You ignore him, fishing your keys from your pocket as you approach the driver’s side. “Just get in, princess. Your chariot awaits.”

He snorts but doesn’t argue, tossing his suitcase into the trunk before sliding into the passenger seat. The moment you settle in behind the wheel, you blast the heater, letting the warmth seep back into your body. Kuroo exhales in exaggerated pleasure.

“Ah, yes,” he sighs, holding his hands up to the vents. “This is the hospitality I deserve.”

You shoot him a look as you adjust the side mirrors. “Buckle your seatbelt. I wanna go.”

“So eager to get me home already? At least buy me dinner first.”

“Get out.”

Kuroo smirks, clicking his seatbelt into place. “Not a chance—you’re stuck with me now, babyface.”

And you just sigh and kick your car into gear, promptly backing up and heading out of the maze of a parking lot, because even if you were to argue, it would be a lie. You’ve been stuck with him for almost two decades, and whether for better or for worse (definitely for worse), you don’t see that changing anytime soon.

two.

Your apartment building’s leasing office has plastered pink and red hearts on just about every open space in the hallway, so it’s safe to say that you’re slightly annoyed as you lug Kuroo’s freakishly huge suitcase to the door of your flat. The wheels squeak in protest, and you’re 99% sure you hear something clanking around inside—like maybe he’s sneaking free weights in there, or some equally ridiculous item you’re going to have to store somewhere in your already-cramped closet.

“Seriously,” you grumble, pausing to readjust your grip, “what did you pack? An entire gym? A small car? Did you kidnap Bokuto or something?”

Kuroo, trailing behind you with his coffee cup that’s somehow still not finished yet, lets out an overdramatic groan. “Oh, come on. I need my suits, my shoes, and, of course, my extremely heavy hair-care products. Gotta keep this—” he gestures at the bedhead that somehow counts as a hairstyle for him “—looking flawless for the cameras.”

“You’re insufferable,” you say.

“It’s okay,” Kuroo replies, stepping around a giant pink heart taped to the floor. “You love me anyway.”

You roll your eyes, key in hand as you finally reach your door. Jamming the key into the lock and wriggling it furiously, you mutter, “I can’t believe I’m letting you stay with me. Your fancy JVA job couldn’t get you a hotel?”

“They could, but the Marriott doesn’t have you,” he says proudly as you drag the suitcase over the threshold and inside your apartment, propping the door open with your hip. “I’d rather stay with my darling friend in her little one-bedroom place on the Upper East Side.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes again—half because you’re exhausted, half because your heart is doing that annoying stutter-step in your chest, and you really don’t want to analyze why. Instead, you drop your keys on the small side table by the door and flick on the overhead light.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, and the words come out more begrudging than you intend. Despite this, he kicks off his shoes very casually, setting his half-empty coffee on your kitchen counter and taking a quick scan of the place. Inside, your apartment is as cozy as ever—small, but comfortable, and the warmth from your radiator is a welcome contrast to the drafty hallway. You drop the suitcase in the living area, exhaling with relief.

He smirks, reaching out to flick one of the pink paper hearts taped to your kitchen cabinet. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of love.”

“The leasing office gets way too into seasonal themes. They gave us all these cut-out hearts to tape up, like we’re in grade school,” you scoff, crossing your arms. “I figured it was better to play along than have them slip passive-aggressive notes under my door.”

“Ah, yes, the joys of city living,” he intones. He peels one heart off the cabinet and sticks it onto his own chest like a ridiculous badge. How appropriate.

“The bathroom’s down the hall to the right. Towels are in the cabinet.” You pause momentarily, considering. “Do you think you can fit on the couch?”

Kuroo regards the couch in question—lumpy cushions, old springs, barely big enough for someone your size—then flicks his eyes to you, expression dry as if to say obviously not. In truth, you aren’t totally surprised. He’s always been freakishly tall, and the piece of furniture doubling as your “guest bed” is basically a glorified loveseat.

“Uh,” you say, slightly distracted as you take in the way his broad shoulders fill your kitchen, “maybe if you sleep diagonally, you could?”

He gives you a slow, sarcastic clap. “Wow, babyface. Thank you for that helpful geometry lesson.”

Your cheeks warm, partly in annoyance and partly because something about him looking so large in your space sets your nerves on edge. “Well, then I don’t know what to tell you,” you mumble. “Unless you wanna sleep standing up against the wall.”

Kuroo crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly comfortable, either.”

You throw up your hands. “Then what do you expect me to do? I only have a full-sized bed in my room, and that’s barely big enough for—” You stop yourself, but it’s too late. You can practically see the grin forming on his lips.

“Oh?” He shifts his weight, the corners of his mouth tilting upward. “I don’t mind sharing. We used to all the time.”

You open your mouth to retort, but no sound comes out. You can’t deny that a part of you has already considered this possibility. Sure, you’ve known him forever, but the last time you shared a bed, Kenma was also there, and you were eleven-years-old having a sleepover because you were all way too invested in Monsters, Inc.—very different from sharing a bed with him now.

“Tetsu,” you start, forcing yourself to sound composed, “my bed is also a tight squeeze. There’s no guarantee we’ll both fit comfortably.”

Kuroo shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m not picky. I can do my best to take up minimal space.”

You snort. “You? Minimizing anything? Please.”

He laughs, and the rich sound echoes in your small living area. “I’m not that tall.”

“Pretty close,” you counter. “But fine.” You exhale, feeling the weight of two weeks’ worth of future awkwardness settle on your shoulders. “If you promise not to kick me in your sleep, you can share the bed.”

He smiles with infuriating smugness, like he’s won some big debate or secured a massive deal. “Noted. No kicking, no thrashing. I can be a good boy when I need to.”

At that, you turn away and take a sip of your water, because if you let yourself stare at him any longer, you’ll start overthinking everything (you already are). Like how you’re going to handle waking up next to him. Or how it’ll feel if one of you accidentally rolls over onto the other in the middle of the night.

“Go shower. You reek,” you say instead, tersely and very much avoiding eye contact.

Kuroo salutes you with two fingers. “Yes, ma’am.” He starts unzipping his massive suitcase, rummaging around for clothes. When he locates what looks like sleepwear, he straightens and tosses them over one arm. “I’ll be quick. Don’t fall asleep before I get back.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say, heart still fluttering at the reality of what you’ve just agreed to.

You’re about to share a bed with your old friend—your insufferable old friend, who shows up with enough luggage to stock a small department store, calls you babyface, and then makes your heartbeat skip whenever he so much as looks at you a certain way.

So in other words, you think you’re probably fucked.

three.

He emerges from the bathroom a little while later, hair damp, wearing a rumpled t-shirt and basketball shorts that show off way too much of his long legs. You pretend you don’t notice. In the meantime, you’ve perched on the edge of your bed—both of your bed, you remind yourself, trying not to linger on that detail—flipping through your phone for the best takeout options.

“You hungry?” you ask, keeping your voice casual. “I’m too tired to cook.”

Kuroo sets his towel on the back of a chair and rubs at his damp hair a final time. “Absolutely. I owe you for picking me up anyway. Let me buy dinner.”

“Deal,” you say, pulling up a nearby Mexican joint’s online menu—you can almost taste the cilantro and lime already. “I vote burritos. Guac and chips on the side. Whaddya think?”

He moves to sit beside you on the mattress, leaning in to read the menu on your phone. Your shoulders nearly brush, and you feel a flicker of awareness at the close proximity.

“Let’s do it,” he says. “I’m a sucker for a good burrito. Extra beans, though, or it’s not worth it.”

You snort, tapping in your order. “Fine. But don’t complain if you regret it later.”

He laughs proudly. “I have no regrets. Order some chips and salsa, too.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you finalize your selections on the app. “Fried plantains or no? They have them here.”

“Absolutely. Throw ‘em in.”

Satisfied, you place the order. “Alright, burritos en route. They said it’ll be here in about twenty-five minutes.”

Kuroo drops onto his back for a moment, groaning dramatically into one of your pillows. “I might not last that long.”

“Quit being dramatic or I’ll eat your half when it arrives.”

He pops back up, smirking. “You’d miss me if I starved to death.”

“Sure,” you say dryly, setting your phone aside and hugging your knees to your chest, getting comfortable. “Anyway, what’s been up with you lately? Aside from the glorious JVA life. You haven’t actually told me much.”

Kuroo shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, humming nonchalantly. “Mostly traveling, setting up events. Lately it’s been a lot of PR for an upcoming international tournament—making sponsor deals, meeting with potential partners, that sort of thing. It’s never-ending.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you say, and mean it. “But you seem to thrive on that chaos.”

He smiles. “I like keeping busy, yeah. What about you? Kenma mentioned something about you publishing an article in a big journal.”

A self-conscious warmth settles in your chest. “It’s not that big,” you insist. “Just a decent academic journal. But yeah, I’m pretty proud. Trying to balance that with my research duties and teaching labs at university is… a lot.”

He bumps your shoulder gently with his own. “Still, that’s impressive. Your parents must be bragging left and right.”

You exhale, a small smile tugging at your lips. “They are. Kenma, too, apparently.”

“He’s proud,” Kuroo confirms, then yawns. “Man, I’m wiped. But I gotta stay conscious long enough to demolish this burrito.”

As if on cue, there’s a buzz from your phone. You glance down to see a delivery notification: Your order is arriving soon.

“Perfect,” you murmur. “I’ll grab it in a minute. Might as well eat in here—it’s more comfortable than the couch.”

He grins, reaching to grab his wallet from his bag and handing you a few twenty-dollar bills. “I’m not opposed to an in-bed picnic.”

A few minutes later, you’re answering the knock at your door. Your hallway briefly fills with the mouthwatering scent of fresh tortillas and spices; you’re only realising now that this is practically the only thing you’ve had all day. Once you pay the delivery person, you lug the paper bag back to the bedroom. Kuroo shifts to sit cross-legged, making space for the containers between you.

“Dig in,” he says, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

You unwrap your burrito, steam curling upward, and suddenly you’re reminded of all those nights you spent eating junk food with him and Kenma back in Tokyo—late-night convenience store runs, microwaved meals shared on the couch while you watched random movies. It feels oddly nostalgic; you almost want to put on Shrek 2 (the best one) just for the sake of it.

“Mm,” you manage around a mouthful of seasoned rice and beans. “That’s gas.”

Kuroo tears into his own burrito, letting out a satisfied hum. “New York burritos aren’t half bad. Who knew?”

You smirk. “They’re still not exactly authentic, but they’re decent. We have some good Mexican places nearby—if you stick around long enough, I’ll take you to this hole-in-the-wall joint in Queens that’s even better.”

He perks up. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.” Then he gestures at one of the pink hearts still taped to your wall. “Speaking of good times, we got Valentine’s Day coming up, right?”

You pause, taking a sip of your soda to stall, humming. “Yeah, next week. Not exactly my favorite holiday.”

“You doing anything?” he asks, fishing out a chip to scoop some guacamole.

You shrug, eyes fixed on your burrito. “No. I’m, uh… single. So it’ll just be another Tuesday for me. Maybe a glass of wine and some Netflix.”

He nods slowly, as if absorbing that information. “Right. Me too, actually. Single, I mean.”

You hazard a glance at him. “Really? I figured you’d have someone lined up,” you tease, trying to keep your tone light. “You’re always bragging about how charming you are.”

He snorts, looking faintly amused. “No takers at the moment, guess I gotta step up my game.” Then he sets his burrito down, brushing stray bits of rice from his fingers. “Honestly, though, I’m not looking to date just anybody. I’m picky.”

The confession sends a flicker of warmth through you. Don’t read into it, you warn yourself. “Well, guess that means we’ll both be alone on V-Day.”

Kuroo’s face brightens with an idea. “Doesn’t have to be alone-alone. We should hang out! Watch a movie, go ice-skating, corny shit like that. We’re in New York City, after all.”

Your stomach does a little flip, and you hope he can’t see the sudden rush of heat in your cheeks. “You want to hang out with me on Valentine’s Day?”

He shrugs, looking casual, but there’s a softness in his eyes. “Why not? Better than moping around separately. We can do the whole anti-Valentine’s vibe. Or, y’know, a Palentine’s Day.”

“Palentine’s Day,” you echo, rolling the phrase around. Part of you wants to jump at the chance, but you’re also cautious—because this is Kuroo. Kuroo, who’s seen you when you were still climbing into Kenma’s bed every time you had a nightmare. Kuroo, who carried you home on his back when you twisted your ankle playing tag at the park. Kuroo, who knows about every embarrassing photo of you in your entire house and is featured in practically half of them.

Kuroo, who was your first childhood crush, who took you to your senior year formal, who still makes your heart stutter like no one else.

Jesus fuck.

“Sure,” you say at last, trying to sound nonchalant. “That could be fun. As long as you’re not too busy with your JVA stuff.”

He offers a crooked grin, the one that always makes your pulse pick up. “I’ll make time. Promise.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the sound of wrappers crinkling and the hum of traffic outside. You focus on your burrito, but every so often, you peek at him from the corner of your eye—how his long lashes cast faint shadows on his cheekbones, how he smirks just before taking another bite.

When you finally polish off the last of your dinner, you exhale in satisfaction, leaning back against the headboard. Kuroo does the same, patting his stomach. “That really hit the spot,” he says. “Might have to get seconds tomorrow.”

“We can’t keep eating like this,” you tease, crumpling up your napkin. “We’ll both end up broke, living off takeout.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Worse ways to go, babyface.”

You give him a mock glare, but you can’t hide your faint grin. Babyface. Somehow, it doesn’t annoy you the way it used to. Maybe it’s the nostalgia, you think, or maybe you’re just too used to it by now.

“Anyway,” he adds, glancing at the clock on his phone, “you ready to crash? ‘Cause I’m about to pass out any second.”

A twinge of nervous excitement flutters in your chest. You’d momentarily forgotten the whole bed situation. You clear your throat, stacking up the empty takeout containers so you can toss them. “Yeah, I guess so. Let’s clean this up, then… bed.”

He nods, stretching his arms overhead. His shirt lifts slightly, revealing a sliver of toned abdomen, and you quickly look away, pretending to focus on tidying up. Two weeks, you remind yourself. He’ll only be here for two weeks, and then things go back to normal—whatever normal means when it comes to the two of you.

But for now, as you glance up to see him smiling at you—fond, amused, and something else you can’t quite name—you have the strangest feeling that nothing about this trip will be normal. And you’re not sure if that terrifies you or thrills you.

Considering it’s Kuroo, the answer is probably both.

four.

As it turns out, Kuroo lied about being a supposed ‘good boy’, because he grabs just about everything in his sleep, including your comforter, your pillow, and you.

The first thing you notice upon waking is that your arm is asleep—completely, pins-and-needles numb. The second thing you notice is that it’s probably because Kuroo is draped all over you like an overgrown cat: one arm slung across your waist, a leg hooking over yours, and his face half-buried in the pillow you share.

It’s still early. The faint gray glow of dawn filters through your curtains, and the radiator in the corner hisses quietly, pushing lukewarm air into the room. You try to move—gently, so you don’t jostle him too much—but his grip tightens reflexively, pulling you closer.

Your pulse hammers a little faster. Not exactly the start to the morning you pictured when you offered to share a bed. Hesitantly, you lay there, blinking sleep from your eyes as you let the situation sink in. On one hand, he’s so much warmer than the drafty air swirling around you. On the other… well, this is Kuroo.

He shifts in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. You can’t help noticing how his dark hair flops forward onto his forehead, or how his breathing sounds steady, almost comforting against your ear. A little flutter stirs in your chest, and you decide it’s definitely the awkwardness. Or maybe hunger. Definitely not anything else.

You inch your free arm over to nudge him carefully in the side. “Hey,” you whisper, cringing at how scratchy your morning voice sounds, “mind letting me breathe?”

He stirs again, blinking blearily. When he opens his eyes, for a split second, he looks adorably confused—like he’s forgotten where he is. Then the realization dawns, and a slow, smug grin spreads across his face.

“Mornin’,” he drawls, voice husky from sleep. And he still doesn’t move his arm.

You clear your throat, refusing to let your face heat up too obviously. “Care to explain why you’re suffocating me?”

“Am I?” he says, sounding wholly unrepentant. “Sorry, babyface. Didn’t realize you were so delicate.”

Rolling your eyes, you lift your numb arm and give him another nudge. “At least release my limbs so I can feel them again.”

He finally relents, scooting back a few inches but still remaining obnoxiously close, the mattress dipping under his weight. You sit up, wincing at the twinge in your shoulder, and rub at the pins-and-needles sensation. Meanwhile, Kuroo stretches luxuriously, arms overhead, shirt riding up just a fraction.

“Not a bad night’s sleep,” he remarks, yawning. “This bed’s cozier than it looks.”

“No thanks to you,” you grumble, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. Despite your best efforts to stay composed, you can’t quite suppress a tiny shiver at the morning chill. “Next time, keep your limbs to yourself.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you make a great pillow,” he counters, smirking.

Before you can toss a pillow at him in retaliation, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach over, scanning the screen: a news alert and an email from your department. With a sigh, you set it aside for now.

You flick your gaze back to him, noticing how the sunlight is slowly brightening the angles of his face. “What’s your schedule like today?” you ask, if only to give yourself something normal to focus on.

He scrubs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair—somehow, it still looks frustratingly cool—and shrugs. “Meeting at noon with the local organizers. Press conference in the late afternoon. After that, I’m free.”

“Alright,” you say, pushing yourself off the bed. “I have a lab to teach at eleven, so I’ll be gone most of the morning and early afternoon. I’ll give you a spare key in case you need to step out while I’m gone—just don’t get lost.”

“Aw, you’re giving me a key to your place?” His grin turns positively wolfish. “This relationship is moving so fast.”

You scowl, but the corners of your mouth twitch. “Shut up,” you say, grabbing a sweatshirt from a nearby chair and tugging it on. “I’ll make coffee, then we can figure out breakfast.”

Behind you, you hear the creak of the bed as Kuroo stands. “Coffee sounds great,” he says, padding after you. “But only if you have the good stuff. None of that cheap instant brand.”

He catches up to you in the hallway, and for a moment, you’re hyper aware of how tall he is, how his eyes are still a bit sleepy, how your bedhead probably resembles a hedgehog. Yet, there’s a comforting ease in the way he fits into your space—like he’s been here a hundred times before, even though it’s been years since you last lived in the same city.

You toss him a lazy glare over your shoulder. “You’re lucky I still have some leftover beans from when Kenma visited. Otherwise, you’d be stuck with the dreaded instant.”

Kuroo feigns a dramatic shudder, but his grin stays easy. As you flick on the kitchen lights, he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. It strikes you again how right he looks here, in your cramped little kitchen, sporting wrinkled sleep clothes and bed hair you’d tease him about if he didn’t look so… comfortable.

“By the way,” he says, voice lower, still thick with morning grogginess. “Thanks for letting me crash here. And, y’know… for not kicking me out of bed for being grabby.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you say, ignoring the warmth creeping into your cheeks as you fill the kettle with water. “Tonight, you stick to your side, got it?”

“Scout’s honor.” He raises three fingers in a mock salute, the picture of insincerity.

You roll your eyes and turn on the stove, waiting for the water to boil. He shuffles a little closer, peering at the kettle. He’s definitely invading your personal space again, but maybe you’re starting to get used to it, if the jump in your heartbeat is anything to go by.

It’s a strange, domestic moment: you, still half-asleep, and Kuroo, leaning in with his arms caging you in, braced on the kitchen counter, with the faint hum of traffic outside. Despite the tingle in your arm and the slight ache in your stiff neck, you realize you don’t hate the idea of waking up like this. For once, you’re not quite as alone in the big city, you justify to yourself.

He meets your gaze, one brow raised. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, dropping your eyes to the kettle. “Just that the coffee needs to hurry up or I’m gonna be late.”

He chuckles, the soft rumble filling the space. “Sure, sure.”

But he doesn’t push, just stays close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. And for now—just this once—you decide to let it be.

five.

Kuroo looks unfairly good in a suit.

You realise this while you’re curled up on your couch, half-watching the new season of Single’s Inferno on your TV and half-dozing off with a bowl of stale popcorn balanced on your lap. The door swings open without so much as a warning knock—typical—and then there he is, in all his post-press-conference glory: crisp blazer, tailored trousers, tie loosened just enough to give off a casual but effortlessly hot vibe.

Your stomach does a funny little flip. It’s probably the stale popcorn.

“Hey,” he says, shutting the door behind him with a nudge of his shoulder. “You look cozy.”

“I am cozy,” you huff, wriggling deeper into your throw blanket. You drop a piece of popcorn into your mouth and make a face when it crunches unpleasantly. “You look… fancy.”

He glances down at his outfit, as if he’s just remembered it exists. “Right. Forgot I was still wearing this.” A small smirk crosses his face. “Didn’t want to keep the fans waiting, so I came straight from the conference.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sure your admirers really appreciated that.”

“Jealous?” he teases, toeing off his polished dress shoes. His shirt collar gapes slightly as he unbuttons the top, revealing a sliver of skin at his throat. Annoyingly distracting, even after all these years.

You pointedly look back at the TV, where two contestants are locked in a tense conversation about who picked whom for a date. “Not even remotely.”

“Ouch,” he says, sounding mock-offended. “And here I was, about to tell you that I saved you some fancy hors d’oeuvres from the event. But if you’re not interested—”

You sit up immediately, dislodging your popcorn bowl. “Wait. Real food?”

Kuroo snickers, pulling a napkin-wrapped bundle from his pocket. He tosses it onto the coffee table with a flourish. “Straight from the VIP section. Mini sliders and some kind of salmon tartare thing.”

You snatch it up without hesitation, peeling back the napkin to inspect the offerings. “See, this is why I tolerate you.”

“Tolerate?” He feigns a dramatic gasp. “Babyface, we’ve been through too much for that kind of slander.”

You grunt, already stuffing a mini slider into your mouth. “I don’t know. If I remember correctly, you used to tie my shoelaces together and push me into Kenma just to watch me trip.”

Kuroo grins, unbothered. “Building character.”

“Being an ass.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” he singsongs, shrugging out of his blazer. As he drapes it over the back of the couch and rolls up his sleeves, you glance at him from the corner of your eye, trying not to be obvious about it.

Because it’s unfair, really. He’s always been annoyingly attractive, but there’s something different about seeing him like this—sleeves rolled up to his forearms, tie loose, like he’s caught between polished professionalism and the boy you used to know.

Kuroo flops down next to you, stretching out his long legs. “You know,” he muses, “you’re getting a little too comfortable trash-talking your own husband.”

You freeze mid-chew. “Excuse me?”

His smirk widens. “Our wedding? First grade? Ring any bells?”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flutters treacherously. “Oh my god, not this again.”

“Oh, yes, this again.” He props his chin on his hand, clearly reveling in your reaction. “It was a beautiful ceremony. You wore that little yellow dress with the flowers on it, I looked dashing in my Spider-Man t-shirt, and Kenma officiated with a Pokémon book instead of a Bible. Very classy.”

You scoff, tossing a balled-up napkin at him. “It was a fake wedding.”

“That’s not what you said at the time,” he counters, smug. “You said we’d be married forever.”

You glare at him, but warmth is creeping into your cheeks. “I was six.”

“And yet,” he hums, leaning back against the couch, “you still haven’t divorced me.”

You want to argue. You really do. But the memory of that afternoon—standing in your backyard, clutching a dandelion bouquet while Kuroo grinned at you with all the unearned confidence of an eight-year-old—unfolds so vividly in your mind that you go momentarily speechless.

It’s stupid how much of that day you remember. How he laced his fingers with yours, grinning like he had just won something. How Kenma droned through a “ceremony” while barely looking up from his Game Boy. How, when it was over, Kuroo had squeezed your hand and whispered, Guess that means you’re stuck with me now, huh?

He’d been right, even if you both did eventually grow up and start dating around. And yet, as you sit here—knees almost touching on your too-small couch, the memory of that dandelion bouquet and his smug, gap-toothed grin dangling in the air—you realize there’s a piece of you that never truly left that backyard.

You swallow the last bit of the mini-slider, hoping it’ll ground you. “So,” you say, feigning a dismissive shrug, “we grew up. We definitely child-broke-up.”

Kuroo’s dark eyes glint with amusement as he shifts his weight, the couch cushions dipping under his long frame. “Mm, I don’t recall signing any annulment papers. Actually, I can’t recall you ever giving me back my ring.” He holds up his left hand to wriggle his empty ring finger. “I guess I should’ve at least invested in a proper Band-Aid ring for you.”

You make a face, ignoring how your heart lurches at the implied you he keeps tossing out, like he’s reminding you this is your story—both of yours. “Band-Aid ring, huh? How romantic. You really know how to woo a girl.”

“You always did love Pokémon bandages. Remember how you insisted on Bulbasaur for every scrape?” There’s an unmistakable fondness in his tone, and you wonder if he’s indulging in the same wave of nostalgia that’s been drowning you since you let him through the door.

Trying not to give yourself away, you tilt your head, pretending to examine him. “I see your memory is as annoyingly perfect as ever.”

He flashes a grin. “I have an eye for important details—like your shoe size, your favorite weird pizza topping combo, and the fact that you still haven’t actually denied liking me.”

You snort, heat creeping up your neck. “In your dreams, Tetsu. Where do you get off assuming things, anyway?”

He spreads his hands, tie swaying lightly at his chest. “Can you blame me? You did let me crash at your place. You drove all the way to JFK in rush-hour traffic just to pick me up. If that’s not love, I’m not sure what is.”

You open your mouth to argue but close it again when you realize you’ve got nothing. Yes, you did pick him up. Yes, you did offer him half your bed. And yes, some traitorous part of you is glad he’s here, sprawled out in your living room, reminding you of all the reasons you used to practically worship him when you were a kid.

“You’re insufferable,” you say finally, in a voice so soft it barely carries any bite.

Kuroo chuckles, shifting so he’s angled toward you—elbow braced on the back of the couch, one long leg tucked underneath the other. “Goes both ways, babyface. You’ve always driven me insane.”

The word always lingers in the space between you.

You try to distract yourself by flicking the TV volume higher, but the dating show is a blur. “So how was the press conference?” you ask, setting the empty napkin aside. “Any major breakthroughs? More sponsors falling for your cheesy grin?”

His responding laugh is short, a bit self-conscious. “You know how it is: they ask the same questions—how the tournament’s being organized, who our top competitors are. I say the same rehearsed lines. Then I shake some hands and get out.”

“Bet you loved the attention, though,” you tease, nudging his ankle with your foot.

“Of course,” he deadpans, “you know me too well.”

A quiet pause descends as you both sink further into the cushions. The overhead lamp is dim, casting long shadows on the walls. It feels intimate—too intimate, almost. A far cry from the raucous energy of the press conference he must’ve attended.

“Do you…” You’re not sure why you’re hesitating. Maybe it’s the sudden vulnerability creeping in at the edges of your rib cage. “Do you ever miss being a kid? Everything felt simpler back then.”

His gaze settles on you, something soft reflecting in his eyes. “Yeah. A lot, actually.” He reaches out—hesitates for a second—then pokes the side of your thigh. “But I’m glad some things haven’t changed.”

Your breath catches. “Like what?”

A beat. Then: “Like you still call me out on my bullshit. You’ll still eat half my food if given the chance. You still follow your own weird rules—like never paying for Netflix because you say you can mooch off Kenma forever.” He grins. “And you still look at me the same way. Even if you won’t admit it.”

He doesn’t elaborate further, and you’re too caught off guard to pry. Look at him the same way—what does that mean, exactly? You’re suddenly hyperaware of how close he is, how he’s studying you in the dim light, how the old tether between you two has always refused to snap, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

“Anyway,” he says, shifting back with a little exhale, “got any more of that stale popcorn? I’m starving.”

You clear your throat, trying not to sound frazzled. “Go for it, but don’t complain when it tastes like cardboard.”

He leans over, snagging the bowl from the couch cushion and taking a bite. “Mmm, delicious cardboard.”

His faux-enthusiasm makes you roll your eyes—again. But there’s a familiar warmth curling in your stomach, almost like relief that this little moment is yours to share. Like you’ve both come home, just for a second, to the world you used to know.

You let the show drone on in the background while the two of you work through the stale popcorn in comfortable silence. Every now and then, one of you drops a sarcastic remark or a joke about the contestants on-screen. But beneath the banter, there’s something else stirring—a question you’re not sure either of you is ready to ask.

For now, you settle for glancing sideways at him, at the way his profile looks against the glow of the TV. You let yourself wonder, just briefly, what it would mean to take that childhood promise seriously again. And though you push the thought away almost as quickly as it comes, there’s no denying the giddy little thrill that runs through you when you realize Kuroo might be thinking the exact same thing.

six.

Three days later, it’s the weekend, and you’re free of labs and classes. So obviously, that’s the night Kuroo manages to wheedle you into going to one of his PR parties—with obviously, a Valentine’s theme because the entity in the sky hates you.

“I still can’t believe I agreed to this,” you say in slight disbelief as you wait in the lobby of your apartment for your Lyft. You’re just the slightest bit wine tipsy already and are stumbling a tad bit on your three-inch heels. Kuroo stabilises you with an arm, pulling you into him.

“You’re such a lightweight,” he says, amused.

You scowl at him, nudging your heel against the toe of his polished dress shoe. “Says the guy who made me do a round of shots before we even left.”

Kuroo lifts his free hand in mock surrender, though the grin playing on his lips betrays zero remorse. “Hey, I never forced anything. You’re the one who decided it’d be a good idea to keep up with me.”

“You can probably metabolize alcohol through sheer arrogance alone,” you mutter, leaning into him a bit more when your heel wobbles on the slick tile. The building’s lobby has a floor so shiny you can see your own reflection. You catch sight of how red your cheeks look—definitely from the wine.

He snorts, sliding his arm more securely around your waist. “Arrogance is a powerful superpower.”

Before you can retort, the Lyft driver texts that they’ve arrived, and you and Kuroo shuffle through the lobby’s sliding doors. The crisp February air slaps you in the face, clearing some of the pinot-fueled haze from your head.

“God,” you hiss, crossing your arms over your chest as you walk up to the waiting car. “Why does it feel like it’s negative a thousand degrees out here?”

Kuroo hums sympathetically, tugging you close so you can huddle in his warmth. “Isn’t it romantic? Attending a Valentine’s party in frigid weather, half-tipsy, with your beloved husband—”

You jab him in the ribs. “Do. Not. Start.”

“Ow.” He laughs, not sounding at all wounded, and opens the car door for you. “Alright, princess, let’s get you warmed up.”

You slide into the backseat, tucking your purse by your feet. Kuroo follows, closing the door. The car smells faintly of peppermint and some floral air freshener, and the driver has a local pop station on low volume.

“Party tonight, huh?” the driver says, catching a glimpse of your outfits in the rearview mirror. “Happy early Valentine’s Day.”

You force a polite smile. “Yeah, it’s a work thing for… him.” You gesture vaguely at Kuroo, who’s already fiddling with the seatbelt.

Kuroo pipes up, flashing an easy grin. “She’s being modest. She’s the star of the show.”

You give him a side-eye, but your stomach flips a little at how casually he includes you in his world. “I’m definitely just background noise. He’s the big fancy PR guy.”

He drapes an arm across the back of the seat, leaning in with that smug energy you always pretend to hate. “C’mon, babyface, we both know you’re the real highlight.”

The driver chuckles to himself at your banter and pulls out onto the main road.

The city lights blur by, and despite the wine, you’re keyed-up enough to notice just how close Kuroo is. His thigh presses against yours as the car bumps over a pothole, and you catch his scent—still that overpriced cologne. You almost tease him for using the same brand since undergrad, but some part of you likes the familiarity too much to make fun of it.

Kuroo scrolls through his phone—likely checking last-minute details for the event—and you let your gaze wander. You wonder what you’re walking into: a Valentine’s-themed volleyball PR party probably means pink cocktails, goofy heart-shaped decorations, and sponsors angling to chat up Kuroo for new deals.

You sigh softly, leaning back into the seat. At least you’re not teaching labs tomorrow.

Feeling your eyes on him, Kuroo pockets his phone and glances over. “You okay?” he asks, voice quieter so the driver can’t overhear. “Too tipsy?”

“Barely,” you lie. “I’m fine.”

He studies you for a moment, then nods. “If you get overwhelmed or bored, just say the word, and I’ll whisk you out of there.”

Your heart does that unfortunate flip again. “I won’t hold you back from schmoozing with your sponsors,” you say, trying to sound casual.

Kuroo just shrugs. “Eh. The only person I really need to impress is right here.”

He grins when you roll your eyes for the millionth time, but there’s a note of sincerity in his gaze that makes your pulse stutter uncontrollably (and feeling less and less like it’s the wine).

seven.

The Lyft pulls up to a sleek downtown hotel with a bright red banner above the entrance: Welcome, Pre-Valentine’s Volleyball Gala! The curbside is abuzz with people stepping out of taxis and rideshares, all dressed in varying degrees of fancy.

You thank the driver and step out. Immediately, the cold hits you again, but Kuroo’s hand is there, steady at your back. Together, you make your way through the glass doors into the lobby, which is decked out in pink and red balloons. You spot a heart-shaped ice sculpture near the reception desk and suppress a grimace.

“This is… a lot,” you say under your breath, scanning the crowd. Everyone seems to be brandishing name tags and sipping champagne. A table off to the side offers color-coded wristbands for something—“Single,” “Taken,” “Open to Networking,” and so on.

Kuroo leans in close, lips by your ear so you can hear him over the lounge music. “Brace yourself, babyface. Corporate Valentine’s chic in full force.”

You can’t help a snort. “Don’t call me babyface in front of everyone,” you hiss, trying not to look self-conscious.

He smirks. “Fine. Mrs. Kuroo it is.”

You elbow him gently in the ribs, and he lets out a playful “Ow!” just as a man in a suit rushes over to greet you.

“Kuroo, hey!” The guy beams and extends a hand. “Glad you could make it. We’ve got the sponsors over by the bar, and the press is setting up in the lounge area.”

“Thanks, Daichi,” Kuroo replies smoothly, shaking the man’s hand. “I’ll swing by and say hello in a minute. Oh—this is my plus-one.”

The man’s smile widens. “Great to meet you!” He doesn’t even blink at the slightly flustered expression on your face, just hands you both event badges. “We’re color-coded, so choose whichever suits your mood. And enjoy the party!”

You glance at the bands in your hand: pink for “Single,” purple for “Open to Collaboration,” red for “Taken.” There are even gold ones for “VIP.”

“Seriously?” you mutter, turning to Kuroo. “This is next-level marketing cheese.”

He laughs, plucking a gold band from a nearby tray and snapping it onto his wrist. “I’m definitely VIP, babe. No shame.”

Rolling your eyes, you settle for a purple one—“Open to Collaboration” seems neutral enough, right? You have no intention of wearing the pink “Single” band all night.

Kuroo’s gaze flicks to it, and you catch a slight smirk before he ushers you forward into the main ballroom.

Which, by the way, is massive: vaulted ceilings, floating heart-shaped lanterns, a champagne fountain at the center. You can practically smell the wealth. A DJ in the corner is playing some inoffensive house music that somehow fits the glittery vibe.

“Wow,” you breathe. “They really didn’t hold back.”

“Volleyball PR events rarely do,” Kuroo says, threading his fingers through yours before you can process it. It’s casual and familiar, like he’s done this a thousand times, but your heart jumps all the same. “Let’s grab a drink, yeah?”

He guides you toward the open bar. A bartender in a bright red bow tie greets you with a grin, asking for your orders.

“Champagne for me,” Kuroo says, then glances down at you. “And for my lovely companion…?”

You pause. “Champagne’s fine. Might as well fit the theme.”

As the bartender works his magic, you turn to Kuroo. “So, what’s the plan? Do we mingle for half an hour and then dip? I’m not sure how long I can stand being reminded that Valentine’s Day is literally next week.”

Kuroo’s eyebrow quirks. “Aren’t we hanging out anyway? We promised each other a palentine’s date—remember?”

You feel your cheeks warm. “I remember. Just… these decorations are overkill.”

He hands you a champagne flute, then raises his own in a mock toast. “To corporate romance,” he says with a smirk.

You clink glasses, taking a sip. The fizzy sweetness bursts across your tongue, and you can’t help but think it tastes like anticipation—like something is about to happen tonight that neither of you saw coming. Then you convince yourself that it’s just the alcohol.

Over the next twenty minutes, you watch as Kuroo does his job—he introduces you to a cluster of sponsors, some old teammates, and a few local sports reporters. He’s charismatic in that effortless way he’s always been: breezing through small talk, sprinkling in jokes, and deflecting every flirty comment from others with easy charm.

You mostly hover by his side, alternately sipping champagne and trying not to feel out of place in your heels. Every so often, his fingers brush your elbow or settle low on your back, like he’s silently telling you: You’re not alone here.

It’s strangely reassuring—even if you can’t quite decide what it means.

Eventually, the crowd disperses into smaller clusters, and you manage to snag a moment of relative quiet near the pink-lit fountain in the center of the room.

“You okay?” Kuroo asks again, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “Not too bored?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine. It’s actually kinda funny watching you switch between your used-car-salesman voice and your normal voice.”

He snorts. “You want me to hit them with the real me? That might be too much for these delicate souls.”

“I can handle it,” you say, surprising even yourself with your boldness—maybe it’s the champagne.

Kuroo’s gaze flickers, something mischievous in his eyes. “Oh, I know you can handle me, babyface. You’ve done it since you were six, right?”

Your heart skips. He just won’t let you live that childhood wedding down. And, annoyingly, you don’t really mind.

“Stop it,” you say, but there’s no heat in your voice. “Anyway, what’s next on the agenda? Are you supposed to give a speech or something?”

He rakes a hand through his hair, making it even more disheveled. “Nah, not tonight. Just an appearance—shake some hands, charm some sponsors.” He shrugs, then lowers his voice. “We could slip out soon, if you want. Go somewhere else—somewhere less… pink.”

The offer sits in the air between you. You can’t help wondering what exactly he’s proposing. Drinks at a quieter bar? A late-night walk under the city lights? Going back to your apartment to continue that half-finished bottle of wine?

You muster a casual tone. “I’m not opposed. But won’t your absence be noticed?”

“I showed up, I mingled,” he says, brushing off your concern. “That’s enough for them.”

He flashes that signature grin—so easy, so Kuroo—and a flutter of nostalgia collides with the champagne buzz in your bloodstream. You think about how this night started: you, tipsy in your lobby, letting him steady you on your heels. You think about Valentine’s Day looming, and how all of this might be leading to something (which, you’re still trying to figure out if it’s good or bad).

“Alright,” you say, taking another sip from your glass. “One more round of goodbyes, then we escape.”

Kuroo’s eyes linger on you, almost thoughtful. “Deal.”

He downs the rest of his champagne and sets the empty flute on a nearby tray, offering you his arm. The little gesture makes you laugh under your breath; he’s always half-joking, half-serious. But you slip your hand into the crook of his elbow all the same, taking advantage of the moment with a small grin.

He is your date tonight, after all.

eight.

You two end up at a 99cent pizza shop.

It’s one of those shitty ones, where the lights blink every other second and are open 24/7 and catering exclusively to drunk people. You order a pepperoni slice (which is $1.50, absolutely criminal), Kuroo gets a slice with mushrooms and peppers like a weirdo, and a ten-piece garlic knots because you’re both absolute whores for shitty food.

The cashier barely looks up as you pass over a crumpled bill, his expression one of pure indifference. It’s the kind of place where no one gives a shit if you waltz in wearing a ballgown or, in Kuroo’s case, an untucked dress shirt and a loosened tie that screams former professionalism turned reckless abandon.

Kuroo nudges your shoulder as he grabs the tray of food. “Find us a seat, babyface.”

You glance around. The booths are occupied by a mix of exhausted bar-hoppers, students pulling all-nighters with greasy paper plates in front of them, and one guy hunched over, presumably contemplating his life choices. Classic New York.

You settle for a two-seater in the back corner, mostly because it’s the only spot that doesn’t look like it’ll give you tetanus. Kuroo sets the tray down between you, sliding into the seat across from you with that ridiculous, smug expression that hasn’t left his face all night.

“You’re staring,” you say flatly, reaching for a garlic knot.

He props his chin on his hand, unbothered. “You look cute.”

Your hand freezes mid-air. “What?”

Kuroo, the absolute bastard, takes a slow bite of his pizza like he didn’t just casually drop a grenade into your bloodstream. “I said, you look cute.” He gestures vaguely at you with his slice. “All dressed up in a shitty pizza joint. Very Serena van der Woodsen in Gossip Girl vibes.”

You recover quickly, snorting as you take a bite of your garlic knot. “You did not just compare me to Serena van der Woodsen.”

“Hey, I know my pop culture references.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “But seriously. I like this look on you.”

The warmth in your chest spreads far too quickly. You shove it down with a bite of pizza. “If you’re trying to butter me up, it’s not gonna work.”

Kuroo smirks. “You sure? It worked when we were kids.”

You shoot him a look. “I was six. You bribed me with strawberry Pocky.”

“And you fell for it every time,” he says, grinning. “You were so easy to manipulate.”

You kick him lightly under the table, but there’s no real venom behind it. He just chuckles and takes another bite of his pizza, chewing thoughtfully before glancing at you again.

“So,” he says after a moment. “What was the verdict on tonight? Was it as painful as you thought?”

You hesitate, twirling the crust of your pizza between your fingers. The thing is, you actually had fun. Not just tolerable, get-through-it-and-leave fun, but actual, laughing-with-Kuroo-in-the-middle-of-a-stuffy-corporate-party fun. The realization makes your stomach flip.

“It was fine,” you say, playing it cool. “Drinks were good. Company was tolerable.”

Kuroo barks out a laugh. “Tolerable? Damn, I’ll take it.”

You roll your eyes, but the way he’s looking at you—so easy, so damn fond—makes it hard to breathe for a second.

You clear your throat, glancing down at your plate. “Anyway, it was nice to see you in work mode. You actually seemed like a functional adult.”

Kuroo sighs dramatically. “I know, it’s exhausting.”

You snort. “I imagine so. Having to use, like, three brain cells at a time.”

“It’s really pushing my limits,” he says with an obnoxious frown.

The conversation drifts into easy territory—inside jokes, exaggerated retellings of childhood disasters, a debate about whether New York pizza is actually better than Tokyo’s (you say yes, he remains stubbornly neutral). It feels natural, like slipping into an old sweater that still fits perfectly despite the years.

At some point, he reaches across the table, swiping a garlic knot straight off your plate.

“Hey,” you protest, swatting at his hand too late.

Kuroo just smirks, popping the whole thing into his mouth. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, babyface.”

“Possession is going to be me slapping you in the face if you steal another one.”

“Violence,” he muses, chewing. “That’s how you treat your childhood husband?”

Your face heats. “Tetsu.”

He winks. “Relax. I’ll buy you more next time.”

Next time.

The words hang there for a second longer than necessary. He says it like it’s a given, like this—you and him, nights like this—is a thing that should keep happening.

And the stupidest part? You don’t hate the idea… not even a little bit.

You pick up another garlic knot, breaking eye contact like that’ll do anything to slow your heartbeat. “You better buy me more.”

Kuroo just leans back, watching you like he already knows something you don’t, and you are slightly terrified of whatever that implies.

nine.

Monday night, after you get home from an excruciating day of labwork (like… you entered at 6 AM and left the next day at 2 AM—you’re really going through it these days), Kuroo is already changed and in his pajamas, reading a book and playing a vinyl you bought when you went through your #artsy stage. He looks up with a smile from his spot sprawled across your couch as you come in, drop your keys on the side table, and promptly collapse on the floor.

“I’m so tired,” you wail, fake sniffling, slumped against the wall. Kuroo looked momentarily alarmed until your pleading; he lets out an exhale that’s vaguely close to a laugh when he realises you’re just being dramatic.

“Welcome home,” he says, his smile practically audible in his voice. “Take it you had a long few day… days.”

You sigh, nodding, wobbling over to the couch and plopping on top of him. You’re so tired you don’t even care about the proximity—you want to lie down, right now. “Yeah. But I think I’ve discovered something pretty interesting, so I’m hoping I can get into Neuron this time around.”

“You’ll get it,” Kuroo says completely calmly, sounding insanely confident in you. He doesn’t even look away from his book—just lifts his arms enough to let you put your head on his chest, and then resting them against your shoulder blades. “Smartest girl I know.”

“...Shut up,” you mutter, burying your face into his t-shirt to hide your embarrassment.

You let out a weary groan, face still hidden in Kuroo’s t-shirt, and he just chuckles under his breath, shifting slightly so you can get more comfortable. His hand finds its way into your hair, fingers raking through it in a surprisingly soothing motion—like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Can’t believe you’re still awake,” he remarks, eyes darting back to his book. “Look like you’re about to pass out any second.”

“Very astute observation,” you mumble into the soft cotton. “Nothing gets past you.”

He snorts, lightly tapping your shoulder in retribution before turning a page. “Hey, just looking out for my genius scientist here. Big day tomorrow, right?”

Your face scrunches up in confusion. “Big day? I mean, I guess I have more lab stuff…”

Kuroo tilts his head, arching an eyebrow at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Not that,” he says, exasperated. “Valentine’s Day, babyface. Remember?”

Your heart does a quick, uncomfortable skip. Valentine’s—not Palentine’s. The difference lands in your head like a small explosion, especially considering you’ve both been referring to it as Palentine’s up ‘til now.

“O-oh,” you stammer eloquently, trying to recover. “Right. Valentine’s. Sure.”

He watches you carefully, eyes gleaming with amusement as he gently closes his book. “You didn’t forget our plans, did you?”

Plans. Right. He invited you for something—ice skating or a movie, or maybe both. You’d said yes in that flustered, I’m-pretending-this-is-just-a-friendly-thing way. But the way he’s saying it now, with that particular lilt in his voice, has your mind racing.

You force yourself to sit up slightly, though you don’t leave the comfort of lying half-on-top of him. “I—uh. I didn’t forget. I guess I’m just… used to calling it Palentine’s.”

Kuroo smirks, brushing a thumb across your cheek with casual familiarity. “Oh, right. My bad. I must’ve slipped.”

Slipped, he says, which makes your pulse do an annoying little flutter.

“I mean, it’s not like it matters,” you continue quickly, your words tripping over themselves. “We’re just hanging out—like always. Whether we call it Valentine’s or Palentine’s or ‘Tuesday’… right?”

He hums in response—low in his throat, almost thoughtful—while his hand drifts from your hair to the back of your neck in a comforting weight. “Sure,” he says, a bit too lightly to be casual. “Whatever you wanna call it.”

The tone in his voice suggests that maybe it does matter, that maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t want to hide behind the ‘Palentine’s’ façade anymore.

A moment of silence settles between you, broken only by the faint crackle of your old vinyl spinning and the ever-present traffic outside. Your nerves feel strung tight as a bitch, and you wonder if he can sense how tense you’ve suddenly gone.

“Anyway,” he says, clearly trying to alleviate some of the awkwardness, “I was thinking we could do something painfully cliché tomorrow. Romantic comedy marathon, maybe. Or that ice-skating idea. Hot chocolate, the works.”

You glance up at him, meeting his gaze. “That sounds… nice.” You fidget with a loose thread on his t-shirt, trying not to overthink every micro-expression on his face. “You sure you won’t be busy with, like, sponsor stuff, or—”

Kuroo rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Are you kidding? I’d rather be with you—binging Netflix, falling on my face on the rink—than stuck in another press conference.” He gives a lazy shrug, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Besides, I’m all yours tomorrow.”

I’m all yours.

There’s that pesky little flutter in your chest again, ramping up several notches. You wonder if he can feel your heart pounding where you’re still sprawled half-across his torso. Possibly. Probably.

“That’s… good,” you manage, trying not to think too hard about the myriad ways Valentine’s could be interpreted. Trying not to let the prospect of him wanting more—maybe wanting you—send you into a full-blown panic. Because a teeny, traitorous part of you is really hoping that’s what it means.

“Now,” he says, clearly sensing the rabbit hole your mind might be running down. “It’s past midnight, and you’ve had, what, negative hours of sleep?”

“That’s not even physically possible,” you argue, though your eyelids suddenly feel very heavy.

“Sure it is,” he counters, wrapping an arm more snugly around your waist as he tugs a throw blanket from the back of the couch. “I’m pretty sure you’re living proof. C’mon. Let’s just crash right here for a bit.”

You don’t have the energy to protest, and honestly? The idea of dozing off to the low hum of the vinyl, warm against Kuroo’s chest, is downright tempting. Besides, you’ll have to drag yourself to bed eventually—but for now, this cozy bubble is enough.

“Fine,” you mumble, feeling your limbs already going slack. “But if I drool on you, it’s your own fault for not kicking me off.”

He laughs quietly, letting the book he was reading slip onto the coffee table. “I’ll live. I’ve survived worse. Like the time you threw up all over me after that carnival ride in middle school.”

You grumble something incoherent in protest, too exhausted to muster a real comeback. The corners of his mouth twitch in amusement, and he shifts just enough to angle you more comfortably against him.

As your eyes flutter shut, you can’t stop replaying the word Valentine’s in your head. Tomorrow. Kuroo said it so easily, like it was obvious. Like it was a given that you wouldn’t just be celebrating as friends or old childhood buddies. Warmth pools in your chest, a mix of excitement and nerves. Maybe you’ll just have to see how tomorrow plays out—maybe you’ll finally figure out if this… thing you’ve been dancing around for so long is actually real.

Because if there’s one thing you are sure about, it’s that Kuroo has always had a way of turning your world on its axis. And this time, you really hope he doesn’t stop at Palentine’s.

ten.

You wake up to the smell of french toast.

Which, honestly, you lowkey don’t love nearly as much as waffles. But you aren’t going to be picky after your crash out last night.

You stumble into the kitchen, vaguely rubbing your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, blinking away the sleep to read the Eevee alarm clock Kenma bought you when you moved in. 12:19PM. Honestly not your worst: once, during finals season in your undergrad years, you pulled a three-day all-nighter and passed out for sixteen straight hours after. Kuroo had to practically drag you out of your dorm room after that one; he and Kenma basically froze your phone with the amount of texts they sent in a futile attempt to wake you up.

Kuroo’s back is to you as he stands at the stove, his compression shirt accentuating his muscle definition. He looks straight up like a model you’d see at the mall in a Calvin Klein billboard, and it makes you flush as you remember he said Valentine’s last night. He senses you without even turning around—he, without even bothering to look up, says, “Mornin’, babyface. Do you want strawberries or whipped cream?”

“You doubt me. Both,” you snort, stepping closer. Despite your attempt at nonchalance, your stomach flips when you get closer and can see just how freakishly good he looks in that stupid ass shirt. The memory of him casually calling it Valentine’s still sizzles in the back of your mind.

Kuroo casts you a brief over-the-shoulder grin. “Both it is, princess.” He deftly flips a slice of french toast on the pan, the sweet, eggy aroma curling toward your nose. “Hope you’re hungry. I got a little carried away.”

“Oh, I’m starving,” you say, eyeing the small stack of bread slices he’s already prepared on a plate. “Seriously, I might eat all of this. If you don’t move fast, you won’t get any.”

He chuckles, dropping another piece of bread into the batter. “Noted. I’ll keep that in mind while I guard my breakfast with my life.”

You open the fridge for the strawberries, and sure enough, there’s also a can of whipped cream on the shelf—Kuroo came prepared. “I can’t believe you actually planned this,” you mutter under your breath, rifling around. “Is this your way of bribing me to be your Valentine?”

He pretends to think about it. “Might be. If it works, I’ll make waffles next time, too.”

You huff a laugh, grateful your face is still hidden in the fridge so he can’t see the fond smile spreading across your lips. Might be. It’s clear he’s leaning full-throttle into the idea of spending this entire Valentine’s Day with you. The thought warms you more than you want to admit.

Sliding the carton of strawberries onto the counter, you catch him drizzling a bit of honey on the toast. “Fancy,” you tease, dragging out the syllable.

Kuroo shrugs one shoulder. “Hey, can’t help being an overachiever. Besides…” He flips off the stove burner and slides the last slice of french toast onto the plate, stacking it neatly. “I missed this.”

You glance up, curiosity and something else tangling in your chest. “This? Cooking breakfast?”

He sets the spatula aside, turns around, and leans against the counter. “Cooking breakfast for you,” he clarifies, pausing as if testing how you’ll react. “Y’know, we used to hang out all the time—before you left for New York. I guess it just reminded me of those days. Late nights, lazy mornings, that sort of thing.”

Your cheeks warm at his candidness. “We still hung out a bit after we graduated,” you offer, though you know it was never the same once you’d moved halfway across the globe for grad school.

Kuroo nods, his hand lingering on the handle of the frying pan as if he needs something to ground himself. “Yeah, but once you officially moved here? We both got busy. Kenma did his whole streaming empire thing, I jumped into work. And you were—”

“Neck-deep in studies,” you finish for him, remembering those endless days in the lab, how you’d chug energy drinks and blink against fluorescent lights until your eyes burned.

Kuroo taps the counter with his knuckles, a soft exhale escaping him. “Uh-huh. And Kenma and I, well… we kinda promised each other we wouldn’t make a big deal about how much we missed you.” He flashes a small, wry grin. “Figured you already had enough to worry about without dealing with our whining.”

You pause, strawberries in hand, staring at him. “Wait. You both made that promise?”

He nods, and for once, you catch the hint of sheepishness in his expression. “We might have texted constantly about how weird it was without you around,” he admits, chuckling under his breath. “But we agreed to keep it low-key so you could focus on your research. Didn’t want you feeling guilty if you started missing home too much.”

Your chest tightens. “I—God, that’s so stupid of you guys.”

He arches an amused eyebrow. “Stupid?”

“I would have been fine!” you insist, though a pang of fondness (and maybe regret) flickers through you. “Yeah, I’d have been sad, but I would’ve rather known. Going months without hearing from you two sometimes was way worse.”

He huffs a laugh, pushing off the counter to move closer. “Yeah, guess in hindsight, it wasn’t the best plan. But we were, what, twenty? Twenty-one? And mostly worried you’d drop out of grad school to come home if we made you feel bad.”

“Drop out?” You roll your eyes. “Please, as if I’d ever let you be that important.”

Kuroo tosses you a smirk, but there’s a gratefulness in his gaze. “Hey, I’m plenty important. Just not more important than a doctorate in neuroscience.”

“Damn straight,” you retort, but your heart is pounding too hard for sarcasm to land with its usual punch. He missed you. More than that—he and Kenma both actively hid how much they missed you, just so you wouldn’t feel sad or guilty. That’s… an annoying level of sweet.

Before you can dwell on it, he gestures to the french toast. “Anyway, let’s eat? Unless you’d rather stand here and get all sentimental.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, but your tone is more flustered than harsh. “Give me the plate.”

He hands it over with a dramatic bow, then grabs the strawberries and whipped cream to set on the table. You both sit across from each other, and he insists on adding the toppings to your serving, swirling an absurd amount of whipped cream atop each slice.

“Seriously,” you scold, swatting his wrist when he won’t stop pressing the nozzle, “we don’t need that much foam sugar.”

He just laughs. “Oh, come on, babyface. Live a little.”

“Hmm,” you reply, biting the inside of your cheek to hide your grin. “Fine. But if I get a sugar crash in like two hours, you’re dealing with the aftermath.”

He mock-salutes you. “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s a small, silly moment, but something in the easy way you banter—especially right after that confession about how hard it was when you left—makes your chest swell with warmth. Perhaps it’s just the Valentine’s vibe that has your mind spinning in circles, but you can’t help wondering what he’s getting at here.

You try a bite, letting the sweetness and cinnamon melt on your tongue. “Damn,” you mumble through a mouthful, “this is actually pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” He sets a hand against his heart in mock offense. “I slaved away in the kitchen—”

“What, for like ten minutes?” you interrupt, snickering. “Yep, truly backbreaking labor.”

He pretends to wipe away a tear. “Your gratitude is overwhelming.”

Despite the teasing, he looks satisfied when you reach for another slice. You don’t miss how his eyes follow the movement, nor how his gaze lingers on your face, like he’s taking mental snapshots of you enjoying the meal. It’s disconcertingly tender—especially for a guy who’s teased you your entire life.

Eventually, when you’ve both eaten more than enough, you lean back in your chair, hand resting on your full stomach. “All right, Chef Kuroo. That was acceptable. Now what’s the plan for the rest of Valentine’s Day, hmm?”

He clears his throat, fiddling with a piece of crust on his plate. “Well, we could go ice skating later—like we talked about. If you’re still up for it. Or we could do that rom-com marathon and eat a bunch of store-bought chocolate. Or both.”

“That’s… definitely an option,” you say slowly, feeling a little thrill ripple through you at how nonchalant you’re trying to be. “Which one first?”

He meets your eyes, a hint of a smirk curving his lips. “Why not flip a coin?”

You snort, standing up and collecting the dishes. “No way. I have the worst luck with coin tosses.”

“Then I’ll rig it so you win.” Kuroo grins, pushing back his chair to follow you to the sink.

“And you call me the overachiever,” you toss over your shoulder, cranking on the faucet. You start rinsing plates, the soap suds foaming around your fingers.

“Mm,” he murmurs, stepping up behind you. “At least let me help.”

He crowds in, reaching to take the plate from your hand. You don’t protest—mostly because your entire body goes rigid at the realization of how close he’s standing. His chin practically brushes your temple, and you can feel the warmth radiating off him in waves.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The only sound is the running water, the faint drip of the faucet, and the thud of your own heartbeat in your ears. You can’t help the way your breath catches.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, noticing your sudden stillness.

“Yeah,” you manage, forcing yourself to relax. “Just spacing out.”

His lips twitch into a small, understanding smile. “Same here.” Then, with a deft motion, he takes the plate from you and resumes scrubbing, shoulders barely an inch from yours in your cramped kitchen.

This shouldn’t feel so charged, right? He’s just helping you do dishes. But everything with Kuroo feels different this morning—like there’s some invisible line you both keep brushing against, neither one wanting to take the leap but both too invested to step back.

When the last plate is clean, he sets it on the drying rack, shuts off the water, and dries his hands with a dishrag. “So,” he says, turning to you. “Breakfast? Check. Next item on the Valentine’s agenda?”

You roll your eyes—can’t believe you’re actually calling it Valentine’s now, you think, but you don’t correct him. Instead, you tilt your head, as if deep in thought. “Well, you did promise me cheesy romance, so maybe we do the rom-com marathon first and ice skating afterward, if we still have time.”

His grin is immediate. “Sounds perfect.” He turns and saunters toward your living room, tossing the dishrag onto the counter. “I’ll pick the first movie?”

You’re about to agree when you suddenly remember—he said he’d rig the coin toss. So you raise an eyebrow. “Wait, how do I know you’re not just rigging this in your favor?”

Kuroo snorts, grabbing the TV remote. “Hey, I’m giving you exactly what you want, babyface. I call that your favor.”

You roll your eyes for the millionth time, but you can’t keep the small smile off your face as you follow him into the living room. For the first time in a long while, you feel light—like maybe the missing piece of your life that you left behind in Tokyo is right here, making you french toast and joking about Valentine’s Day.

eleven.

You easily binge Netflix’s Love Is In The Air recommendations for several hours, to the point where, by the time that you wrap up The Kissing Booth 3, the sun has already started to set. Outside your fourth floor apartment, you have a relatively unobstructed view of the way the sky melds into a blend of purples and blues, casting shadows and making your living room’s lighting feel even warmer.

Somehow (you say, knowing full well that you climbed into this position with full intentions of doing so) you end up curled up in Kuroo’s arms, one of your legs draped over his thigh while his arm wraps snugly around your shoulders. His other hand lazily scrolls through the Netflix homepage, searching for the next rom-com victim. You barely pay attention, though—too busy noticing how ridiculously warm he is, how easy it is to fit against him, and how the dark colors of the setting sun outside look so damn pretty.

Finally, after a half-hearted scroll through the Looking For The One category, you decide: “I’m hungry. Let’s get sushi.”

He perks up, setting down the remote. “Now you’re speaking my language. Which place should we order from?”

“There’s this little spot a few blocks away that does really fresh rolls,” you say, grabbing your phone from the cushion beside you. “They deliver in like fifteen minutes, too.”

Kuroo nods, giving you a light squeeze. “Cool. Just let me know how much I owe you. Or consider it your Valentine’s gift to me, I guess.” He snickers.

You roll your eyes at the terrible suggestion, pulling up the menu on your phone. “I’ve got it, I’m feeling generous. Plus, this place is kinda special to me anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Special? Because the sushi’s that good?”

You shift, trying to type your order without meeting his eyes. “Uhh… well, an ex brought me here once. That was back in like, grad school.”

Kuroo’s hand stills against your arm. “Excuse me?” he says, feigning dramatic outrage. “I can’t believe you’d talk about your sordid affairs on Valentine’s Day, babyface. You wound me.”

You snort, giving him a playful shove that doesn’t move him even an inch. “Relax, it was ages ago. It’s not like it was a big deal. I mostly liked him because he kinda looked like—” You stop mid-sentence, eyes widening.

“Kinda looked like… what?” Kuroo parrots, amused suspicion lighting up his features. “Finish that sentence.”

You clamp your mouth shut and tap furiously on your phone screen instead. “Nothing. Just forget it.”

His eyes narrow. “Oh, no no no, you don’t get to drop that bomb and then pretend it never happened. Spill.”

“It’s none of your business,” you reply swiftly, your cheeks burning. “And for the record, it’s definitely not what you’re thinking.”

He sets his jaw, locking you in place by tightening the arm wrapped around you. “Alright, guess I’ll have to guess. Let’s see—you liked him because he kinda looked like…” He pauses, tapping a finger to his chin in exaggerated thought. “Me?”

“Oh my god, no,” you say, maybe a bit too quickly. “That’d be weird, Tetsu. You’re—well, you’re you.”

Something fleetingly vulnerable flashes across his face. He frowns a little, brow knitting. “Do you really think so?” His tone goes quiet, serious in a way that has your stomach dropping.

Your pulse stutters. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean—” You flail, phone clattering onto the cushion as you try to find his gaze. “I just—look, it’s not weird. Of course I—I mean, you know I—” You exhale shakily, feeling your words tumble over themselves. “I like you, Tetsu. Please don’t be upset.”

There’s a beat of tense silence… and then Kuroo bursts out laughing. Actual, stomach-jostling laughter. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose as he struggles to compose himself, and you realize, with rapidly boiling annoyance, that he’s been messing with you.

“You jerk!” you sputter, smacking him on the arm. “That wasn’t funny! I thought I actually hurt your feelings.”

He just grins, easily absorbing your weak swats. “Aw, sorry, babyface. You should’ve seen your face, though.”

Your cheeks feel molten. “I hate you sometimes, you know?”

“Mm-hmm,” he drawls, pulling you back against him, his palm smoothing over your shoulder. “But the good news is, now I know you do like me. And that some of your exes looked like me, which is a really nice ego boost.”

You groan, burying your face against his chest. “Shut up.”

He keeps talking anyway, voice taking on a more pensive note. “I mean, it’s not like I can judge. I think about you whenever I meet someone new.”

Slowly, you lift your head, eyebrows knitting. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs one shoulder, as if it’s no big deal. “Just, like, whenever I go on a date, I find myself comparing them to you. They’re never as funny or as smart, or I wonder if they’d get along with Kenma the way you obviously do… that kind of thing.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly open. “Tetsu…” You’re not sure how to respond to that confession. Warmth and a spike of adrenaline rush through you, and you can only open and close your mouth in silence.

At your speechlessness, Kuroo just laughs, scrunching his nose in amusement. “Aw, come on. It’s not that shocking, is it?”

“Uh,” you manage, blinking. “I—uh.”

Your brain is short-circuiting, so you do the only thing that makes sense in your frazzled state: you announce, “I’m gonna go pee.”

“What?” He snorts. “Really? That’s your best response to my heartfelt confession?”

“You think I chose this response?” you squeak, scrambling to your feet. Your cheeks feel like they could combust. “I don’t control your unfiltered romantic drivel, and you don’t control my bladder, okay?”

Kuroo just shakes his head in disbelief, though his eyes gleam with delight. “I’m not stopping you, babyface. Go pee. The sushi’ll be here in a few minutes anyway.”

You nod, fleeing the scene for the bathroom, heart pounding in your ears. Even as you slam the door behind you, you can hear him chuckling softly in the living room.

Leaning against the bathroom door, you take a steadying breath. He compares everyone to you. You literally admitted you like him, too. And he’s laughing, because this is all apparently just… normal. Suddenly, the entire dynamic shifts—like everything you’ve both been dancing around for so long is right there, out in the open, and you’re not quite sure what to do next.

Well, you do know one thing: you really do need to pee.

“Okay,” you mutter, “priorities.”

And as you step toward the toilet, part of you wonders how to keep your composure once you walk back out to him—because from here on out, there’s no more pretending you don’t both feel something real.

twelve.

After peeing and washing your hands with your favorite bougie ass soap (Christmas gift from your boss; you could never afford it at department store rates), you whip out your phone and call Kenma. You know it’s 8 AM over there, so there’s a good chance you’ll be waking up your brother, but you don’t care because you need his objective opinion right now.

It takes until the third call, but on the fourth ring, he finally picks up.

“What?” he mumbles groggily. “I was sleeping.”

“Sorry, but I don’t care. Give me some good advice right now,” you hiss into your phone, pacing back and forth in front of your shower like a maniac.

You hear fabric rustling, followed by a prolonged yawn. “Fine. I bet it has to do with Kuro.”

You freeze, biting down on your lip. “...Maybe.”

“Ugh,” Kenma sighs. “I literally can’t believe you’re calling me about him at eight in the morning.”

“It’s not that early, y’know.”

He grumbles something incoherent under his breath, then says more clearly, “So what’s the crisis? I’m not sure how many brain cells I have at this hour.”

You rub your forehead, letting out a strangled groan. “Kenma, is it weird if I kinda—I don’t know—wanna make out with him? Like, a lot? Maybe not just make out—maybe, like, really make out—” You shake your head vigorously, cheeks flaming. “But is that weird?”

There’s silence on the other end for a long moment. Then Kenma’s voice, flat as ever: “That’s my sister and my best friend you’re talking about. Gross. But also not really weird. Because I literally officiated your wedding in second grade, remember? You two are basically old news.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, your free hand clenching at your side. “Oh my God, not you too. Kuroo keeps bringing it up, and now you’re enabling him. When did that wedding even become a real memory to everyone but me?”

“Uh, it’s always been a memory. You wore a yellow dress, he had a Spider-Man t-shirt, I was reading from a Pokémon handbook.” He yawns. “I was, like, seven, but I still remember, because Kuro wouldn’t shut up about it. And apparently, still won’t.”

“Yeah, well,” you huff, pacing faster. “He mentions it daily, I swear, and it’s driving me insane—like, I get it, we had a pretend wedding when we were literal children. Does he have to bring it up every chance he gets?”

Kenma’s voice goes deadpan. “He brings it up because he likes you, dumbass.”

Your pacing halts so abruptly you almost trip over the bathroom mat. “...Oh.”

A beat passes; the only sound is your heart thudding in your ears.

“Yeah,” Kenma continues, dry as day-old toast. “He’s liked you forever. You’ve liked him forever. You’re both idiots. Congrats.”

You gawk at the phone, mind spinning. “Wait—he—he’s always…? Does everyone know this except me?”

Kenma yawns again, unperturbed. “Probably. I mean, we weren’t exactly subtle growing up. Dad used to tell me he was more worried about you running off with Tetsu than, like, your middle school crushes.”

You gape. “Seriously?”

“Mhm.” You hear the faint click of a laptop or a Switch—knowing Kenma, he’s probably opening up a game to pass the time. “Anyway, is that all you needed to ask? Because I’d like to get at least another hour of sleep.”

You groan, but you can’t quell the swirl of hope rising in your chest. “This is… surreal. He just told me earlier—like, not directly, but he basically said he thinks about me whenever he meets someone new. And I might’ve implied I like him too—oh God, Kenma, what do I do?”

He’s quiet for a moment, presumably considering. “Make out with him. I don’t know. You literally said that’s what you want to do.”

“That’s it? That’s your profound, brotherly wisdom?”

“What else do you want me to say?” he drones. “You both already know you like each other. This was the most obvious outcome in the world. Just do your thing, get it out of your system. Or get married again if you want. Could be a nice full-circle moment.”

You let out a mortified noise, pressing your forehead to the cool tile of your bathroom wall. “You’re—urgh, never mind. Thanks, Kenma.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “Tell Kuro he owes me five bucks for something… I’ll think of a reason later. Bye.”

Before you can protest, he hangs up, leaving you with your phone still pressed to your ear. You stare at the blank screen, a mix of exasperation and relief swirling through your chest.

He likes you. You like him. You’re idiots—Kenma’s words, not yours. And apparently, neither of you has been hiding it as well as you thought.

You inhale slowly, trying to calm your racing heart. Then you square your shoulders. “Okay,” you say to yourself, “I can do this. Just… go out there and act normal. Or as normal as possible while wanting to jump his bones. Easy.”

With that pep talk, you push off the wall, open the bathroom door, and step into the hallway, with completely unfounded confidence in yourself.

thirteen.

That confidence goes straight out the window because as soon as you walk back, you are caught off-guard by Kuroo standing in the middle of your living room, hands behind his back and wearing the guiltiest expression you’ve ever seen, obviously hiding something from your view. You’re scared, and immediately a little suspicious.

“What are you doing?” you ask warily, taking very slow, careful steps toward him. “What is that?”

He ignores the question entirely, instead breaking into a triumphant grin. “Babyface,” he declares, “I have a Valentine’s Day gift for you.”

All the tension in your shoulders uncoils in one quick moment of relief. “Oh.” You snort, rolling your eyes. “Okay, this should be good. What is it—a frog? A cricket? Remember when you gave me that cricket in fourth grade?”

Kuroo stifles a laugh, as if recalling the memory of your horrified shriek when you opened a tiny shoebox to find a chirping insect. “I was trying to teach you about biology. You always liked science-y stuff,” he defends. “Besides, a cricket is romantic if you think about it long enough.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Please don’t tell me that’s what’s behind your back right now.”

He steps forward, eyes warm with mirth. “I promise. This is way better.”

He produces a small, flat object from behind him—a rectangular folder, sealed by a thin, glossy cover. At first, you’re genuinely perplexed. It’s too big to be a normal card, and there’s no way it’s a book, unless it’s some custom print job. The corners are crisp, the material looks like maybe photo paper. Curiosity coaxes you closer.

Catching your confusion, Kuroo grins wider. “Look inside.”

With a hint of skepticism, you slip your fingers under the cover, peeling it back. Inside is a high-quality color print—like a medical scan or something from a research article. Black-and-gray cross-sections and bright neon highlights fill your vision, and as you blink, trying to parse the image, your mouth goes dry. You recognize the shape of a human brain from an fMRI scan: swirling patterns in vivid oranges and reds indicating activated regions.

“Is this… an fMRI?” you breathe, your hand trembling slightly as you lift the print to the light. Definitely an fMRI, your trained eye confirms—distinct slices, certain labeling, the faint text from the imaging software. “Tetsu, why the hell are you giving me…?”

He shifts, almost shy, scratching the back of his neck. “I asked one of the JVA’s partnered sports med facilities to do a little favor for me.” A pause. “A small, borderline unethical favor.”

Your eyes dart back to the vibrant splotches. “The nucleus accumbens,” you whisper, tapping a bright orange blob near the center. “And the hippocampus. They’re… lit up.” You draw in a sharp breath. “These areas activate when you’re—”

“—experiencing motivation, reward, or strong emotional attachment,” he finishes gently, voice hushed. “Like, for instance, thinking about someone you love.”

Your heart stutters so violently you nearly drop the print. “So, you—this is… from your brain?” you manage, your throat suddenly tight.

Kuroo nods, looking almost bashful, which is a jarring contrast to his usual smug confidence. “They scanned me while I was, uh… focusing on a particular mental image.” He glances away, expression uncharacteristically shy. “I figured you’d like the hard data. You being a scientist and all.”

You force yourself to swallow past the dryness in your mouth. “You’re telling me you literally got an fMRI done while thinking about… someone?” Your voice trembles on the last word, and you can’t quite meet his eye.

He exhales a quick laugh. “Uh-huh. Didn’t take long. I just, you know, had to fill out some forms, promise it was for a PR stunt about brain health or something. Then I, well, closed my eyes and pictured—”

“Who?” you interrupt, not even caring that you sound breathless. You’re clutching the fMRI print so hard you can feel the edges biting into your fingertips.

Kuroo’s grin turns downright sheepish, and he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Take a wild guess, babyface.”

Heat floods your cheeks, your mind flashing back to all the data you’ve read about how the nucleus accumbens is heavily involved in romantic love, addiction, reward. All those nights you taught undergrads about dopaminergic pathways and the hippocampus’s role in forming new memories—specifically, emotional memories.

“You… you were thinking about me?” you ask, voice scarcely above a whisper.

The sheepishness melts into something warmer. “Yeah,” he admits, gaze holding yours. “Obviously.”

For a moment, your living room goes silent—no hum of traffic or whir of appliances registers in your ears, just the thud-thud-thud of your heart as you stare at the bright orange smears on the print. He was literally focusing on you, flooding his mind with thoughts of you, enough to trigger all these hallmark signs of love and emotional resonance in his brain.

“You—” you start, but your voice is shaky. You take a breath, dropping your eyes to the image again. “This is probably the strangest and most… scientifically romantic thing anyone’s ever given me.”

He clears his throat, stepping closer. “I hoped you’d see it that way. I know you’re not into the typical Valentine’s gifts—flowers and cheesy cards. So I thought, you know… I’d show you proof.” He shrugs, but there’s an earnestness in his eyes that makes your chest tighten. “Real, measurable proof that you’re always in my head.”

Overcome, you tear your gaze from the print to search his face, half expecting him to burst into laughter and say it’s another joke. But there’s no sign of teasing. He’s dead serious, a bit vulnerable, and it reminds you painfully of how you’ve known him forever—how under all the arrogance and jokes, he’s always worn his heart right there on his sleeve.

“I—” You can’t find the words, so instead, you lean forward, pressing your forehead gently against his shoulder. The fMRI print stays clutched in your hand at your side, but the rest of you rests against him, trying to steady your breathing.

Kuroo’s arms come up, enveloping you. You feel the softness of his shirt and the warmth of his body, and it’s equal parts comforting and electrifying. “So,” he says softly, voice rumbling through your hair, “was this too much?”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. “No,” you say, the corners of your mouth tilting up in a shaky smile. “It’s just… a lot to take in.” You let out a small laugh, one that wobbles on the edge of tears. “You literally went out of your way to prove you’re thinking about me with actual neuroscience data. How am I supposed to top that?”

He grins, the tension in his shoulders easing. “You don’t have to. Maybe just trust me when I say you’re stuck in my head, yeah?”

A breathless little chuckle escapes you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I… can do that.”

For a second, the two of you just stand there, pressed together, the overhead light casting a soft glow on the fMRI print you still clutch in your trembling hand. Then Kuroo’s voice breaks the silence:

“Hey,” he murmurs, “since we’re on the subject of your super-scientific interest in my reward pathways… maybe we can do a little experiment?”

Your brow arches, a half-laugh catching in your throat. “An experiment, huh?”

“Mhm.” He carefully closes his hand around your wrist—the one holding the print—guiding it so you can set it gently on the coffee table nearby. Then he slides his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “I wanna see if I can spike some more activity in that region. Because I’m definitely thinking about you right now.”

Your heart stutters. The last time he teased you about wanting to test something, you were six years old, and he was coaxing you into believing that tying your shoelaces together would make you run faster. This, though? Vastly different stakes.

Still, your lips twitch into a wry smile. “Just… kissing me won’t show up on an fMRI unless you, I don’t know, plan on hooking up electrodes or something.”

He smirks, fingers trailing up to brush the line of your jaw. “Nah, no fancy medical tech needed. I just want an empirical result—like, say, a moan or a heartbeat spike.”

A shiver runs through you, and you swear you can feel your pulse jump beneath his hand. “You’re such a nerd,” you whisper, lips quirking. “But sure. For science.”

He laughs softly, the sound warm and easy, like the last golden light of sunset spilling through half-open blinds. Then, before you can think too much about it, he closes the distance, tilting his head just slightly as his lips brush against yours in a kiss that is warm, lingering, and unhurried. It steals your breath, not in the way a storm might, but like a tide gently pulling you under, enveloping you in something deep and inevitable.

The taste of him is familiar yet new all at once—there’s the faint trace of the toast from earlier, or maybe just the memory of it, mingling with something sweeter, something unmistakably him. His fingers ghost along your waist, their presence featherlight but grounding, like a silent promise that he’s here, he’s real. And when he pulls you closer, his body pressing flush against yours, you feel it—the way your heart flutters wildly against your ribs, the way warmth spreads through your chest like a sunrise breaking over the horizon.

For a moment, the world holds its breath. Everything fades away—the hum of the city beyond the window, the soft glow of the overhead lights, even the thoughts that usually crowd your mind. There is only this: the way his lips move with quiet reverence, the quiet hitch in your breath as your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of his shirt, the subtle shift of his body as he deepens the kiss just enough to make your pulse race.

And then, suddenly, you realize—you don’t need a machine or a calculation to tell you how you feel. The answer is already written in the way your entire chest hums, in the way your skin tingles where he touches you, in the way something inside you feels like it’s come alive, like a supernova has replaced your heart.

God, the astrophysics department should be studying this instead.

When he finally pulls back—foreheads brushing, breath mingling—he searches your eyes, his own half-lidded with affection. “So,” he murmurs, “did I succeed in lighting up your hippocampus?”

Your laugh comes out a little breathless. “If you keep that up,” you say, pressing a palm to his chest, “you might just rewire my entire brain.”

He grins, leaning in again to drop a quick peck at the corner of your mouth. “Good. Then I’ll have all the data I need.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in for another lingering kiss, feeling the warmth of his smile against your lips. In the back of your mind, you’re distantly aware that your own reward pathways might be exploding, nucleus accumbens glowing neon, hippocampus forging brand-new memories like a bonfire. And for the first time in a long time, you’re okay with letting the feelings have free rein.

Because sometimes, science can capture how people feel, but it can’t fully capture why. And right now, with Kuroo’s arms around you and that precious fMRI print still waiting on the coffee table, you think you’ve finally found your “why” in the easiest, most obvious place of all:

He loves you, and you love him back.

fourteen.

Three hundred and sixty-four days later, Kuroo is helping you move into a new apartment. In Tokyo. Because Columbia offered you the chance to do an exchange with the University of Tokyo before the end of your doctorate studies. For two entire years, slicing open human brains and figuring out what’s going on beneath, because your article published in Neuron made the cover page and you got a fat and juicy grant from the school. Two entire years of being close enough to hear your parents bragging about you in person again, and to have shitty takeout dinner with Kenma after his video game streams but before his corporate mojo.

And two entire years of getting to live with your boyfriend. Kuroo, your very wonderful boyfriend who you love more than life itself and who you want to be buried with one day. The Kuroo who was the first person you liked at six years old and is still who you like at twenty-six. The Kuroo who you have successfully managed an international relationship with because you’ve already went three years apart without the spark dying. Still, you’re absolutely beaming as you carry in boxes and boxes of clothes, because you always love getting to be with him, in person and in real life, and now you get to every single day.

You can’t hang up on him when he gets annoying anymore, but it’s worth it when he makes you breakfast daily and reaches for you in his sleep.

You heave another box into the apartment—this one filled with mismatched mugs you’ve collected from half a dozen coffee shops—and set it down with a groan. Kuroo flashes you a grin from across the living room, one hand resting casually on his hip as he surveys the chaos of half-unpacked boxes and hastily labeled luggage.

“You brought an entire suitcase just for shoes,” he points out, amused.

“Hey,” you protest, wiping sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand, “if I’m living here for two years, I’m not just gonna live in sneakers.”

He ambles over and nudges the box with his foot. “I guess that’s fair—though I’m not carrying that one up another flight of stairs if we end up moving again. You’ll have to bribe Kenma for help.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh slips free. “Fine, fine. Now, major question: where are we putting our bed?”

He waggles his eyebrows, eyes bright with mischief. “We?” he echoes, as if you haven’t been living together for all of thirty minutes. “I’m pretty sure I get ultimate bed placement rights, given my extensive experience in interior design.”

“Oh, sure, because black-cat-themed t-shirts and old gym hoodies scream ‘interior design mogul.’”

He smirks. “Hey, I’ve got taste.” With that, he gestures expansively toward the center of a wall in the room you’d marked for the bed, where the largest patch of light from the window splashes onto the floor. “I say we put the bed there. We’ll get a queen, obviously.”

You raise an eyebrow. “A queen? As if you’re actually gonna stay on your side.”

His grin turns lazy. “Exactly. I can find you in the expanse.”

“And you wonder why I think you’re annoying.” You toss him a mock exasperated look, which only earns you another chuckle.

“You still chose to live with me,” he points out, that devilish glint in his eyes returning, “because you’re stuck with me, right here.”

“Lucky me,” you tease, while your heart still does that stupid flutter thing at the thought of waking up next to him every day.

He walks over and presses a quick kiss to your forehead. It’s such a simple, tender gesture that you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face.

“Speaking of tomorrow,” you say, turning back to break down an empty cardboard box, “it’s Valentine’s Day. Any big plans, or are we just, y’know, gonna eat convenience store chocolates while finishing the bed frame?”

Kuroo shrugs, far too casually for someone who’s obviously up to something. “Mmm, I might have a surprise,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Of course you do. You and your surprises. Is it expensive, by chance?”

His brows lift in feigned innocence. “Depends if you consider a diamond ring expensive.”

You almost drop the box, now flattened and very, very large. “A what now?”

He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “You heard me.”

He’s kidding. He has to be fucking kidding, right now. He did not spend a small fortune on a rock for your finger.

“Fucking return that,” you blurt instantly, your heart skipping not one but multiple beats. “That’s so expensive. Why would you do that?”

“Well, if I’m gonna get my future wife a ring, I’m gonna make it an investment,” Kuroo replies with an ease that makes your chest tighten all over again.

“Wait—what the… Are you—are you serious?”

He leans closer, lips tilting in a secretive smile. “I guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

Your mind whirls, half in shock, half in outright giddy disbelief. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything: his calm breathing, the faint noises from the street outside, the way the newly painted walls catch the late afternoon light.

“Are you messing with me?” you finally manage.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says, and then taps the tip of your nose affectionately. “But trust me, you’ll like it.”

It’s maddening and wonderful all at once, and you can’t help but wonder how on earth you got lucky enough to stumble into a future that looks a whole lot like happiness—especially if it involves a ring.

But for now, you tamp down the frantic beating of your heart and glance at the corner of the room. “Right,” you say, clearing your throat. “Queen bed. Got it.”

He laughs. “We’ll get the perfect one tomorrow. After all, we have at least two years of me latching onto you in my sleep, and then… maybe forever.”

And you roll your eyes, but you know what’ll happen tomorrow. Because of course you’re going to say yes. Because Kuroo Tetsuro has been the love of your life since you were a kid marrying him with dandelions, and because in every version of your imagined future, he’s still there, standing across from you at the aisle, regardless of if it’s a Band-Aid or an engagement ring he’s putting on your finger. Because he still makes every reward center in your brain light up (and because you’re putting that fMRI in your office at the university).

Honestly, love is a system of chemical reactions. Scanners and artificial intelligence will probably take over the world sooner or later, and the scientific community is getting better and better at understanding the whys. You can measure the dopamine flooding your brain, track the firing of mirror neurons, and map out which regions of your cortex light up at the sound of his laugh. But still, science is flawed, because all the scanning techniques in the world can’t replicate the soft, certain rhythm of his heartbeat under your palm, or the way his eyes crinkle in tender amusement when he looks at you.

In this moment, your hippocampus diligently encodes every detail: the slight scuff on the floor, the teasing quirk of his lips, the warm press of his shoulder against yours. The memory crystallizes, even before tomorrow’s promise fully forms, because you already know the answer. You always have.

When you finally pull your gaze away, the last rays of sunlight spill over the spot where you’ll put your new bed—the place you’ll fall asleep entangled in each other’s arms, night after night. You picture the days ahead: lazy mornings that begin with his sleepy kisses, evenings spent side by side, peeling back the layers of the human mind and finding new depths in each other all the while.

And as your heart thrums with a rhythm that science can’t quite pin down—something that defies clean categorization in textbooks—you realize that in this bright, messy, glorious future, every neuron in your body is wired just for him.

And if that’s not proof enough of love, you’re not sure what is.

⨭ closing notes; i love being able to write bc i can create purely self indulgent things like this. i'm a neuroscientist and my bday is nov 14 (exactly 9 months after valentine's day) and im from nyc so this one really has a lil kick to it. did u notice i made it perfectly 14 chapters cause feb 14 lol i rly used my brain for that one. anyway happy day of love!! whether ur celebrating or not, please know i love u all <3

488 notes · View notes

berfgrimm · 7 months ago

Text

risk :: choi su-bong (thanos) x reader

pairing: choi su-bong (thanos) x f!reader

warnings: smut, oral, public, teasing, mentions of pain kink, some fluffiness + a little praise kink sprinkled in, some arrogance from both parties, mentions of violence/death, mentions of drug use.

note: i’ve only recently delved back into writing after a pretty extensive burn out. i felt compelled for the first time in a long time after watching squid game, so i hope you all enjoy! if there’s interest, i can do a part 2.

——————————————

The room is far more silent than you expected it would be for having 456 people in it — well, 365 after today. Apart from the occasional cough or murmur, the barely-there electrical hum of the piggy bank suspended from the ceiling is the only noise you are able to focus on. You were never one to fall asleep to silence, always in need of some sort of consistent, albeit quiet, noise to keep your ears from ringing into oblivion. Beyond that, even from your spot at the corner of the room, tucked away in the lower bunks, the piggy bank is too bright for you to ignore. With a sigh, you focus on the bars of the bed above you, replaying your day, unable to get the chaos out of your mind.

When you called the number on the card you were given, you’d never thought it would lead to you watching people get gunned down around you during a children’s game. It was surreal, watching it unfold but still needing to remain perfectly still, lest you join them. If you think about it too much, you still hear the screaming, which is not the sort of noise you want to fall asleep to.

You look down at your jacket that you are still wearing, focusing on the red ‘X' patch adhered to your chest. All you want is to be at home in your bed with the hum of your radio and your favorite blankets.

You hear a noise to your side, and you instinctively turn your head to see the cause of the sound. The bed at the bottom of the bunks beside you holds Thanos, the former rapper with the horrible moniker. He sits at the head of the bed, back against the wall with one leg propped on the bed and the other hanging off. He mutters to himself as he stares into the middle distance, but you are unable to tell what he says. Based on the way he gestures with his hands in time with his mumbling, you assume he’s playing out a song.

Though you would love to look away, you find yourself fixated on him. During the game, you’d spotted him treating it as though you were in the schoolyard, jumping for joy with a wide grin across his face. Does he have any idea what is going on around him? Surely not, based on the blue ‘O’ patch affixed to his jacket.

In an effort to get a better look at him, you roll into your side, during which you inadvertently draw his attention. He stares at you briefly, before a smirk forms on his lips. You saw him strike out all day when he tried to ‘flirt’, if you could call it that; watching him get rejected was the only time you laughed during the day.

As his eyes connect with yours, you find it difficult to turn away, and your mind wanders. He’s attractive — of course he is — but his ego is out of control. Ordinarily, an ego that has gone unchecked like that would be far from appealing to you, but at this moment, you’re desperate for a distraction. Given the harrowing events of the day, you let your baser instincts take over without a second thought. You’re more than willing to give him the attention he was looking for if it benefits you as well.

You slip your tongue between your lips to wet them, and you notice, even across the distance between your beds, his eyes cut to your mouth to watch the action. His eyes find yours again, and the smirk turns more suggestive. He nods his head towards you as if in silent question of what you want; you respond with a small tilt of your head, a gesture for him to come over to find out.

He’s almost gleeful as he hops from the bed and creeps towards you, but you watch him pause momentarily, as if to check himself for being overzealous. He crouches down beside your bed, resting his forearms on the mattress so he can look into your eyes.

You feel compelled to ask about his choice to stay in the games after the events of the day, but you catch a glimpse of the chain around his neck and redirect your inquisition. You saw him throughout the day clutching the cross that hangs from the chain, catching him opening up the small keepsake to take something from inside. You drew your own conclusions based on his actions.

Before you are aware of what you are doing, your fingers find their way to the chain peeking from the collar of his shirt. The man cranes his neck enough to allow you to grasp it, tugging it gently from his shirt. As your fingers glide down the metal, he leans back from the bed to give you the access to pull the cross out into the open, and hold it in the palm of your hand.

“I guess you only packed your uppers,” you say, softly. He looks down at the cross, and, as though he doesn’t remember what’s inside, opens it briefly to check the contents. “Bad luck,” you sigh.

“These will clear your head,” he replies, using his index finger to tap the cross that still sits in your hand. “One of these will have you in another world, far away from this place.”

“I’ll never get to sleep with a buzz,” you retort, dropping his cross to his chest and rolling onto your back to stare at the framework of the bed above you again. “Thanks anyway,” you add.

“Oh, you want to relax?” he asks. “Why didn’t you say that?” You can practically hear the smirk on his face as he talks, so you don’t bother looking at him again, not yet. “I have something for that,” he continues. “I promise you’ll love it.” You tilt your head to look in his eyes again, seeing the playful glint you expected. Sure, he’s playing into your hand just as much as you are to his, but it doesn’t matter to you. Not anymore.

“What’s your name?” you ask suddenly, which catches him off guard, so you clarify. “I’m not interested in moaning ‘Thanos’ all night.” The smirk returns to his lips, albeit softer this time.

“Su-bong,” he replies. You smile — much better than a comic book villain name. You answer Su-bong with your own name, and he nods his head, the grin returning to his lips as his fingers grasp the zipper of your jacket. “Okay?” he asks, one final pause for clear consent, which you give him with a nod of your head.

Su-bong drags the zipper down slowly until it’s undone, slipping his hand past the fabric to cup your breast over your shirt. The look he gives you is eager, not something you would attribute to a man of his notoriety, but you shake the thought from your head to focus on the moment. His hand grips you softer than you expect, to your surprise but also your disappointment; you need something more, but you don’t rush him.

He only focuses on one breast for a few moments before moving his hand to the other. You can feel your nipples hardening from the action, and grow impatient, so you arch yourself against his touch ever-so slightly, letting out a soft groan.

“Good?” Su-bong asks, his gaze glued to your lips. You don’t answer, worried too much about how your voice will carry throughout the room and get you both caught. Instead, you take hold of his hand to drag it down your stomach and ease it up your shirt.

Taking the hint, Su-bong allows his fingers to catch the cup of your bra, tugging it down to make contact with your skin. The softness of his fingers sets goosebumps across your skin, but when he pinches your nipple teasingly, you let out a small, surprised yelp.

“Careful now,” Su-bong warns, clasping his free hand over your mouth. “Unless you want an audience.” You nod your head in response, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment at your sudden exclamation.

Su-bong lowers his hand from your mouth, using both hands to tug your jacket off of your shoulders. You sit up, working the garment from your arms and tossing it to the foot of the bed. Before you can lay down again, Su-bong stops you, a grin spreading across his lips.

“You trust me?” he asks.

“No, of course I don’t.”

Your response makes him smile wider, but you allow him to maneuver you how he wants you. He eases your legs off of the bed so you are sitting on the edge, and he settles onto his knees between your open legs. His eyes wander over your still closed torso before his hands slide under the fabric of your shirt. With a cheeky grin, he bunches the shirt above your breasts and once again cups you over your bra.

When his fingers slip past the material of your bra, Su-bong’s gaze meets yours, a playful glint in his eyes that distracts you until you feel the cool air of the room on your skin. You watch him dip his head forward to tease your nipple with his tongue while his fingers gently toy with your other nipple.

You let out a hum, placing your hand on the back of his head to urge him on. You pull his hair gently, and he lets out a growl in response —- a sound that shoots straight through your body to your core. You don’t immediately realize that you clench your thighs around his sides and arch into his touch, but when Su-bong tugs at your nipple with his teeth, you become aware of your subconscious back and forth exchange with him.

Su-bong switches sides, focusing on your other breast, but his hands squeeze your thighs, undoubtedly leaving bruises from the pressure. You feel a sudden urge to get your hands on him, so your hand that’s not on his head begins to tug at the back of his jacket in an attempt to reach his shirt. He chuckles against you, realizing what you’re trying to do; he sits back, pulling the jacket off of his arms and throwing it to the side, but when he leans in to continue teasing you, you stop him.

“Come on,” he whines, looking up at you in frustration.

“What?” you ask innocently. “I don’t want to tease. We’ll get caught before we get to the real fun.”

Su-bong huffs but quickly sits higher on his knees, pressing a kiss to your lips. It catches you off guard — sure you were planning on fooling around with him, but the kiss feels intimate for someone you just met. You wrote it off to the emotions, and focus on the moment again. When you feel him begin to stand up from the floor, while kissing you deeper, your heart pounds harder in your chest, excited for what he may do next.

Su-bong breaks from the kiss, easing you to lay on your back across the bed. He rests one knee against the mattress at your side, looking down at you from his slightly hunched position he maintains to remain hidden from prying eyes. You feel vulnerable under his gaze, especially with your shirt still pulled up to your throat, so you sit up to rest on your elbow, reaching out to grab the cross around his neck. The smirk spreads across his lips again, as he allows you to pull him by his chain to lean over you. He braces himself above you by pressing both hands against the mattress on either side of you, boxing you in.

You kiss him, immediately parting your lips to allow him to kiss you deeper. Su-bong obliges, and the kiss becomes sloppy and desperate, your head reeling with excitement. Your hands resume their previous position on his back, tugging his shirt to untuck it from his pants. As soon as the shirt is out of the waistband, your fingers hurry under the hem and grasp his waist.

The warmth of skin makes you frantic, prompting you to tug him closer to you, but Su-bong tenses to avoid being pulled. You whine against his lips, and break the kiss to give him a pleading look.

“Shhh,” he hushes, playfully, pressing his finger to your lips. “Patience.”

You find yourself gazing into his eyes, losing track of where you are briefly. You wonder if circumstances were different, and you’d met him somewhere else, if you’d be as enamored with him. Certainly not if he had flirted with you the way he’d done others during the day, but you convince yourself that was Thanos. Right now, you have the pleasure of seeing Su-bong. Realizing you have been staring into his eyes in silence for too long, you tune back in, prepared to chastise him for taking too long.

“I’m—” You stop short and let out a small gasp — while you were distracted with your ‘what if’s’, Su-bong had brought his hand to the waistband of your pants, and his fingers are currently delving into your wetness. “Oh!” you breathe out, feeling his middle finger gently tease your clit.

“Feels good?” he asks, cocking his head to the side to catch your gaze. “I’ve barely touched you.” He uses his index and middle finger to slowly rub your clit, making sure to study your face to read your reactions. “This wet already, you must have thought about me all day.”You whimper softly in response, your eyes slipping closed so you can focus on how you feel.

You picture yourself somewhere else, anywhere else, with Su-bong. Somewhere that you can be as loud as you want. Somewhere with a comfortable bed. Somewhere that you didn’t have to worry about anyone else seeing you. Not that there wasn’t a certain thrill to the idea of being caught, but after the events of the day…

“Look at me.” Su-bong’s voice pulls you from your thoughts just in time before they begin to spiral out of control, as if he could read your mind. You open your eyes, focusing on him again. “You’re beautiful like this,” he says, catching you off guard. Before you can respond, he slips his hand further into your pants, and eases his middle and ring fingers inside of you.

“Oh, fuck.” You grab his arm that he braces himself with and spread your legs wider. When he starts to pump his fingers into you, agonizingly slow, your jaw stays slack, slow and hard breaths coming out of your mouth. You roll your hips against his hand, trying to help him get his fingers deeper within the constraints of your clothing.

Your hand that still rests under Su-bong’s shirt grasps him harder, digging your nails into his skin and dragging. He groans in response, losing focus on what he’s doing. It makes you grin, so you rest on your elbow again to get closer to his face.

“You like it when it hurts?” you tease. When he nods slowly, eyes locked in your mouth as he awaits your next move. You lean closer, pressing your mouth against his ear to whisper, “I like it, too.” You leave a playful bite on his earlobe that causes him to curse under his breath. “Don’t be too loud,” you joke with a soft chuckle, which sets him off. He yanks his hand from your pants, and maneuvers to stand on both feet again.

As you begin to ask what’s wrong, he shoves you onto your back on the bed again. Your eyes widen in surprise and you keep quiet as you watch him grab the waistband of your pants and panties to tug them down. You obediently raise your hips without needing to be asked, an act that you notice gives Su-bong a smirk, and he pulls the clothing down to your ankles and off of one leg altogether.

Without warning, he shoves your thighs apart, diving in between them to start sucking on your clit. You clench your hand into a fist, and bite down on your knuckle to silence your moan. Your other hand sits on the back of Su-bong’s head, keeping him in place as you gently grind against his face. He lets out a pleased groan against your pussy, closing his eyes so he can focus on his ministrations.

After a few moments of this torture, he sits back, much to your disappointment, and stares up at you. He releases his grip on one of your thighs, instead using his index and middle fingers to glide through your now dripping core. Occasionally, as he dampens his fingers, they tease your clit, making your body lurch in surprise and your face flush.

When he finally feels his fingers are wet enough, he slowly works them both inside of you. The sensation quickly overwhelms you and you drop your head back against the mattress, squeezing your eyes shut. You’re unable to look at him as he begins to pump his fingers into you and tongue your clit at the same time, far too blissed out already to even stop your head from spinning.

Jesus Christ, you think. There’s no way I’m already close.

You hook one of your legs around his back to urge him on, while you blindly feel for him with both hands. He reaches his free hand towards you, lacing fingers with one of your hands, while your other hand threads through his purple locks.

“Mhm,” Su-bong hums, when you tug on his hair. He switches to sucking on your clit again, moving his fingers faster and faster into you, desperate to get you off.

Your panting and borderline moaning start to grow louder, so you let go of Su-bong’s hair to grab your pillow, pulling it closer. You quickly bury your face into it and let it stifle the noises that Su-bong pulls from you.

Time starts to escape you — it feels like you’ve been there for seconds and for hours, all at once. Your head reels and your body hums as you feel your climax approaching. Your grip on Su-bong’s hand tightens, and he speeds up in response. With your face still muffled by your pillow, you begin to mutter his name, all but singing his praises as you begin to unravel.

Not for a moment does Su-bong slow down, but instead works you through your climax until your body is writhing in overstimulation. You try to pull from him, but he won’t stop and you feel your second orgasm working its way along your nerves before you even recover from the first. You’ve never had two orgasms in rapid succession, and you don’t dare question how this maniac between your thighs is able to do it.

The second orgasm is just as intense as the first and you feel yourself growing louder in response, rolling your body against his face and hand. This time, Su-bong pulls away from you, and you feel a reprieve, but not for long. He grabs you by your hips, urging you towards him. Mindlessly, you follow where he directs you, until you’re knelt on the floor with him.

Parting your lips to question his new antics, you’re quickly met by him silencing your inquisition with a kiss. You feel one of his arms wrap around your waist to pull you against him while his free hand slides between your thighs.

“Su-bong,” you lament against his lips, breaking the kiss and grabbing his shoulders for support. “I don’t know if I can do another.”

“I know you can.”

Su-bong begins to gently rub circles on your clit, the movement slow and tender. Your body already feels numb from your previous orgasms, but you feel a spark ignite in your pelvis. You whimper, looking into his eyes as if to read his mind, but you can only tell one thing for sure: he’s focused on making you feel good, not another thought present in his mind beyond that.

“When we get out of here, I’m taking you home with me,” he says, quietly. “You’ll be the best prize.” You drop your head against his shoulder, burying your face against his shirt, prepared to muffle any sound that may come out. Your fingers grip the fabric of his shirt firmly, twisting so hard you feel you may tear it.

This time, your orgasm moves slowly throughout your body, starting at your hips and working out through your limbs. Your thighs quake and you struggle to keep your balance on your knees, but Su-bong’s grip around your waist only tightens to keep you upright. You grind against his hand working with him to give him everything you’ve got.

Slowly, his motions stop, and you only briefly wish he would keep going, but as you feel your body relax, you realize you’re too worn out to try for another. Su-bong kisses the top of your head and eases your body back towards your bed. He assists you in putting your clothes on properly, every so often glancing around to make sure no one has caught on to what you’re doing.

Once you are on your back again, in your bed, eyes glued on Su-bong’s face as he pulls his jacket back onto his arms, you feel yourself finally relaxing. Your body is so worn out, but free of stress at that moment, you feel exhausted. Unfortunately, the only thing on your mind now is returning the favor to this purple-haired wonder who still kneels beside your bed, staring back at you. You reach towards him, but quickly find the weight of your own body too heavy to move; how did he manage to wear you out so quickly?

“It’s okay,” Su-bong says, taking hold of your hands, and resting them onto your stomach. “Get some sleep, and we’ll see each other tomorrow.” You begin to object, something inside of you desperate to make him feel as good and relaxed as he made you feel, but Su-bong silences you with a kiss to your lips. Your eyes slip closed as his tongue enters your mouth, and you taste yourself on him, but the kiss is far too brief. “Tomorrow,” he reiterates, with a nod of his, deep voice rattling even lower in his chest. “I promise.”

Before you can speak, Su-bong departs from your bedside and climbs back into his own bed. He steals a quick glance at you, smirking wide as he settles down into his mattress. You feel your eyes drifting closed as Su-bong tucks the cross into his shirt and pulls his jacket tighter around his body. On any other occasion, you would climb into bed beside him, give him the same pleasure he just gave you. But you welcome the sleep that encompasses you, knowing that for now, you have to take relaxation where you can get it.

#x reader #choi subong x reader #thanos x reader #choi seunghyun x reader #squid game imagine

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bbydoll18xx · 9 months ago

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I Try to Refrain (But You’re Stuck in my Brain)

You have a dream about Paige, and it leads to some shocking revelations.

Paige Bueckers x Reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 1.2k

Themes: loneliness, reader realizes she's in love with her best friend, paige is a flirt (what's new?)

A/N: hi guys. sorry it's been a hot min. This election has made me miserable and my grandpa just died today so I wrote this to distract myself lol. I wanted to write something that wasn't fluff before coming out with a new part to I've Got a Wand and a Rabbit, so hopefully this will suffice. Please don't let this flop

Also Is There Somewhere is one of most favorite songs of all time you all should check it out if you've never heard it !!

Please enjoy:)

There was simply no denying that being a college student was pretty fucking exhausting. Between your on-campus casual job, the extensive list of assignments you had racked up, and the overwhelming need to still have a social life, the circles under your eyes had become much more pronounced in the last few weeks.

You needed your beauty sleep, or else you’d be well on your way to looking like Shrek by the end of the semester. And because you had been on the hunt to end your single streak, looking like Shrek would be the worst thing to happen.

You giggle to yourself, the sleep deprivation clearly making you delirious. Checking your watch, you see that you had in fact been up for a whopping 28 hours. It was time for a seriously good nap. You throw your backpack onto the floor of your bedroom, tugging your sweatshirt off of you and flopping down onto your bed. The plushness engulfs you in warmth and comfort, lulling you into a deep, calming sleep, that you so desperately needed.

Or so you thought.

You wake up panting. The air around you is suffocatingly hot, and you can feel the sheets twisted uncomfortably around your legs, trapping you in the warmth. Your heart is pounding against your chest, and you slide your hand across your sternum in a futile effort to soothe yourself.

The dream was quickly fading, and you squeeze your eyes in deep concentration, desperate to hold on to the remnants of it before they fled from your racing thoughts.

It was hazy. But the pounding of your chest and the fluttering that accompanied made you feel like you were missing a key detail. It was right on the tip of your tongue, inching further and further away the more you search for the answers.

You were in bed with another person. They were warm, and their laugh was enough to make you want to get down on one knee right then and there. You were cuddled up with them, the feeling of peace washing over you.

It has been a long time since you felt peace, and as you search for more clues to unearth your future love of your life, the wistfulness settles deep inside you. It mocks you, whispering into your ear that you’d never feel so lucky to be at peace with someone.

The last of the dream fades, and you groan, throwing your arm over your face and vowing to prove your meanest, most vile inner voices wrong.

Because, goddamn it, you did deserve to be loved. And maybe, just maybe, it would happen for you.

You go to bed that night with a fierce determination to coax your brain into revealing more, and as you settle into bed, you pop two benadryl tablets.

‘This’ll give me some good dreams,’ you think slyly, before shutting your eyes and waiting for the next clue, sleep quickly overcoming your thoughts.

You sleep soundly, waking the next morning with a crick in your neck and long, blonde hair on your brain.

“Holy fuck,” you whisper, your dream still playing again in your muddled brain. “It’s a girl," you say incredulously.

"Or maybe an Australian surfer dude," you say sarcastically out loud to yourself.

"God, I'm losing it," you mumble, rubbing a hand over your sleepy eyes.

Her face was blank, deluding you of figuring out who it really was, but the familiar, tinkling laughter was playing on a loop. It was making you crazy.

Your thoughts drift back to being tangled up with lean limbs, the soft hair flowing over slim, strong shoulders and down the girl’s bare back. You recall how you had traced a line down the line of her spine, goosebumps erupting in the wake of your touch.

She was strong and delicate, a dichotomy of perfection that had your thighs clenching in want and your heart clenching in need.

You sigh. It felt almost real, and now it was being ripped from you every time you woke up. It felt unnecessarily cruel, and tears prick your eyes as reality sets in. You were escaping to a fantasy world in your dreams to avoid the crushing forlornness that was settling deep into your bones.

Loneliness was certainly the muse, it seemed.

You meet up with your friends later that night, searching for a distraction from the blonde hair that was currently haunting every waking moment. As you cross campus to head to Aubrey’s apartment, you scold yourself as each blonde who passes you makes you glance hopefully in their direction.

There had to be something to jog your memory, unclouding the face you wanted nothing more to recognize. But each face elicited a disappointed pang in your stomach that spread an uncomfortable coldness through the rest of your body.

You shake your head as you approach Aubrey’s door, trying to rid yourself of the disheartened aura you were currently giving off.

You and Aubrey had become friends two years ago, and by extension, the rest of her team and her girlfriend had accepted you with open arms. You were looking forward to Caroline and Azzi’s wisdom and kind smiles. And KK and Ice’s laughter would certainly be a great distraction.

Your mind gently drifts towards Paige before the door swings open with a large bang, and a loud, joyous cry erupts from the group of girls in the apartment.

You wave at them, cheeks turning pink from the attention. You scan the room, letting your brain secretly look for Paige, just to check to see if it would trigger the flashes of your dream.

You move towards the kitchen, joining into a heated discussion KK and Jana were having about Legos, eyes still darting around curiously.

“I’m obviously the best and fastest builder,” KK boasts, sticking her tongue out childishly at her teammate, and you giggle, taking a sip of your drink as Jana voraciously defends herself and her Lego-building abilities.

It was almost subconscious. You step back, as if you were being pulled against your will, and you hit a wall of warmth and muscle. Your heart lurches as your mind registers what was happening.

“Damn, ma. I gotchu, don’t worry,” Paige mumbles in your ear, chuckling as you turn into a bumbling mess in her firm grasp.

“Oh, god. I’m sorry, P,” you whisper, not trusting your full voice. You steady yourself, proud that you at least did not spill your drink.

Her hand slides down your side to rest heavily on your waist, and her touch ignites a fire in your belly. Your breath hitches as you look up at her. Her hair is down for once, flowing across her shoulders, and your head spins as she laughs again.

You knew that laugh.

“Never gonna complain about having to rescue a pretty girl,” she flirts, and you turn your head, not wanting her to see the way her words sent your face up in a blaze of heat. The realization hits you like a crashing wave.

Your dream was about Paige fucking Bueckers.

Your friend, Paige Bueckers.

You were so goddamn fucked.

Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

What'd we think?? Please let me know. I might do another part if you guys are up for it.

Thanks so much for reading. I'm hoping I will be writing more frequently from now on

xoxo katy

Taglist:

@fullladypanda-blog, @omg-imtumbling, @tenaciousglitternerd, @oldcrdigan, @paigebuxkets, @the-other-half, @patscorner, @sophswbb, @dietcokesmom, @tndaqlifwy, @ch12334, @double22, @inthedeathofherreptuation, @authentic-girl03, @blueredg52 , @kmoneymartini , @mrsarnold, @ittiwdwysylm @sillylittlefakeacc

Want to be added to my taglist? Comment or send me a message :)

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers x you #paige x reader #uconn wbb #friends to lovers #fluff #wlw

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in-som-niyah · 1 year ago

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hi!! i’m literally so obsessed with your work i’ve been scrolling your profile all day 😭😭 i was wondering if you could write something about jason x fem!reader getting married? mostly fluff but ill never say no to some good smut

a/n: "i’m literally so obsessed with your work i’ve been scrolling your profile all day" WHAT DO YOU MEANNNNNNNN STOP UR GONNA MAKE ME CRY THIS IS EVERYTHING TO ME HELLO??? like wdym u like my work so much u spend so much time on my blog i love u gimme kiss

anyway this prompt is *chefs kiss* bc we all know Big Bad Jason Todd™ is such a loverboy softie but most of all he loves hard.

I think that before he met you he never thought that he would be so enamoured with someone who also feels the same way about him at the same time, that also wants to marry him??? He thinks he's too flawed and violent and abrasive for someone to even like being around him. So marrying him??? haha you're funny.

But after YEARS (yes, it takes him years of a committed relationship with you to fully trust that you actually like being with him for an extended period of time, let alone forever) of handling his emotions, outbursts and injuries with grace while still giving him a whack at the back of his head when he's being stupid, he considers marrying you.

Remember, Jason Todd is fucking scared himself, and he doesn't want to scare you off with a ring that literally promises forever with him. Though he loves you, he wants you to be happy in the end. Will you be happy with him in the end?

It takes a lot of mental and emotional strength to overcome these fears that swirl around his head.

When he does get over it though, he's so attentive yet sneaky when picking your ring. There's a luxury jewellery store on the way to your favourite clothing store at the mall, and he literally takes you to the whole mall just to pass by the store. He always looks to see what your eyes catch, what you like and don't like. Doesn't matter if he ends up spending hundreds since you're at the mall so much, he'll do it just to make sure he gets exactly what you want.

Jason also uses his extensive detective training to find out what cut and stone you want on the ring. He's ok with diamonds, but would want something more unique and personal for his love. He wants something that always reflects you, no matter the occasion.

Side note: once the ring comes he would definitely put together a photo album of pics he took of the ring in plain sight while you're completely oblivious just for shits and giggles

Finally, when it's time to pop the question, he doesn't do flashy and big productions with lights and letters and petals and stuff.

He would be dancing in the kitchen with you on a lazy Saturday, eating pancakes and bacon and when the song ends just casually asks "if I were to ask you, would you marry me?" Now he looks collected as he lovingly smiles down at you but is actually shitting himself until you say that you would in fact marry him if he asked. Then he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the most perfect, detailed, gorgeous ring you could ever ask for while properly asking you to marry him. Cue the waterworks (from both of you) and the celebratory make-out sesh.

Y'all definitely fucking the night of the proposal though

I feel like it would be realllllly possessive since yk you literally belong to him now

"tell me who this pussy belongs to, pretty girl" Knowing full well you can't answer because your eyes have already rolled back mid-stroke and you're babbling incoherently. It does, however, put a smug ass smirk on his face.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n pt2 bc i can't shut up: i hope u like it!!! i wasn't in the mood to write anything smutty but idk im in my soft era for jason i just want his stoic self to love me :(((((

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terrible-horrible-mind-of-aspen · 5 months ago

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This might be a little more out there than my previous Phineas and Ferb posts but it's a specific headcanon that I've been thinking about for like a week and a half and I'm going insane actually

Phineas has a lot of different projects and ambitions and weird pastimes that he does as an adult. He still has all that creativity and energy and he cannot just sit down and work a job. He had an engineering job for like two weeks right out of college and he hated it. He needs to do something unique and interesting and NEW or he's going to explode

An idea that he'd been considering for a while was to record all the songs they spontaneously sang as kids. He remembers a lot of them and writes down the lyrics whenever he thinks of them. He's been collecting this stuff for years but hasn't done anything with it because he was busy with school, and thought that people might think it's silly or not want to do it. But now he's an adult, he doesn't have a job, and he's bored out of his damn mind so he starts to make some real progress on this. He talks to Isabella and Ferb about it, and eventually reaches out to Candace and their other friends and tells them all about this idea. And as usual, everyone goes "yeah okay why not" and they're willing to do it.

Phineas has so many of these songs written down. And he collects even more from his friends and family. Collectively, they're able to piece together pretty much all of them.

And naturally, being Phineas, he goes the extra mile with this. He calls up other people they met (like that time they went around the world in one day) and asks them if they'd be willing to record some music for him. He calls Love Handel to do the instrumentals and some backup singing. He also gets Vanessa, and by extension, Doofenshmirtz, to record some stuff. Because he remembers that Vanessa sang some songs with them back when they were kids, and then Doof heard that she'd been signed on to some sort of Danville record label and he has a lot of musical numbers that he would like to record.

This becomes a very big project and Phineas does drive people a little crazy with it. The fireside girls are texting Isabella like "why is your boyfriend calling me at 2am asking me about a song I sung ONE TIME in his backyard when we were ten years old" or "why did you tell Phineas about the bee song it's so embarrassing and he wasn't even there when I sang that" but it turns out fine. It's great. Phineas releases a few different albums of their music, and people really really like it.

#Phineas and Ferb #Phineas Flynn #this isn't even all of it there is so much of this specific thought going on in my head #and some of it is tied up in my post-series thoughts and the OC I made and there is so much.#there's also a whole element of it with the 2nd Dimension songs and Phineas hearing these in his DREAMS for years and he can't remember the #situation but he can remember the songs. He doesn't know where he knows them from but he knows them

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horrorenjoyer159 · 3 months ago

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this was originally going to be a list of headcanons but writing for a jock is actually hard. so, i decided to write a little backstory and i think i got a little carried away so now i guess its a mix of headcanons and a drabble or something????? idk i'm not that great with fanfic lingo. sorry

also!!!! like the eddie one, i didn't specify a time for this. again i was thinking the eighties when i wrote this bc i'm into that decade but you can read this with whatever time you're more comfortable with lol. anyway, enjoy

you’re steve’s girlfriend. who would’ve thought? definitely neither of the two of you. the jock and the weird girl? an unlikely couple. fortunately, after high school, steve’s friend group broadened. obviously, he befriended eddie – and in extension, also befriended the members of corroded coffin. the band is actually how the two of you met.

the two of you had met at a show at the hideout. you had been about three people away from each other when you caught his eye. you were banging your head to nearly every song and he’d grow increasingly concerned for your neck and head. at some point when you stopped, he noticed you wearing an animal bone for an earring. he was immediately intrigued. after the show, he tried to find you but had no luck in doing so. so, he met up with the band backstage. that’s when eddie introduced the two of you.

after that, you two were pretty much inseparable.

though, it must be said that your relationship was pretty awkward at first. when he visited your house for the first time, he noticed your collection of animal bones carefully placed around various rooms, reminding him of the earring you wore the night you two met. he uncomfortably asked about them and you noticed how uneasy he was acting so you gently explained your fascination with death and how you thought animal bones were beautiful and that’s why you had them displayed around your home.

you’d go on dates to antique stores and he’d constantly ask why you wanted to buy and collect old things when you could just get it all brand new. said it all looked nicer too. and you had to explain that you wanted the things in your home to have history. And character. and you liked the look of older things anyway.

about a year into your relationship, you asked for a vile of his blood and you swore you saw him shiver at your question. and of course, he asked why you wanted it. you told him that you wanted to make it a necklace so you could keep a part of him with you whenever you weren’t together. and with steve being such a romantic, his heart melted and he agreed.

whenever you two would go thrift shopping, he’d try helping you pick out clothes to buy. with the two of you having vastly different tastes in almost everything, it was a little difficult. but you appreciated the gesture anyway.

sometimes, things went well and he’d find something that fit with everything else you wore, though sometimes the colors weren’t always right. so, the two of you would go home and dye said clothes either black or red or purple – which he says he likes best on you.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x alt!reader #steve harrington x goth!reader #this is probably bad #it's 6:30 in the morning and i just finished writing this lmao #sorry

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yridenergyridenergy · 4 months ago

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Sukekiyo 2025/04/21 "Makoto, Ryougan Chishibaru" live report

-Setlist-

Candis

MOAN

Aishita Shinzou

breeder

Houmonsha X

Creeper

Sharara

Honnou okotowari

mystery na

Kashikomi Kashikomi

Frame out kara no

(session)

anima

-encore-

Kashikomi Kashikomi

I'm not really going to write much about Kirito's part. No one wants my opinion on his songs. He did nine or ten songs, and he was reading almost all the lyrics that were in Japanese. If there are any Pierrot fans reading this, could you please explain? The fact that he constantly had to look down at his memo sheets, even having to step back from the crate to make sure he could see the words well... There's something very wrong about this. Is it a lack of self-confidence, or something medical? We got a sheet for his tour this month and the next, so it's not like he has zero experience and practice. And I'm clearly sensitive to memory disorders myself - that's why I write these reports to begin with - but I've never heard of a singer reading so much.

Other than that, one major difference that I noticed between Kirito's band's presence on stage and Kyo's bands' is the lighting. The musicians were constantly lit up, even if there was a backdrop video. It definitely made the show a lot weirder and less submersive than Kyo's bands. Fans of Kirito probably get much better pictures, but performance-wise, there's nothing like being bathed in darkness, apparently.

Kirito did MCs. From what I gathered, he teased the fact that sukekiyo fans are referred to as "torii-chan". He said it was cute, like fragile. I think he had his fans shout in comparison, and it seemed to be mostly male voices hah. Kirito also said something about Kyo but I was totally confused with my basic level of understanding for verbal Japanese because he never added a suffix after Kyo's name... It seemed to be about the discussion on the title of the show.

Onto sukekiyo, what a fucking show! I'm so glad people are now at the level of physical excitement as I was two years ago, pretty much on my own hah. It was amazing, the crowd followed everything and reacted to the songs even if we didn't know at first whether we could clap, let alone cheer after the songs or even when the members walked on stage.

Yuchi wore a kind of tutu skirt, I think? With a weird protruding black bra on top of a white dress shirt. He had a spiky hat, beautiful makeup, black (fingerless?) gloves and goldej rings around his neck. Takumi's hair strands were mostly pink/purple but a couple were blue on his left. He had a kind of black and white suit, I think. Mika wore all black. UtA wore a black ensemble with buttons all down the front, like a school uniform. His hair was either blond or pink, slightly puffy.

Kyo wore two articles from Adidas:

I think he hiked up the skirt higher than the model in this picture, because it appeared puffy, and it definitely seemed like a lot of his thighs was showing. Due to how Club Citta is constructed, I have no clue what shoes he wore. He also had large glasses, like in the breeder PV, and he added a couple of blond extensions to the sides of his head, in bows.

Candis was awesome as usual, the extension at the start really enhancing the song. I can't get enough of Kyo's sudden knee drops in this performance! I hadn't known whether we even needed penlights for the show - Kyo usually warns us ahead of time. When I realized which it was and that it needed a penlight, I rummaged through my bag, but like a sign of life, one penlight started flashing out of the three: the right one!

It was my first time witnessing MOAN with the penlight. We essentially do our best to replicate Kyo's moves in the chorus.

Aishita Shinzou is kind of where we started being less stiff, I think. Kyo asked us to sing a few times, and he was jumping and dancing (the dance reminds me of North American Indigenous dances) a lot. Oh and he did the finger-in-his-mouth thing before jumping!

breeder came on and woah, the PV plays in the background but whatever, what a banger, as expected! Kyo at first asked us for a few "kill my mind", but near the end of the song, we were basically tasked with them all, essentially wrapping up the song ourselves. I think we also had to do one or two "how much am I worth?" At first, it was just Mika and Yuchi playing. Yuchi had this big bass placed vertically. Kyo looked at us and nodded, hopefully when he saw that many of us were excited for the song to be performed.

And you know what? To be honest, there's something to be appreciated with projecting a PV that doesn't feature Kyo behind him on stage. It's always weird when they show the PVs since Kyo is different and unique, so he has starkly different looks and he doesn't always move the same way on stage and on screen. Having some rando isn't distracting, in that sense.

At some point, Kyo briefly asked us, seemingly out of curiosity, if this was indeed a "Ceremony of Liberation", to which we cheered and understood that we could let loose completely.

In Houmonsha X, I found Kyo to move less than he did in the Jetblack Ceremony performances, but maybe because he compensated then for the fact that nobody else could move. Even the musicians were hella concentrated and immobile during the instrumental parts. At least now, we could dance.

I got to see Creeper live! The pot-stirrong at the beginning, all the little moves throughout this song! Kyo asked us to shout the "kaeru"s sometimes, and I seem to recall that Kyo pointed a lot to us based on the lyrics.

Before this point, maybe in Aishita Shinzou, Kyo walked over on the right side of the stage and he was teasingly chewing his index in his mouth with a grin while staring at us, as if considering who he'd ask out.

Sharara and Honnou okotowari were very nice, but I don't necessarily remember anything specific right now. Probably because it involved a ton of headbanging? I think Kyo might have moved sensually more at the end of Honnou okotowari than at the beginning, even though that's how the song sounds with his low singing? And it's lovely that Kyo changed the tone of the third or fourth paragraph in Honnou okotowari to ramble on in a high-pitched voice as though he's 'bitchly vexed' and disappointed.

For mystery na, I haven't heard the studio recording beyond the audio teaser that they added on YouTube a week or so ago. They kept the essential parts of it, but there's a weird kind of empty section near the end? We were also expected to sing a part that sounds like: "...smile" but hey, most of us haven't had the chance to listen to it yet, so it showed. Otherwise, I loved how Kyo rapped, and how he made a gesture from his chest to three parts of the crowd for the "ha haha haha" part after "Odoreeeee", as though he was distributing the wealth or some emotion.

Kashikomi Kashikomi played next and it's crazy how everybody in the band is super demanding of us even in this super short song hah. For some reason, there's an emphasis that the 🙏 be bumped upward, and since the song is about ditching the concept of sexes/genders, I must say I'm confused. When Kyo sings the "woman?" "man?" part, at least once he pointed to Yuchi for one of them, and UtA for the other, before going crazy growling the rest and leading us to the headbanging part.

Frame out kara no was as cool as I expected, even if Kyo didn't do the same "throwing his hands in the air and walking around mad" move like in the video I posted recently. There was a ton of gesturing of a camera frame, and Kyo adlibbing or again changing the tone of some lyrics to act really disappointed by the resulting photograph that he held so much hope for. And when he sings about stabbing, he goes straight to Yuchi, who has his back turned because of whatever instrument he plays then, and Kyo boldly gestures stabbing him, before retreating to his central position.

Sukekiyo then started playing an improvised session, with Takumi peoducing a simple melody on the piano at first. I can't remember all of Kyo's lyrics, but it was about finding someone, something killed, tears, etc. and it became very intense rather quickly, with him shouting out his emotions. At that time, a lot of hands at the front of the crowd got up and became really agitated, so I was thinking that they were vibing way too much with Kyo and believing that they were the ones who resonated with him the most, but no, I guess they were frantically pointing out that someone had a medical emergency right there. The band kept performing like professionals.

Anima then played and the credits rolled on screen, signaling that it was probably the last song. It was emotional, most people listened stoically, in silence. This time, we started cheering before Kyo had completely walked off the stage.

We clearly didn't get enough sukekiyo with just about a half-show, so we quickly chanted: "ske-kiyo-sama" and man, you gotta love sukekiyo's punctuality. They always start their shows earlier than Dir en grey does, with little delay for latecomers, they took less than thirt minutes to come on stage after Kirito left, and once we called them for an encore, they were back right away.

Kyo asked us, unbothered, if we could go on. He kept alternating between "Ikimasu ka?" and "Ikaremasu ka?", the lattet of which is a much more formal question that would mean ", sir" in another context but which is hard to translate here. He sometimes used a tone that was like that of a polite employee asking a patron for confirmation on their request. He had his hand on his head while asking us that.

Kashikomi Kashikomi was played with somehow even less restraint, more intensity. Kyo took out one, then the second of his ear monitors to hear us, and he headbanged with us a lot. At the end of the song, he promptly walked out while the musicians jammed like a real end of concert. They were all smiles. UtA came to the very end of the other side of the stage and basked in gratefulness at multiple points on his way backstage. Yuchi insisted on us maintaining the Kashikomi 🙏 as high as possible. Mika left promptly the second time, but he had waved broadly at us from behind his screens after the main setlist in acknowledgement.

By the way, when we entered the venue, the staff asked us one by one which band we mainly came to see, and they had a counter for each.

I haven't felt like wanting to run until I collapse and exhaust all this overflowing energy in a long time.

I am definitely not bringing any penlights tomorrow - this show is meant to be danced unhampered!

#京 #Kyo #sukekiyo #club citta #live report #Dir en grey #Kirito

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fiapartridge · 7 months ago

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hiiiiii !! i saw you write for beckett sennecke ! i love him he is so underrated !!! i was wondering if you could do some headcanons you have of him as a bf or something along those lines. if not, no worries ! i hope you have a really amazing day ! ily xoxo

beckett sennecke headcanons!! ⭐️🩰🪞💌🛁

💌 author's note: wait im literally obsessed with headcanons now i wanna do so many more LOL

bf!beckett is such passenger princess energy it's insane and he's ALWAYS on aux. like he'll literally fight for it.

also, he can only sit in the front or else he'll start complaining that there's either no space for his long ass legs or that he'll get car-sick and barf all over everyone lmfao

bf!beckett whoo buys you literally everything. like you don't even have to tell him you like something, like if you look at something for too long, he's already at the cash register buying it for you

bf!beckett who loves playing with ur hair. he's like a little cat with a ball of yarn. he tried braiding ur hair once and it just created a bunch of knots and he was TERRIFIED he was like "oh my god, babe. i think i just fucked up your hair."

bf!beckett who loves sharing updates on his day. like he'll be send pics of him and his teammates at a sandwich shop and be like "just ate the best sandwich of my life! we're coming here together next time!" or he'll be at a dog park and send a picture of all the dogs and be like "take your pick. i think i can steal one when they're not looking."

bf!beckett who calls you pookie in a teasing way because he knows how much you hate it. he says it the most in public because he likes to see ur cheeks turn pink.

bf!beckett who orders 3 entrees at restaurants and also eats the food you can't finish he's literally a human vacuum

bf!beckett who always shares his food with you even if it's his favorite. he just wants to share everything with you <3

bf!beckett who's drama is ur drama. like anytime he gets a piece of information and he has to swear not to tell a single soul, he always ends up telling you and it's technically not breaking the rules because you're basically an extension of him, so...

bf!beckett who is just the sweetest subconsciously. like he wont even realize he's doing things like pulling out your chair and carrying your bags and opening the car door for you. sometimes when you're at his apartment and he sees your cup is empty, he'll go refill it before you even ask. he just knows

bf!beckett who misses you all the time. even if it's just for a day, he'll start sending you texts about how much he misses you and your pretty face. roadies are the worst. he is always facetiming you and talking about you to his teammates, like "y/n would love this. let me send her a pic" or "what do you guys think y/n is doing right now?"

bf!beckett who gets your entire family gifts on their birthdays and christmas. even on valentines day, he'll get your mom some flowers and a note like "thanks for welcoming me into your family, mama l/n!"

bf!beckett who is super close with your younger siblings. like he loves playing video games with your little brother or playing tea party with your little sister. he'll even pretend to be a prince while your sister plays a princess. he'll be super into it to like calling her "your highness" and wearing a crown and cape.

bf!beckett who sends you a stupid meme every morning before you wake up. it'll be like a seal saying "top of the morning!" and you roll your eyes every time but you never want him to stop

bf!beckett who made you a playlist after your first date (which was at a diner and had one of those tiny juke boxes on the table. you chose "here comes the sun" and that was the first song he added to the playlist)

#beckett sennecke #anaheim ducks #hockey #beckett sennecke headcanons #hockey headcanons

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the-sea-called-history02 · 7 months ago

Text

How Stray Kids say “I love you” without saying it (maknae line)

Genre: fluff

Warnings: slight cursing

Hyung line

Han Jisung

Adds your favorite songs to his playlists

Music isn’t just this man’s love language. It’s his every language. It’s the oxygen he breaths and the water he drinks. In his mind, your favorite songs are a piece of your soul that he can carry with him no matter where he goes, so he adds your favorite songs to all of his playlists, and will never once hesitate to point that out to anyone in the vicinity. The boys have learned all the words at this point because of how often he plays the songs that remind him of you for them.

Just flat-out says it

Before anyone says that this is a lazy cop-out, just hear me out. Sweet Hannie wouldn’t know subtlety if it walked up to him with a name tag and slapped him upside the face. He wears his whole heart on his sleeve, so I really, truly believe that he wouldn’t be one to let his actions speak louder than his words. Both are equally important in his eyes, so please don’t get annoyed when every other thing out of his mouth is how much he loves you. He’s only a tad obsessed, I promise.

Felix Lee

Cooks with you

Sure, Lix can bake, but have you seen him try to cook? It’s not pretty, but he always has a blast trying, especially when it’s with you. Whether you’re a five star Michelin or burn water, you’re going to create some sort of mess when you two get together. No matter how it turns out, though, Felix will make himself enjoy every bite because it “was made with love.”

Sends you a million TikToks

It could be memes, sad videos, songs he thinks you’ll like, things about your hobbies, prepared to be bombarded with little videos from Felix 24/7. He shares them so you know he’s thinking of you, and it fills him with way too much joy when you find them as entertaining as he does. It just further convinces him that you’re soulmates, and who’s to say he’s wrong?

Kim Seungmin

Writes about you in his journal

His journal is an extension of himself, and is how he processes his insanely hectic life, but he always finds that writing about you feels different. He never has to think about what he’s writing, and the words just flow onto the page. If you manage to catch him in a particularly mushy mood, he might even let you read some of it.

Keeps a nightly routine with you

Ending his day with you is the highlight of it. He can’t wait to take his makeup off while telling you all the dumb shit the boys did that day. On tour, he’ll coordinate a time for you to do it all on FaceTime. Every step, from changing into pajamas to doing face masks, he loves knowing that, no matter how awful his day might have been, he will always be able to bear it because you would be there at the end to make it all worth it.

Yang Jeongin

Coordinates outfits

Listen, to Jeongin, being buck-naked is better than even considering not matching with you. No matter whether you’re even on the same continent, you better bet your best britches that he’ll be checking to make sure you AT LEAST have your couples bracelet on. He also definitely has a Pinterest board of couple outfit ideas.

Compares your hands

No matter how many times he does it, his heart still flutters a bit every time he sees your hands being engulfed by his. Not only is it an excuse to touch his favorite person, but it makes him feel like, in a small way, he can shelter you from the crazy world he lives in, and what kind of monster would you have to be to deny your sweet boy of that?

#skz #stray kids #spotify #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #skz maknae line #skz seungmin #skz jeongin #skz jisung #skz felix #i love you #Spotify

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chibicheesecake · 26 days ago

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I'm begging you to write magazine interviews for your OCs

Interview under the cut. TW for mentions of drug abuse and needles.

TAT Magazine in conversation with the personal tattoo artist to the Gorillaz: Charlotte, 'Charlie', Coal.

Tat: How did you first get into tattooing?

Charlie: Well, I was always doodling in school, I used to get in trouble for it a lot, though I don't know if it was because I wasn't paying attention or because of the ultra detailed cocks I was drawing in all of my text books. It wasn't until I discovered the punk scene that I realised I could put my doodles onto human skin, though I've only had one person ask me to draw an ultra detailed cock.

Tat: How much has punk influenced your attitude as an artist?

Charlie: Punk fashion and music were a massive kick start in my career! I started out giving shitty stick & pokes in the toilets of clubs in exchange for drinks and other stuff. I really admired the 'fuck the system' mentality, I've never liked systems, except for the ones I play video games on. I tend to visualise my canvas as 'the system', then channel all my rage into my needle, but that does make 'the system' scream quite a lot. I still consider myself to be a punk, my clothes just have less holes in them nowadays.

Tat: You're the personal tattoo artist for The Gorillaz, tell me how that started.

Charlie: I first met the lead singer, 2D, through a shared love of graffiti when I was around 20. I caught him around the back of Lidl in Crawley spraying over one of my tags and it was while I was kicking his teeth in that he told me how much he liked my work. I gave him a free tattoo as an apology and we've been mates ever since.

Tat: What are some challenges that come with being a cartoon tattoo artist as opposed to a real life one?

Charlie: Well, when you're a cartoon, all tattoos are temporary tattoos. All it takes is one continuity error and your hard work is all gone. I once drew the entirety of Bosch's Last Judgement on Murdoc Niccals's torso - took me a week! Then, about 2 days later, some lazy animator couldn't be arsed to draw it again and it was gone! So annoying. Though, I do suppose it keeps me employed...

Tat: You work with one of the biggest bands in the world so we have to ask: Do you have any musical talent?

Charlie: Not a smidge! I don't play any instruments, I have 0 rhythm and my singing voice sounds like someone drowning cats. That being said, you can hear me at the start of the song, Hongkongaton. I was eating a Pot Noodle when Murdoc shoved a mic in my face and recorded it.

Tat: Do you have many other skills, or do you just focus on your tattoo work?

Charlie: Oh, I do a bit of everything: tattoos, piercings, hair extensions, nails, veneers, breast implants, vasectomies, lobotomies, cremation, taxidermy, exorcisms, the list goes on. But my true passion is the needle... the, uh... tattoo needle, that is. I've been clean from heroin for a long time now.

Tat: Speaking of piercings, they're quite a signature part of your look. Do you have any piercings that we don't get to see?

Charlie: I know you're know actually asking if I have an isabella piercing and the answer is no. I do, however, have one of my kidneys pierced, but now I do piss a lot more blood than I used to...

Tat: What's the worst experience you've had whilst tattooing someone?

Charlie: I once tattooed the word 'Helios' right above Murdoc's arse crack, that was pretty grim.

Tat: What do you see in your future?

Charlie: Well, I just got over an addiction to blue-raspberry flavoured hallucinogenics that gave me crazy visions of the future, so I've been trying to keep foresight to a minimum lately. But, I always try and stay prepared for the return of our alien overlords; stocking up on tinned food, anti-probe knickers, stuff like that.

Tat: Aliens? Want to elaborate on that?

Charlotte: Gladly! I've always been very in-tune with the extraterrestrial, I've been seeing UFO's since I was a kid, but nobody ever believed me. They're coming, you know, I can hear their plans when I lick the tv static! I'm not crazy, my therapist said so!

#gorillaz #jamie hewlett #digital art #gorillaz oc #murdoc niccals #2d #russel hobbs #noodle #interview #tattoo #original character #OC ideas

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beneathashadytree · 1 year ago

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what are your favourite unhinged headcannons for the lads/lnds LIs please?🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽 like something that based on how they act in canon preferably but even if it's way left field, just something funny about them

I personally headcanon Zayne as autistic (my radar is going OFF) so I’m 100% projecting when I say that he’s definitely offended MANY superiors at university with his manner of speaking. This makes him feel absolutely HUMILIATED when he gets told off/reminded that not every takes his straightforwardness as a good thing. It’s why sometimes he often hesitates & rethinks his words with the MC; the Neurodivergent Struggle™️

Ever since he and MC started dating, he’s definitely caught himself looking in the mirror more than he ever did before. Not out of vanity, but merely checking in on his appearance every now and then. He’s more conscious of how he looks (in a good way!!) compared to how he previously viewed his body as simply a vessel before. Goes completely red when caught by them, and plays it off as checking for new scars (hint: there aren’t any this time).

Rafayel has a habit of making biting remarks as he gets all shy and defensive, but sometimes he doesn’t hear the double entendres behind his words until the MC smirks at him. Sometimes it’s purely coincidental and he goes beet red, other times he’s lowkey handing them bait to tease him. Maybe a small part of him likes it when he hears them say such scandalous things and joke around…

Delicate as his hands are, he’s got a pretty extensive knife collection. Super fancy too, like the stuff you’ll find at those oddly specific stores downtown where the single set of 6 pieces costs your left kidney and a leg. When he’s run out of inspiration, he sharpens them and takes VERY good care of them. This type of attention is also given to his beloved daggers and weapons of choice. Shiny = pretty is a very recurrent theme with him.

Xavier had gone through a phase where he was trying his best to adjust to life amongst humans, and that was when he was introduced to the wonders of pop culture and the entertainment world. So if he happens to hum along to insanely obscure songs that were popular a decades ago and somehow has every song by said artist memorized, don’t question it. He’s a multi-stan.

Being such a sleepy guy who’s barely conscious, Xavier has definitely skipped MANY relationship milestones with the MC by accidentally letting important words slip during phone calls. Whenever they call him and he’s just woken up, he just word-vomits/half-mumbles his way through his sappiest thoughts that come to him so easily (examples: “I love you so much” “Can’t wait till you marry me” and “Let’s buy a big house for our future family”)

This actually turned out to be more detailed than I thought it would be, sorry for rambling nonnie. This is practically a piece of writing on its own 😭😭

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abstractnaturaldisaster · 1 year ago

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is it over now? (was it over then?)

part one

part two: if she's got blue eyes, i will surmise that you'll probably date her

Eddie had felt completely numb after leaving Steve's apartment. He wasn't really interested in doing anything with his band even though they definitely owed the studio a new album but Eddie wasn't feeling inspired after the abrupt departure of his most recent muse.

He didn't want to be that guy who wrote songs about his exes or aired dirty laundry in public through cryptic lyrics. It worked for other people but his band's vibe was a lot more fantasy and concept albumy and he couldn't quite find the energy to allegorize his current heartbreak. This is where the reality of the music industry really sucked because at some point their label didn't give a shit about Eddie's need to wallow and his manager could only negotiate so many extensions.

Thankfully, all previous qualms he had with writing about his ex and their breakup ended when he saw another fucking TMZ headline about Steve leaving a club with another model. This had to be the thirtieth person Steve had been tied to since their breakup. Eddie's best guess was that his pact with Robin to be each other's whatever to get the media off their back had ended.

Lyrics started flowing out of Eddie as he swiped out of twitter and into his notes app.

Your new girl is my clone And did you think I didn't see you? There were flashing lights At least I had the decency To keep my nights out of sight Only rumors 'bout my hips and thighs And my whispered sighs

Eddie knew it was probably a low blow to flaunt his escapades after he'd worked pretty hard to keep them under wraps. He didn't need the world to know he had pity sex with some random guy he picked up because he really got Eddie's last album. Eddie fucking hated how pretentious some fans were about his lyrics. Like sometimes a sword is just a sword, bestie. Anyways, an NDA and really shitty coffee later, Eddie pretended that mistake hadn't happened but was petty enough to make it clear to Steve that he wasn't the only one finding solace in someone else's bed.

He put together a rough melody on his acoustic and sent it over to his band to see what they thought. He wasn't sure if they'd be into it but it was fucking therapeutic to get the feelings out of his body that were festering there. Gareth was over the moon because he had been anti-Steve from the beginning and was super on board with some pretty boy actor directed snark. Ronnie, Jeff, and Freak were a little harder to bring around as they felt like they should at least sort of protect their darker brand but once Freak laid down a pretty sick base and Ronnie added some haunting piano it was undeniably a Corroded Coffin song. They packaged up a rough draft and sent it over to their producer to work his magic. Before Eddie knew it the song was approved for a sound on TikTok and Eddie and the band were thinking of video ideas to promote the single which would apparently be ready for streaming in the next month. Eddie wasn't quite ready to concede an entire angsty breakup album but it did at least feel good to get a start on producing what the studio was looking for.

Eddie sat back and scrolled through the sound on TikTok and thought about Steve's reaction to the sound or the single a perfectly healthy amount, thank you very much.

@lololol-1234 (it's not quite fixed yet but i hope you don't mind the tag)

part three

#steve x eddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fic #steddie #pls don't be mad at steve #i promise it will all make sense #eddie is not a reliable narrator #don't worry robin will fix it #angst #angst with a happy ending #rockstar eddie #actor steve #was it over then ficlet

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lambilegs · 6 months ago

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happy valentines!! hope you have a good one 🖤 wanted to request if it's not much of an issue what spending your first valentines day with lee would be like? thank u!!

LOVERS' DAY WITH LEE HARKER

˖◛⁺⑅♡ note to anon: hiiiii love!! happy valentine's to you too, I hope you have a lovely day <33 omg so I was hoping to write something themed for today so this request is perfect hehe ˖◛⁺⑅♡ music: my girl - the temptations, it had to be you - frank sinatra, always be my baby - mariah carey, double take - dhruv, like I do - j.tajor (I so wish I could link my spotify's valentine's playlist for this, but alas, I can't so I'll just share which songs I enjoyed listening to when writing this hehe) ˖◛⁺⑅♡ contains: sfw, lee and reader being gay af and in love pretty much, not proofread. would absolutely love to hear what you guys think, it always makes me very happy and motivated to know mwah mwah ˖◛⁺⑅♡ divider by: @/fairytopea

okay so first off, I feel like lee would never be someone who cared much at all about valentine's day or saw it as a big deal, you know? she definitely is the kind of partner who feels she should consistently give you that support and care and doesn't really feel the need to designate a day to spoiling you

which is why if you're someone who likes valentine's day, you've gotta tell her so she knows exactly what your expectations are. otherwise, she's gonna feel at a loss to know what level of grandeur you're expecting on her end and she'll have nothing to go off of but her own research LMAO

if you tell her you just want her to do what she thinks is a nice gesture, and leave the planning to her for it, she'll just be a confused wreck for the first few days

eventually, though, through extensive research, she decides what'll be best is probably a gift and some kind of date, since that seems to be what most couples do and expect

her gift will either be something practical (like, if you've been having bad back pain, she'll get a back massager), or something she's observed you looking at in stores (she privately keeps a messy list of things she's seen you admiring in public so she can refer to it on your birthday or your guys' anniversary)

since she's a simp tho, she'll probably end up going with both kinds of gifts LOL

as for a date, she decides it'd just be most practical to decide on that together, so that both of you are comfortable with the idea

a lot of couples tend to do big outings, but you're well aware that lee isn't really comfortable with outings that put her in crowded spaces or take her out of her comfort zone. so, you guys settle on something simple, like going on a walk, then making dinner together and sharing it at home

which honestly still feels as intimate and special as going out. because, ofc, lee gets super busy with work, and this sometimes leads to an entire month of no pre-planned dates. time spent together, yes, but actual dates planned out are a different thing. so, reserving a slot of time just for you and her to talk, catch up and spend quality time means, like, a lot to her. honestly, I feel like quality time is probably one of her top love languages, since I think she'd need to spend a lot of time with someone to be comfortable enough to be romantically involved with them

like ACCKKKKK I'm getting butterflies thinking of it, but I can just imagine you two walking through a snowy trail, catching up, and when you're in the middle of rambling about something you're really passionate about, she's just gently smiling and feeling rejuvenated by the knowledge that, yes, this is exactly why she's so enamoured with you

if you catch her watching you and ask what's up, she'll just clear her throat and look away, mumbling, "nothing"

if you proceed to tease her, sidling to her side and nuzzling against her, she'll just roll her eyes and ignore you, but continue to keep her arm wrapped around you the entire time

when you guys cook together, you'll either play a tape or have some cheesy romance movie playing in the background, much to lee's cringing. but, it's just white noise, really, for the entire time, you two are bickering over how exact to be with the pasta recipe, with lee calling for exact precision and you insisting on a little flare to suit both your guys' tastes

as per usual, she gives into you

when you're stirring the sauce together, she leans on the counter, watching you with intense eyes, feeling her stomach clench at just how grateful she feels. to be this comfortable with someone, this at ease, is a rarity for her. she never really thought of herself as having a long-lasting relationship or partner, content with her solitude and reconciled with the idea that her discomfort with social situations would probably prevent her from finding someone who she truly feels loosened and relaxed with. so, the fact that you found her, and somehow, bore your way through her walls until you got to make a home in her chest, still makes her feel slightly astonished. and wholly grateful.

she hesitates, but pushes herself onward, knowing you'd like her to be open with her desire for affection, and walks over, giving you a back hug, chin perched on your shoulder. you laugh softly at the touch, your stomach rumbling under her arm.

"all okay?" you ask gently.

lee just breathes in your scent, quietly saying, "yeah, I'm okay"

you guys eat together on her couch, your legs tossed over hers as they stretch along the couch. she has one hand resting on your thigh, thumb smoothing over the fabric of your pants, while the other is feeding herself.

"you know, this is pretty good," you mutter wondrously when chewing. "maybe we should just run away and spend the rest of our days making pasta."

"that definitely sounds reasonable," she mutters with a faint smile, squeezing your knee. she hasn't admitted it to you, at least not yet, but she does think about that sometimes. well, a lot. how one day in the future, she'd like to retire and move with you to somewhere secluded, somewhere away from oregon. somewhere that's not tainted with her childhood, or that'll remind her of her work, no matter how proud she is of it. somewhere reserved only for the two of you. it's a big commitment, a huge one, really, but she wouldn't have ever gotten with you if she wasn't sure of her decision.

when you two swap gifts, she's biting her lip nervously, hands fidgeting on her lap as you eagerly pull a gift from the first paper brown bag she handed to you. when you find the body massager, you immediately laugh, your heart swelling with how considerate, and unorthodox, the present is.

lee, on the other hand, is watching you carefully, trying to understand why you're so amused, and if it's an indicator she did something wrong. when you notice this, your laugh falters and you lean in to kiss her cheek, mumbling, "I love it, baby. thank you."

she clears her throat, heat rising to her cheeks from the affectionate touch. inside, though, is a stirring of satisfaction and pride, the feeling only increasing by a tenfold when you pull out the plushie she got you and scream in delight.

"I, um..." she trails off, suddenly feeling a tad pathetic. "I sprayed my cologne on it. I heard some people like that."

and you definitely seem to, she observes, based on how you shove your nose into the plushie then immediately throw yourself into her lap, dotting kisses all over her face, which sends her beaming shyly.

she absolutely does not let you read the card in front of her. she just tells you to do it when she's not in the house and you're alone LMFAO

you get her some slacks, since she hates going to malls and stores and getting them herself, as well as some books and tapes she's been interested in. of course, it wouldn't be a proper gift from you without some romance involved to make her blush, hehe, so all of these are paired with something like a bouquet or flowers, or a letter with a lock of hair attached.

all of the gifts have her, like, insanely touched. again, she never thought she'd be be in this position before of having a partner who she's in a committed, devoted bond with, who she actually gets to spend this holiday with. feeling the familiarity and knowledge of her seeping in every gift you hand her, the consideration you put into all of them, has her nearly welling up. along with her mom, you're the sensitive point in her life, the one who has her shaken with fear over losing.

she does make a light joke over your romantic gift, brushing her thumb over it as her lips softly turn up. probably something along the lines of, "you're kind of a sap, aren't you?"

but, months later, when you borrow her jacket to take out the trash, stuffing your hands in her pocket, you freeze at the touch of something unfamiliar buried deep beneath her receipts. when you take it out, you nearly cry at the sight of a dried, crinkled flower from that february day.

you love her, and she loves you. what could be better than that?

+ bonus: her love letter one hundred percent has you bawling. she pours everything into it that she usually struggles to say. the part that has you downright sobbing is when she writes, "I always thought I'd be satisfied to live on my own, with nothing to account for but myself. But, I'd happily cling onto you like a shadow from now on, as long as you're okay with it. I'm yours, completely. And I promise to always keep you safe."

#ik this got very long and sappy but I can't help it okay I love valentine's day and I love tender ass lee hcs 😭💓#lee harker #lee harker x reader #lee harker fanfiction #longlegs 2024 #longlegs fanfiction #s.writing

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severus-snaps · 1 year ago

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On Sectumsempra & Levicorpus

So I was just searching up "Prince" on potter search as part of another ramble I was doing, and encountered these two quotes together:

“The Prince only copied [Sectumsempra] out! It’s not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was making a note of something that had been used against him!”

and:

“Sectum — !” Snape flicked his wand and the curse was repelled yet again; but Harry was mere feet away now and he could see Snape’s face clearly at last: He was no longer sneering or jeering; the blazing flames showed a face full of rage. Mustering all his powers of concentration, Harry thought, Levi — “No, Potter!” screamed Snape. There was a loud BANG and Harry was soaring backward, hitting the ground hard again, and this time his wand flew out of his hand ...Snape’s pale face, illuminated by the flaming cabin, was suffused with hatred just as it had been before he had cursed Dumbledore. “You dare use my own spells against me, Potter? It was I who invented them — I, the Half-Blood Prince! And you’d turn my inventions on me, like your filthy father, would you? I don’t think so … no!”

By no means do I expect this is a fresh take, but these quotes together got me to thinking about the possibilities of Snape's use - and creation - of Sectumsempra. I consider whether he did create it, whether he stole it, The Prank, SWM, Battle of Seven Potters, and whether James used it on Snape. It starts off pretty sensible and then descends into madness, and I've spent too much time on it, so that I don't want to look at it again :P [way longer than anticipated so view below the cut]:

Ahead of time: I'm assuming that Sectumsempra was the exact same cutting spell Snape used in SWM. The lack of workings-out for this spell in Snape's book suggests the SWM cutting spell wasn't an earlier version he had to tinker with extensively (why would he do all of his workings-out in his book except for that one spell?). And, from a narrative perspective, Sectumsempra was described as Snape's 'specialty', it was a reasonably large plot point with Harry vs Draco and Snape coming in, to me making it unlikely to have meant to have been another spell entirely.

So... did Snape create Sectumsempra?

Option 1: Snape did create Sectumsempra.

It was in Snape's HBP book

Perhaps he got Sectumsempra right on the first try, unlike his other spells, which is why its only note is "for enemies" and not workings-out. Things like the bezoar advice also didn't have workings-out, and Snape did not write notes on things he readily understood ("but not a single illuminating note in the Prince’s hand to explain what [Golpalott’s Third Law] meant. Apparently the Prince, like Hermione, had had no difficulty understanding it"). Perhaps by this point, he's rather good at spell creation; he didn't need to make notes or amendments, he just had an intuitive grasp of Latin and spellcraft and whipped out a new spell like that

It is possible that he did his workings-out elsewhere for a change, or worked it out with someone else (Mulciber, Avery?)

Snape says spells, inventions, plural, in the quote above, indicating that Sectumsempra was one of his own creations

Harry has switched to using "[Snape's] spells" against Snape; this is the reason Snape switches from lazily deflecting to looking enraged, and finally loses his composure at Levicorpus

Possibly, Snape alone knew the proper or only counter-spell to Sectumsempra (which I'm just calling the song-spell), where others did not (this is widely discussed in anti-Snape circles, but I'll come back to that)

Remus says "Sectumsempra was always a specialty of Snape’s" - Snape perhaps developed it in preparation or retaliation for going to the Shrieking Shack, and Remus remembers

Option 2: Snape did not create Sectumsempra.

It has no workings out; it looks as though it's been copied from somewhere, "for enemies" and no other notes - implying that he's not workshopped it, but has instead gone and looked up curses in the Restricted Section or one of his Slytherin friends' Dark Arts books and decided that this was the one he'd like to use. It seems unlikely that every other new spell (Levi/Liberacorpus, Muffliato, etc) had workings-out, but this one does not. This was Harry's interpretation: "The Prince only copied [Sectumsempra] out! It’s not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was making a note of something"

Snape "knew more curses when he arrived at school than half the kids in seventh year" - he may have already known it and later jotted it down

Snape may not be angry in the above passage that Harry used 'his spell', but angry that Harry went on to use the spell that had almost killed Draco, again, having not learnt his lesson

We see Snape cast Sectumsempra in SWM - nonverbally, which means that Remus had to learn the incantation somewhere - and that somewhere might not have been from Snape, but via a book, or a DADA lesson (or, as I said for Option 1, Snape used it during the Shrieking Shack incident. Either could work?)

"My spells/inventions", plural, may have been a slip of the tongue or sounded better or was just easier to say; maybe one was Snape's by design (Levicorpus) and the other (Sectumsempra) by association, but Snape hardly had time to distinguish; he was on the run. Maybe Snape's other spells got out as well because rumours spread like nobody's business at Hogwarts, and Snape just did not have the time or inclination during this conversation for nuance

"Sectumsempra was always a specialty of Snape’s". It might have been 'his' spell in that he found or heard it elsewhere, and used it a lot, similar to how Harry's "signature move" is Expelliarmus. A specialty doesn't necessarily mean they've made something, just that they've specialised in it, are experts at it, or used it a lot - and, as we see in Harry's sword to Sev's scalpel, Snape did specialise in it and showed a lot more control:

[Harry's use] "SECTUMSEMPRA!” bellowed Harry from the floor, waving his wand wildly. Blood spurted from Malfoy’s face and chest as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand falling from his limp right hand... Malfoy, who was shaking uncontrollably in a pool of his own blood. Moaning Myrtle let out a deafening scream: “MURDER!"

[Snape's use] Snape had directed his wand straight at James; there was a flash of light and a gash appeared on the side of James’s face, spattering his robes with blood. James whirled about; a second flash of light later, Snape was hanging upside down in the air...Sirius, James, and Wormtail roared with laughter.

Sectumsempra A brief departure to look at the spell and spellcasting more closely.

Casting Notably Snape casts it nonverbally, and there's no 'wild' gestures accompanying it; he simply directed his wand straight at James's face. Interestingly, the purple flame curse used on Hermione by Antonin Dolohov was also performed nonverbally, and was noted to be less severe than if spoken aloud:

The curse Dolohov had used on [Hermione], though less effective than it would have been had he been able to say the incantation aloud, had nevertheless caused, in Madam Pomfrey’s words, 'quite enough damage to be going on with'.

I wonder if Sectumsempra has the same 'powered down' effect when cast nonverbally? And if so, was Snape aware of that when he cast it at James? Was the intent to hide the incantation after his other creation, Levicorpus, got out - or to weaken the spell? In any case he failed in the first objective, because Remus identified Sectumsempra immediately as an adult.

[Side note: Snape was using and modifying a 6th year textbook, using nonverbal spells and creating spells that were already widespread - all in his 5th year, at age 15/16, when Hermione masters NV spells in 6th. What a nerd].

Effects Given the obvious ramifications of murder in broad daylight in front of a crowd of eyewitnesses and the fact that nobody, including the Marauders, paused at the spell's effects (I'll come back to their reactions later), I expect Snape's used it before and knew it wouldn't be too dangerous. It's risky aiming a cutting spell at a face, given the proximity to James's other facial features like his eyes, but not insurmountable. Also, Snape thinks James & Co. tried to kill him only weeks/months ago, so like... I can also believe that teen Snape had murder and maiming on the mind but lacked the hand-eye coordination to back it up.

But would it be murder? To ask someone who hates Snape, absolutely. But I disagree. Contrary to anti-Snape belief that it's a spell designed for brutally ripping someone in half and can't be healed by anyone other than Snape with his secret song-spell, thus making it a death sentence from blood loss alone, as far as magic swords go... it's kind of blunt. Even at full force:

Still slashing at the air with his wand, Harry yelled, “Sectumsempral SECTUMSEMPRA!” But though gashes appeared in their sodden rags and their icy skin, they had no blood to spill...

We see it cuts flesh. We see with George that it cuts cartilage. But it's not slicing the Inferi in half; it's not cutting bone - and Harry's fighting for his life. So it's not a literal sword, which can do both; that descriptor was just for imagery's sake. (Or perhaps Harry should've waved his wand more wildly?)

And it can be healed. Before the cave scene, back in Myrtle's bathroom, we also see Snape use a healing spell. But probably not Snape's own secret spell; Harry idles Sectumsempra for weeks ("he saw the Sectumsempra spell, captioned “For Enemies,” that he had marked a few weeks previously. He had still not found out what it did, mainly because he did not want to test it around Hermione, but he was considering trying it out on McLaggen next time he came up behind him unawares"). Harry/the narrative makes no mention of a healing spell or counter-curse nearby, and if it was like Levicorpus it would also reasonably be "one cramped word underneath the spell".

So, Snape perhaps knew a healing spell because of his knowledge of the Dark Arts, or knowledge in general. But it wasn't necessarily Snape's own secret healing spell, and nor is it likely the only spell that heals cuts like this. Dumbledore uses something similar at the cave, so it might just have been obscure or powerful healing magic ("said Dumbledore, now passing the tip of his wand over the deep cut he had made in his own arm, so that it healed instantly, just as Snape had healed Malfoy’s wounds") - or it was just a generic healing spell that Hermione or Madam Pomfrey probably would've known, but Harry didn't. This type of healing does not work on werewolf wounds - which presumably are special in some way - but even Dumbledore's cursed hand and Hermione's injuries after the purple flame spell at the Ministry battle are curable with enough effort: "Hermione was having to take ten different types of potion every day".

But, once again (and in contrast to Hermione's recovery) Sectumsempra wounds can be staunched and cleaned by Molly in the span of about 10-20 minutes, if that - it took less than the time for Harry to help load George onto the table until he finished a conversation with Lupin. Harry returned to find "a clean, gaping hole where George’s ear had been". George immediately wakes up and cracks a joke; the danger has passed).

Either Molly's got some mad healing skills to fix an original, unique curse created by a vicious budding death eater obsessed with dark magic without knowing the only counter-curse in existence - or the spell isn't only able to be healed with Snape's song-spell, just a regular healing spell, and Snape just likes to sing. Molly might have used such a spell when Harry was in the next room arguing with Remus. Molly is undoubtedly proficient, but obviously general healing knowledge is enough to heal Sectumsempra. Molly (I think) says the ear can't be re-attached because of nebulous Dark Magic reasons we never really hear more about from anyone despite 6 years of DADA, but it probably also can't be re-attached, in part, because the ear fell off somewhere in the countryside and Remus was too busy having to keep George on the broom to do a quick "Accio ear".

Given that Snape likely used Sectumsempra in SWM and there's no mention of James having had a scar, that Remus describes it as a specialty of Snape's but also has no visible scars in the books (when other aspects of his appearance are readily described), that Snape says Dittany can prevent scarring on Draco ("There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that") and that Draco then appears to have successfully avoided scarring ("Blood spurted from Malfoy’s face and chest" - does Harry ever mention facial scarring on Draco again? I'm not well-versed in Drarry, but I know that Harry's constant physical descriptions of Draco are a common topic), it seems reasonable that if Snape did use it a lot in school, it was not overwhelmingly challenging to fix the cuts.

Add to that the fact that the Marauders were not in the least bit surprised or concerned about this spell - not about scarring, about the blood, or about the cut itself. Without hesitation James puts Snape in the air and, bar a brief authorial description of Snape's pallid legs, they're immediately laughing - even James, who's got a bleeding gash on his cheek (ouch), which is not mentioned again. Of course this could be for several reasons, chief among them that Snape has used the spell before so it's not a surprise, they're hyped up on adrenaline and pack mentality, and the Marauders are used to thinking of danger as fun ("And there were near misses, many of them. We laughed about them afterwards"). Even Lily doesn't have anything to say about dark magic, but I suppose she's still looking out for Snape here.

The Marauders are brave and talented young wizards, and presumably they know, from experience if Snape has used it frequently, that they can heal Sectumsempra just fine. James is cut on the cheek in SWM and is never described as having a scar, and you'd think that would be something Harry might notice, especially given his own facial scar.

Using Sectumsempra

So we've established that Sectumsempra is harsh and maybe cruel, but not devilishly so. It is temporary and fixable, both to the Marauders (who don't care) and to others (who are more upset by the ear loss and the sight of blood than the cut itself), and especially for Snape.

And yet... It seems unlikely that Snape was casting it on people (enemies) and then rushing over to help heal them. I think he knows how to heal it as an adult so efficiently, and how to avoid scarring because of the following options: 1. Snape (as an adult) has good knowledge of healing the dark arts (as we see with Dumbledore and to a lesser extent Katie Bell; could many people prevent Voldemort's own curse from spreading at all, let alone for so long?) 2. Snape (as a teen) was using it on himself (plausible both within the realms of testing his creation, or for more depressing reasons) 4. Teen/Young Adult Snape was using it on others (who he'd then heal? Some interesting avenues for Snape the torturer DE in fanfics), or perhaps... 3. Snape's been at the receiving end of it, which leads me once more to:

You dare use my own spells against me, Potter? ... And you’d turn my inventions on me, like your filthy father, would you?

Snape's specific grievance is related to his spells being turned against him.

We all know James used Levicorpus, we see it in SWM, and apparently plenty of people knew it; "Oh, that one [Levicorpus] had a great vogue during my time at Hogwarts". So that's one of the spells, plural.

I think you can see where I'm going with this, if you've made it this far.

I think James Potter also used Sectumsempra on Snape, and here's why:

"spells", plural. These are the two (Levicorpus and Sectumsempra) that are used in this scene (and not the toenail jinx or Muffliato, for example)

After Harry tries to cast Sectumsempra on Snape, "[Snape] was no longer sneering or jeering; the blazing flames showed a face full of rage", marking the beginning of his turn in attitude because of the specific injustice of his spells being used against him. He deflects them all anyway with absurd ease; why else would he care? Harry's not a threat to him, but his memories of James using his spells are unpleasant and likely traumatic (give me one example of a person who can be choked, gagged, immobilised, and then suspended upside down in front of a crowd laughing at your expense as the person doing it threatens to - and probably does - remove your underwear)

We see Snape cast Sectumsempra nonverbally in SWM... but Remus had to learn the incantation somewhere. And what does Remus do regularly when it comes to protecting his image and that of his friends? Lie or bend the truth. I don't think, after the brutality of SWM or The Prank, that the Marauders had any particular aversion to drawing blood, for example, over threatening to strip Snape above a laughing crowd.

Tenuous: "Sectumsempra was a specialty of Snape’s" vs "“Well,” said Lupin slowly, “Snape was a special case. I mean, he never lost an opportunity to curse James, so you couldn’t really expect James to take that lying down, could you?""

[special mention for the fact that Snape was the one literally lying down (following James/Sirius' Impedimentia, Petrificus Totalus) in SWM and James was the one not to lose an opportunity here, but that's just me running away with myself. More likely Remus' words here mean "we always hexed first, Snape just always fought back"].

It would be an odd interpretation, but "a specialty of Snape's" could be a backwards way of saying it was their specialty for him. (Unlikely, but you can't stop me now, I'm running away with myself).

But consider...

"Sectumsempra was always a specialty of Snape's", part 2.

Now I'm just veering wildly into headcanon territory because this is flimsy, but consider Lupin's quotes:

Expelliarmus is a useful spell, Harry, but the Death Eaters seem to think it is your signature move, and I urge you not to let it become so!

[Snape] lost his hood during the chase. Sectumsempra was always a specialty of Snape’s.

Incidentally, those two quotes/ideas - of signature spells and specialties - are barely a page apart. Lupin is grilling Harry for inadvertently giving himself away at the Battle of Seven Potters.

As we all know, Harry is identified by Death Eaters for using Expelliarmus - at about the same time that Snape is identified by the Order/Remus for using Sectumsempra (and the slip of his hood, but if Remus knows the incantation, the hood slip only acted as confirmation as Sectumsempra is not widely used in canon - the only people we actually see use it, after several battles with DEs, are Snape and Harry).

Under the assumption that Lupin rarely saw Snape after they left Hogwarts, that Snape wasn't regularly using Sectumsempra in Order meetings, and that Remus uses the past tense ("was always")... Doesn't SWM seems rather early on in their lives to have developed a "specialty" if Snape only invented it that year?

(It is later on through Harry's/Snape's book, perhaps May when they started in September. Slughorn has likely not changed tac since he previously taught Snape, as Harry is just following the book/the Prince along all year. This is potentially complicated by the fact that Snape was working ahead; I don't generally have the brain for dates so idk how).

Anyway, Harry's been using Expelliarmus since CoS by the time we reach this quote in DH describing Expelliarmus as Harry's signature, and in the same metaphorical breath describing Sectumsempra as Snape's specialty. By this point in his life, Harry's used Expelliarmus to disarm/challenge the likes of Draco, Lockhart, Snape, and Voldemort, and has taught it at DA meetings, used it in the Ministry, etc etc. It might have been that Snape found or heard Sectumsempra elsewhere and came to use it a lot and gained a lot of control over it, sort of similar to how Harry's "signature move" is Expelliarmus. Depending on to what extent Remus means by "always a specialty", there's scope for Snape to have learnt Sectumsempra early on (he "knew more curses as a first-year") and used it since then - which would also explain why the Marauders were so relaxed about it. It sounds as though Snape had used it for some time.

But consider...

Snape did not invent Sectumsempra, James/Sirius did

Drawing parallels here where they probably don't exist and I'm losing my mind so I've definitely contradicted myself - both Snape and Harry are 'in disguise' during this battle, dressed identically to the team they're visually fighting for - and both are identified by having highly identifiable spells.

But Harry was taught his signature, Expelliarmus, by observing someone else doing it - interestingly, that someone else was Snape. Snape, who is repeatedly viewed as an 'enemy' who Harry mistakenly believed tried to kill him, but was actually saving his life. I just found it an interesting parallel to Snape and The Prank and James in this context, because Snape mistakenly believed that James wanted to kill him by being in on the prank, but James was actually trying to save Snape and Remus during The Prank, just like Snape was actually trying to save Remus and Harry during The Battle (of Seven Potters).

[Side note; "[Snape] lost his hood" aka "[Snape's] mask slipped" aka Snape almost revealed himself as Dumbledore's man by trying to protect Remus, who was being protected in both the prank and the battle. Sev has replaced James here. Poetic]

Food for thought/headcanon: even more contradictory and speculative, but what if Snape didn't make Sectumsempra, and learnt the incantation from James? ("for enemies" being the only note, no workings-out).

"The Prince only copied [Sectumsempra] out! It’s not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was making a note of something that had been used against him"

Making a note of something that had been used (done?) against him? Maybe. James and Sirius were still using verbal spellcasting (with the exception of Levicorpus, which as we know, even Harry could do when still struggling with nonverbal spells), which is where Snape could've learnt it. And it would lend a sort of revenge and showing off aspect to Snape's use of it, if he'd taken it from them.

But isn't it curious that, when given the opportunity, Snape didn't disarm or knock James/Sirius back, or use any of the spells they'd used on him thus far to disarm/incapacitate/humiliate him (Expelliarmus, Impedimentia, Petrificus Totalus)? Nor did he use his other original spells to somehow incapacitate them (Levicorpus, Langlock) - but instead Snape chose to give James a wound that didn't even slow him down? A wound delivered with restraint? A wound that didn't even stop James from laughing despite being on his cheek?

One interpretation might be that this was Sectumsempra's first outing, but the total lack of acknowledgement, I feel, makes it unlikely. Literally nobody stopped long enough to remark on the fact it was unexpected or worryingly bloody, that it was dark magic, nothing.

But the Marauders laugh when Snape uses Sectumsempra. Not all of them, though:

Sirius, James, and Wormtail roared with laughter.

There's one Marauder missing from this sentence.

Remus disapproves.

So what if... James first knew of, and used, Sectumsempra to slow/deter/distract Remus whilst saving Snape? What if Snape had used or prepared it solely for his venture to the Shack, and it was used on Remus? What if Snape uses it during SWM (and likely other times, as a specialty) as an attempt to remind them that he could tell everyone Remus' secret?

(It didn't work, obviously).

There are several reasons Moony might not be laughing. Remus is possibly the most morally sound of the Marauders in that he disapproves of such behaviour - and he's also worried his secret will out. But I throw the above theory into the ring as another explanation. Remus remembers the incantation for Sectumsempra because it was used against him. Snape remembers because it was the night of The Prank. Snape either made it or adopted it, and started to work it into every encounter with the Marauders (as a reminder, as payback, a pound of flesh/blood for blood/eye for an eye). In any case, I'm confident James also uses it against Snape. Snape writes it in his book, so he doesn't forget.

Sectumsempra - for enemies.

#pro snape #snapedom #severus snape #snape #professor snape #snape fandom #snape meta #harry potter #young snape #pro severus snape #snape community #snaps-meta

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warabidakihime · 1 year ago

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Rules and Roses Chapter 6

★ characters: kibutsuji muzan x reader x akaza

★ plot summary: Kibutsuji Muzan has finally decided to expand his empire, and the way he intends to do so is by running for the highest political position. With you, his darling wife, at his side, he believes he can achieve and have everything the world has to offer. He is, after all, the Phoenix of Phario.

★ fic playlist: sometimes, same day, as time stops, wolf’s song (this is also the vision board for the fic).

★ content warnings : implied violence, self-harm and abuse, profanities, toxic relationships, smut.

★ Previous Chapter

a/n: heya! things are finally picking up and it will only go up from here and then BAM! i wasn't able to update last weekend because i wasn't doing great mentally and i was also pretty tired because of work, and so i just focused on resting last weekend. but voila! a new chapter for y'all! i've not proofread this yet, so apologies if there are any typos or parts that confuses you. will fix those tomorrow morning.

i sincerely hope you've been enjoying this fic and i really would like to hear your thoughts so don't be shy and leave a comment or two! you have no idea how much your comments inspire me to write.

anyway! enjoy reading!

Year 2016

A vast, icy expanse stretches before the camera. The crowd's excited murmurs gradually build into a roaring applause as a spotlight illuminates the center of the ice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are on the edge of our seats as we welcome back the phenomenal Y/N! The reigning champion, the undisputed queen of the ice, is about to grace us with her artistry once more,” the commentator exclaimed to the mic.

You glide onto the ice; your every movement, fluid and effortless, as if you're dancing on air. Your breath, visible in the cold, adds a touch of ethereal beauty to your performance.

“There she is! The moment we've all been waiting for! The crowd is on their feet, their eyes glued to every twist and turn. Her posture is impeccable, and her lines are clean and sharp. This is what true elegance looks like!”

The commentator continued, his voice filled with excitement and passion.

As you progress through your routine, the music swells, mirroring the intensity of your performance. You execute a series of complex jumps with astonishing ease, landing each one with precision and grace.

“And there it is! A triple axel, executed to perfection! The crowd is in awe. This woman is on a different level. Her speed, her power, her control—it's simply breathtaking. Watch as she transitions into a spin; look at that speed and the way she controls her body. It's like she's defying gravity itself!"

You transition into a series of spins, giving your body a blur of color and movement. The commentator’s voice becomes more animated.

“Unbelievable! She's a ballerina on ice! The way she blends strength and delicacy is simply mesmerizing. And did you catch that change of direction? From a Biellmann spin to a layback spin in mere seconds? It's like she's speaking a different language on the ice. A language only the greatest can understand.”

As you approach the end of your routine, the music crescendos, and you unleash a final burst of energy. Your emotions are raw, and your movements are filled with passion.

“She's pouring her heart and soul into this performance! The crowd is on its feet, cheering and applauding. This is a moment that will be remembered for years to come. And can we talk about the flexibility? Those splits, those extensions! She's not just an ice skater; she's a gymnast on ice! A complete show stopper!”

The commentator exclaimed, his voice filled with awe.

A tear escapes your eye as you finish your routine, and you drop to the ice in a deep bow.

The crowd erupts in a standing ovation.

“A performance that transcends the boundaries of sport. Ice Queen Y/N has once again proven why she is the greatest ice skater of her generation. And speaking of greatness, this woman has it all. Talent, beauty, grace, and, let's not forget, a heart of gold. They say behind every successful woman is a great man, and this woman's boyfriend is definitely one to watch. Though we can't confirm anything, rumors have it that he's a rising star in the business world,” the commentator said, adding a touch of intrigue to his commentary.

You skate slowly towards the edge of the ice, your breath coming in short gasps. The crowd’s cheers and applause gradually subside as you approach your coach.

“And there she goes, skating towards her coach. A moment of pure relief and exhaustion. The pressure is off, and she can finally let go. This is a moment of truth, a moment of waiting. The scores will determine her fate. Let’s hope she’s brought her A-game today, but this is Y/N we're talking about; she's always on her A-game!”

The camera cuts to the judges’ table as they begin their deliberation. The crowd holds their breath, their eyes glued to the screen.

After what feels like an eternity, the announcer steps up to the microphone.

“And the gold medal goes to... Y/N with a final score of 250.34 , a whopping 12.78 points ahead of her closest competitor! This not only secures her gold medal but also breaks her own world record, a record she has held for years! This is a historic moment, ladies and gentlemen!”

The announcer proclaimed, as the crowd erupts into a frenzy of cheers and applause.

The camera returns to you as you cover your face with your hands, tears of joy streaming down your cheeks. Your coach gave you a fatherly hug, obviously proud of the feat you have achieved. Your family and friends were screaming at the top of their lungs, trying their best to convey their support for you. Meanwhile, the crowd continues to cheer as confetti falls from the ceiling.

You raise your arms in victory, a radiant smile on your face.

The physical therapy room was a familiar purgatory. The sterile white walls and the metallic gleam of the equipment were a constant reminder of your limitations. Once a sanctuary of grace and athleticism, it had become a battleground for recovery.

You moved through the routine with mechanical precision, your movements devoid of the once-fluid grace. Your breath came in short, labored gasps as you pushed your body to its limits. The pain was a constant companion, a dull ache that pulsed through your leg. Yet you persevered, driven by a stubborn determination.

Akaza watched from the corner, his eyes following your every move. His expression was a mask of indifference, but his posture spoke a different story. Tension rippled through his muscles as he observed your struggle.

Finally, exhausted but determined, you collapsed onto the mat, sweat beading on your forehead. Your body ached, but there was a sense of satisfaction in pushing through the pain.

The doctor entered, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room. He carried a clipboard, and his expression was serious.

"How are you feeling today, Y/N?" he asked, his voice gentle.

You managed a weak smile. "Tired, but okay."

The doctor nodded, his eyes scanning your form. "The progress is steady. Your strength is improving, and the range of motion in your leg is expanding."

A flicker of hope ignited in your chest. "Does that mean I can start... doing more?"

The doctor hesitated, his expression turning somber.

"There is good news and bad news."

Your heart sank. "Tell me the bad news first."

"The bad news is, the full range of motion you once had is unlikely to return. The scar tissue and the nature of your injury have created limitations. While you can walk and perform daily activities without significant discomfort, activities that require sudden bursts of speed, agility, or excessive weight-bearing are still risky."

A wave of disappointment washed over you. You had never entertained the thought of returning to competitive skating. That chapter of your life was firmly closed. But the idea of never being able to skate again, even for leisure, was definitely a bitter pill to swallow.

"I understand," you managed to say, your voice barely a whisper.

"But," the doctor continued, his voice softening, "the good news is that you've exceeded expectations in your recovery. You're stronger than most people in your situation. With continued therapy and careful management, you can lead a normal, active life."

A normal life.

The word echoed in your mind.

A far cry from the extraordinary life you once lived.

"But remember, and I mean this in all seriousness, there are certain activities you should avoid," the doctor warned. "High-impact sports, for instance, are out of the question, and you need to be cautious about putting too much pressure on your leg."

You nodded, trying to absorb the information. The weight of disappointment was heavy on your shoulders.

"But I also want you to remember," the doctor added, "every day is a step forward, and you've come such a long way, Y/N. So you should be proud of your progress."

You forced a smile. "I am."

As the doctor left the room, you turned to Akaza. His eyes met yours, and in that brief moment, you saw a flicker of something in his gaze—a mixture of pity and something else, something you can quite pinpoint. You decided to dismiss it, attributing it to your overactive imagination.

Akaza approached you, his hand reaching out to offer support. "You're stronger than you think," he said, his voice low and comforting.

You took his hand, grateful for his presence. "I know," you replied, your voice trembling slightly.

Akaza studied your face; his eyes were filled with a strange intensity. "I've seen stronger people break," he said, his voice barely audible. "But you... you're different."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his rather cryptic statement. "Oh?"

Akaza hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. "Some people," he began, his voice low, "are defined by limitations. Others... they find a way to transcend them."

You didn't know what to make of his cryptic statement.

You simply nodded, grateful for his support.

Akaza chuckled, breaking the tension. “You’re too serious,” he teased. “Come on, let’s get you out of here. You look like you could use a break.”

You smiled, and the weight of the world momentarily lifted.

“Alright, let’s go.”

As he helped you up, he studied your face, his expression turning serious again. “You’re doing well,” he said softly. “Like what the doctor told you, you’re way stronger than you think.”

You nodded, grateful for his support. As you walked out of the physical therapy room, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. The road to recovery was indeed long, but you persevered and made incredible progress.

And as long as you have your friends and family, Muzan, and, believe it or not, people like Akaza by your side, you knew you would eventually find your way back.

Several Years Ago at the Winter Olympics 2018

The ice was your stage, a crystalline expanse where you could lose yourself. Muzan, your fiancé, watched from the stands, his eyes filled with adoration. The crowd roared as you took your final bow, the applause a symphony of admiration. You were in your element, a whirlwind of grace and power.

But then disaster struck.

It happened in an instant—a cruel twist of fate.

As you landed a triple lutz, your skate blade, despite multiple quality checks, betrayed you. It snapped, sending you into an uncontrolled spin. Your body, once so graceful, became a helpless projectile. You felt the ice scrape against your skin as you tumbled, the world a blur of pain and fear.

Muzan watched in horror as you fell. Time seemed to freeze as your body crashed into the ice. A sharp intake of breath escaped his lips. His world narrowed down to you, a blur of white on the unforgiving ice.

Fear, cold and sharp, clawed at his insides.

He leaped over the barrier, his movements a blur. Kneeling beside you, he assessed the damage. Your face was pale, and your eyes closed. A deep gash marred your leg, with blood seeping through the fabric of your costume. His hands trembled as he cradled your head. His voice, usually so calm and commanding, was now a frantic whisper.

"Darling, please wake up," he begged, his voice filled with terror.

"Open your eyes, please, Y/N!"

Panic surged through him as he realized the severity of your injury. The once pristine white of his suit was now marred by the crimson stain of your blood, a stark contrast to the pristine white of the ice.

His voice rose, filled with a desperate urgency.

"Someone help! Get an ambulance! Fucking do something, now!" he shouted, his eyes wide with fear and seething anger.

He frantically searched for a button or a lever—anything to call for help. The crowd's noise seemed to muffle, as if he were underwater.

He scooped you up into his arms, your weight heavy in his arms. The crowd's gasps and cries were a distant echo as he carried you off the ice. His mind raced, a whirlwind of fear and desperation. He had to get you help, and he had to get you help now.

In the ambulance, Muzan held you close, his touch a desperate attempt to reassure you and to reassure himself that this too shall pass, but the metallic smell of your blood, your pale skin, and the way your body trembled in his arms filled him with a cold dread, as did the horrific way you would slip in and out of consciousness.

The days that followed were a blur of pain, surgeries, and endless nights in the hospital. You woke up to find yourself encased in a plaster cast, the once lithe body you knew confined to a hospital bed. The news of your injury sent shockwaves through the world, leaving your fans devastated by the abrupt end to your glittering career.

The doctors were blunt in their assessment. Your career as an ice skater was over. The extent of your injuries, combined with the long recovery process, meant that you would never be able to return to the ice. The news was a devastating blow, and it took a long time to come to terms with it.

Muzan was by your side through it all; his unrelenting and passionate support was a constant in your life. He held your hand through the painful procedures, his presence a comforting anchor.

But the emotional turmoil was immense. The loss of your identity as a skater was a profound shock. The physical pain was a constant reminder of what you had lost, but the emotional pain was even more debilitating. You questioned your worth and your identity.

There were even moments when the darkness consumed you, when the thought of ending it all seemed like the only escape.

But despite everything, you managed to hold on and cling to the hope that things would get better.

And frankly speaking, Muzan didn't let you succumb to despair. He did his very best to show his support for you and his faith in you, and with the help of dedicated therapists, you slowly began to rebuild your life.

It was a long and arduous journey, filled with SO many setbacks and triumphs, but you were able to emerge from the shadows stronger and more resilient than ever before.

The car ride home was heavy with silence. You stared out the window, lost in thought. The physical therapy session had been grueling, but it was also a stark reminder of what you had lost. A sudden impulse surged through you.

"Akaza, make a detour," you ordered, your voice firm.

Akaza was startled by your sudden demand. “Where to?” he asked, his voice laced with caution.

“The ice rink,” you replied, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Akaza hesitated, his mind racing. He knew better than anyone the risks involved. The doctor's warnings echoed in his mind. Yet, he couldn't ignore the determination in your eyes.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice filled with concern. "The doctor said..."

You cut him off.

"I know, Akaza. And I don't care, so please."

He sighed. He knew arguing with you was futile. With a heavy heart, he turned the steering wheel.

The ice rink was eerily quiet.

The once-vibrant atmosphere was replaced by an eerie stillness. You slipped into your skates, a familiar weight returning to your feet. As you stepped onto the ice, a wave of nostalgia washed over you.

It was here that you had spent countless hours honing your craft, dreaming of standing on the Olympic podium.

Akaza watched from the sidelines, his heart pounding in his chest. He was a mixture of worry and admiration. You were a force of nature, but he couldn’t shake the fear that lurked in the back of his mind.

You began to glide, your movements tentative at first. But as you gained confidence, your body seemed to remember the familiar motions. You started to hum the melody of your short program, your movements following the rhythm. It was as if you were reliving a distant memory—a ghost of your former self.

Akaza watched in awe as you executed a series of spins and jumps with surprising ease. It was as if the years of physical therapy had erased the trauma of the accident. But as you attempted a particularly challenging move, your body betrayed you. Fear crept in, and your balance faltered.

You landed with a painful thud, your knees buckling.

Tears streamed down your face as the pain shot through your leg. The physical agony was a stark reminder of your limitations, but it was the emotional pain that truly consumed you. The floodgates of memories opened, overwhelming you. The taste of victory, the roar of the crowd, the thrill of competition—all of it came rushing back, only to be replaced by the bitter reality of your present situation.

You curled up into a ball, your body trembling.

Struggling to tune out the pounding of his heart, Akaza hesitated to rush to your side, and when he was about to, Muzan's voice echoed across the empty ice rink, firm yet still laced with concern.

"What do you think you're doing?"

You looked up; pain and confusion were painted on your face. Muzan knelt beside you, his eyes filled with worry.

"I thought I could do it," you whispered, your voice trembling.

Muzan’s expression hardened. "You could've seriously gotten hurt! And you!" Your husband shot Akaza a glare, his temper flaring uncontrollably.

"What were you thinking, letting this happen? Your job is to keep her safe, and you failed miserably! Do you have any idea how irresponsible this was?!"

Akaza bowed in apology, his face pale. "I'm sorry, sir. I did everything I could—"

Before Akaza could finish, Muzan took a step forward, his fist clenched. "Everything you could? Everything you could?! You're supposed to be her bodyguard, not some useless bystander! Do you even care about her safety? Or are you just pretending to do your job?!"

Akaza flinched, taking a step back. "Sir, please, I—"

Muzan raised his hand as if to strike, his face contorted with rage. "Don't you 'sir' me! If anything happens to her, it's on you! Do you understand that? It's on your head, you worthless—"

"Muzan, stop!" you interjected, your voice firm despite the pain.

"Don't blame Akaza. He did the best he could. I was the one who was stubborn."

Muzan paused, his raised hand trembling, before he slowly lowered it, his eyes still burning with anger. He turned back to you, his frustration now mixed with deep concern.

"All those months of therapy, Y/N. All the pain you’ve endured, thrown out the window just like that? What were you thinking?"

You lowered your gaze, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. Muzan’s words cut deep, but you knew he was right.

Upon seeing you shrink when he raised his voice at you, Muzan’s expression softened immediately.

He sighed heavily.

"You do understand where I am coming from right?" he said as gently as he could. "I completely empathize with you, Y/N; and just like you, I also miss you performing on ice, but you can’t ignore the doctor’s orders. You know how fragile your recovery is. What if you got seriously hurt again?"

You looked away, your heart aching.

"I just miss it," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "I thought I should give it a try, then maybe... I could get a feel of it again. Maybe a miracle would happen." You trailed off, unsure of where the thought was leading you.

Muzan’s eyes softened as he watched your tears fall. He reached out, gently lifting your chin so your eyes met his. "Love, I understand the longing; I really do. But we can't rush these things. Your body still needs time to heal."

And then Muzan’s grip tightened around your hand. His voice, stained with pain and frustration.

"Do you have any idea how terrified I was when I saw you lying there on the ice? How many sleepless nights I've endured, haunted by the image of your lifeless body? You risked everything just now—your life, your future, and for what? For a fleeting moment of glory? For old times sake? For a stupid, careless stunt? Do you understand the gravity of your actions?"

Your heart pounded in your chest.

Guilt eating at you by the second.

Muzan rarely raised his voice at you, but when he did, it sent shivers down your spine. At this very moment, you knew he was angry, but you also knew he was speaking from a place of deep love and concern.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice trembling.

Muzan’s expression shifted from frustration to sorrow, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You don't need to apologize, love. I'm just... I can't bear the thought of losing you."

Suddenly, the memory of that dreadful day started playing in his head like a slideshow—the sight of you lying motionless on the ice, the panic in the ambulance, the sleepless nights by your hospital bed. He groaned, his grip on your hand tightening involuntarily as the trauma washed over him again. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the haunting images.

"Seeing you in pain, feeling helpless... it tore me apart," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "I remember every second of that day, and it still feels like a nightmare I can't wake up from."

Drowning in shame and guilt, all you could ever say at that moment was, "I'm sorry."

He opened his eyes and looked at you, his expression softening as he saw the concern in your eyes. "I know, love. But please, let's not do this again." He paused, his gaze unrelenting.

"I know how much skating means to you, and I promise we'll find a way to bring back the joy of skating into your life. But for now, let's focus on healing."

Akaza nodded in agreement. You looked at them both, feeling a mix of disappointment and understanding. "But the doctor said..."

Muzan interrupted gently, "I know what the doctor said, my love. And I respect his opinion. But I won't let that be the final word. We'll explore every option, every specialist, every clinic. We won't stop until we find a way for you to skate again."

Hope flickered in your eyes. "You mean it?"

Muzan nodded resolutely.

"I mean it with all my heart, love. You've dedicated so many years to this already, and I know how much it means to you. But for now, let's focus on healing your body and your spirit. We'll find a way to bring back the joy of skating into your life, I promise. But let's not rush it, okay? Your well-being is my top priority. It should be your priority too."

Eventually, you yielded, but before you could get a word out in response to what your husband just said, tears came falling down your face profusely, and the sight pained both Muzan and Akaza so much.

It was so hard seeing you like this.

Muzan gently pulled you into his arms, his embrace warm and protective. He whispered soothing words into your ear, his voice a calming balm to your frayed nerves. "Shhh, it's okay, my love. Let it all out. I'm here for you."

Akaza, who was standing nearby, looked away, giving you and Muzan a moment of privacy. He clenched his fists, his own emotions—a tumultuous mix of anger at the situation and a deep, abiding concern for you.

Muzan brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch tender.

"You've been so strong, Y/N. It's okay to feel what you're feeling. It's okay to grieve and to be angry. Feel free to use me as a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen to, or even your personal punching bag when you need to let off steam. I'm here for you, always."

You clung to him, the weight of your emotions finally finding an outlet. The tears seemed endless—a torrent of grief and frustration. Your husband held you tighter, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"We will get through this," he murmured. "One step at a time."

After what felt like an eternity, the tears began to subside, leaving you feeling drained but slightly lighter. Muzan pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. "Feeling better?"

You nodded, unable to find the words to express your gratitude and love for him. Muzan kissed your forehead gently, his lips lingering as if to impart some of his strength to you.

Muzan then took a deep breath and turned to Akaza, his anger still simmering but under control. "Akaza," he began, his voice tight, "I apologize for lashing out at you earlier. My temper got the best of me, and that was uncalled for."

Akaza bowed slightly, his expression unreadable. "No, sir. It's alright. I deserved to be called out like that."

Muzan clenched his jaw, feeling the lingering frustration. He took a moment to calm himself further before continuing. "However, let me be clear. If something like this happens again, there will be consequences. Your primary duty is to ensure her safety. Don't you ever forget that."

Akaza nodded solemnly. "I understand, sir. It won't happen again."

Muzan's gaze softened slightly as he regarded Akaza. "Thank you," then he turned to you again and helped you to your feet.

"Let's get you home," he said, wrapping an arm around your waist.

In the car, the quiet hum of the engine filled the space between you and Muzan. After a few moments of contemplation, you turned to him and broke the silence.

“How did you know I was at the ice rink?”

Akaza cleared his throat, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. “I called him,” he confessed, his eyes avoiding yours.

You turned your gaze to Akaza, surprised by his uncharacteristic admission. "You did?"

He nodded, his expression serious. "Yes, madam. I figured it was better to be safe than sorry. Apologies for taking action without consulting you first."

Understanding the weight of his actions and the potential danger Muzan might have faced because of you, guilt washed over you. You turned back to Muzan, remorse clear in your eyes. “Muzan, I’m so sorry. You must have been very busy today, and I even put you in potential danger by rushing to my aid without Kokushibo with you.”

Muzan shook his head, his expression softening as he reached out to take your hand. “Nothing and no one is more important or more special to me in this world than you, Y/N. I would leave everything behind to ensure you’re safe and well, so don’t ever feel guilty for needing me. Besides, I can’t call myself the president of a nation if I can't protect or be there for the people who are closest to me.”

You felt tears welling up again, but this time, they were tears of gratitude. “Muzan…”

Muzan gently wiped away your tears with his thumb, then pulled you into a warm embrace, his touch tender and reassuring.

The car settled into a comfortable silence once again, and after a few seconds, you glanced at Akaza, who was focused intently on the road.

“Hakuji, thanks again for today.”

“Hakuji?” Muzan asked, confusion lacing his voice. “Who’s Hakuji?”

In the driver’s seat, Akaza froze, his heart skipping a beat. The sudden use of his real name caught him off guard, and he quickly regained his composure, masking his panic with a carefully controlled expression.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, a hint of unease creeping into his voice.

How did you...?

Wait.

Have you perhaps, by any chance, finally–

“That’s me, sir. Hakuji is my real name; Akaza is just a nickname a relative gave me when I was a kid.”

“I see,” Muzan said, his tone shifting to a more measured curiosity. “You refer to yourself as Akaza to everyone? I don’t recall this being disclosed during your application.”

Akaza flashed a sheepish smile, though it did little to hide the tension in his eyes. “Yes, sir. I’ve used Akaza for most of my life, but I’m fine with Hakuji as well.”

Muzan studied Akaza with a penetrating gaze, sensing the subtle shift in the atmosphere.

“Very well,” he said finally, his voice a mix of intrigue and skepticism.

The drive continued in relative silence, the weight of the recent events settling around the car like a tangible fog. You leaned against Muzan, comforted by his presence, while Akaza focused on the road, his mind racing with the implications of his slip.

When the car finally arrived at your home, Muzan helped you out with a gentle hand, his concern still evident in his eyes. While you were still traveling back, you asked your husband how he got to the ice rink, and apparently he drove there by himself, and because he accompanied you in your car with Akaza, his car was left at the ice rink parking lot. Muzan assured you that he would have Gyokko retrieve it first thing in the morning.

As you walked towards the entrance, you glanced back at Akaza, who had a thoughtful expression on his face.

"You can rest now, Hakuji. Thank you, and I'm sorry too."

Akaza shook his head and smiled gently before bowing. "Don't worry about me, madam. Please rest well."

Muzan took the liberty to officially dismiss Akaza for the night and placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his gaze softening. “Let’s get you settled. We’ve had a long day.”

Akaza slammed his bedroom door shut, his mind racing. He had been waiting for this moment—a sign, a confirmation. He leaned against the door, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

The adrenaline coursing through his veins was intoxicating.

This was it.

The opportunity he had been waiting for.

A chance to rewrite his destiny and prove his worth.

But he had to be careful and meticulous. One wrong move could jeopardize everything. He took a deep breath, calming his racing heart.

It was time to put his plan into action.

He pulled out a drawer and retrieved a small, leather-bound notebook. It was a relic from his past, a journal filled with cryptic codes and half-formed plans. He opened it to a blank page and began to write. The pen moved swiftly across the paper, his thoughts flowing onto the page.

A plan was forming—a dangerous and intricate one, but it was a plan nonetheless.

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