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omicchii · 8 hours ago

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WISHBOUND LOG [ENTRY 006]ㅤPRONE TO REACTION!

entanglement: tutor!kuroo tetsurō x bottom male reader

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

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

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

this has to be the worst day of your life.

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

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

until this semester.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“duh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“it didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

“you had a papercut.”

“it stung.”

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

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

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

“your favorite little shit,” you remind her.

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

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

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

you freeze. “do i have to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“that sounds like bribery.”

“it is,” she says, unapologetic.

you groan into your forearm again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“say it like you mean it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“same thing,” you mutter under your breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oh, shit.

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

you immediately look away.

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

you resist the urge to melt through the floor.

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

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

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

your aunt looks surprised. “kuroo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he winks.

you blink, confused, and then keep walking.

...well. he is handsome.

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

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

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

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

but you… you made him pause.

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

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

kuroo kept staring. couldn’t help it.

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

he’s not a pervert. he’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and now he’s got one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

it was pathetic, honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but he doesn’t need to wait anymore.

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

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

just him.

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

this semester might actually be fun.

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

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

his focus shifts the moment he reaches your aunt.

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

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

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

kuroo glances sideways at her. “oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

he nods. “appreciate it, professor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mhm,” you hum, unconvinced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he smiles. “i get that a lot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you grimace. “that sounds awful.”

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

you blink. “you waste time?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he smiles. “cool.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and see him on thursday, you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you pretend you didn’t hear that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“thought so,” he says, smug.

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

“and?”

you deadpan. “i understood maybe five things.”

he snorts. “five’s generous.”

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

“you mean density? mixtures? significant figures?”

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

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

“you say that like it’s guaranteed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you looked at him suspiciously. “you do?”

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

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

bingo. exactly what he wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

not like you were against it or anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it didn’t mean anything.

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

you got used to it, kind of.

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

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

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

right?

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

you aren��t sure what changed after that—maybe it was the lighting, dimmer than usual up here in your tucked-away corner on the second floor, or maybe it was the way kuroo kept looking at you tonight.

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

except this time, he didn’t let you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he was right and you hated him for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“someone might—”

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

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

you wanted him. bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he chuckled against your ear. “already am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you blinked once. twice. swallowed thickly.

“oil rig,” you muttered, hoarse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but it does, and you choke.

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

“fuck,” you whisper, voice barely there.

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

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

“oh fuck—kuroo—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

there’s a pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you go limp with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“kuroo—f-fuck—please—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t even deny it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you shake your head, whimpering under his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your eyes only roll back in response.

“that’s what i thought.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ah—uhhh—kuh—kuroo—nnh—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“tetsu—! ahhh—hahh—nngghhh—! f-fuck—”

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

“hahhh—fuck, fuck—gonna—!”

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

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

friday rolls around like a punishment.

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

kuroo, of course, is whistling.

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

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

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

“you’re a menace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you let out a breath once she’s gone.

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

“you’re going to be the death of me.”

“but what a way to go.”