#Professor Solo AU | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cinnamorollcrybaby · 7 months ago

Text

Giving the nerd a chance

tags: nerd!nanami/fem!reader, college!au, stsg, nsfw, dirty talk, asphyxiation, size kink, mdni!!

a/n: this one’s a long one :) pace yourself and enjoy!

Kento Nanami is a social enigma. He is a total outlier but in the weirdest way possible.

This man is conventionally attractive. Some would even go as far to say Nanami’s handsome, almost in a filthy way. His looks are sneaky too. He’s not someone you’d immediately notice in a room, but once you did…

You would notice his sculpted jaw line first. Then, his naturally high cheekbones that gave way to his soft hazel eyes. He had a serious look on his face always, but his eyes told a different story. Maybe you’d notice his blonde hair that sat neatly on his head, styled with an undercut. Yeah, Nanami was fucking hot.

But that’s not the weird part. No, you haven’t heard him utter a single word except to answer the professor’s unanswered questions once the silence was unbearable.

That’s not exactly weird either. There are tons of people who go through college without the intention of making friends… but Nanami has friends. He doesn’t just have like one friend. No, he’s apart of a friend group.

The weirdest part was he seemed to be close with the most popular guy in your university, star quarterback Satoru Gojo. Gojo was seemingly every college girl’s wet dream. He’s the type to stand out in a room. His looks and personality demand attention.

He’s the complete opposite from Nanami.

Then, there was Suguru Geto… Geto was also a strange friend for Nanami to have. Geto was smart, funny, and well-mannered… when he was in class. But you’ve seen how Geto acts at parties. He smokes cigarettes, shotguns whiskey, and keeps up with all of Gojo’s antics. Shoko was the exact same way, except she didn’t care enough to keep up with Gojo’s buffoonery.

They were the complete opposite from Nanami as well.

Yu Haibara was a cutie patootie. He’s also a sweet social butterfly. Another one of Nanami’s friends that just didn’t seem to be his type.

You caught yourself staring at the friend group as you’re sitting on a couch at a frat house. Your college team just won the game, so Satoru had invited a whole slew of people over. You somehow made it on that list. Your friend, Utahime, is begging you to leave, but something is telling you to stay.

“Go on without me, Uta. I’ll be fine, promise.” You say over the music as you flash her a small smile to assure her.

“I really, really, really don’t want to leave you here alone, yn. I don’t want you to end up on the front page of the news.”

“Don’t wish that shit upon me.” You laugh as you gently nudge her arm, urging her towards the door.

“I’m serious, yn. Please text me. If you’re not back in the dorm by midnight, I’m calling the cops.” She says as she grabs your shoulders, forcing you to face her directly.

You admire your friend’s caring demeanor, but she was being a total cock block for you right now.

“I will text you. I promise.” You assure her once again. “Go back to the dorm. Love you.”

She sighs deeply as she lets you go. She’s still not comfortable with the idea of leaving you here, but she can’t force you to leave. “Love you too. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Oh, that’s all I’m gonna do.” You smirk as she flips you off and leaves the frat house.

You take a drink from your red solo cup to gather your nerves. Nanami has been sitting in the corner of the kitchen all night. He’s alone, but he doesn’t look lonely. Sometimes, Satoru will drunkenly slouch his weight onto the blonde and slur something inaudible to him. From what you can see, Nanami just rolls his eyes and shrugs his friend off his shoulders.

You want to approach him, but you’re still too afraid he won’t talk to you. As you sit down your cup, an intoxicated Satoru is standing over you.

“I’m sorry- I don’t remember your name.” He gives you a slanted smile as he crouches down a bit so you two are face-to-face.

“That’s okay. I don’t remember yours either.” You snip back with a small grin. Something sparkles in his eyes as you give him a little bit of a challenge. He finds it to be endearing.

“Cheeky. Give me your number.” He demands, keeping his smirk on his face.

“Why should I give it to you?”

“Because it’s not for me.” He slurs as he leans in close to you. He nods his head towards the kitchen. “I’m doing this for my pussy friend over there.”

Your eyes dart towards Nanami. His eyes are glaring holes into Satoru with more anger and emotion than you’ve ever seen from him. Your stomach swirls with butterflies.

“That is a really good reason.” You murmur as you quickly type your number into Satoru’s phone.

*** *** ***

It had been days since the frat party and not a single word from Nanami. Your excitement had honestly fizzled out into sulking. Were you not good enough for him? Did Satoru lie? Was it all a sick prank?

Not even Utahime could get you in a good mood.

“Yn. This is so ridiculous. If you like him that much, just go up and talk to him.” She chides

“Noooo.” You groan into your pillow as you turn onto your stomach in your bed. “He’s too cool. Out of my league.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Kento Nanami? The nerd who barely ever talks? The know-it-all in class?”

“Utahimeee.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Let me wallow in my self pity.” You gripe before you hear your phone buzz. The sound of your phone notifying you doesn’t even excite you anymore. It’s always some lame ass notification.

Unknown Number: Is this yn?

Your eyes widen as you stare at your phone in disbelief. Your body involuntarily sits up in bed, startling Utahime.

“Jesus Christ. What? What happened?”

“He texted me!” You beam proudly. You are embarrassing. Utahime scoffs and walks away from you, unable to take the second-hand embarrassment.

Yn: Yeah, that’s me :)

Unknown Number: This is Kento Nanami. I’m sorry Gojo felt the need to disturb you at the party.

Yn: No need! He didn’t disturb me too much.

Nanami: That’s good to hear.

God. Now, what do you say? Of course Nanami is a dry texter. You stare at the text conversation for a while, trying to think of something.. anything to break the ice.

Yn: Did you ask him to get my number, or did he do that on his own volition?

Nanami: Gojo does things on his own volition.

Yn: Ah.. I see.

He left you on read.

Goddammit.

You had your chance, and now, you blew it. Sighing, you lock your phone and try to forget he even ever texted you in the first place.

*** *** ***

I mean, who even needs Nanami? He’s really not even that handsome or mysterious. You keep telling yourself as you get ready to go to another party Gojo invited you too.

Oh, also, Gojo kept your number for himself as well. He mostly asked to copy your notes when Nanami refused to let him copy his notes. He would also send the occasional invitation to one of his signature parties.

This one was apparently labeled as “exclusive”. You had no idea what that meant, but you weren’t allowed to bring a plus-one this time.

Luckily for you, Utahime was visiting back home for the weekend, so she couldn’t scold you for going out to another party this weekend.

Black eyeliner was smeared across your waterline, and you puckered your lips as you carefully applied some sheer gloss. You decided to be casual with your outfit, wearing a basic off-shoulder black top with some jeans.

As soon as you got to the frat house, you quickly understood what “exclusive” meant. It was only their closest friends in the house. Satoru and Haibara were on the couch, lounging. Suguru and Shoko were sitting by the window, sharing a cigarette. Nanami was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, looking as stoic as ever. Immediately, you were grateful for going with a more casual look.

“Yn! So glad you made it!” Satoru grinned in a more sober voice than the last time you spoke with him.

“Am I imposing on something?” You ask as you close the door.

“Of course not, silly. I sent you an invite for a reason.” Satoru says casually as he pats the spot between him and Haibara on the couch. “Come have a seat. Get comfortable. We’re just hanging out tonight.”

You stare at the seat between Gojo and Haibara, and you decide to sit in the open chair next to them instead.

“Afraid that we might bite?” Gojo grins as he leans over the arm of the chair towards you.

“Stop it, Satoru. You’re going to scare her away.” Shoko scolds before taking a drag off her cigarette.

Your phone gently buzzes in your pocket as Satoru and Shoko begin to bicker about his social skills. You sneakily check your phone.

Nanami: You look pretty tonight.

OH. We are so back, baby.

Yn: Thank you :) You look as handsome as ever.

Nanami: Oh yeah?

It is so small and insignificant, but that little “oh yeah?” makes your stomach flutter with excitement.

“Yn?” You snap your attention up to Shoko and realize she has been trying to talk to you.

“Shit- sorry. What’s up?”

Your phone lightly buzzes again, and you quickly glance down to check.

Nanami: You’re blushing.

“I was asking what your major is.” Shoko smiles calmly as she’s sat upon the windowsill. She flicks her cigarette outside before blowing out a cloud of smoke. You try to ignore how your heart is skipping beats right now.

“Oh, I’m just in general studies right now. I’m kind of indecisive. What about you?”

“I’m pre-med right now.” Shoko answers.

“I thought you swapped to nursing.” Haibara asks as he shifts his body to face her. The two start conversing together, giving you a chance to check your phone.

Nanami: Are you ill, or do my words just affect you that much?

Yn: I’m actually ill.

Nanami: You’re also apparently a liar, sweetheart.

How the fuck was this man so bold over text, but wouldn’t speak to hardly anyone in person?

Yn: Sweetheart? I didn’t know we were on that sort of level yet.

Nanami: Does that make you uncomfortable?

Yn: No

Nanami: Good. Then don’t complain.

The throb your cunt just did should’ve been illegal. There was no reason for you to be so turned on by that, but you were.

Yn: What would you have done had I said that it did make me uncomfortable?

Nanami: I would’ve found you a nickname you were more comfortable with.

He was being sweet, and you were over there clenching around nothing like a whore.

You had been so caught up in your phone that you didn’t realize Yu had went and gotten everyone a beer out of the fridge. You decide to risk a glance at Nanami. He looked calm and composed. You wondered if he even knew the effect he had on you truly.

“Shoko, when are you finally going to get some bitches?” Satoru asks with a laugh. Your eyes widen as you notice Suguru is on his lap now. You had really been so distracted by your phone…

“At this rate, I think Nanami will beat me.” Shoko laughed as she took a drink of her beer. You shift slightly in your seat as Shoko cuts her eyes towards you with a small grin.

Nanami: I will

Yn: Will what?

Nanami: I will beat her.

Yn: Confident or competitive?

Nanami: Both.

Yn: You didn’t strike me as the type.

Nanami: You don’t think I can do it?

Yn: I never said that.

Nanami lays his phone on his lap, and you can feel his eyes trailing up and down your body. Feeling your heart skip a beat, you decide to look up at him. Your breath hitches in your throat as you glance over him. He looks relaxed. His head is propped up in his hand, and he’s almost giving you a lazy smile.

Knowing more about Nanami, you recognize it as a cocky smile now.

The rest of the “party” goes without a hitch. You decided it was time to leave once Suguru and Satoru were obnoxiously making out, Shoko was asleep on the floor, and Haibara wouldn’t shut the fuck up about the intricacies of anime.

“I’m gonna head back to my dorm now. Thanks for inviting me.” You say quickly as you stand from your seat.

“Hey yn-!” Satoru says as he tugs from Suguru’s lips. The dark-haired male made quick work of moving down to his neck. “Thanks for coming. You should come out here more often.”

“Oh um, I’ll think about it.” You smile politely as you head out the front door. The cold night air nips at your skin. The only light was from the moon high up in the sky. The dorms were a few blocks away.

You never like walking alone at night, but you try to remember that college campuses have security patrolling at all times. Taking a deep shaky breath, you step off the porch.

The sound of the door closing again immediately startles you. You quickly flinch and look towards the frat house. Nanami was calming walking up to you.

“Let me walk you back.” His voice was calm and steady, just like his presence. He really wasn’t phased at all by your subtle flirting earlier?

“Thanks.. I was actually kinda scared.” You mumble as you two walk side by side on the pavement. Your arms hug your body, trying to hide from the snippy air.

“Why didn’t you ask one of us to walk you home then?” Nanami asks as he slips his coat off from his shoulders. He then loosely drapes it over your shoulders. You feel your heart skip a beat as you mumble a quick thanks. Your body snuggled into his coat as it swallowed your frame whole. It was the first time you realized… Nanami is a big man. He’s not just some scrawny nerd. He’s actually pretty well built.

“I didn’t want to be a bother.” You answer quietly, noticing how Nanami shoves his hands into his pockets while you two walk.

“That’s foolish. We invited you. The least we could do is make sure you make it home safely.”

“We?”

Nanami goes silent, and he looks away from your shorter self. The wind blows harshly, making the leaves crinkle and hiss on the trees.

“Yes, we.” He finally answers your question. You smile softly as you look down towards the ground. It seems like Satoru wasn’t the only one who wanted you around.

Standing in front of your dorm door, you slowly slip the coat off from around your shoulders and try to hand it back to him. “I don’t want it.” He answers calmly, making no effort to take the jacket back from you.

“It’s yours, silly.”

“And?”

“Take it.” You gestured the coat to him once more

“No, I want you to have it.” He says as he towers over you. You subconsciously take a step back to create space, and your back hits the door. He leans over you, having to angle his back to see eye-to-eye with you. You can feel his warm breath ghosting over your cheek as he cocks his head towards your ear and neck. “Text me.” He murmurs lowly before pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

You were left against your door blushing madly as he casually sauntered away.

*** *** ***

You almost think you dreamt that kiss up come Monday morning. You hadn’t texted him all weekend, not even knowing what to say. You felt scared about messing things up and taking his advances the wrong way. He hadn’t reached out to you either.

You were sitting in Neurology, half-ass paying attention as the professor lectured about neuron pruning. Nanami sat a few rows over. He always appeared to he intently listening when you glance over at him. You perk up as you feel your phone buzz on your thigh.

Nanami: You’re not going to do well if you don’t pay attention.

Yn: I could say the same for you.

Nanami: Could you?

Yn: …. point taken

Nanami: You know, you could’ve at least texted me if you didn’t like the kiss.

Yn: Who said I didn’t?

Nanami: So, you disobey my request for fun?

Yn: Disobey is such a strong word. You told me to text you, and I just.. haven’t yet.

Nanami: We’ll come back to the disobedience topic. Why haven’t you texted me “yet”?

Yn: Nervous.

Nanami: You’re adorable. What’s there to be nervous about?

“Can anyone name an example of synaptic pruning?” The professor’s sudden loud voice catches you off guard. You hadn’t been paying attention at all, and you feel your heart start to race at the thought of being randomly called upon.

“Anyone?” The professor asks once again. “Yn-“ She almost says your first name before Nanami interrupts.

“Crown thinning.” He answers the question, saving you from total embarrassment.

“Very good. Thank you, Kento.” The professor praises as she turns back around to start lecturing from the powerpoint again.

Yn: You totally just saved me.

Nanami: Pay better attention.

Yn: Then stop texting me.

Nanami: No.

Nanami: Answer my question. Why were you nervous?

Yn: I just didn’t want to say the wrong things.

Nanami: You’re hopeless.

Yn: You’re starting to sound like Utahime :(

Nanami: Will you coo to me that you love me if I act like her?

You feel your heart start to race as you read his text over and over. He was way more observant than you gave him credit for. You couldn’t even think of a time where you told Uta that you loved her in front of him.

Yn: Is that what you want?

Nanami: That does sound nice. Though, I think I’d rather hear you breathlessly professing your love to me.

oh…

oh.

You sat your phone down. No way were you going to let some simple words over a screen let you get horny in class. You didn’t dare to glance in his direction as you suddenly decided to start paying attention and taking detailed notes on Neurology.

Nanami: You’re blushing again.

Damn him and his observant personality. Damn him and his filthy words that make you squeeze your thighs together to soothe the ache.

Yn: I’m well aware.

Nanami: It’s cute. Makes me want to say more things just to get a reaction out of you.

Yn: Please don’t

Nanami: Why? Scared you might like it?

Nanami: Scared you might like the thought of being beneath me, begging for more?

Jesus. There was no misinterpreting that. You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth as you stared down at your phone, rereading his message over and over. It painted a picture in your brain.

Yn: As if you could make me do that.

Nanami: I can, and I will. Come over tonight.

Yn: To the frat house?

Nanami: No, to my room. I’ll tell Haibara to not come back until late.

Yn: That seems rather rude.

Nanami: It’s far better than the treatment you’ll be receiving later.

Your head feels like it’s spinning as the professor dismisses class. The rest of the day drags by painfully slow as you feel every little heartbeat and flutter in your chest. Nanami talked big game for someone who seemed too shy to really speak to you. It made you feel intrigued. How could he be so confident in his ability to make you beg?

You took your time once you were back at your dorm: going through your everything-shower routine. You wanted to make sure that every inch of you was soft and smooth just in case! It’s not like he’s actually going to make you do anything.

Knocking on his door, you feel your stomach churn with anxiety. You two seemed to be doing better at keeping up a conversation, but you were still deathly afraid of that awkward silence sinking in.

The click of the lock gains your attention, and Nanami opens the door for you. “Come in.” He says flatly, moving out of the way of the door so you can squeeze past him. He’s wearing his usual button-up shirt with black slacks on. How does this man even relax?

Of course his room is completely clean. His bed was even made military style for crying out loud. What the fuck does this man know about making women beg?

“Your room is nice.” You compliment, trying not to sound too awkward.

“It’s a room.” He shrugs nonchalantly before his eyes travel your body.

“How did you tell Haibara not to come home?” You ask, and he gives you a slightly puzzled look.

“I told him the truth.” He says as he loosens his tie from around his neck.

You swallow harshly as you watch his slender fingers pull at the fabric. His jaw is perfectly sculpted along with his neck, and his adams apple bobs as he steps towards you.

“Which is?” You reluctantly ask.

“I told him not to come home unless he planned on watching me fuck a pretty girl to tears.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, and you stare up at him with almost a frightened gaze. His movement feels much more predatory now as if he’s been watching you for a while, sizing you up. He had observed and stood by, waiting for the prime opportunity to pounce.

“What is it? Cat got your tongue?” Nanami asks as he steps forward again. The back of your knees hits his bed, and his smile shifts to a lopsided grin.

“No. I just…” You had no idea what to even say to that! You weren’t use to a man so confidently bolstering about his skills without sounding like a total idiot. Nanami was a rarity. He could talk the talk and walk the walk.

“No. I just..” He mocks you. “You’re awfully nervous for someone I haven’t even touched yet.” His fingers gently caress over your collarbone, before he carefully nudged you back. You tipped over and found yourself sitting on his bed, looking up at him with big round eyes.

“Christ. Have you ever even done this before?” He asks as he leans over you. His hand press down on the mattress at both of your sides, effectively trapping you beneath him.

“Yes!” You exclaim with a huffy attitude that makes him chuckle. “Have you?” You ask, trying to even the score.

“No.” He responds before closing the distance between you two. His lips press against yours and move delicately. Your eyes widen before you realize what was going on, and you slowly melt into the kiss.

Lips smack together as he takes the lead on the kiss. His hands gently cup and caress their way down your body before resting upon your hips. His knee finds it’s way between your thighs, and he applies pressure to your core.

Stifling a small whine, you entangle your fingers through his blonde hair. It’s softer than you imagined it to be. His kisses are growing more and more demanding as he’s pushing you back onto the bed more and more.

He gently bites at your lip, and he applies more pressure with his knee. As soon as you let another another small whimper, he slips his tongue into your mouth.

He’s taking complete and utter advantage over your body while you’re still trying to wrap your head around the fact he said “no”. He’s claiming to have never done this before.

His thumbs dig into your hipbones before he makes you grind against his knee.

“That’s right. Use me.” He purrs lowly, encouraging for you to keep rolling your hips. Once you found a steady rhythm, rubbing yourself against his knee like a desperate slut, he releases your hips and grabs your wrists, pinning you down to the bed.

“Ken..” You gasp out lowly, and he immediately eats up your words, forcing his lips right back upon yours.

The grinding was slowly making you feel all dizzy in the head as you slowly start to mess up your rhythm. He immediately notices your messy state. His hands leave your wrists to grab back ahold of your thighs to make sure you don’t stop. If his slacks weren’t black, he was sure there would be a small damp spot on his leg from your delicious juices.

“Hah~” You gasp as you lean your head back.

“Does that feel good?” He questions lowly before carefully nipping at your neck.

“Yes… Yes, Kento.. more..”

“Oh, what was that, darling? I didn’t hear you.” He taunts as he bites his way down your neck.

“M-more!” You whimper out as you grow impatient.

“So greedy…” He murmurs before his sucks a small hickey on your neck all while he’s still making you grind your pitiful pussy against his thigh. “Beg.”

You feel that defiant nature wanting to kick in. You were needy for him, but you weren’t to the point of begging yet.

“Did you hear me? I said beg.” He demands as he forces you down on his leg harder. Your legs tremble around him as he’s making you rock hack and forth.

“Please-“ You finally choke out against your defiant nature. “I-I.. want more, please… I need you to.. to ruin me.”

“Ruin you, hm?” He asks as his hand carefully trails upwards to your neck. He applies just a bit of pressure. “A pretty girl like you asking for me to ruin her… How could I say no?”

He removes his leg from between your leg, and he quickly replaces it with his hand. His fingers rub firm circles around your clit through the cloth of your leggings. You immediately shudder from the new stimulation. You hold his gaze as he lightly chokes you.

“I think I want to see you come on my fingers first.” He says as he’s quick to shove your leggings and panties down. You gasp quietly as you look down at him. He shuffles himself down between your legs, and he has a determined look on his face. He was set on making you come with his hand.

You push your thighs together with a small whine as he gives your glistening cunt an amorous gaze. Nanami places his hands on both of your knees as he forces your legs back apart. “Now, you know why you came here. What are you running from?”

“I- … You’re looking at me like…” the words ‘like you want to eat me’ die upon your tongue. His aura is just so.. almost intimidating. Not in a scary way, just in a he’s-not-here-to-play way.

“You’re so pretty, but gods, you’re so confusing.” He shakes his head as he carefully drags his tongue up your slippery folds. “Just sit still and let me take care of you, darling.” He mumbles before he laps at your cunt again. He purses his lips and gently sucks on your clit. It almost feels like he’s making out with your pussy.

“Oh.. f-fuck..” You gasp as you lean your head back into his mattress. Your hands fist at the blanket beneath you, ruining his perfectly made bed.

Nanami continues to lick and suck. The sounds in the room were nothing short of erotic. The wet sounds of his lips and tongue smack and almost slurp at you. His hands hold your thighs up, practically wearing them as earmuffs as he eats you like a starved man.

His fingertip gently traced over your opening before he carefully slipped a finger in. He continued to lap at your cunt as his finger pumped in and out and prodded around.

“Oh my-! .. N-Nanami.. ah~” You pant out. In his eyes, your entire body was flushed. You were so subtly grinding yourself against his tongue. In his eyes, you were a goddess in touch with her sexuality and femininity. You just needed a small nudge to get there.

He adds a second finger, and he so carefully curls them upwards to gently press right on the spot that made you see stars.

Your hands abandoned the bed, and you grabbed onto his hair. His hazel eyes flutter up at you, and his glasses were pushed up onto his head.

Your orgasm was building quicker than it ever had before. “Nanami-! fuck, I’m gonna..” You try to warn, but he’s already a step ahead of you. His fingers start pumping a big more aggressively, and he’s pointed with his tongue, focusing all his attention on your clit. His tongue swirls in tight circles around the small bundle of nerves.

Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his fingers, spasming on his face. He continues to thrust his fingers, letting you ride out your orgasm on his face and hand. Pressing a few more small kisses to your overly sensitive cunt, he slowly pulls away. “Good girl.” He praises lowly.

Your heart is pounding in your chest as you recover from the best orgasm you’ve ever received. Your eyes flutter open weakly to see Nanami ditch his glasses. He uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth and chin dry.

He then places the fingers he so deliciously used to fuck you into his mouth, and he sucks them clean with a satisfied groan.

“You taste so sweet.” He mumbles as he slowly unbuttons his shirt. It falls to the floor as he starts to unbuckle his belt. You can already feel your arousal building up again as you see the absolute tent in his slacks. Of course the nerd was absolutely hung.

Without another word, his pants and boxers are on the ground. His dick stood hard at attention. It was too heavy to press all the way up towards his stomach. Speaking of stomach, he was absolutely fucking built. He had well-defined solid abs and a broad chest.

You watch carefully as he fists his length a few times. You admire the way the veins bulge from his hands and arms. He wastes no more time: climbing up on top of you. He guides your legs up onto his shoulders, and he leans forward, putting you in a mating press.

His hand suddenly covers your mouth. “Spit.” He orders bluntly.

“W-what-?”

“I didn’t stutter. Spit. Unless you want me to go in dry.”

The thought of that sounded like a nightmare, so you gathered as much saliva into your mouth as you could, and you spat into his hand.

He doesn’t look phased in the slightest as he lubes himself up with your spit. He lets out a soft breath as the wet sounds of him gliding his hand up and down his cock fill the room. He then wipes his hand off on the bed, and he covers your mouth tightly with his hand. “Try not to be too loud, darling. I don’t want anyone to come and bother us.”

He was so fucking confident that he was going to make you noisy. It almost pissed you off, but Nanami was a man of his word.

He aligned himself up with your entrance, and with one deep motion, he buried himself all the way to the hilt. You let out a silent scream into his hand, and your back arches up off the bed. His eyes darken as he lets out a guttural growl.

Your cunt was just too precious to him, squeezing him so perfectly. You were absolutely sopping wet and so goddamn warm. He actually had to bite his tongue to not come prematurely. Once he tasted the hint of metal in his mouth, the urge to finish subsided.

“Shhh, shh. Be a good girl. The pain will subside soon.” He assures you quietly as his hips gently rock back and forth shallowly.

“Mmmnnf~ K-kento!” You moan into his hand. He hates having to muffle your pretty noises, but he really can’t risk getting a noise complaint right now.

“That’s right, darling.. Take it..” His hips start to roll with a bit more conviction. His thrusts are slow but powerful. Each time he buried himself deep in you, you went all dizzy in the head.

“Oh fuck, you’re so pretty like this.” He praises as his other hand holds one of your thighs up for you. Your body is almost slack from how harsh his hips are snapping into you. His leaking tip was bruising your cervix with each brutal thrust.

Nanami wishes he could take a picture right now. Your eyes are all glossed over. Your face is flushed the prettiest shade of pink, and your lips are all puffy and slightly parted. Your babbling utter nonsense as your greedy pussy takes him in with each thrust.

“F-fuck..! So big.. can feel you right here~” You moan as you point towards your lower stomach.

Nanami looks to where you’re pointing, and as if this man needed anymore courage, he begins to fuck you harder.

Plap! Plap! Plap! Plap!

“Yeah? Y’feel me in your womb, darling?” He groans. Noise complaint can be damned. He lets your mouth go and grabs your hips as he continues to pound your pretty pussy.

Tears involuntarily spring into your eyes from the sheer intensity. When Nanami said he was going to fuck you to tears, you thought it was just a figure of speech. Nah, you were lying in his bed, crying because the dick was so good.

“Look at me.” He demands as he grabs your blushed cheek and forces you to look up at him. “This pussy’s mine from now on, understand me?”

“Y-yes!” You cry out to him. Your stomach starts to coil with white hot pleasure as your orgasm builds up again.

“Tell me you love me when you cum on my cock.” He demands lowly. You’re too fucked stupid to argue.

The bed squeaks and wails in agony as he his thrusts are growing more erratic and sloppy. You could feel him getting closer and closer to his release as he gets more vocal and noisier too.

Your eyes cross as you feel your body gyrate on him. Your second orgasm crashes over you so suddenly you didn’t even have time to warn him. Your soul nearly floats away from you as you feel warm juices flood out from you. “Fuck~.. I-.. I love you, Nanami!” You whimper out. In the heat of the moment, it does feel like love.

Such pure pretty words being uttered during such a lewd time. Nanami is instantly emptying himself into you. His dick throbs as he shoots ribbon after ribbon of cum inside of you. His hands are shaking as they hold onto your hips. “Ngh.. I love you, darling. Take it.. All of it. Don’t waste a drop.” He lowly growls.

The room is quiet as both of you pant softly. After a few moments, you realize you had professed a love to him that you weren’t even sure about. Yes, Nanami was attractive physically and mentally. Sure, he was apparently a god in bed, but love???

What if he wasn’t even being serious when he told you to say that? He probably didn’t even mean it when he said it back. What if you made things weird? Is that why he’s being so silent?

Nanami leans down and presses a small kiss to your forehead. “That was intense. Are you alright, darling?” He asks affectionately.

You nod weakly, not wanting to frustrate him with your insecure thinking style.

“Are you sure? I’m not only talking about physically.” He murmurs softly as he slowly allows for your thighs to slip down to around his hips. His hand carefully strokes your cheek.

“I told you I love you..” You murmur out quietly, avoiding his gaze.

He exhales softly in amusement. “You did do that. It was very sexy. Do you regret saying it?”

“I.. I don’t know.” You confess quietly. “You said it back too…”

“I did. Seeing your body in such a vulnerable state as you were trusting me with your very essence made me feel full with love.”

You look up at him as he just said the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard.

“I don’t think I regret it.”

“I’m glad. I don’t regret it either.” He smiles and presses another small kiss to your temple.

*** *** ***

“Was that really your first time?” You giggle as the hot water coats your body. Nanami’s fingers are attentively massaging shampoo into your scalp.

“It really was.” He laughs quietly. “Why is it so hard to believe.”

“You were too good for a virgin.”

“I’m glad my darling thinks so.” He smiles and carefully leans your head back, so the water can rinse the shampoo from your hair.

“Where did you even learn that stuff from?” You ask curiously, wondering if Nanami just had a secret raging porn addiction.

“I have the horniest friend group. They don’t understand the concept of too much information.”

Ah. That makes sense.

tags: @lemonlimecrystal-blog

#jjk #jjk fanfic #fanfic #jujutsu kaisen #drabble #jjk suggestive #jjk smut #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami smut #nanami kento #nanami x reader #smut drabble

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sacredsorceress · 7 months ago

Text

Scars / Logan Howlett

pairing: dofp!logan howlett x mutant!reader summary: every person has a soulmate. after settling in the future that he saved, logan starts to consider his next mission when a suspicious mark appears on him. word count: 3.2k a/n: good ol'fashioned soulmate AU. this is the first actual fic i've written in a long time so please have some grace. reblogs and replies are super appreciated! warnings: general mentions of logan's past, scars, self-doubt, alcoholism, reader smokes a cigar, mentions of razors, scars, wounds, two uses of y/n

logan masterlist | inbox | full masterlist

It had been a week since Logan woke up in his healed timeline.

For most people, the change would have been dramatic. But Logan was far unlike most people. The initial dreamlike state he was in when he first walked through the mansion- seeing the ghosts he had once known returned to the flesh, unscathed- quickly subsided. Logan had always been a man thrown onto a new path- how he lived life constantly changing to best fit his interests. Now, with his newfound peace he found the most complicated mission of all: what to do with the life he was now free to live?

Even before the sentinels, the battles, the wars- he had always been a man on the run. He was solo, strategic, concise. For a man who was gifted with infinite regeneration, he had solely concerned himself with staying alive. He ate for sustenance, sought shelter for safety, and nursed a bottle to find enough peace of mind to sleep at night.

The professor had once told him that for a person to reach self-actualization they first had to have all of their needs met. Logan had scoffed at the time, assuring the professor that he knew himself just fine. But now, with his problems so solved that they had ceased to ever exist, he wondered if maybe the professor was right.

Who was he? Where did he go from here?

The answer was found in the form of a scar on his hand.

"Well, everything seems to be just fine."

Logan scoffed at the blue man in front of him

"Well it's not." Logan said. "Check again."

Two days after he had come back, a large, circular scar had appeared on the palms of each of his hands. When they hadn't disappeared after two minutes, he rushed to the bathroom and nicked himself with his razor, watching as the wound healed with only blood dripping down his scruff as a remanent of it. Thirty minutes after that he found himself in the lab with Hank, Jean, and the Professor hypothesizing his miraculous marks.

"Logan, the tests came back clear." Jean assured him, leaning against the wall. "Maybe it's time to consider that it's something else."

Logan quirked his head towards her.

"I haven't had a scar in over two hundred years," he reminded her, his voice laced with irony. "I get not one, but two and you... what? Think it's a coincidence?"

Before Jean had a chance at rebuttal, the professor moved to face Logan.

"That's not what Jean's inferring, Logan." Charles reminded him. "We're simply asking that you consider other options. Less... dire options. It could, after all, be a good thing."

"Yeah?" Logan scoffed. "Like what?"

A silence hung in the air.

When Logan had first come to them with news of his scar, the thought had been on all three of their minds. Still, there were a plethora of things that could have caused that. Though, when the tests came back clear and his skin continued to heal from all sorts of abrasions, it felt as if there was only one answer for his seemingly magical scars.

However, none of them were keen on sharing this diagnosis with Logan. One wondered whether he'd handle the idea of his body failing him over fated love.

Hank was the first to speak up.

"Like a soulmate."

Oh that was rich, Logan thought.

Logan wasn't unfamiliar with the idea of soulmates.

Around the time that two fated lovers were destined to meet, there would be a sign for each of them. In some cases they were eyes changing colors, feeling the other's pain, finding their names everywhere they looked. In other cases they were new birthmarks, tattoos, scars.

In some way, the two were inextricably connected.

In his long life he had seen others experience it dozens if not hundreds of times. When the first thirty years of his life rolled around with no one, Logan accepted that he was one of the outliers. He considered it for the best and by now, with everything that he had gone through, the concept of soulmates almost seemed like an old wives' tale.

Logan glanced at their faces. When he realized they were serious, a deep laugh escaped from his gut. There was a lack of light in his eyes that admitted his insincerity.

"So I disappear for a few decades and you all start believing in fairytales?" Logan pulled the needles from his arm, the heart rate monitor going flat as he did. "What a bunch of bullshit."

Jean laid her hand against his chest, urging him back into the seat.

"Logan." She soothed him. "This is a good thing. Scott and I-"

Oh this was real rich.

"Scott and you are... what, huh?" Logan urged. "Soulmates?"

Logan scoffed, swiping Jean's hand from his chest.

"Bet you're so happy with your 'soulmate' and that's why you lead me on, huh? That it? You're happy?" He taunted, a dark laugh escaping him once more. "Spare me-"

"Logan, that's enough!"

The professor's voice echoed against the linoleum walls of the lab, reverberating off of the medical equipment throughout.

"If you want to wallow in your own self-deprivation, be my guest, but spare the rest of us your grief." Charles continued. "I think it would be best if you go back to your quarters and consider the future the universe has offered you."

The energy in the air was thick.

Jean and Hank avoided Logan’s eye contact while the professor’s nearly burned a whole through him.

Accepting defeat, Logan threw his hands up in the air and pushed himself out of his metal chair.

“Fine.”

Soulmates. Logan thought. Who would believe in a thing like that?

"It's a pleasure to see you again."

The atmosphere in the mansion was a stark contrast to the lab Charles had been in days before.

Now the school day had commenced: children skipping from class to class, students chatting with their friends in the hallway, teachers grabbing coffee between lessons. Amidst the organized chaos, Charles had arranged to meet you in the foyer: the replacement history teacher for Logan's class.

"You too, professor." You smiled, reaching out your hand. "I was so glad to hear from you."

Your hand hung in the air briefly, awaiting his return. Charles examined it for a moment- a twinkle in his eye- before taking it. His thumbs brushed against the newfound scars between your knuckles as he did.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you didn't always have these scars, did you, Y/n?" Charles asked.

You had not.

You had woken with them a few days before. Despite your powers rooted in chaos magic, it wasn't uncommon for blemishes or wounds to etch themselves into your skin. However, you often knew why. These marks, scars, were not faint, but instead quite profound. Three thick, healed over wounds patched together like a stitch on the back of each of your hands.

"No professor."

He closed his eyes, a soft smile gracing his lips. Though you knew he wished to ask more questions, the moment was broken by Logan.

"Ah, the man himself." Charles beamed. "Logan, I'd like you to meet Y/n. She'll be covering your class."

You had seen your fair share of news stories about the Wolverine. Who hadn't? Though the television had never prepared you for just how tall, or broad he was.

"It's nice to meet you, Logan."

"You too." He nodded, taking your hand.

His hand lingered in yours for a moment. Charles cleared his throat.

"We were just discussing the most peculiar scar on Y/n's hand." Charles said. "Appeared just a few days ago out of nowhere."

Charles nodded his head in the direction of your hand, leading Logan to squint. As if a light bulb had gone off over his head, Logan glanced between Charles and yourself and with your hand still in his, he turned it examine the back.

Three scars between your knuckles. Right where his own claws would be.

Though he liked to imagine himself as the patron of remaining suave, Logan's eyebrows shot up at the recognition. He traced his view from your hands, up your torso, to your face where you eyed him questioningly.

He thought back to the way that he woke up in the seventies, wrapped in the arms of another woman. If times had been different and Logan hadn't undergone all the so-called character development in the last forty years, he was sure that a face like yours would have gotten him in a lot of trouble. You were beautiful, and your demeanor highlighted your strength.

Your face radiated kindness, warmth and most of all, sincerity- a trait that was difficult to come by in a trade such as his.

But then Logan recalled that this wasn't the seventies and you weren't at some bar leading him on the entire night: your hand was in his and, according to everyone else, he was yours.

The idea almost couldn't register in Logan's brain.

"Interesting, isn't it, Logan?" Charles asked, breaking the silence. "Almost identical to where your claws are, hmm?"

Oh the professor thought he was quite funny.

Logan pulled his hand back from your grasp and shook his head.

"Not that easy, Charles." Logan commented before turning to you, a spiteful tone in his voice. "See you around, bub."

Before you had the chance to open your mouth, you watched as Logan stomped down the nearest hallway, his boots squeaking against the floorboards as he did. His fists clenched and released at his sides as he disappeared from view.

His reaction had come so far from left field that if it hadn't given you whiplash, it would have hurt your ego. Instead you turned back to the professor.

"Was it something I said?" You asked.

The professor shook his head, patting your hand gently.

"Logan's quite a complicated man." He assured you. "I'm sure you'll come to know that more than the rest of us. Now, to your classroom..."

Glancing over your shoulder to the void-like hallway that Logan went down, you considered the professor's words.

A storm had taken over the mansion by nightfall.

As you padded down the wood panelled hallways, the lightbulbs shook in their glass with each thunder clap- wind swatting at the window panes every few seconds. The pitter patter of the raindrops, although harsh, was comforting. It was almost as if the mansion had been engulfed by the storm, trapping everyone inside, while consequently making the outside world feel a thousand miles away.

When you found Logan's door, tucked in at the end of the hallway, you knocked.

"Yep."

The weight of the door fell against the palm of your hands as you pushed it open.

Logan's room was dark. The only light in the space had been from the embers of the cigar that hung in his mouth, cradled between his thumb and forefinger. Despite the darkness, you could make out his figure sitting at his desk chair by the window, feet kicked up on the sill.

Logan only gave you a quick glance over his shoulder before turning back to the view.

"What d'you want?"

His voice was thick and rough around the edges.

"I came for your textbooks." You replied, tiptoeing against his floorboards. "The professor said you'd have them."

The hand of his that held the cigar waved around. Minuscule ashes fell to the floor as your eyes remained trained on the light and the faint glow of the moon that illuminated the side of his face.

"Be my guest," he said. "Don’t have a clue where they are."

The professor had given you the lowdown when he saw your scars.

Charles told you that despite everything that you had learned- the history that you had known- the Wolverine you'd meet was not the same person. He was a man from a different time with far different, darker memories and enough baggage to weigh down dozens.

Amidst the silence, you cleared your throat.

"Must be hard to wake up in someone else's life."

By now you had reached his desk, your fingertips tracing the lines in the dark, lacquered wood.

You could smell him and the cigar from this distance- aftershave mixed with smoke.

"The professor tell you that?"

"Mhm."

The chair creaked as Logan flicked his hand towards the window, ushering you to come closer.

Watching your step in the dark, you maneuvered around the furniture and sat beside Logan on his desk- pushing loose papers to the side.

"He give you his whole spiel on soulmates too?" He asked, eyes trained on the rain outside.

Soulmates.

Now that was the last thing you expected to come from the Wolverine's mouth.

You'd heard of them more times than you could count. You once wondered whether every repetitive coincidence was a sign that your person was coming. But, when that never happened, you lost hope.

Who got to tell you who you belonged to anyway?

Leaning over, you gingerly took the cigar from his grasp and replaced it with your own fingers. Sitting back into the desk as lightening struck a tree in the distance, you took a puff.

"So that's what the scars on my hands were all about," You thought aloud.

The window fogged as you let the smoke leave from your mouth in a breathy sigh.

Logan tapped his fingers on his thighs, counting the seconds between a lightening strike and its consecutive rumble of thunder.

"Listen, I'm no prince charming if that's what you came here looking for."

Logan's chair creaked again as he leaned back in his seat. His arm draped against the desk as he met your gaze.

You chuckled and held out his cigar, offering it back to him.

"I came here looking for textbooks." You laughed. "You're the one who keeps talking about soulmates. I think you're more of a romantic than you let on.”

His fingers brushed against yours as he took the cigar back into his own hand. Another lightning strike met the ground in the distance, a clap of thunder following moments afterwards.

"You don't buy it?" Logan quirked his eyebrow. It was a teasing question, one he was curious to hear your answer to.

You shrugged.

"I don't think the universe gets to tell me who to love," you said. "If I fall in love with you it's because I love you, Logan. Not because some mark told me to. I just think of it as... a little shove in the right direction.”

The corner of his mouth quirked into a smile for the first time.

"A shove?"

"Like a... blind date." You finished. "Ever been on one of those?"

A congested laugh escaped him.

"Sweetheart, do I look like the type of guy to go on a blind date?"

You bit the inside of your cheek at the name.

Rolling your eyes, you swatted at his arm. You wouldn't admit how much it hurt your knuckles to do so. You'd have to make a mental note to remember his adamantium skeleton.

"Gosh, you're cocky!"

Logan shrugged, "You're the one who likes it apparently."

You felt yourself grow hot at his accusation.

Even though he had a mark signalling his future affection for you, you couldn't help but feel embarrassed by Logan's knowledge of yours. You felt like a child who's crush had just been exposed to the whole class. Was he noting ever glance that you gave him? The way you didn't move when his arm brushed against yours?

A brief pause hung in the air until another thunder clap reverberated against the walls.

"So what's your mark?" You asked.

Logan shoved the cigar into the corner of his mouth. The biting motion forced him to flex his jaw in a way that you would refuse to admit made you start to realize that maybe the universe was right.

And that maybe his cockiness was justified.

He laid out his hands for you. The room was still dark, making the ability to discern the details of his scar impossible. Taking Logan's hands in yours, you summoned your magic into your hands, watching as they glowed gold.

Logan had two large, circular scars imprinted into his palms. It was a clear indicator of your own magical power that surged from your hands.

It left a feeling you couldn't describe in your chest to know that someone else was marked for you. They were destined for you. To be with you. You had a future written together before the two of you had met. Even if he rejected you, there was a sign etched into his skin that bound the two of you together in some fateful way.

Gently, you traced your fingertips against the mark, feeling the warmth that radiated from his palms.

When your eyes flicked upwards, you noticed how close the two of you were now sitting. You could feel his warm breath against your lips as the lingering smell of the cigar drifted up your nose.

Although he wouldn’t admit it, Logan was enchanted by the energy radiating from you. Whether people hated or loved him, his ability got a lot of talk. In his mind though, he would never be a hero. He was just some guy who got lucky.

You, though? He didn’t need you to tell him that you were an Omega level mutant. Logan had heard about you from the professor: you could cast spells, read minds, reconfigure reality- to name a few. You didn't need a reason to fight for what's right, you just did. Again, and again, and again. Even here, now, you were picking up Logan's history class when he knew very well you could be on the other side of the world sipping pina coladas if you wanted.

What the hell was the universe thinking putting you with him?

Logan admired the reflection of the magic on your cheeks and the way your eyes stayed trained on his palms. Your touch was so gentle he could have sworn he was in a distant dream until your eyes met his.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment, gaze locked.

Then another clap of thunder shook the mansion.

You quickly leaned back, pulling your hands from Logan's touch.

"I should... I should go." You said, pushing yourself off of Logan's desk. "It's getting late and I have my first class in the morning."

Logan leaned back in his seat. He said nothing but eyes remained fixed on your form as you made your way towards the door.

Looking back at him with your hand on the knob you made a mental note to remember the image of him with his feet kicked back on the window as he smoked his cigar.

A soft smile remained.

"Good night, Logan."

When you didn't leave immediately, he nodded.

"Night, sweetheart."

Mustering up the courage to shoot him one last smile, you pulled open the door and stepped outside.

Now, Logan didn't know how much he believed in soulmates, but he could be inclined to consider that it was one good wingman.

Leaning back in his seat, Logan sighed and closed his eyes, letting himself drown out his worries with the sound of the rain.

a/n: my inbox is open for more requests! thank you for the request @welcometochilis585

#wolverine #logan howlett #logan #logan howlett x reader #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine fluff #wolverine fanfiction #xmen #xmen fanfiction #deadpool and wolverine

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foreveia · 2 months ago

Text

the leaders’ pact ⤨ sakusa kiyoomi

⨭ genre; college!au, friends-with-benefits to lovers

⨭ pairing; sakusa kiyoomi x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 12.7k

⨭ description; as it turns out, you and sakusa are the only people who truly understand just how much stress it is to run a student government, and well… you two find a way to blow off steam.

⨭ warnings; a lot of suggestive content, no graphic stuff tho sorry to disappoint this is Not smut, explicit language

⨭ a/n; i've decided sakusa is officially the most difficult person i've ever written abt which means y'all r gonna have to suffer through some horrible fics before i finally figure out the secret to kiyoomi. in the meantime, until i get to the level of being able to write him to my satisfaction, enjoy this part 2 of the asu trilogy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'don't wake me up' by mercer henderson

one.

Furudate University is, in one word, loud.

It’s one of its biggest charms, really—there’s something oddly comforting about being one in a crowd of thousands, about the constant hum of a campus that never fully sleeps. The lively debates over coffee-stained notes, the skateboarders who tempt fate on the cobblestone paths lining the central road, the professors who could be world-class researchers but still have to remind students to submit assignments in PDF format and not screenshots—it’s chaotic, it’s exhausting, and despite everything, you love it here.

That being said, at 1:47 AM, when you’re still in the ASU office drowning in a sea of unread emails and budget spreadsheets, you think maybe—just maybe—you should have picked a smaller school. One with fewer students. Fewer problems. Fewer reasons for you to be awake at this ungodly hour, questioning every life choice that led you here.

Because you’re the ASU president, and behind the lofty title is an overworked, drained, pitiful student who is really at her wits end, shoulder-deep in stupid complaints about the dining halls and unreasonable requests from faculty and alumni. And at this current moment in time, you’re stressed out about an event more than a month away, but already causing you significant problems in your life: the annual Spring Festival.

It’s a week-long ordeal, ending with a massive fundraiser gala that’s all dazzling lights and delicate floral arrangements; you spend half the budget on catering and the other half praying the student performers don’t ruin the atmosphere with an impromptu drum solo. It’s supposed to be the ASU’s shining achievement—proof that this student government is more than a glorified complaint department.

But right now? Right now, it’s a logistical nightmare.

And sitting across from you, flipping through a thick folder with all the enthusiasm of someone reading Terms & Conditions, is the only other person suffering through this hell with you.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, ASU’s executive vice president.

Sakusa, who has been in this office with you for hours, sifting through the same mountain of paperwork, answering the same stupid emails, keeping everything in order with his obsessive attention to detail.

Sakusa, who somehow manages to look completely fine while doing all of this.

You have personally descended into full goblin mode. You’re hunched over your desk, hair slipping out of your bun, posture absolutely horrendous. There is a growing stack of empty coffee cups by your desktop and a pad of post-its covered with scribbled reminders and notes; your workspace is as much of a mess as you are right now. Sakusa, meanwhile, is sitting up straight, scrolling through his tablet with an air of absolute indifference, looking like he could walk out of here and into a corporate meeting without breaking a sweat.

You hate him a little bit for that.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, rubbing your temples.

“It is,” Sakusa agrees. “But that’s not new information.”

You glare at him. “Okay, but if one more person asks if we can move the gala to a rooftop venue, I might actually lose my mind.”

“They want a rooftop?” he asks, flipping to another page. “In April? In a city where it rained last year?”

“Apparently, ‘the ambiance would be breathtaking.’”

Sakusa stares at you. “The litigation would be breathtaking.”

“Right?” You throw up your hands. “I give it an hour before someone drinks too much and falls off the side.”

“Or before you push them.”

“...I’m not saying I would, but I’m not saying I wouldn’t.”

He hums, unimpressed, before pushing a document across the desk toward you. “Facility contracts,” he says. “Pick a venue so I can start drafting agreements.”

You groan, dropping your head dramatically against the table. “I can’t make any more decisions tonight.”

“Tough.”

“I physically cannot. I am a husk of a person.”

“Then drink some water.”

You lift your head just enough to frown at him. “Did you just tell me to hydrate? That’s your solution?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Fuck that. I need wine or something,” you huff, annoyed.

Sakusa doesn’t even blink. “Then go get some.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “...That sounded suspiciously close to permission.”

“I’m not your parent.” He finally looks up from his tablet, arching a brow. “You’re an adult. If you want to drink yourself into oblivion because of a student event, that’s on you.”

That’s all the encouragement you need.

Five minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the office couch, the wine bottle freshly uncorked between you. Sakusa had taken exactly one look at the cup you found in the ASU storage cabinet (which had definitely been used for some underclassmen’s illicit party at some point) before deciding to drink straight from the bottle instead.

Fine by you.

You take a long sip before passing it back, watching as Sakusa tilts the bottle back with far less hesitation than you expected. You almost comment on it, but then again—if anyone needs to drink, it’s him.

The office is dimly lit, the overhead lights flicked off in favor of the warm glow of a single desk lamp. The exhaustion weighs heavy in the air, mingling with the soft clink of glass and the low rustle of Sakusa flipping a page in his binder.

For a while, there’s just silence.

Comfortable, in a way.

And maybe that’s why, when you finally tilt your head back against the couch, wine warm in your veins and pink in the cheeks, you finally break it. “This job is killing me,” you mutter.

Sakusa exhales, rubbing his temple. “Join the club.”

“You’re the only other person who gets it,” you murmur, staring at the ceiling. “Everyone else just sees the power trip. They don’t see the fucking bureaucracy, the politics, the alumni breathing down our necks. I swear to God, if one more administrator calls me ‘sweetie’—”

“They don’t respect us,” Sakusa says simply. “They never will.”

The words sit heavy between you. It’s the truth, the unspoken reality of student government. You have influence, sure. Responsibility, absolutely. But at the end of the day, you’re just placeholders—students playing pretend at running an institution that will outlive you by centuries.

And it’s exhausting.

Your eyes flicker to Sakusa. The furrow of his brows, the tight set of his jaw. He’s exhausted too.

You shift slightly, your knee brushing against his. He doesn’t move away.

The warmth of the wine lingers, but it’s not enough to explain the heat creeping up your neck. You tell yourself it’s just the exhaustion—just the absurdity of being awake at nearly 2 AM, drowning in bureaucratic bullshit with the only person who understands. But when you glance at him again, catching the way his fingers press absently into the label of the bottle, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze lingers on the floor for a second longer than necessary before meeting yours…

Something flips in your stomach.

A mistake, your brain whispers. A complication waiting to happen. You have to work with him. See him every day. Endure another semester of late nights in this very office, drowning in deadlines and bad coffee and biting remarks that somehow still feel like companionship. You don’t even want to think about what happens if this goes wrong.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your breath catches. You can hear it, the quiet sound in the stillness of the office. Your heart is an unsteady drumbeat in your chest, something traitorous stirring beneath your ribs. His gaze flickers—down, then up—his throat bobbing in a quiet swallow.

Then he moves.

His lips meet yours, firm and deliberate. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing—just the sharp edge of tension snapping between you, unraveling all at once.

You don’t think. You just react, your fingers threading into his dark hair as he pulls you closer. The empty wine bottle slips from your grasp, landing with a muffled thud against the couch cushions, but you barely notice.

He’s warm. Solid. His hands don’t just grip your waist—they press, anchor, claim. A slow, deliberate pull, like he wants you here, exactly here. There’s something controlled about the way he moves, like he’s holding back, like he’s measuring every touch, every breath.

It makes your skin burn.

You shift, legs draping over his lap, the fabric of his shirt soft under your fingertips as you tug him closer. When your hips roll against his experimentally, his breath stutters—a sharp inhale, his fingers flexing against your sides. The sound sends something electric through you, a shiver that starts at the base of your spine and spreads outward, curling hot in your chest.

Your breath is ragged when he finally pulls away, lips swollen, eyes dark and unreadable. He stares at you for a moment, something flickering across his expression—something unspoken, something dangerous.

“We shouldn’t—” he starts, voice hoarse.

You cut him off with another kiss, hands sliding under his shirt, nails skimming lightly over the firm plane of his stomach. He exhales sharply against your mouth, grip tightening—not just on your waist now, but your hips, your thighs, the fabric of your sweater bunched between his fingers like he’s trying to ground himself.

Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe this is reckless, a mistake in the making.

But right now, it doesn’t feel like one.

Right now, you just need this.

And judging by the way Sakusa exhales, tilts his head back slightly as your lips trail along his jaw, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sweater, so does he.

two.

You wake up to warmth.

The blankets are too heavy, too soft; the pillow beneath your head isn’t yours, and the mattress is firmer than what you’re used to. The air smells faintly of laundry detergent, crisp and clean, and for a few blissful seconds, none of this sets off any alarm bells.

Then you shift.

And your leg brushes against something—someone.

Your entire body goes rigid.

Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.

Sakusa is lying beside you, still half-asleep.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Your brain kicks into overdrive, panic slamming into you at full force.

You don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t blink—like maybe if you stay perfectly still, reality will reset itself and you’ll wake up in your own bed, like none of this ever happened.

You rub your eyes. Nope. No, you’re still here. In Sakusa’s bed.

Last night comes rushing back in fragments.

The office, the spreadsheets, the overwhelming weight of responsibility pressing down on you both. The frustration, the exhaustion, the bottle of wine. The way his voice had dipped lower, the sharp inhale when your fingers slipped beneath his shirt. The way he kissed you—deliberate, controlled, like he was trying to hold himself back but couldn't quite bring himself to stop.

And, apparently, didn’t.

Your face burns.

You can’t do this. You need to get out of here. Right now.

Very, very carefully, you begin to inch toward the edge of the bed. If you can just get up without waking him, you can grab your clothes, sneak out, and pretend this never happened—

“You’re awake,” Sakusa mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You freeze.

His eyes are barely open, but there’s enough clarity in them to tell you that he’s fully aware of the situation. He blinks slowly, processing, before exhaling and rubbing a hand over his face.

For a moment, there’s silence.

You should say something. Address the elephant in the room. Acknowledge that, somehow, you and Sakusa Kiyoomi—the only other person in ASU who understands your suffering, who you bicker with more than you talk, who is supposed to be your goddamn vice president and right-hand man—woke up in the same bed.

Instead, the first thing out of your mouth is:

“This is bad.”

Sakusa lets out a quiet, barely-there groan and turns his head slightly toward you. “I was hoping it was a dream.”

You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”

Another silence. Neither of you move.

Your heart is still hammering in your chest, but now that the initial panic is fading, your brain starts working through the situation. Rationalizing.

You and Sakusa don’t even like each other. Okay, that’s not entirely true, but your dynamic has always been built on mutual endurance, on suffering together in the trenches of student government. Exchanging exhausted sighs over idiotic administrative emails and bitter remarks over ridiculous student requests.

This wasn’t… feelings.

It was stress. Overwork. Too much responsibility and not enough outlets to relieve it.

You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket around yourself. “Look, let’s just… not freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“You look like you’re contemplating the meaning of life.”

“I always look like that.”

Okay, fair point. Still, you don’t miss the way his fingers are curled slightly into the sheets, tension lingering in his posture.

You take a deep breath. “Last night was a mistake.”

Sakusa’s gaze flickers to you. “Obviously.”

Something about the way he says it irritates you. You roll your eyes. “Wow, again with the rudeness.”

“I just mean it was inevitable,” he exhales sharply, rubbing his temple.

You blink. “Wait, you think this was inevitable too?”

He gives you a flat look. “We spend too many hours locked in an office together. We argue constantly. We both hate our jobs but are too stubborn to quit. We drink after meetings. Statistically speaking, this was bound to happen.”

You stare at him. “That is the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic.”

You pause. Something about that statement makes something in your chest loosen just slightly.

He’s right. This isn’t romantic. It’s not complicated. It’s not some star-crossed bullshit.

It’s just stress.

And you can work with that.

A thought occurs to you, a ridiculous, stupid, reckless thought, and before you can second-guess yourself, you say it out loud.

“We could do it again.”

Sakusa’s entire body stills. His dark eyes snap to yours.

“Not right now. I just mean…” You keep your expression neutral, forcing yourself to stay composed as you shrug. “I mean, think about it. We’re both overworked. We don’t have time for relationships. This was just a way to let off some steam, right? It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

Sakusa watches you carefully, expression unreadable. “You’re saying—”

“No feelings. No complications. Just stress relief.”

His brows furrow slightly.

You lift your hands, palms up. “I’m just being practical. We both clearly need an outlet, and this was… effective.” You tilt your head, smirking slightly. “Unless you regret it?”

Sakusa exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before glancing away. “No.”

There’s something in his voice—something almost reluctant, like the admission costs him something. You decide not to dwell on it.

Instead, you grin, ignoring the way your heart picks up slightly at his answer. “So? Agreed?”

Sakusa’s jaw tenses. He looks at you for a long moment, eyes dark and considering.

Then, finally, he exhales. “…Agreed.”

You clap your hands together. “Great. Now, where the hell are my clothes?”

As you slip out of bed and start gathering your things, Sakusa watches you from the corner of his eye. His expression is neutral, unreadable. Outwardly, he looks composed, unaffected.

But inside, something is twisting in his chest.

This is good. Logical. You’re too busy for anything more. He doesn’t do attachments. This is supposed to be simple.

So why does he already feel like he’s in trouble?

three.

For the first week, you and Sakusa keep it lowkey.

It’s surprisingly easy. Between the endless meetings, the flood of emails, and the general chaos of festival planning, no one seems to notice that anything has changed. You and Sakusa don’t act any differently—at least, not in ways that anyone would immediately pick up on. You still bicker, still throw exasperated looks across the office, still exchange sarcastic remarks whenever an administrator sends a particularly idiotic request.

But there are differences. Subtle ones.

The way his hand lingers on your back a second too long when he brushes past you. The way you glance at him when no one else is looking, catching the momentary flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. The way your fingers graze when he hands you a folder during a meeting, a barely-there touch that still sends a jolt up your spine.

Still, you’re both careful. No one knows. And it stays that way—until a week later.

It’s late.

Too late for anyone to still be in the ASU office, but here you are, wrapping up an executive board meeting that somehow stretched two hours past its scheduled end. The festival is fast approaching, and the stress is at an all-time high. The VP of Finance, Futakuchi, keeps sighing loudly; Ushijima, the sustainability representative, looks entirely unbothered, and Kiyoko, the VP of campus affairs, has the expression of someone who desperately needs sleep but knows she won’t get any. Even the internal VP, Aone, who’s usually silent and stoic, rubs a hand over his face in a rare display of frustration.

The exhaustion in the room is palpable.

But eventually, mercifully, the meeting ends.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans, stretching out his arms. “I swear, if I get one more email about the catering, I’m deleting my inbox.”

“You can’t do that,” Kiyoko mutters, but she sounds just as tired.

“I can and I will.”

Ushijima nods thoughtfully. “That is not an efficient way to handle the problem.”

“Whatever, man.” Futakuchi waves him off. “I’m going home before I start throwing chairs.”

The rest of the exec board follows suit, shuffling out one by one. Within minutes, the office is empty—except for you and Sakusa.

He doesn’t say anything as he shuts his laptop, methodically gathering his things. But you know him well enough by now to catch the slight tension in his posture, the way his fingers flex against the strap of his bag. He’s tired, too.

And yet, he lingers.

Your heart is already hammering in your chest before you even fully process what you’re about to do.

You wait until the last footsteps fade down the hallway before stepping closer.

“Sakusa,” you murmur.

He looks up, expression unreadable, but you catch the flicker of something in his dark eyes before he schools his face into neutrality. “What?”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you grab the front of his hoodie, pull him toward you, and kiss him.

He exhales sharply against your lips, but he doesn’t hesitate—not for a second. One of his hands finds your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch, and then he’s pushing you back, guiding you without breaking the kiss.

You barely register the click of the storage closet door as it shuts behind you.

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not every night. Not every meeting. But often enough.

Enough that you start slipping into supply rooms and empty hallways whenever you get the chance. Enough that you stop pretending it’s just a fluke, stop pretending it’s just a one-time mistake. Enough that you start looking for excuses to stay behind after meetings, just to see if he’ll do the same.

The stress of festival planning only gets worse as the days tick down, but somehow, you feel... lighter. And unfortunately, you’re not the only one who notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi says one afternoon, arms crossed as he leans against the table. “What’s up with you?”

You blink at him over your laptop. “What?”

“You.” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re… less miserable.”

“Wow, thank you.”

“I’m serious.” He narrows his eyes, studying you. “A week ago, you were two stress-induced breakdowns away from setting the office on fire. Now you’re—” He squints. “Weirdly calm.”

You scoff, looking back at your screen. “Maybe I just got better at coping.”

Futakuchi snorts. “Sure. And Aone’s secretly a stand-up comedian.”

Across the room, Aone looks up from his notes, blinks, then goes back to writing.

Meanwhile, Ushijima watches you with mild curiosity. “It is true that you seem less fatigued.”

“Maybe she’s just sleeping more,” Kiyoko suggests.

Futakuchi smirks. “Or maybe she’s not sleeping.”

You choke on your coffee, the burn in your nose causing you to cough. Kiyoko swiftly hands you a tissue from her desk and sighs. “Kenji, please.”

“I’m just saying,” Futakuchi says innocently, shrugging. “She’s been spending a lot of extra time here after meetings. And so has Sakusa.”

You feel your pulse spike, but you force yourself to roll your eyes. “We’re working.”

“Sure you are.” Futakuchi hums. “Just seems interesting, is all.”

Ushijima nods, ever serious. “You and Sakusa have been in close proximity more frequently.”

You school your expression into neutrality, ignoring the way your face warms. “Noted.”

Futakuchi snickers. “That wasn’t a no.”

You pretend not to hear him.

Across the office, Sakusa is focused on his laptop, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. But when you glance at him, just for a second, you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

A silent acknowledgement.

A secret you both share, that’s meant for you two alone.

four.

At first, nothing really changes.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The routine remains the same. Meetings, long nights in the ASU office, the occasional stolen moment in a storage room when stress becomes too much. You and Sakusa still pretend like this is nothing more than convenience—like it’s just stress relief, like it doesn’t bleed into the rest of your lives.

Except it does.

It starts small. You realize one day, midway through a meeting, that Sakusa’s been sitting closer to you lately. Close enough that his knee brushes against yours under the table, close enough that you can pick up the faint scent of his detergent. Close enough that when you pass him a folder, his fingers linger just a second too long against yours.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it.

But then, the conversations change.

It happens one night in the office.

You’re both buried under paperwork, exhausted but determined to finalize the last of the festival logistics. It’s late—past midnight, the campus outside empty and still. The only light in the room comes from your desk lamps, throwing soft, golden pools across the stacks of documents between you. The air smells like old paper and Sakusa’s coffee, a little burnt because he never times it right.

The quiet is comfortable, broken only by the rhythmic clicking of his laptop keys and the occasional shuffle of papers.

Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “Do you ever wonder what you’d be doing if you weren’t here?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“If you weren’t ASU president,” he clarifies. “If you had never run for office.”

You pause, pen hovering over the paper. The thought has never really occurred to you. Student government has consumed your life for so long that the idea of not being in this position feels foreign.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe I’d have more time to actually enjoy college.”

Sakusa hums, his gaze flickering to you. “So you don’t enjoy it now?”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. It’s just… exhausting. I feel like I’m constantly putting out fires. Like I’m carrying this huge weight, and if I mess up, everything will fall apart.”

For a moment, Sakusa doesn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, he says, “I get that.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“Volleyball is kind of the same,” he continues, eyes still on his laptop screen. “I love it. But sometimes, it’s a lot. The pressure, the expectations. Some days, I wonder if I’d still play if I didn’t have to.”

You study him for a moment—the tension in his posture, the way his fingers tap idly against the desk. It’s rare for Sakusa to talk about himself like this.

Impulsively, you say, “I could come to one of your games.”

His fingers still. He finally looks at you, brows slightly furrowed. “Why?”

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “Because. You put up with all my ASU crap. I can support you, too.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, he exhales and looks back at his screen.

“If you want,” he mutters.

But you see the way his ears turn pink.

After that, the changes keep coming.

One night, you fall asleep in Sakusa’s dorm.

It’s not on purpose.

You were both exhausted, drained from another grueling meeting that had stretched far too late. The weight of festival logistics, last-minute approvals, and endless emails had pressed down on you until neither of you could keep your eyes open. What was supposed to be a brief pause—a moment to catch your breath before making the trek back to your dorm—turned into you lying there, too tired to move.

You’d meant to get up. You really had.

But then Sakusa had tugged the blanket over you with an almost reluctant kind of care, his movements cautious, deliberate. His arm had settled around your waist, warm and steady, like he’d done it without thinking; his breathing had evened out against the back of your neck, deep and slow, and suddenly, the thought of moving felt impossible.

You don’t remember falling asleep—only that the next thing you know, soft morning light is filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. For a moment, you forget where you are. The sheets smell like him—clean, crisp, something faintly citrusy beneath it all. The kind of scent that lingers, that sticks to your skin in ways you can’t quite shake.

You should get up. You should leave before this gets any weirder.

But then Sakusa shifts beside you, his grip tightening, just for a second. His voice is rough with sleep, barely more than a murmur.

“Go back to sleep.”

And, for some reason, you do.

The lingering turns into something more.

You start walking back to your dorms together after meetings, shoulders brushing in the cold night air. Neither of you talk about it. Neither of you acknowledge the way Sakusa always seems to fall into step beside you, how his hands slip into his pockets but his body angles just slightly toward yours.

The touches that used to be quick, fleeting, become longer. His hand stays on your lower back when he passes by, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your shirt. When you both reach for the same document, his fingers brush against yours, and he doesn’t pull away as fast as he used to.

It’s not just the physicality that changes.

He starts noticing things about you—things no one else does.

Like how he always makes sure there’s an extra bottle of water on your desk because he knows you forget to stay hydrated when you’re stressed. How he starts bringing you food when you work late, tossing it onto your desk without a word. Eat, he mutters, barely meeting your eyes. You’re going to pass out if you don’t.

And then there’s the morning after another late night in his bed.

You wake up groggy, the lingering warmth of sleep making you slow to realize that Sakusa isn’t next to you anymore. The room smells like coffee, and when you push yourself up onto your elbows, you see him standing by the tiny dorm kitchen, placing two plates of food on the counter.

You blink at him sleepily, confused. “Did you make extra on purpose?”

He doesn’t look at you as he plates the food, but you don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn pink.

“You’re already here,” he says simply.

That’s all he says.

But when he sets the plate in front of you, something warm settles in your chest.

The first game you go to, Sakusa plays like his life depends on it.

You hadn’t planned on sitting so close to the court, but one of his teammates had insisted, ushering you into a seat with a too-knowing smirk. The energy in the gym is electric, the air thick with anticipation. You’ve never really watched him play before—not like this.

He’s already on the court when you spot him, stretching near the net. His head turns slightly, scanning the crowd like he’s looking for something. His eyes pass over you once, then snap back.

For just a second, he falters.

It’s quick—so quick that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might’ve missed it. The moment his gaze locks onto yours, his fingers twitch at his sides, his jaw tightening.

Then, he exhales. Rolls his shoulders back. Locks in.

You’ve never seen him play like this before. Focused, sharp, completely in control. His serves are ruthless, each one hitting its mark with unwavering precision. Every spike is calculated, every movement fluid. The intensity radiating off him is almost palpable.

His team wins, of course.

Afterward, you wait for him outside the locker room, arms crossed, watching as players filter out one by one. When he steps out, fresh from a shower, his hair damp and his bag slung over one shoulder, he stops the moment he sees you.

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you play that well just because I was watching?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sakusa scoffs, rolling his eyes.

But his lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.

You grin. “You totally did.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

And when you both walk back to your dorms later, shoulders brushing, his fingers graze yours before he pulls away too quickly.

You pretend not to notice.

That night, after another round of pretending this is just stress relief, neither of you move when it’s over.

You’re lying on his bed, your head turned slightly toward him, watching the way his chest rises and falls with each slow breath. His arm is draped loosely over your waist, fingers resting lightly against your skin. The room is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of students passing by outside and the rhythmic hum of the dorm heater kicking on.

You could get up. You should get up.

But instead, you speak.

“You know this isn’t normal, right?” you murmur.

Sakusa doesn’t open his eyes. “What?”

“This,” you say, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to do this.”

His fingers tighten slightly against your hip, just for a second. “I know.”

A beat of silence.

You swallow. “So why do we?”

Sakusa finally opens his eyes, looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something there—something simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken yet unmistakably there.

You expect him to dodge the question, to brush it off the way he usually does. But he doesn’t. He just looks at you.

And you realize, in that moment, that you don’t really want to hear his answer.

You just want him to keep looking at you like that.

five.

A week before the festival, the networking event is in full swing. The banquet hall is filled with students, alumni, and faculty—mingling, exchanging business cards, and making polite conversation over expensive hors d’oeuvres. The hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of polite laughter—all of it blends into a constant, low-level buzz, the kind that starts to wear on you after the first hour.

And it has been an hour. An exhausting one.

You’ve spent most of it bouncing between conversations, smiling until your cheeks ache, engaging with donors who are all too eager to talk about their latest ventures. It’s tedious, but necessary. Part of the job. You, as much as you sometimes wish you weren’t, are the face of the ASU, and that means standing here, playing nice, keeping people happy.

Across the room, Sakusa is lurking near the back, a glass of water in his hand, his expression unreadable. He never cared for these kinds of events, and you’re not sure why he bothers attending in the first place. Maybe because you’re here. Maybe because it’d be more suspicious if he didn’t. Either way, he’s kept his distance all night, watching the room with the sharp, observant eyes you know so well.

You’re halfway through an exhausting conversation with a donor when someone sidles up beside you, close enough that the scent of his cologne—something expensive, overly strong—settles in the air between you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough self-assurance to set you on edge. “You look good tonight.”

You barely remember his name—Terushima, maybe? Some business major, someone who always carries himself like he’s the most interesting person in the room. He’s charming, in that forced, calculated way, and it’s clear he expects the same back.

You force a polite smile, instinctively taking a step back. “Thanks,” you say evenly. “Are you enjoying the event?”

He barely acknowledges your words. His eyes linger. It’s not overtly inappropriate, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle with discomfort.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask—”

Before he can finish, a hand lands on the small of your back. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

You glance up just in time to see Sakusa step in beside you, his expression unreadable but his presence unmistakably possessive. His fingers flex slightly against your waist—not hard, not urgent, but firm enough to ground you.

The guy’s smirk falters.

“Oh,” he says, glancing between you and Sakusa, processing. “Didn’t realize you were… with someone.”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The air around him shifts, a quiet warning woven into the sharpness of his gaze.

The guy clears his throat, mutters something about catching up later, and disappears into the crowd.

Sakusa’s hand doesn’t move.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, tilting your head up at him.

He exhales sharply, finally letting go. “He was annoying.”

You bite back a smile. “You’re grumpy.”

He gives you a look—flat, unimpressed—but there’s something unreadable in his expression, something tense, something simmering just beneath the surface.

You don’t think much of it. Not until later.

That night, everything feels different.

Sakusa’s touch is rougher than usual. Not careless, not cruel—just… more. Harder. His grip on your hips is firm, his fingers pressing deep into your skin, like he’s trying to anchor himself. His kisses are deeper, hungrier, laced with something unspoken, something desperate. Like something inside him has snapped, like he needs to prove something—not to you, but to himself.

You notice immediately.

The way he pushes you back onto the mattress, the way his body moves against yours, the way his lips chase yours with a kind of urgency you’re not used to—it’s different. There’s a tension in him that wasn’t there before, a weight behind his touch that makes your breath hitch. It’s not impatience, not exactly. It’s more like restraint fraying at the edges, barely holding together.

When he settles between your legs, when he pulls you against him like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers, you smirk against his lips.

“Someone’s in a mood,” you murmur, voice teasing, but there’s an underlying curiosity there too. A question you don’t quite ask.

He exhales sharply against your neck, a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he tilts your chin up, kisses you harder, swallowing whatever words might have come next. And just like that, the conversation ends.

You don’t tease him after that.

Later, long after the room has gone quiet again, your breath is still uneven, your body still humming in the aftershocks of it all. The warmth of his skin lingers against yours, the feeling of his touch still imprinted in every place he’s been.

You expect him to roll away like he usually does—to shift onto his side, to put that familiar distance between you. Sakusa isn’t distant, not in the way that people assume, but he’s careful. Careful with his space, with his touch, with how much of himself he lets you see.

But tonight is different.

Instead of moving away, he stays close. One arm draped loosely over your waist, his fingers resting against your skin. His breathing is slow, deep, steady. When you shift slightly, his grip flexes—just barely, just enough to keep you there.

You blink, caught off guard.

Sakusa is guarded, meticulous, composed. He doesn’t do things without reason, doesn’t let his guard slip without meaning to. And yet, right now, he’s letting himself be close. Letting himself stay.

You watch him for a moment. His curls are messier than usual, some strands falling over his forehead. In the dim glow of the night, his features are softer, more open than they usually are. There’s something about seeing him like this—unguarded, still half-lost in the haze of sleep—that makes something tighten in your chest.

Without thinking, you reach up, brushing the hair away from his face.

Sakusa’s eyes flutter open.

You freeze. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers on you, dark and unreadable. Then, after a moment, he exhales, his eyes slipping shut again.

You take that as permission.

Your fingers move again, slower this time, threading through his hair. His breathing evens out, his shoulders relaxing beneath your touch. You don’t think he even realizes it, the way he melts into the warmth of your palm, the way his body unconsciously shifts closer.

A strange warmth settles in your chest. Something soft. Something quiet.

The urge to be closer to him—to feel more of him—creeps in before you can think better of it. And so you don’t think. You just act, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.

Sakusa’s eyes snap open again.

He stares at you, startled, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“What?” you ask, amused. “I can’t kiss you?”

His brows furrow, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he says, “You never have before.”

The words sit heavy between you.

You blink, lips parting slightly. You don’t know why his voice sounds like that—soft, careful, like he’s treading over unfamiliar ground. You don’t know why it makes your heartbeat stutter, why it makes your chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.

You swallow. “Did you… not like it?”

A beat of silence. Then, just as quiet: “No.”

Your breath catches.

He exhales, turning his face slightly into the pillow, but not before you catch the faintest hint of red blooming across the tops of his ears.

So you take a chance, leaning in again—this time pressing a softer kiss against his temple, then another against the bridge of his nose.

He lets you.

And when you settle back down beside him, his fingers find yours, hesitant but deliberate.

Neither of you say anything.

You don’t need to.

six.

Sakusa isn’t paying attention at first.

He’s in the ASU office, sorting through the last of the Spring Festival budget reports while the others talk idly around him. The voices blend into the usual hum of conversation—background noise, nothing worth listening to. At least, not until he hears your name.

That’s what makes his focus shift, what makes his fingers still slightly on the paper in his hands. His head doesn’t lift, his posture doesn’t change, but his ears tune in before he can stop himself.

“Are you guys dating?”

Kiyoko’s voice. Calm. Casual. A simple question, but one that makes his grip tighten around the page in his hands before he even knows why.

There’s a pause—just long enough for something to stir uneasily in his chest.

Then you laugh.

“Oh, no,” you say, amused. “It’s not like that.”

His stomach drops.

The feeling is sharp, unexpected. Foreign.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. It’s not like you’ve ever talked about this. It’s not like there’s anything to talk about. You both agreed—no feelings, no complications. Just stress relief.

Still, the way you say it—so easily, so effortlessly—it makes his throat tighten.

Not like that.

Not even close.

Sakusa forces himself to breathe, shifting slightly in his seat as he stares at the document in front of him. He clenches his jaw, willing himself to let it go, to shake off the strange weight settling over his chest. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. The festival is next week. His schedule is packed. He doesn’t have time to dwell on things that shouldn’t even be a problem in the first place.

But for the first time in weeks, his brain refuses to cooperate.

The conversation continues around him, but it’s as if everything has dulled—like the words are passing through a filter, muffled and distant. All he hears is your voice. The casual certainty in your tone. The way you’d dismissed the thought so easily, like it wasn’t even worth considering.

Like the idea of being with him was ridiculous.

He exhales slowly, his grip on the budget report tightening until the edges of the paper crumple under his fingers. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t ease his hold, just stares down at the page as if forcing himself to refocus will make the feeling go away.

It doesn’t.

It lingers.

All through the rest of the meeting, as he signs off on expenses and finalizes last-minute festival details. As you talk to him like nothing has changed—like he’s still the same Sakusa you’ve always known, the one you don’t have to think twice about, the one who isn’t even worth a second glance.

By the time the meeting ends, he feels restless.

Then, later, you invite him to a party.

It’s casual—one of your friends is hosting, nothing too fancy, just a small gathering with drinks and music. The kind of thing you don’t usually ask him to go to.

“Come with me,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow as you both leave the office. “You never go out.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t have time.”

You groan. “Oh my god, Sakusa, for once in your life, stop being responsible and just come have fun.”

But he shakes his head. “I’ll pass.”

You stop walking. Turn to face him.

“Why?”

The question is simple. Easy. You’re not even upset—not really. Just confused. Because he never used to turn you down before.

He hesitates.

He could lie. Say he’s busy, that he has too much work to do, that he’s too tired.

But that’s not the real reason.

The real reason is this: if he goes, he can’t pretend it’s not real anymore.

He can’t keep pretending this is just stress relief. That it doesn’t mean anything. That he doesn’t want more than what you’re willing to give.

Because if he goes, he’ll see you in a setting where you’re not just the ASU president, not just the person who collapses into his bed after long meetings, not just the person who understands him better than anyone else.

You’ll be you. Loud, laughing, electric.

And he’ll look at you, and he’ll want. And he can’t afford that, not when he already knows how this ends.

So instead, he meets your gaze and says, “I just don’t feel like it.”

Something flickers across your expression. It’s quick—so quick that if he wasn’t looking at you so closely, he might’ve missed it.

But he doesn’t.

He sees the brief drop of your shoulders, the slight shift in your posture. You don’t push. You don’t ask again.

You just nod once, tight and short, and say, “Okay. Whatever.”

And then you turn and walk away, sparing only a quick glance over your shoulder.

The moment you’re gone, Sakusa exhales, running a hand down his face. He tells himself it’s fine. That this is what he wanted. That this is better.

But he feels like shit. His head hurts. He feels like he can’t breathe.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, Sakusa wonders if he just made a mistake.

seven.

Sakusa starts pulling away first.

It’s subtle in the beginning. Little things.

You don’t notice it immediately—not with how chaotic the week leading up to the Spring Festival is, how much there is to do, how many fires there are to put out. The days are long, packed with meetings, last-minute approvals, and problem-solving. You’re too busy running from one crisis to another to really stop and think about it.

But then it starts becoming undeniable.

He stops lingering after meetings. Stops staying late in the office with you. Stops brushing his fingers against yours when he hands you documents, stops nudging your knee under the conference table, stops looking at you when he thinks no one else is watching.

And, most noticeably, he stops touching you.

That’s when it really sinks in.

Because you had started to grow used to it—the warmth of his hand on the small of your back, the way he’d reach for you without thinking, the way he used to pull you into his side when no one was around. It had become second nature, a quiet, unspoken thing between you.

You had never questioned it before, had never asked what it meant, because you didn’t think you had to.

But now? Now it’s like none of it ever happened. And you, despite all your reasoning, don’t understand why.

At first, you try to be patient. Try to tell yourself it’s just stress, that he’s just overwhelmed with work, that once the festival is over, things will go back to normal.

But then another day passes.

And another.

And suddenly, you can’t ignore it anymore.

The shift between you is undeniable. It’s in the way he moves around you now—distant, calculated, careful. In the way he answers you with clipped, impersonal responses. In the way he keeps space between you, never standing too close, never reaching for you like he used to.

You wait for him to snap out of it.

He doesn’t.

And when another day ends with nothing—no lingering glances, no easy, familiar touch, no warmth—you start to wonder if you imagined it all. If it had only ever been real for you.

So the night before the festival, you finally snap.

The office is empty, save for the two of you. The exec board has long since gone home, leaving behind stacks of paperwork, half-empty coffee cups, and the heavy silence between you.

Sakusa is seated across from you, scrolling through his tablet, looking as calm and composed as ever. You, on the other hand, are vibrating with frustration.

You don’t know how to bring it up. You don’t know how to phrase it, how to put into words the mounting tension, the frustration, the confusion—the gnawing ache in your chest that has been growing with every passing day.

So you wait. You tell yourself you’ll wait for him to say something, to acknowledge the change between you, to explain why things feel so different now.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his tablet, grabs his bag, and stands up—just like that, like nothing is wrong, like he hasn’t been slowly pushing you away without a single explanation.

And that’s what finally breaks you.

“That’s it?” you blurt out.

Sakusa pauses, glancing at you with a frown. “What?”

“That’s it?” You stand, crossing your arms. “You’re just gonna leave?”

He exhales, clearly exhausted. “It’s late.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

Silence.

He looks at you, expression carefully blank, and for the first time, you realize how much that pisses you off. How much you hate that unreadable look, how much you hate that he’s acting like he doesn’t know exactly what you’re talking about.

Your stomach twists. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t… like I don’t exist.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” You take a step forward, your pulse racing. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me anymore.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you push forward. “What the hell, Sakusa?”

He stays silent, staring at you.

You shake your head, frustration mounting. “You know what? Fine. If something’s wrong, just say it. If I did something, just tell me. But don’t—” Your throat tightens. “Don’t just shut me out.”

Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone before you can place it.

Then, he says, “You’re overthinking it.”

You blink.

And then, you laugh—sharp, bitter. “Oh, I’m overthinking it?”

“Yes.” His voice is calm, infuriatingly so. “It was never meant to mean anything, remember?”

The words hit harder than they should.

Something cold settles in your stomach. You stare at him, suddenly unable to breathe properly.

He doesn’t even flinch as he says it, doesn’t even hesitate. Just looks at you like this is nothing, like the past few weeks have been nothing, like the way he used to kiss you like he needed it, like the way he held you close at night, like none of it mattered.

Like you don’t matter.

You swallow, forcing down the lump in your throat. “Right,” you say quietly. “I forgot. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretending things don’t matter.”

Sakusa’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You should really leave. You should walk away before you say something you can’t take back. But you can’t—not yet.

So instead, you inhale sharply and take one last shot, your voice softer now. “Did any of it mean anything to you?”

Sakusa’s fingers tighten around the strap of his bag. His posture is rigid, his face unreadable. But he doesn’t answer.

And that tells you everything you need to know.

You let out a shaky breath, blinking fast. “Okay, then. If it doesn’t mean anything, then let’s just stop.”

Something shifts in his expression—something small, something almost imperceptible. But you don’t wait to figure out what it is.

You turn before he can say anything else, before he can twist the knife even further, before you can say something you’ll regret.

You’re the one who walks away.

This time, you don’t look back.

eight.

You pretend everything is normal.

Meetings are professional. Efficient. Painfully, excruciatingly polite.

Sakusa hands you reports with a clipped, “Here.” His voice is devoid of warmth, of the quiet familiarity that used to live there. You take them without glancing up, without acknowledging the way his fingers twitch as if resisting the impulse to linger. When you slide budget breakdowns across the table, you’re careful—so careful—not to let your fingers brush his, even by accident.

Once, you might have laughed together at the absurdity of this project, whispering half-serious bets about which department head would crack under the stress first. Once, you might have stayed late in the ASU office, shoulders brushing as you worked through spreadsheets in the dim glow of your laptop screens, stealing moments of shared exhaustion, shared silence, shared something.

Now, there’s nothing.

Now, there’s only distance.

It kills him.

At first, he thought this would be easier. That shutting you out would make it hurt less when you eventually drifted away. That if he built a wall between you first, he wouldn’t have to watch you build one later. He thought he was protecting himself.

But this—this is so much worse.

Because you’re still here, but you’re not his anymore.

And it’s all his fault.

You distract yourself with the festival. There’s no time to dwell on things that don’t matter, you tell yourself. Vendors need coordinating. Performers need confirming. Alumni need charming. A hundred little details claw at your attention, demanding focus, pulling you away from thoughts that ache too much to touch.

You throw yourself into the work like it’s a lifeline, like drowning in logistics and schedules will somehow silence the restless thoughts that gnaw at the edges of your mind. If you keep moving, if you keep planning, if you keep pushing forward, then maybe—just maybe—you won’t feel the weight of what’s missing.

And yet, the stress is worse now.

Because Sakusa used to help carry it.

He used to take half the burden without being asked. Without expectation. Just because he could, because he wanted to. Because he used to look at you and see someone worth helping.

Now, the weight is suffocating.

You feel it in the silence of the ASU office late at night, the way the empty chair beside you seems colder than before. You feel it in the exhaustion that clings to your skin, sinking into your bones. You feel it in the dull ache that settles in your chest every morning, never quite fading, never quite leaving you alone.

But worst of all, you feel it every time you see him.

He looks fine. Composed, indifferent, the same as always.

It infuriates you.

Because really, how dare he? How dare he act like nothing happened, like nothing changed? Like you weren’t tangled up in his sheets just days ago, like he wasn’t tracing circles against your skin in the quiet hours before dawn, like he wasn’t the one who pulled away first?

How dare he pretend you never meant anything, when he was the one who made you feel like you did?

You hate him for it. You hate him for leaving, for walking away.

But more than anything, you hate that deep down, under your hurt, you don’t hate him. Not even a little bit. Not really at all.

Sakusa is miserable.

Volleyball used to be his escape. His sanctuary. The only thing that made sense.

But now, even that feels wrong.

Because before every match, before every practice, he used to look for you in the stands. It wasn’t even conscious—just instinct, muscle memory. A habit woven into his routine, as natural as breathing.

He knew you didn’t come to every game. But you did, a lot. Sometimes he’d glance up and catch you pretending not to watch him too closely, pretending not to care, even as your gaze lingered a little too long. Sometimes he’d meet your eyes, and you’d smirk, and he’d know—know that later, when the dust settled, you’d have some sharp-witted comment about his form, his plays, his post-game interviews.

But now, he looks, and you’re never there.

It fucking sucks. It ruins his whole routine.

It starts to show, too. His blocks are sloppy. His serves lack precision. His reactions are just a half-second too slow, and he knows it. He can feel it in the way the ball doesn’t quite connect the way it should, in the way the court doesn’t feel like home anymore.

And his teammates notice.

“You good, man?” Bokuto asks one afternoon, frowning after another off-target spike.

Sakusa exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not, though,” Hinata says, watching him carefully. “You’ve been playing like shit.”

Sakusa glares. “I’m not—”

“Ya are,” Atsumu cuts in, arms crossed. “And it’s not just yer game. You’ve been miserable for weeks. If somethin’s wrong, deal with it.”

Sakusa clenches his jaw. Says nothing.

Because what is there to say? That he’s miserable because of you? That he’s the one who ruined everything? That he made this choice, and now he has to live with it? That he doesn’t even know if you’d forgive him, even if he tried to fix it? That the only person who could make him feel like himself again is the one person who won’t even look at him anymore?

No.

He can’t say any of that.

So instead, he just exhales, picks up the ball, and mutters, “Let’s run it again,” and pretends like everything isn’t falling apart.

nine.

The festival, despite everything, begins.

It should be thrilling. It should feel like a triumph, the culmination of months of relentless work, late nights spent hunched over planning documents, and a hundred tiny decisions that should have amounted to something seamless, something grand.

Instead, it feels like hell.

Everything that can go wrong does. Vendors arrive late, throwing the entire setup into disarray, their excuses flimsy and their apologies meaningless when the delay sends a ripple effect of chaos through the carefully arranged schedule. The sound system glitches in the middle of the first student performance, transforming the singer’s voice into a garbled mess of static before cutting out entirely, leaving behind a stunned silence. Booths sit empty, their intended attendants missing due to some logistical oversight—some failure of coordination that has faculty members exchanging exasperated looks, their whispers dripping with disapproval.

You are drowning.

By the second day, you are running on caffeine, frustration, and the sheer willpower not to completely unravel. Your feet ache from hours of pacing across campus, your temples throb from the unrelenting onslaught of problems, and your patience—already stretched thin—is now nonexistent. The pressure is suffocating, bearing down on you like a weight you were never meant to carry alone.

And Sakusa?

He is just as miserable.

You see it in the rigidity of his posture, in the way his fingers curl into fists whenever another problem arises, in the exhaustion darkening his gaze. He moves through the chaos with his usual efficiency—quiet, methodical, unreadable—but you know him. You know him better than anyone.

And you know he is barely holding it together.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you mention how your interactions have been reduced to clipped exchanges, words stripped of warmth, spoken with as much distance as possible. Neither of you admit that this week—this godforsaken week—has been unbearable without the other.

Unfortunately, your executive board notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi announces, arms crossed as he surveys the two of you like a detective piecing together a crime scene. “Something is wrong.”

“You’re imagining things,” you mutter, flipping through the latest stack of vendor complaints. The words blur slightly, but you refuse to let anyone see just how exhausted you are.

“I’m not,” he insists, undeterred. He gestures between you and Sakusa, who is seated across the room, fingers flying over his keyboard as he types with a level of aggression usually reserved for his worst enemies. “You guys are acting weird. Weirder than usual.”

“We’re fine,” you snap.

Kiyoko adjusts her glasses, her sharp gaze cutting through your defenses. “You haven’t smiled in days. You’re constantly on edge. And Sakusa—” she tilts her head towards him, “—hasn’t insulted Futakuchi even once today.”

“That’s actually a huge red flag,” Futakuchi adds helpfully.

Ushijima, ever serious, nods in agreement. “The dynamic of the team has shifted.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “Can you all not? We have actual work to do.”

Aone, silent until now, observes the two of you with his usual quiet intensity. Then, after a painfully long beat, he gives a single, solemn nod. “Tension,” he murmurs.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face.

Futakuchi’s smirk is infuriating. “See? Even Aone notices.”

You don’t bother responding. You don’t even have the energy to argue. Instead, you gather your paperwork, shove your laptop into your bag, and storm out.

You don’t look back.

If you did, you’d see Sakusa watching you leave.

You hit your breaking point halfway through the week.

It happens during the alumni networking fair—the crown jewel of the festival, the event that was supposed to impress donors, alumni, and potential sponsors. The one you poured every ounce of your energy into perfecting, sculpting each detail with the precision of a master craftsman.

Instead, it crumbles.

A venue miscommunication leads to seating chaos, leaving guests aimlessly wandering, confused and increasingly irritated. The guest speaker’s flight is delayed, the catering company—despite weeks of prior confirmation—chooses now to re-verify their payment processing, and as if fate itself is conspiring against you, an administrator corners you minutes before the event, droning about “expectations for student leadership” and how “this level of disorganization reflects poorly.”

You can’t do this.

You feel it building—the pressure, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of everything going wrong all at once. Your chest tightens, your vision blurs at the edges, and for the first time all week, you recognize a terrifying truth:

You cannot do this alone.

Then, before you can completely shatter, Sakusa steps in.

One moment, you are teetering, barely keeping yourself upright. The next, he is there.

He moves swiftly, seamlessly, fixing problems before you can even register them. He handles the seating issue with a few clipped instructions. He calls the speaker’s team, negotiating a workaround before you can even reach for your phone. He takes charge of the caterers, shutting down their nonsense with two curt sentences and a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

He moves through the chaos with the same unshakable precision he always has—calm, efficient, controlled. He has always been good under pressure, but this is different. This is not just problem-solving. This is something else.

And it hits you all at once: you miss him.

Not just the arrangement. Not just the late nights, the convenience, the way his touch had always lingered longer than necessary.

Him.

The way he always knew—knew exactly when you were on the verge of unraveling. The way he kept things from falling apart, even when you felt like you were. The way he understood you—truly, deeply, in a way no one else ever had.

And it is terrifying, because it is not just missing him. It’s needing him.

Sakusa realizes it too.

Not just that he still wants you, not just that ignoring you has made this entire week unbearable. Those things were obvious. What he realizes now is that none of this—none of the work, none of the stress—was ever what exhausted him.

It was pretending. Pretending he didn’t care. Pretending it was just an arrangement. Pretending he didn’t—

Well.

Pretending he didn’t love you.

And now, watching you—watching the way your shoulders finally loosen as you let him help, watching the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable when you look at him—he knows it is too late.

He’s in too deep. He’s always been in too deep.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even care anymore. He misses you too much to care.

ten.

It’s as if the universe has finally gotten its act together.

For once, everything aligns. As if things have finally conspired in your favor, the remainder of the festival unfolds with an almost unsettling ease. No vendor catastrophes, no logistical nightmares, no alumni with their impossible demands.

Thursday slips into Friday, Friday into Saturday morning, each day a seamless rhythm of events ticking by without incident. Your executive board exhales in collective relief, tension unspooling from their shoulders. Your own pulse, which has been a metronome of stress all week, finally settles into something resembling normalcy. You even manage to sleep—five full hours, a luxury that feels like an eternity compared to the restless snatches of rest you’ve been surviving on.

And now, the final night is here.

The Spring Gala. The grand finale. The last orchestration of the festival—a beast of an event that had consumed endless planning meetings, countless revisions, and more compromises than you’d care to admit. And yet, somehow, impossibly, everything is running smoothly.

The ballroom glows with golden light, strands of soft illumination draped elegantly across the ceiling, casting a warm haze over the room. Candlelight flickers along the tables, their delicate floral arrangements arranged with meticulous care, petals unfurling under the glow like they, too, are basking in the perfection of the night. The gentle hum of a live string quartet weaves through the space, their melody twining through laughter and the quiet clink of champagne glasses. Students and faculty glide through the room in their finest attire, the men crisp in tailored suits, the women draped in silks and satins, everyone engaged in the carefully curated illusion that deadlines and responsibilities don’t exist beyond these gilded walls.

Everything is perfect.

And yet, your focus narrows to one thing.

Him.

Sakusa looks good. Too good.

The sharp lines of his black suit mold effortlessly to his frame, the dark fabric absorbing the ambient light, making him appear even more striking. His curls are tousled, just slightly, as though he had run a hand through them absentmindedly before walking in. He stands with practiced ease, scanning the room with the same sharp, unreadable expression he always wears—one that betrays nothing, yet you’ve always found yourself trying to decipher. And it’s infuriating, because you’ve spent the entire week meticulously avoiding the gravitational pull he seems to exert, trying not to let your eyes linger too long, trying not to remember the weight of everything unsaid between you.

But right now? Right now, he’s making it impossible.

Especially when his gaze finally lands on you.

It’s just a flicker—a second’s pause, a shift in his expression so fleeting you might have missed it if you weren’t already attuned to him. But you see it. The way his dark eyes sweep over you, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. The way something unreadable flickers in his gaze before he schools his features into careful neutrality.

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to move, bridging the space between you with a measured ease you don’t quite feel. Every step feels deliberate, a careful choreography masking the unease curling in your stomach.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” you say, tilting your head slightly, voice lighter than the weight pressing against your ribs.

Sakusa’s brow lifts—just barely, the movement almost imperceptible—but you catch it. “I planned half of this.”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you cross your arms over your chest, trying to steady yourself in the face of his presence. “Yeah, but you hate these things.”

He exhales, his gaze sweeping over the grand spectacle around you as if only now acknowledging the elaborate display—the glittering chandeliers, the swirl of expensive fabric, the low hum of conversation filling the air like static. “Figured it would be suspicious if the EVP didn’t make an appearance.”

“Mhm.” You hesitate, just for a beat, before speaking again. “So… where’s your date?”

His eyes snap back to yours, something sharp and immediate in the way he looks at you, like the question caught him off guard. “What?”

“Your date,” you repeat, forcing nonchalance into your tone even as your pulse betrays you, drumming against your skin. “Someone as charming as you must have one, right?”

Sakusa’s expression flattens, unreadable yet telling in ways you don’t have the words for. “No.”

The single syllable lands heavier than it should. You had expected a different answer—assumed he would have someone by his side, someone who had effortlessly captured his attention in the time you had spent pushing him away. And yet, here he stands. Alone.

You don’t know why that realization makes your heart stutter.

“Well,” Sakusa says, his exhale quieter this time. “Neither did you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

His gaze remains steady. “You didn’t bring a date either.”

“Yeah, because I was working.” You scoff, deflecting without hesitation.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that makes you feel like he’s seeing more than you intend to show. “Still.”

It’s just a single word, but it lingers, curling around you like an unspoken challenge, seeping beneath your skin, sparking something warm and restless in your chest.

Before you can unpack it, before you can shield yourself from whatever this is, he speaks again.

“Dance with me.”

You freeze. “What?”

Sakusa sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, like he hates what he’s about to say. “Dance with me,” he repeats, softer this time. “Since neither of us brought dates.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, trying to decipher the layers of meaning beneath the words.

Sakusa Kiyoomi—who loathes social events, who avoids unnecessary physical contact, who has spent the entire night lingering at the edges of the room—is standing here, asking you to dance.

And for some reason, against all logic, you say, “Okay.”

The music shifts into something slow, something delicate, a melody spun from soft strings and quiet longing. It doesn’t demand anything extravagant, only movement, only presence.

You expect him to be tense, awkward, but when his hand finds your waist, his fingers curling against the fabric of your dress with a touch more certain than you anticipated, there is no hesitation. His other hand finds yours, warm and sure, his grip anchoring. His movements are smooth, practiced, betraying a familiarity with this kind of closeness that feels at odds with the person you thought you knew.

You, however, are acutely aware of everything.

The warmth of his palm burning through the layers between you. The faint press of his fingertips against your lower back, light yet possessive. The scent of his cologne—crisp, clean, laced with bergamot and something deeper, something uniquely him.

And then there’s his gaze, dark and unreadable, flickering down to meet yours, searching for something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.

It’s too much.

And suddenly, before you can stop yourself, the words slip out, quiet, hesitant, but real.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

Sakusa blinks, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “For what?”

You inhale, fingers curling against his shoulder, grounding yourself in the press of fabric and muscle beneath your touch. “For how things have been. For the way I acted. For… shutting you out. I really did miss you, you know.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “I missed you too.”

Something in your chest loosens, a tether unspooling, unraveling the knots that had been holding you in place. But before you can fully breathe it in, before you can settle into the tentative relief of it, he continues.

“I just… couldn’t pretend anymore.”

You frown, caught on the way his voice shifts, the way something raw bleeds into his words. “Pretend what?”

Sakusa hesitates. His fingers flex slightly against your waist, his grip shifting as if trying to hold onto something unseen. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, rougher, like he’s forcing the words out before he loses the nerve to say them.

“That I didn’t care about you.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter, weightier—“That I didn’t… want more.”

The world tilts.

Your breath catches, your pulse tripping over itself, something dangerous and inevitable clawing its way up your throat.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. It’s like when you first kissed him in the office so many weeks ago: you, despite everything, just move—heedless, reckless, drawn forward by something deeper than reason.

Your lips find his in a collision of heat and longing, tentative at first—a question whispered in the language of touch, of all the words left unsaid, of all the moments spent waiting, wanting.

For a single, breathless heartbeat, the world hangs in stillness. A hesitation. A precipice. Then Sakusa exhales, a sharp, punched-out sound like he’s just had the wind knocked from his lungs, and something in him snaps like a wire pulled too taut for too long.

His grip tightens at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, pulling you against him with a desperation that makes your pulse stutter. His other hand finds the back of your neck, calloused fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head just so as he deepens the kiss—no longer a question, but an answer.

The world outside of this moment ceases to exist. The only thing real is the warmth of his mouth against yours, the steady, insistent press of his body, the scent of him—his detergent, his cologne. He tastes like something intoxicating, something you want to drown in.

Sakusa kisses you like he needs to remember this very feeling, like this time away from you has been centuries rather than days—like he’s tracing the shape of your lips into the fabric of his being, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he so much as loosens his hold. There’s something achingly restrained in the way he moves, like he’s been waiting for this—for you—for far longer than he’s willing to admit.

And the thing is, you don’t want to let go.

Not now.

Not ever again.

eleven.

The final night of the festival is winding down, and the fundraiser gala is drawing to a close. The speeches are about to begin. The crowd falls into a hush, the hum of conversation quieting as attention shifts to the podium.

You grip the podium, clear your throat, and begin your speech. It's the usual stuff—thank-yous to the faculty, acknowledgements of the hard work that went into the festival, and a few light jokes to keep the atmosphere warm.

And through it all, he's there.

You feel Sakusa before you see him, his presence quietly grounding you. His hand brushes against yours just as you step up to the stage, a small, subtle touch that sends a wave of calm through you. It’s enough to settle your nerves, even if just a little.

The speech goes on. You focus, but in the back of your mind, you’re aware of the quiet weight of him standing beside you, unmoving but unwavering, just like always. Then, under the podium, his fingers curl around yours. The touch is light, hidden from the crowd, but it’s there.

Your breath hitches for a moment, but you keep going, squeezing his hand once in quiet reassurance. You keep speaking, maintaining your composure.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Futakuchi freeze. His eyes flicker to your joined hands, and you catch the brief, silent exchange between him and Aone. Futakuchi’s soft exhale is followed by a rustling of bills, Aone accepting his twenty-dollar winnings without a word.

Across the room, Kiyoko watches with a knowing smile, her gaze flicking between you and Sakusa.

When the speech ends, the applause fills the room, warm and inviting. You turn slightly, feeling Sakusa’s hand slip away, but before it fully retreats, his pinky brushes against yours for just a moment longer than necessary. Your heart stumbles again.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans the second you step offstage. He throws up his hands in exaggerated relief. “Do you have any idea how painful it’s been watching you two not be together?”

You blink in surprise. “Excuse me?”

Kiyoko hums, setting her drink down. “He’s right.”

Ushijima offers a solemn nod. “It was inevitable.”

“You guys knew?” Sakusa asks, furrowing his brow.

Futakuchi scoffs. “Obviously. Everyone knew.” He sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “You two always fit together, even before you realized it yourselves.”

Aone gives a single, affirming nod.

Kiyoko just shrugs. “You just took your time getting there.”

You glance at Sakusa, and to your surprise, he doesn’t seem annoyed. He’s not irritated—just thoughtful. His fingers twitch slightly at his side before he exhales quietly. “Yeah. We did.”

You smile, feeling the weight of the moment.

The gala lights shimmer above you, casting a warm glow over the ballroom. The noise of the crowd rises around you—the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, the soft notes of a song playing from the dance floor. The air smells of champagne and wax from the flickering candles, mingling with the floral arrangements around the room. But none of it feels overwhelming. Not with him beside you.

Sakusa stands next to you, solid and constant, just like he always has been. You glance at him again, noticing how the light hits his sharp features, how his dark eyes flicker with something unreadable. He exhales slowly, and then shifts just enough for his shoulder to brush against yours—a small, silent reassurance.

The conversations around you—Futakuchi’s exasperated muttering, Kiyoko’s quiet amusement, Aone’s rare nods of agreement—become distant, secondary. In this moment, it doesn’t matter. Because here, with him beside you, you realize one thing.

You don’t have to hide. There’s no more second-guessing, no more wondering.

No more pretending.

You are here, beside him. And he’s here, beside you.

Sakusa exhales again, barely audible over the music. His fingers brush against yours once more—nothing more than a whisper of a touch. But the warmth it brings lingers in your chest, steady and real.

He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

The night goes on—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the celebration. The festival is over, the gala winding down, the world moving forward as it always does.

But for now, in this moment, standing next to him, you know something for sure.

You don’t have to walk alone anymore.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

⨭ closing notes; special thanks to @megapteraurelia for beta reading!! veryyyy meh abt this one so far but who knows lol. ngl i'm not a sakusa girl so i hope i did him justice if u guys have any suggestions for improvement pls let me know!!! btw i am working on smth lowk crazy so i may not have a new fic for a hot sec but when im back it'll be w smth SPECIAL

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joocomics · 3 months ago

Text

CROSS THE LINE

read part two

pairing: professor!soobin x student!fem!reader

genre: smut ( 18+ ) ── 3.1 words

an accidental peek at your phone causes a shift in the way your professor behaves in your presence which results into the two of you facing your perverse nature

✎… university au, bold!bratty!reader, dirty talk, hint of exhibitionism kink, solo masturbation, mentions of pillow humping, p*rn watching, slight overstimulation (m!rec), usage of toys (dildo), reader uploads amateur p*rn online

( txt masterlist )

You examine the lecture room - everyone is focusing on the test. The air is thick with silent concentration; rustling of pages cutting through it every now and then.

In the meantime, your professor is standing in front of the window and gazing at the clear sky with hands clasped behind his back. Today, his tall, lean frame is dressed in a black cardigan over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the sleek silver watch wrapped around his wrist. Occasionally, he rolls one sleeve up a little farther to check the time with his usual unhurried grace that often makes your stomach tighten.

He seems lost in thought, so you discreetly pull out your phone and log into your account. It’s risky, but you have nothing else to do - your test is already completed and double-checked.

Your newest video is performing relatively good. You hadn’t expected it to do this well since you filmed it half-asleep, barely putting any efforts into it at all. Judging by the surprising amount of clicks and feedback, people are liking the lazy, low energy mood of the video though - of you rubbing yourself, still sleepy and dazed from the wet dream you woke up from. It has more likes than the previous ones you’ve shared, and a new comment.

You bite your lip, eager to scroll down and read it.

But you don’t get the chance to do so.

A shadow falls over your desk and your heart jumps when you see a hand on your desk.

You immediately recognise the black sleeve of his knitted cardigan; the long, elegant fingers with pretty knuckles that often times have you hypnotised by their movements - when they’re swiftly typing away on the keyboard or emphasising something on the white board that has special importance.

Your professor Choi Soobin knocks twice on the wooden surface to draw your attention; a sound, not loud, but deliberate.

As you hurry to shove your phone away, you tilt your head up, meeting his gaze.

He doesn’t look angry, he never does. His expression is, as always, calm and unreadable; his dark eyes behind the glasses give nothing away.

“If you’re finished with your test you can wait outside.” He says in a low, earnest tone. “You’re disturbing the other students.”

“It’s not…” You begin to explain, but the words die in your throat, because he silently walks away.

Choi Soobin never speaks more than necessary. He never raises his voice, but you wished he did.

He’s always so diligent and collected, it has you wondering... what would it take to make him lose that control?

Right now, in this situation, it's not just your curiousity that has you almost wishing he would snap at you; that he would let his unshakable mask crack even just a little bit so you can see what he would look like. It's also that you'd prefer it way more than having him be all restful and infuriatingly calm as you admit your stupid mistake.

Unluckily for you, it might have something to do with his good looks too, though.

Ever since you started taking his class, you’ve had an increasing heart rate on several occasions. You also noticed that his class is the only one in which you get easily distracted, and in which you end up thinking about sex.

It’s no surprise that most of your content is filmed on days where you’ve had classes with him - it's because you return home horny.

If you’re being honest with yourself, there's something about his quiet demeanour that makes you hot and bothered. Till now, you avoided the obvious truth, but you’re in too deep to keep going.

You have a crush on your professor.

“Sir, all I wanted to say is that I wasn’t cheating.” You speak with a polite tone as you keep an appropriate distance from his desk; your pulse slowly returning to normal.

Choi Soobin takes few seconds to respond. He emits a long sigh that you can only read as a sign that he’s not interested in having this conversation. But you can’t leave things like this. You’re not a cheater and you can’t allow him or any of your professors think of you as one.

“Is that all?” He asks without looking up from the papers scattered on his desk.

“I also want to apologise.” You adjust your bag on your shoulder, anticipating his next words.

Again, silence.

His behaviour is getting perplexing a bit. Usually in such situation he’d give some kind of speech, warning you of the consequences... at least, look at you once or twice. However, the way his eyes avoid you behind the lenses of his glasses makes it seem like he’s waiting for you to walk out of the door.

“Uhm, okay...” He nods, and shoots you a distracted glance that was so quick you almost missed it. “You’re a smart girl, Y/N. Hopefully you’ll stay focused on your studies and this… will not happen again.”

“I wasn’t cheating!”

You bite down on your lip to refrain from raising your voice again. Unfortunately, you fail at controlling your other impulses.

You unlock your phone and open the tab that wasn’t closed yet anyway. Your hands move quickly, not giving you a chance to think this through. Before you know it, you’re sliding your phone his way.

“This is what I was doing.”

Your professor’s mouth opens, but the panick keeps him from speaking right away. You can see the tension in his jaw, the soft pink tint spreading rapidly on the sides of his face. The composure leaves him at full speed.

On the screen, your latest video is playing with muted volume. Below, there’s a comment section that has a recent comment on top of older comments; comments, praising your wonderfully juicy pussy, complimenting how cute it is, confessing how they wish they could fill it up.

Your professor doesn’t allow his perplexed eyes to see anything else, but there’s enough of a giveaway that he saw more than it’s appropriate of him.

“You can look through the history of my—“

“There’s no need for that, I already know.” He cuts you off sternly; the nerves are lingering strongly, causing droplets of sweat across his skin. He swallows thickly before giving more explanation. “I know you weren’t cheating.”

He returns your phone back into your direction, doing his best to avoid the screen.

“Put it away, please.”

“Oh, so you really caught me earlier…” You muse out loud, hiding your phone in the back pocket of your pants. Elation flashes in your eyes as you hold your gaze upon his authoritative figure. “Did you like what you see?”

Of course! You should’ve figured it out sooner. Your video was already playing when he caught you on your phone, this explains why he acts differently in your presence right now. This is why he can’t look at you for longer than two seconds.

“This is an inappropriate question.” Choi Soobin runs a hand through his raven black hair and leans back into his chair. He starts rubbing his palms together as he tries his best to keep it cool.

Instead of ending it there, you tilt your head to the side and take things further. You can’t stop now; not when one of your biggest fantasies is coming to life.

“As you already saw,” you speak up slowly; your voice drops lower in order for it to sound seductive, “I don’t shy away from inappropriate things.”

You’re unable to tell if it's your provocative words or the way you lean boldly on the desk that causes your professor’s gaze to finally shift to you. All that matters is the way he looks at you, anyway - as if inside your eyes he sees a mixture of danger and possible pleasure. And as though he's unsure on which one he really wants to focus.

For the first time since meeting him, you truly realize how close you are in age. It awakens this risky temptation to play with his nerves a bit; to test his ability to stay calm, to suppress his feelings, his instincts.

The secrecy you need to maintain in the hall has you even more excited to act.

“Excuse me?” Soobin whispers, baffled and shaken by your forwardness.

“In fact,” you chuckle erotically as you stay where you are so he can inspect your face under the golden light streaming through the windows even better, “I bet you enjoy how inappropriate this is too.” You pause, watching for a reaction. “You probably made that remark earlier hoping I’d come to you after class was over.”

For a split second, you think he’s not going to respond, but then, unexpectedly, he rises from his chair.

The abrupt movement makes you flinch, but you quickly collect yourself, remaining in your place.

Soobin leans over the desk, mirroring your position.

God - he's so close... and so attractive; with facial features that are sharp and refined, but with certain softness to them that only make him more handsome.

“I don’t know if you realise this,” he murmurs, with voice even deeper now, “but you’re crossing the line.”

It sounds like his words are trying to rebuild the walls between you, but his body, his proximity, is speaking otherwise.

“Tell me and I’ll stop.” You whisper; never once breaking eye contact.

Instead, you tilt your chin higher as neither of you move.

And then, as you’re both silent, waiting for something to happen, you catch his expression shifting. The sharp tension in his jaw loosens, his gaze flickers before yours - first to your lips, then back to your eyes.

Soobin has always felt some type of special energy around you - one he still doesn't know how to describe, and is too scared to try, - but never this strongly. It works like a magical potion that intoxicates him more and more every time he lays eyes on you.

He's also confused. He should be thrown off by your unabashed attitude. He’s never been impressed by girls who are so bold; who make the first move ithout hesitation and flirt so openly in places where they should behave appropriately. t’s not a matter of looking down on them - he simply prefers to be the one to take the lead, to chase as some may say.

And yet, despite everything... despite knowing how inappropriate this is and despite knowing he shouldn’t even be thinking about it... he's curious.

He wets his lips nervously before swallowing thickly at the tempting sight of your mouth. What if he just...

No, he thinks to himself, as the devilish voice in the back of his mind keeps whispering.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, sir.” You give your professor one last smile and step back before he can make up his mind.

He never gave you a response, but it doesn't matter.

You already got it just by looking at him.

Choi Soobin knows he messed up.

The moment he decided to take a walk around the lecture hall letting his feet carry him in your direction - he messed up.

He messed up even worse when he allowed his eyes to peek at your phone, and then - the worst of all - when he opened his mouth, making it clear for you that he saw what was on your screen.

But what else was he supposed to do? He caught a student using their phone in the middle of a test, it was his duty to call you out. He should have made you retake it like his colleagues would have done in such situation.

The second he noticed you staring at your phone under the desk, before he even reached you, he knew it would be easier to just look away. To keep walking.

But he didn’t.

So here he is now - with his laptop open, typing your username (he effortlessly engraved it into his memory just from one look) in the search bar of this adult website like a complete idiot.

Like a creep.

Your profile pops up on the screen of his MacBook right away, but Soobin panicks and closes it shut.

This is wrong. Wrong on so many levels. Even if he just has a quick scroll down your page, how is he going to face you tomorrow?

He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face as he leans back in his chair. Frustration knots tightly in his chest.

The temptation is suffocating.

A faint blue hue glows softly on his face as he opens his laptop again.

He finds out that you’re not showing your face anywhere which is a good thing, he thinks. You’re being safe.

Next, he notices you’re really into pillow humping. You have a few videos up and it looks like in most of them you’re riding a pillow in just a baggy t-shirt. Your most recent one is the one he accidentally got a glimpse of - it’s published just two days ago, - however, he eventually clicks on a video where you have your legs spread open for the camera, and no underwear beneath a short black skirt.

His cock already got hard from seeing all of the thumbnails of your videos; from reading the provocative titles and imagining how the words would sound in your alluring voice. From simply looking into something so private from your life.

The fact he kept pressing his hand against himself while scrolling didn’t help in preventing this from happening either.

Once the video starts playing he feels the first twitch.

Just one, he tells himself, just one video and I’m never going to look at this again.

The scene of you rubbing your pussy through slow circles unfolds on his screen and Soobin’s skin grows hotter. At the start of the video you’re wearing a pair of panties - there’s a dark spot on the fabric already, and once you pull them to the side, easily exposing yourself to the audience, Soobin cusses at the wet sight.

You’re so pretty - leaking and glistening with arousal. The image has his breath hitching, both from amazement and need for release. He hears the first moan fall from your lips which can be seen during some of your small movements; as if it’s some kind of spell, Soobin’s hand gets a hold of his boner more boldly.

He's almost sure that he’s leaking in his underwear.

Without getting distracted, he watches you push two fingers inside you. Then, slowly pull them out with a string of essence dangling from them. It’s a mouthwatering scene that has him completely losing the last bits of patience he was holding.

He tugs down his clothes in a rush and sighs from relief as he makes the first few strokes.

He’s throbbing in his big fist, but he doesn’t want to cum too quickly so he takes deep breaths to control the bubbling rush while keeping his focus on the show you're putting on. The illuminating lights land on his face, accentuating the furrow of his brows, the slight parting of his lips. It also gives his eyes a captivating glow that emphasises his evident concentration, but his creeping desperation too.

Your hand stops for a moment, disappearing from the frame only to return with a bright pink dildo. At first, you play with it - gliding the silicone mushroom head up and down against your skin, then teasing your clit by smacking it few times. Your movements are bold and sexy as if you’ve been doing this for way longer.

Soon enough, the scene changes - you remove your underwear and lay down on your side while slightly bending your knees so the camera can record your pussy folds nicely.

One hand keeps your ass cheeks open as your other one forces the dildo in and out of you, meanwhile, Soobin cannot stop jerking off. He wishes he can take it easier, to try match your rhythm, but it feels impossible.

The shame and the guilt are no longer slowing him down; the pleasure has risen too high and pure euphoria took over all of his senses.

He's going to deal with the psychological consequences later.

His eyes eat up the view of your appetising thighs and the one of your gentle fingertips sinking into your butt cheek.

He can see the amount of arousal leaking out of you and his mouth waters from desire to stick his tongue exactly where it trickles out from. He shuts his eyes, fantasising about tasting it, slurping it and swallowing it with pleasure, then opens them again, not wanting to miss your next move.

The lewd sounds emerging from his speaker fill his dimly lit room - beautiful whimpers mixed with squelching noise because of how wet and small your pussy is.

“Ah! Fuck—“ Soobin’s fist strengthens around his size as he finally succeeds in slowing down the pace for a moment, until his sticky fingers completely freeze at his thick base.

His teeth bite his lip furiously from the rush suddenly being delayed; his thighs shake in his seat as the sharp thrill passes through his stimulated body.

In contrast to his doing, you in the video, quicken the process.

Your hand speeds up the colorful toy, forcing it faster and deeper inside you. With every next thrust, you release a new gasp, a new sweet moan that builds on Soobin’s pleasure even further.

And he’s not even touching himself right now, just watching the video coming to an end.

“I’m so close!” Your lips pucker up as you whine quietly.

Soobin recognises that seductive note; the same compelling voice that was speaking to him this morning. It makes him spit in his palm and resume the quick, firm strokes around his throbbing cock.

“You're gonna make me cum so hard...”

His balls tighten up, his jaw falls open and his focus on the screen goes weak.

His moans become one with yours, as though you're in the same room, pushing him over the edge.

Because he cums before you, he ends up overstimulating himself by the end of the video. Wanting to wait for you to reach your own climax, his messy fist remains around his softening dick, tugging gently.

When it comes to an end, Soobin closes his browser with his clean hand and checks the time. 1:45 AM.

It doesn't take long for the shame of his doing to settle in the pit of his stomach. How is he going to face you in a few hours?

! please do not repost, copy or translate my works

! please keep in mind that english is not my first language. i apologise for any mistakes i’ve might missed

#joocomics.txt #joocomics.fics #— cross the line #txt smut #soobin smut #soobin hard thoughts #soobin hard hours #txt hard thoughts #txt hard hours #tomorrow x together smut #txt x reader #soobin x reader

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hurtspideyparker · 18 days ago

Text

Avengers High School AU

based on this post of mine

At a Party:

Clint: Here's a drink Pete

Tony: *takes solo cup from Peter* You idiot, he's underage!

Clint: So are we dipshit

Tony: *Chugs Peter's drink*

Clint: Whatever, I'll get him a lemonade

Tony: *Chugs his own drink*

—

Natasha: Steve I saw Tony heading for the janitor's closet

Steve: Okay?

Natasha: With Clint

Steve, sprinting down the hall: NOT THE TOILET PAPER BARTON

—

Bucky: Would you like to go out sometime?

Natasha: No

Bucky: I respect that. *Turns to Sam* would you like to go out sometime

Sam: Wait—but you just. What the hell man

Bucky: I'll take that as a no. *Turns to Clint* would you like to—

Clint: Fuck yeah

—

Tony: Did you hear about the fire in the chem lab?

Steve: Tony, what did you do

Tony: It wasn't me this time!

Steve: Oh. That's new

Tony: I mean I did text Bruce the calculations, it's not my fault he didn't see the decimal

Steve: Tony!

—

Natasha: And that's why I transferred in the middle of last year

Sam: Isn't that like...a crime

Natasha: Nobody will believe you.

Sam: What? What do you mean by that

Natasha, disappearing into the crowd:

Sam: What do you mean by that?!

—

Peter: Hi Captain!

Steve: You know only the football team calls me that Peter. I'm not your Captain

Peter: Yes sir

Steve: I'm only 2 years older than you, you don't need to call me sir either

Peter: Okay Captain!

Steve: No just...whatever

—

Tony: Hey Bruce whatcha reading

Bruce: AH! Oh hey dude

Tony: Wow you're jumpy. You need to relax

Bruce: I don't think I've relaxed once since I met you but thanks for the advice

—

Clint: Do you think Thor was held back?

Sam: Naw man, he's pretty smart

Clint: But he looks like he has a 401k and a mortgage

Bucky: Talks like it too

Sam: Maybe it's a Europe thing, school is different there

Clint: Maybe. Hey Thor! What's up buddy, how's the wife and kids?

Thor: Ay? Um...well? And yours my friend?

Clint: Fantastic! Well it was good seeing you

Thor: Alright then, farewell

Sam: What an odd guy

Bucky: Nice though

Clint: Real nice dude

—

Pepper: Tony, stop flirting with me to make Steve jealous

Tony: Whaaaaat, I would never

Pepper: You very loudly told your table, which is right next to mine, "I'm going to go flirt with Pepper to make Steve jealous"

Tony: Well do you think it's working?

Steve, at Tony's table: No

—

Peter: The decathlon supervisor is already one of my references, and I tutor for Mrs. Warren's freshman class a lot so I have her too. I also volunteered at a special needs camp over the summer, plus I applied for this competitive course where you write a research paper under a university professor for junior year, and if I get it that will look really good on my MIT application. I just hope it doesn't interfere with my internship at Oscorp. What about you, what are you doing to prepare for graduation? Aren't college apps due, like, next month for you?

Bucky: Well my boss at Dunkin Donuts said he'd give me a reference. Chicks in the drive through always tip me well

—

Sam: Why'd you punch Rumlow!

Steve: Cause he was saying creepy stuff about Natasha!

Bucky: You shouldn't have done that man

Steve: What do you mean, he was being a total asshole, I don't care if I get detention

Sam: It's not him you should be worried about

Natasha: Rogers, that was MY punch to throw

Steve: Oh no

Natasha: You think I'm some damsel in distress? Come here and I'll show you a damsel in distress

Steve: I, uh, gotta go *runs out the door*

Natasha: Which way did he go.

Sam: I didn't see nothin'

Bucky: Out those doors and to the left

Sam: Bruh

Bucky: A true friend understands when the consequences are necessary *kicks Rumlow who's still lying on the ground as he walks away*

—

Bruce: What did the racing hot dog say when he passed the finish line?

Tony: What

Bruce: I'm a wiener!

Everyone:

Bruce: Get it? Like winner?

Tony: It's okay man, just stick to academics

Thor: I have one! A priest, a pastor, and a rabbi walk into a bar

Everyone:

Thor: HAHAHA, what a coincidence for them all to arrive in the establishment simultaneously!

*Everyone bursts out laughing*

Bruce: Oh come on, that wasn't even a joke!

Tony: See he has charisma. It's all about the delivery Brucie Bear

—

Sam: Wait, you're saying that the elephant toothpaste all over the second floor right before midterms was you?

Rhodey: Hell yeah it was

Sam: But everyone blamed Tony. Even Tony's parents and the principal. The only reason he wasn't suspended was because the cameras were wiped of evidence, which was also blamed on Tony

Rhodey: Yeah you'd be surprised about how much stuff I do that Tony gets blamed for. Public image does wonders to create bias

Sam: What the hell? I thought you were the responsible one and Tony was your monkey on a leash. Why does he let you blame him?

Rhodey: Cuz he's a good bro. He gets to piss his parents off, I don't get kicked out of ROTC, and then we laugh about it afterwards

Sam: You evil geniuses...

—

Wanda: I want to get married

Natasha: Are you pregnant?

Wanda: What? No

Natasha: Oh thank goodness. Wait, then why do you want to get married

Wanda: Because it's romantic!

Natasha: And the tax benefits?

Wanda: No! Well, yes that would be nice, but no! I want to be a stay at home mom and have a nice family

Natasha: Girl you failed home economics and your type is men who think calling you their "situationship" is making it official, why don't we focus on finding the vertex for now

—

If u like this vibe I have a domestic Avengers "in a timeline where Civil War didn't end in divorce" series as well:

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 :P

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atlasmoonglade · 10 months ago

Text

University AU Enemies to lovers

Joost Klein x fem!reader

Warnings: swearing, PiV (protected), 18+ only

It's a Friday evening, soft music is playing through the speakers on Max's desk, mixing in with the chatter of your friends. Everyone is sitting in different spaces around the room, some on the desk, some on Max's bed, you and Olivia rest on Max's roommate’s bed. Red solo cups of beer are scattered amongst the room. It was calm and then the door swung open.

"Yooo!!" The entering voice rang, instantly earning a happy response from Max, who hops off his bed and heads towards the entrance.

“Joost!” Max exclaims, arms open wide to embrace his friend. “Where the hell you have been, man?”

"Consider my good time ruined" you mutter.

"Be nice" Olivia pats your knee.

"I am always nice. It's him who always starts shit. That di-"

"Hey, Y/N" Joost greets, taking a seat on the opposite bed. "Hey, Olivia."

"Hey, Joost" Olivia smiles. When you don't say anything, she nudges her elbow into your side.

You roll your eyes. "Hi, Joost"

"C'mon, that's all I get?" he teases. "What's wrong? You tired?"

"You have no idea" you say, finally looking at him. He is wearing a green long sleeve polo shirt and a hat, his blond messy hair sticking out the front it.

"Aw, is it past your bed time?"

"And the day is just starting for you? Let me guess, you just rolled out of bed."

"Oh, God" someone says "Here they go again."

"Max invited me here. I am more fun than someone who sits with a sour face all the time."

"Why are you talking to me? Don't you have anything better to do?"

"You know" Max says. "if you two just - I'm gonna say it - fucked one good time. You would get over this rivalry already."

Your jaw drops, you look at Olivia, who just shrugs.

"Don't ever say that again, Max. Ew" you say disgusted at the thought.

"Ew?" Joost says offended. "You would be lucky if I even considered it."

Your jaw drops even lower. "You arrogant asshole" you sit down straight. "And this is who you all want around?"

"Stop it you two." someone says.

You can't see yourself ever getting along with him. This "rivalry" as your friends call it has started a long time ago. During the first week of introductions, he asked you to speak louder, which completely messed up your track of thought and earned some laughs from the auditory. So, after the first homework tasks, you called his presentation uninspiring and poorly structured. He took the last internship place, which he knew you wanted. So, you assigned to write the final paper with the professor, he was planning to ask. You showed his old embarrassing Youtube videos to a girl he wanted to ask out, which lead to her blocking his number. So, he fucked your roommate, while you were still in the room. He calls you short tack, princess, anything but your name, making fun of the fact that he is taller than you. List of insults you call him is too long.

"I'm gonna head out" you stand up to leave.

"I'll come with you" Olivia left with you.

You take your favorite seat in the auditorium, noise of chatting students around you as you take out your laptop. The professor walks in, prepared to start the lecture. The room falling into gradual silence, then the door opens and Joost walks in. You watch him take his place further up, he notices you looking and flips you off. You mock him and flip him off back.

At the end of the lecture professor announces "As you all know the final paper consists of a group presentation. I took liberty and divided you into pairs. I will also email you the list." he pulls up the list on the projector screen. You search for your name. As soon you see it, the color drains from your face.

No. No, this must be a mistake.

A groan is heard from the back of the auditorium. "Professor, I am not working with her." Joost says annoyance clear in his voice. "Switch me to be with someone else."

You are sat in disbelief that you got assigned to write the final paper with Joost.

"This is a final list." Professor looks at the whole class. "Drop this attitude and act like grownups."

As the lecture ends, you hurry to the professors desk. "Sir, this is not going to work. He is going to sabotage my results. Can I just switch with someone?" you look at him with pleading eyes. "Anyone else."

"I assigned pairs randomly, so everyone has equal chances. You have to learn to work with everyone." he says. "This is final."

Joost rushes past us towards the exit. You roll your eyes. This can't be happening.

You meet with Olivia and tell her everything. She laughs in shock at first, but then insists you'll be fine, that you are adults and both want this done one way or another. You knew it’d be a miracle if Joost and you made it through 15 minutes of working on something together.

You and Joost still haven't talked about it, as if pushing it to the last minute would solve the problem. It is halloween night, you are getting ready for the party, your costume is inspired by Britney Spears in her music video Baby one more time. You finish braiding your hair into two braids, fix your skirt, wait for Olivia and you head out to the party.

Loud music, neon lights, you already had a couple of drinks, feeling a nice buzz. Someone from the group of your friends suggests to play Spin the bottle.

"Hell yeah, let's do it." Max puts his hand around you. "C'mon grumps, you joining us?"

You push his hand away. "I am" you make kissing face at him. "Always dreamt of kissing you" your voice full of sarcasm. You and Max burst out laughing.

Your usual group of friends and a few people you met at the party find space in the house to set up the game, music still loud around you. Olivia brings the bottle, as you are all sitting in a circle, ready to start.

"Is there still space for me?" a voice behind you asks. You turn around to see Joost, his face painted to resemble a skull, he is wearing a black suit, which doesn't properly fit him and a red tie.

"Sure, man! We've been looking for you." Max makes room for Joost to sit next to him, opposite of you.

"I was a little busy with this girl I met." he says as he sits down. "Glad I found you guys just in time." his eyes find yours and he smirks.

"We are so lucky" you say contemplating if you should just leave. Olivia looks at you shaking her head as if trying to tell you "don't start it again", you roll your eyes.

For the past 15 minutes there was a lot of cheering as people kiss. Some give just a little peck, others fully commit, tongue and all. Max is currently making out with a girl from an acting class. Her hands are in his hair as they deepen the kiss.

"Okay okay. I am afraid you will start fucking soon." someone says. "I am not drunk enough to see that."

Everyone laughs and they pull apart, going back to their places.

It is your turn to spin the bottle, you down your drink and reach for the bottle. You give it a good spin, watching it, already knowing you will just give a little peck to whoever it lands on. The bottle slows and comes to a stop. You follow the neck of the bottle, it points to Joost. Everyone erupts into loud cheering and whistling.

"Finally!" someone says.

You look at Joost. Universe must be punishing you for something.

"Bring it on, princess." he messes up his hair. "Hope it's not gonna be your first kiss." he licks his lips.

"Pass." you say with a smile and cross your arms against your chess.

"No, that's not how this works" Max chimes in. "No skipping your turn."

You groan and look at the ceiling hoping you can just die on the spot.

Joost stands up and offers you his hand. "We will go somewhere private. Won't give you all a show. It is her first time, has to be special."

"Oh, shut up" you say. "Let's just move on, everyone"

"Just trust me." he kneels down next to you. "Can you do that for once?" he says looking into your eyes.

You stand up without his help and head towards the first room you see, you can hear his footsteps behind you.

You walk in and close the door behind you as he walks towards the window.

"I am not kissing you." you say.

"I wasn't planning on that" he replies and opens the window, he takes out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, puts one in between his lips and reaches for a lighter.

"You should quit that." you point at the cigarette in between his fingers.

He chuckles and takes a drag of a cigarette as you stand in silence.

"About that presentation.. " you start.

"I emailed the head of the department asking to let us switch partners." he looks down at his shoes. "He said no"

You look at him with your eyes wide.

"You would hate to work with me that much?" you ask shocked he went that far.

"I was doing it for the both of us. You know it would be a disaster. But since we are stuck together, promise me you won't fuck this up for us." he lifts his head up to look at you.

All of your anger returns. You can't believe you were about to offer him to put your differences behind you.

"Fuck you, Joost. Why do you think I would be the one to fuck this up? You are the unreliable one. Always gone somewhere doing fuckall with whoever." your hands ball into fists. "Fuck you" you say again and storm out of the room.

You leave the party without saying bye to anyone, you just need to go back to your room to calm down.

The street you walk back to the dorm is silent, lit up only by sporadic streetlights. It's late enough that everyone is already asleep or partying. Your head clears from the alcohol. You are deep in your thoughts, and suddenly you hear fast approaching footsteps behind you. You don't have enough time to realise what is happening, you feel a heavy hand on your shoulder. A flight or fight response kicks in and you scream, turn around and throw a punch, not risking waisting time to think about it.

Your fist connects with something.

"Ouch. You fucking bitch" you open your eyes to see Joost holding his cheek. It's not until you smell a familiar scent, cigarettes with cologne, your panic subsides a little. You think of how stupid your argument over the presentation was. The fear of being robbed or worse, has made you realise that Joost is not the enemy and never has been. Your hands start to shake and you burst into tears.

And then you hug him, your arms tight around his middle, he tenses but then wraps an arm around you, feeling you tremble.

"Hey, hey" his voice getting soft. "What's wrong with you" his other hand is still holding his cheek.

"I thought you were a murderer." you let go of him, still shaking.

"I called your name, you didn't hear?"

"No" you say "What are you doing here anyway?"

"No one knew where you disappeared to. I went looking for you." he says letting go of his cheek. The paint of a skull on his face has rubbed off from sweat throughout the night and you can see hints of red from where you hit. You start to feel sorry and embarrassed that you reacted that way. You reach out to him, but drop your hand before it reaches to touch his cheek.

"Let's not tell anyone about this." he suggests. "We can't give them the satisfaction of knowing you hit me"

It draws a laugh out of you and it makes him grin.

"It's the least I can do. I really am sorry, Joost."

"You are nuts for reacting like this...but I really didn't mean to scare you." he says. "Let me walk you home."

You walk together in silence.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier at the party." he says suddenly. "I realise I was kind of an asshole"

"Kind of?"

"Ok, yeah, I overreacted. I guess what i'm trying to say is.. Let's just do that presentation and not kill each other. I already felt your knuckles on my face, don't want that again"

You look at him, seeing the red mark again. "My room. 7pm tomorrow. Let's at least start it"

Olivia left to go to a friend’s place, you changed into comfortable pants and a cropped sweater. You sit at your desk, and wait. You’d told Joost to come at 7.

There is a knock at 7:14.

"Come in" you say slight annoyance in your voice.

"I'm sorry, short stack"

"I was starting to think you weren't gonna come" you turn in your chair to face him.

"I'm here now" he says taking a seat next to you, smell of cigarettes filling the space.

"I started writing a rough plan." you show him what you wrote on your laptop.

After 30 minutes of you two working out an agenda for the presentation, Joost leans back on his chair. "Wow"

It makes you look at him. "What?"

"Look at us. Not arguing"

"It's only been like half an hour" you look at your watch. "The night is young"

Maybe he has brain damage from the punch, but he can’t lie to himself, that night after the party shifted things. Seeing you so terrified caused a change in him. Feeling your arms around him, clinging to him and trembling so hard, softened him towards you.

He catches himself thinking you look so good all wrapped up in your shared work. He hooks his foot around the leg of your chair and pushes you closer to him.

"What are you doing?" you push yourself back.

"Why are you so far away from me?"

"I am not. I am an appropriate distance from you." you look at him as if he is crazy.

He pushes you closer again and leans in. He acts on an instinct, closes the distance between you and crashes his lips against yours. You press your hands against his chest and push away.

"What the hell was that?" you ask touching your lips.

He is just as speechless as you are. Speechless, and confused, and out of breath, and so pretty. Has he always been that pretty?

You grab onto the hem of his shirt and pull him back in, pressing your lips together in an aggressive collision. Joost's hands grip your waist and he urges you to straddle him. Without breaking the kiss you put your legs on each side of his and sit on top of his thighs. He grips your hair and deepens the kiss, earning a moan from you, which makes him push up into your clothed core. You feel him hardening.

Joosts hands slide down to your thighs, he scoops you up in his arms, standing up and lifting you up with him. Your legs are wrapped around his torso, your hands on his shoulders. He supports your weight so easily, all while sliding his tongue into your mouth. He carries you over to the bed, dropping you on top of the mattress. He looks down at you with a grin.

"These fuckers were right." he laughs. "We needed this" he leans back to you, his hands sneaking beneath your sweater, pushing it up until your bra is revealed. He looks into your eyes. "Is this okay?"

"Yes" you moan, "Please".

His pushes your bra down, enough to reveal your chest. His lips wrap around your nipple, wetting it with his tongue and applying light suction. A soft moan left your mouth, and you grip onto his hair. He can't stop himself from smiling. He sucks harder, just to hear you make some noise. Any noise.

You rubbed your thighs together for some relief. Joost noticed this and proceeded to stick his hand down your pants, fingers sliding underneath the band of your underwear. He smirks at how soaked you were already and rubs your clit as he licks a trail up to your neck. You tighten your thighs around his hand, gasping at the friction and pulling at the bedsheets. His cock is pressed against the zipper of his jeans, getting to the point that it was excruciating. So, as he massaged your clit, he undid his pants and pushed them down his legs.

"Do you want to do this?" he looks at you.

"Yes." you reply with no hesitation. "Condoms are in the drawer."

He gets off the bed, finds the pack of condoms, tears the foil with his teeth, and watches you as he rolls the condom on himself. You’re absolutely gorgeous, better than he could have ever imagined.

"How do you want me, princess?” The nickname finally getting a new meaning.

"However you want it.”

"We are doing acrobatics then"

It startles a laugh out of you, and Joost thinks he might love that—the way he makes you laugh.

He takes off your pants together with the underwear, bends your leg, pushes it away from him, closer to you, which reveals your slick core to him.

“Gotta tell me how you want me, and fucking quick.” he groans, just the view of you makes him do mathematics in his head to stop from cumming on the spot.

"Missionary works me." you prop yourself on your elbows.

So he climbs onto you. He kneels between your legs, then pushes them apart obscenely wide. You stay propped up on your elbows, watching him, but when he settles between your thighs, you fall back against your pillow.

“Good?” he asks.

"You haven’t done much,” you point out.

"Smart-ass.” He reaches down and grasps his cock at the base, and drags the tip through your folds. He coats himself in your arousal, feels the heat of your pussy even through the latex, then notches himself at your entrance. He looks down and pushes into you. He goes slow but steady, and he hears a small gasp fall from your lips.

He remembers the way you clung to him that night, and he wants to capture that feeling again.

He picks up a steady pace, holding your legs apart, kissing your neck. One of his hands makes its way to your clit again, you arch your back as he starts to draw circles around it.

He feels you clench around him. "Joost. I'm so close" you moan and he watches you come undone beneath him, proud of himself — to the point of cockiness. Giving you a few more forceful pumps, he hides his face in your neck, and releases himself into the condom.

You want to remember this forever. Him panting, moaning in your ear. He taps the side of your thigh, pulls out and throws out the condom. You watch him pull up his jeans and sit down at the desk again.

"Let's do this thing"

You and Joost are sitting next to each other in the cafeteria. Max and Olivia join you.

"Look, both are still alive!" Max jokes.

"How did it go yesterday?" Olivia asks looking between the two of you.

A deep blush spreads across your cheeks.

"Wait." Max looks at you, then at Joost. "Did you two...?"

"No way!" Olivia gasps.

"Ok, shut up guys." Joost says

"You owe me 20 bucks" Max says to Olivia.

"Fuck!" Olivia exclaims

"You bet on us?"

"Last year!" Max takes the money from Olivia.

#joost klein #joost klein x reader #joost klein smut #my writing

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marshmallowmusing · 2 months ago

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LOGAN FIC REC FRIDAY

“ classic romance „

happy valentine’s day lovelies!! thought i’d try to find some festive stuff this week:) it’s a combination of valentine’s day centric fics and ones i felt leaned into classic romantic tropes. as lovey dovey as it gets<3 mind the warnings because a few aren’t sfw. lmk if there’s a particular theme you’d like me to seek out and i’ll keep an eye out for fics that fit!

you’re the one that i want

by @eupheme

• valentine’s blind date with a twist—a soulmate au! the sort of fic where the anticipation feels like holding your breath, and god did the exhale deliver.

valentine’s blues

by @rosenclaws

• logan has a whole thing planned to make valentine’s day special, but the universe has other ideas for him. i really enjoyed how thoughtful he was in this one!

dance

by @malfoys-demigod

• you’re both assigned to be chaperones for the valentine’s dance at the x mansion. i loved how logan was a little nervous in this one, it’s so fun when he’s caught up in his feelings<3

cynical romantic

by @lostinlovingrevery

• old man logan isn’t one for valentine’s day, but that’s not gonna stop him spoiling you extra. absolutely darling how doting he is in this, need that man!

love poem

by @pandapetals

• you and logan are both professors at the x mansion, and you find some romantic writing in his desk. god this is so so romantic to me, i just love the thought of logan secretly being such a sap.

logan’s girl

by @mistyorchid, 18+

• you want to surprise logan getting all dolled up for your anniversary, to express how much you love him. this one is so tender, so domestic, and logan is truly the perfect gentleman the entire time<3

either way i’m going your way

by @flowersforbucky, 18+

• you invite logan to go out with you on your previously solo valentine’s dinner. i really enjoyed the unique circumstances of this one, with a perfect mix of sweet and spicy!

muse

by @selfcarecap, 18+

• logan’s an artist and can’t stop drawing you, slipping them under your door like a secret admirer. this is one of those fics that rewired my brain chemistry, it’s a real special one<3

thank you to all the writers for sharing your time and talents posting your works for all of us to enjoy, it’s appreciated! if you read any of these make sure to like/reblog/comment on the fics themselves to give the authors some love 🤍 check back on fridays for more!

#frf #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #xreader #x reader #wolverine smut #wolverine x reader smut #logan howlett x reader smut #logan howlett smut #logan x reader #marshmallowposting #logan x you #x reader recs #fic recs #fic rec friday #wolverine fic recs #valentine’s day fic

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nausicaaandhermouth · 6 months ago

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Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived.

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

#arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor #arcane viktor fanfic #viktor fanfic #physics professor viktor #viktor x gn!reader #violinist reader #neighbours trope #viktor smut #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x you #arcane smut #arcane viktor smut #nausicaas fics

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bvidzsoo · 10 months ago

Text

Love Me Like A Rockstar (Special Chapter)

ー☆ Special Chapter: High In Low Places

Author: bvidzsoo

Pairing: Song Mingi x female reader

ー☆ Warning: cussing ー☆ Word count: 8k ー☆ Genre: university!au, enemies to lovers!au, rockstar!au ー☆ Rating: sfw ー☆ Summary: Love. You wanted none of it. You had already been heartbroken very badly once, you didn't wish to go through that ever again. But the Universe works in intricate ways and, somehow, you found yourself webbed up in a local rockstar's life, Song Mingi. He was everything you expected him to be, yet nothing like you imagined him he would be. What happens when you find mutual understanding and have heartful conversations? Will he be able to break down your walls? Will you be able to chase away his darkness?

A/N: Hello, loveliees! As promised, you won't have to wait so much for updates anymore! ^^ I am so-so curious of what you will think of this chapter, I think it has a special place in my heart. I think I could have written it much better, but this is how it turned out, I hope it's still good. Before you start reading, I'd like to point out that reader (y/n) in this chapter is referred to as: she/her! ^^ Listen to High In Low Places before or while reading this chapter, and check out the author's note at the end of the chapter as well, it's important hehe! Let me know your thoughts and as always, I hope you enjoy, happy reading! divider

Taglist: @orshii @or5i @lovely-red2 @scarfac3 @juicy-red @sunaswifes-blog @voicesinmyhead-rc @teez-the-time @maru-matt @kyeos4ng @deathbyyeekies @chicksmoothie @mjlbn01 @xhexy @tmtxtf @hwashiningstar @thatfavouritesong @ateez-atiny380

⟨Series M.list ↭ Previous Chapter⟩

♫Playlist♫

Mingi’s POV:

The studio apartment Mingi can afford for himself isn’t the biggest, let alone the fanciest, but it’s a nice home. It’s cozy now that he’s finally decorated it to his liking. Yunho always complained about the emptiness of the walls whenever he came over, so now, they are decorated with prints of Mingi’s favorite artists, musicians, and anime posters. Yeah, Mingi, apparently, is still into anime. It appears so that his mother’s ‘predictions’ of him outgrowing his ‘phase’—ironically, she’s said this both about his ‘phases’ when he got into anime and on the day he finally mustered up the courage to tell her that he wanted to become a musician—so, to put it simply, yes, Mingi is still into anime at the fragile age of twenty-three, and yes, he will always be into anime, even at the not so fragile age of seventy-five.

However, about the musician part…if Noir Zenith have a break-through and make it into the industry, all of Mingi’s dreams will be accomplished. Well, most of his dreams. He fears he cannot beat the record of eating seventy-six hot dogs in ten minutes—what an accomplishment it would be though. Mingi knows he’s good—surprisingly, around two years ago, he finally started believing in himself—and he has a silver of hope that if Noir Zenith don’t make it big, he can have a successful solo career still. His professors say so, at least, and so does Yunho. The second person who’s opinion counts the most to Mingi. The first would be his professors’ opinions—and maybe hers, but Mingi isn’t yet ready for that conversation. Not that there needs to be a conversation about it. Yeah, Mingi is pretty hardcore into her and sometimes he wonders if others can see it. If she can see it.

She’s like an enigma, hard to read, yet, at the same time an open book. That’s how Mingi sees her, at least. He thinks he’s never met such a complex and beautiful person inside out. He wonders if she wouldn’t have been so animus towards him at the beginning, whether they could have started out as something other than friends—considering the wishful fantasy that she did recognize the progress that’s been made between them, leading to a potential friendship. At least that’s how Mingi sees things. He wants more, of course he does, but he will never force her into doing something she’s not comfortable with. Maybe she’ll never like him the way he likes her, and that’s fine with Mingi. He can sit back and support her from the shadows if that means he gets to see her happy and content with herself and her life.

Will it absolutely crush his heart and turn him into the emo boy he was back in highschool? Absolutely. Does that stop him from silently yearning for her to return his feelings at the end of each day? No, it doesn’t. But that’s just who Mingi is. A sore loser who loves deeply, cares about everyone else first before he cares about himself, sacrifices himself for them and regularly throws himself under the bus for these people. Maybe that’s why having Yunho as his best friend is such a blessing in disguise. Yunho had taught him a few tricks, helped him become more independent and less sacrificial—but you know, Mingi could never fully get rid of that core part of his personality.

He's cooped up at his makeshift studio at home—really, it’s just a large oak desk pushed up against the wall of his bedroom, a mixer and laptop placed on it with tons of notebooks and scattered pencils around, his expensive headset that was totally a gift from Yunho when he started university, and his shitty microphone that he should change soon if he wants to keep producing at home—and then there’s a distant rumble in the distance, the storm is coming back. It’s been raining quite often lately, and Mingi hates the rain. He prefers to cozy up underneath his favorite blanket—yeah, it’s totally yellow and it totally has chicks on it, sue him, it was a gift from Wooyoung, after all, for his birthday two years ago—and whenever it rains, Mingi likes to drink some hot chocolate and watch a really sappy movie. If he cries, no, he doesn’t, at least he wouldn’t admit it to anyone—maybe Seonghwa, but that would be embarrassing still. He has an electronic piano in his living room snuggled up in the corner of the room, taking up quite the place of his already small enclosure, but Mingi is a musician, he needs his instruments at hand at all times. Hence the three guitars lining his wall in his bedroom, behind his back, as he’s currently clicking through folders on his laptop.

He needs to work on his music—he’s behind on two assignments, and the thing is, Mingi’s been inspired often lately, and so, there are many unfinished lyrics and beats waiting for him to return to and complete them, but most require of him to be in a certain mood. Like the one he is in right now, jittery a little bit, and maybe caffeinated to the point he should make sure his heart wouldn’t bail on him. Fear not, though, it’s not his first time. After all, Mingi is a university student and this is nothing compared to the three all-nighters he pulled one after the other last year after he procrastinated badly. If it wasn’t for Seonghwa and his worrisome nature—okay, maybe Mingi wouldn’t be here right now, but he tends to stop his brain from straying towards thoughts as such. He’s had dark moments in his life before, and recalling them would completely destroy his mood.

As he clicks open another folder, Mingi pauses. Okay, so, the thing is…Mingi is a loser. And he’s so deep in this unclear relationship—friendship—that’s got his mind preoccupied lately, that if anyone were to see the folder with her name in his laptop—yeah, he’d be mortified. You see, these songs aren’t about her, per se—they totally are, but Mingi is a scared loser and he won’t admit it just yet—these songs are for her. You know, from a friend to a friend—he hasn’t dedicated any songs to Yunho yet, but let’s ignore that detail—and Mingi really hopes that one day she’ll be able to listen to these totally friendly songs that aren’t about her. Yeah.

Mingi opens the newest folder and his eyes fall on the latest documents he’s been working on. He had composed the beat for this song a while ago, when he was still unsure whether Seonghwa and Wooyoung would be up to explore something that is more indie, but now it’s been the center of his attention for a while now. For two weeks, precisely. He’s meticulous when it comes to lyrics writing, it’s an irritating defect he has, at least that’s how he sees it. But his professors always praise him for how lyric and poetic, at times, his lyrics are, so he takes pride in that and tries not to get mad at himself for taking so long to finish one goddamn lyrics.

He licks his plush lips and pushes up his glasses on the bridge of his nose as they were close to slipping off. And sue him, really do so, but he has noticed her staring at his glasses quite often. And her eyebrows always furrow just a little, deep eyes hyper fixating on his nose and glasses. Mingi can’t say for sure, but he’s pretty sure she’s bothered by his lack of unbotheredness whether his glasses are slipping off his nose or not. Sometimes he forgets he’s wearing his glasses, that’s why. He clicks on the document and it opens, so he takes his headphones and puts them on, pursing his lips as he grabs one of his notebook’s and a pencil.

‘Me and you/Me and you are fireproof’ – The beat starts off simple, nothing too crazy or jumpy. Mingi wanted the beats to be calm and chill, kind of crawl in your ears at the first listen. His raspy voice is smooth too, void of its usual raspiness this time. He can rarely control that, but after much experimenting, Mingi realized if he loosens his throat enough and sings deep in his throat, his voice comes out softer and less raspy.

‘Always try to blame my youth/I just wanna be your muse’ – The beat is steady, Seonghwa will love the fact that he gets to play the drums so early into the song, and Mingi’s voice drops significantly. He loves playing with intonations, he loves putting emotion into his words, into his voice. It’s like a play for him, a game of playing hide and seek with whichever emotion he wants to show or mask through his voice. Right now, it’s sultry, it’s breathy, and it’s exactly the way he’s intended it to be.

‘Neon light leads us to the end of time/'Cause I can see infinity in your eyes, in your eyes’ – Mingi closes his eyes as he lets the music take over him, pencil tapping against his notebook rhythmically. And he’s taken by his own words, finding himself relating to them more and more as days pass by. Whenever he closes his eyes, he can see hers, deep and dark in its color, blending in with his, always holding his gaze fiercely. Mingi’s been told that he’s an intimidating person at first glance—eyes, nose, cheekbones sharp—his face expressive and rarely hiding how he’s truly feeling, but that’s just first impressions, because Mingi is anything but cold or unfriendly. And whenever she holds his gaze, Mingi cannot help but try to ignore the way his heart jumps in his chest, pulse quickening. And whenever she smirks or her eyes crinkle from her laughter, Mingi thinks he’s getting deeper and deeper into this mess he’s created for himself.

‘You and I got some troubles we're facing/I know we can make it staying high in low places’ – The beat drops for a second, and then the instruments are back with Mingi’s voice, accompanying each other well, the rhythm picking up just slightly. Mingi can feel the words crawling together in his brain now, his body jittery again as he grins, gripping his pencil tighter. The chorus is good, but he hasn’t been able to write past it, but it’s coming to him right now.

‘Never mind all the tears that we wasted/I know we can make it staying high in low places (ooh)’ – And Mingi remembers the night he found her in his favorite diner, looking like she’s been crying for a while now, eyes rimmed red and nose and cheeks flushed. The rain had soaked her clothes, her hair sticking to her face, and Mingi swears he hasn’t seen anyone more beautiful than her. He wishes he knew when it all started, this—infatuation he feels towards her—but he’s clueless. Or maybe he’s not, maybe he’s just afraid to admit that he’s seen her around campus before and found her breathtaking. Maybe Mingi always has had his eyes on her and has just opted to remain in the shadows, because quite frankly, he sucks at approaching people and initiating anything. And maybe the day Wooyoung showed him pictures of Seulgi on her Instagram account, he had spotted her next to Seulgi, maybe Mingi’s heart had started racing with a stupid flicker of hope in it. Maybe Mingi really is on the brink of dropping a random ass confession onto her, but he knows she’s not ready, and he’d hate himself if he ever made her feel uncomfortable. He knows someone has hurt her gravely, and he wants things to go right this time. He can’t fuck it up.

‘In your arms, in your arms (ooh)/High in low places’ – Mingi thinks she can take him higher than anyone else, show him a whole new world. If there’s one thing he thinks can compete with her beauty and wits, it’s her art. Mingi doesn’t know much about fine art and paintings, but he knows goddam well that whoever that Monet guy was that she loves so much had nothing on her—and as you can see, Mingi is down bad, because Claude Monet was, and still is, a legend of Impressionism.

Mingi ruffles his dark hair, it’s gotten a little longer, and adjust his glasses again before he grins, jotting down the next words that will turn into the lyrics of his song. He’s composed the song with Seonghwa and Wooyoung’s timbre in mind, and he knows their voices will fit beautifully, complete it with a harmony that his unfortunately lacks. But that’s the beauty of their band. Each one of them has a particular charm that the other one lacks and they complement each other in a subtle, yet obviously gorgeous way—and well, Mingi isn’t a narcissist, but he is a Leo, and he can’t deny that their looks aren’t eye catching as well, definitely another asset of theirs that just so happens to add to the charm of Noir Zenith. – ‘Wasted days/Wasted 'til we're MIA/Stuck inside a desert haze/I just want to slip away’

Friday (11:30 am)

Me: i see u still haven’t checked my message… nothing too worrisome u certainly know how to make a man yearn for you lol that was a joke…dont freak out on me pls (lowkey true tho)

Mingi was restless. He thought that when had texted her that he got home safely—you know, after they hung out at her place, waiting for the rain to stop while killing the time by watching a movie and they have almost kissed—Mingi really thought she was just busy. And he still thinks so, because why would she ignore his messages? He’s texted her a few times already and she didn’t even bother to read them. Mingi wasn’t expecting anything from her, wasn’t trying to push her, but he was a little bit restless now. Sue him, but he couldn’t help himself. He took another glance at his phone, waiting for his messages to be read, for her to finally start typing back, but there was nothing. And the fact that her contact name stared back at him as if it was mocking him wasn’t helping with Mingi’s racing thoughts. He was an overthinker, after all. In case you were wondering, Mingi has saved her in his phone as: her (my artsy girl).

Yeah, maybe Mingi was a lot more into her than he had realized at first. But to be fair, there was nothing wrong about saving her like that. She is an artsy girl, and she’s—Mingi doesn’t want to elaborate on that just yet. And so, he’s pacing up and down in his not so big living room, walking around his couch and glancing down at his phone every few seconds. Okay, he’s effectively going crazy right now and he wants to pull out his hair. Which isn’t a smart idea, he fears his handsomeness stops at him going bald. And okay, maybe he’s spiraling. Maybe his heart is about to fall into his ass, and maybe he’s trying to take deep breaths in order to not pass out. Maybe Mingi is handling the radio silence horribly. Actually, make that horrifyingly bad, that’s how he’s not handling all this.

If he stops for a second and takes a deep breath, ripping his glasses off in frustration and rubs at his eyes quite painfully, he can feel it all coming back. The warm feeling he’s felt while they settled into her bed, the way his eyes lingered on her pursed lips as she searched for a movie to watch. And her room—let him not even get started on her room, Mingi fell in love with it. It’s just so her that he feels like he knows her a lot better now that she’s allowed him inside her safe place. Her drawings and paintings were breathtaking. He—he saw the drawing laying on her bed, sketchbook all open and shit, and yeah, he fought every muscle in his body to not grin and jump up and down in excitement at the replica of him in her own sketchbook. Mingi knew she would draw him sometimes, but now he’s wondering just how often she finds herself drawing him. Does that mean she thinks of him often? Or does she just simply get carried away and mindlessly draws whatever person comes to mind first? But if that’s the case, why would he come to her mind when she wasn’t even fixating on him?

Mingi is a mess, alright, he’s panicking. He’s panicking because he can still feel the ghost of her warm breath against his cheek, the feel of her soft skin. He was right there; the opportunity had been beautifully given to him—and he does not regret not kissing her. Yeah, he kissed the corner of her lips, because he wanted it to be her choice whether they actually kiss or not. Don’t get Mingi wrong, if it were after him, he fears he would have devoured her ages ago, but after so many years of struggling with his own emotions, he became really good at restraining himself, at having control over himself in tense situations. It’s both a curse and blessing in disguise, because he really just should have kissed her, dammit. Why is he such a considerate gentleman? They didn’t even kiss and she’s ignoring him now. Great job Mingi, you tried to avoid a disaster only for it to still become reality. Sometimes, he hates himself, but he thinks that’s okay. Everybody hates themselves a little bit at times, even if they deny it.

Mingi chews on his bottom lip and decides to place his phone face down on his couch and meditate—Mingi doesn’t know how to meditate. The air is chilly outside and maybe he forgot to pay some bills so his heater isn’t exactly working at the moment, but fear not, Mingi is a big boy—he’s a man, alright—and he will pay his bills. Tomorrow. So, due to this itsy bitsy tiny little fact, he might be bundled up in his sweater. Well…the sweater’s his now. It wasn’t his two days ago. It was her cousin’s, more precisely, but since she gave it to Mingi, it’s his now. And if he wears it almost every day, no, he doesn’t. It bogs his mind a little bit that it just so happens to resemble the same sweater Yunho used to love, to the point his mother had to hide it from him, that’s how often he’d wear it—and maybe this is another factor that makes Mingi cling to it that much more. Maybe the fact that it’s from someone he really likes, and the fact that it makes him remember someone he really loves, fucks with his mind. Especially if seasonal depression is hitting hard. He’s trying to fight it; he’s trying to do better—he’s promised Yunho and himself that he’d do better—but he feels his chest get heavy, and he hopes Seonghwa hurries his ass over before he can spiral even further into the madness his thoughts bring with themselves.

And Seonghwa, like the angel he is, does indeed save Mingi from the doom that has been looming over his head. There’s a knock at Mingi’s door and he jumps up from the couch, racing to the door. He makes it there in three long strides, his apartment really isn’t that huge. Seonghwa is smiling at him softly as Mingi opens the door for him, and so very out of character, Mingi lunges for his close friend and engulfs him in a tight hug, “Thank you for coming.”

Seonghwa is speechless and frozen for a second, but then he chuckles, “My, my, my, you must have been really lonely if you’re so happy to be in my company.”

“I’m always happy and eager to be in your company, Hwa.” Mingi says with a pout and makes way for his friend to step inside. Seonghwa chuckles, his round eyes twinkling under the light of Mingi’s lamp. It’s barely noon but rain clouds are gathering outside once again, and Mingi hates it with all of his soul. Why is it raining so much lately? Isn’t it supposed to snow, rather? It is almost the end of November, after all.

“I know.” Seonghwa whispers as he ruffles Mingi’s hair, having shaken off his coat and discarded his shoes at the door, he walks further inside Mingi’s apartment. He’s been here plenty of times, and he knows he can make himself at home and do whatever. Mingi doesn’t really mind. Seonghwa has a tote bag in his hands as he nears Mingi’s round table in the kitchen area—Mingi’s living room and kitchen are just one big room, divided by nothing—and Seonghwa starts emptying his bag onto the table. Mingi walks closer, peaking at the items Seonghwa has brought over. Dye and bleach. Okay, maybe Mingi’s at the brink of a lapse of judgement, but he knew Seonghwa wouldn’t bat an eyelash if he randomly called him up and asked him to help him change up his hair. Mingi’s been wanting a change for a while now, it’s almost unfortunate that she is the one that pushed him into enough ‘madness’ to finally do it. She is a catalyst for quite a few things happening in Mingi’s life right now, or so he had noticed.

“Are you sure you want to bleach your hair, Mingi?” Seonghwa’s voice carries doubt as Mingi leans his hip against the table, grabbing the bleach out of Seonghwa’s hands.

“Yup, pretty sure about it.” He mutters, his lips pursed as he turns the box over a few times.

“How come?” Seonghwa mirrors his pose, hips resting against the table and arms crossed in front of his chest. He has that critical look on his face, and Mingi considers for a second if it was smart to ask Seonghwa over Wooyoung to help him. Wooyoung is nosy, but at least he can be easily distracted. Seonghwa, however, he presses and presses until he gets the truth out of you. Mingi sometimes hates that, there are no secrets in front of Seonghwa, yet he holds too many secrets.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, actually.” Mingi tries to sound nonchalant as he absentmindedly lets his fingers run through his dark locks.

“But?” Seonghwa raises one eyebrow and Mingi’s lips purse as he averts his eyes.

“Can you not interrogate me this time?” Mingi’s voice is whiney, nothing Seonghwa isn’t used to, “I just really need a change, no big deal.”

“Okay, fine, I believe you.” But Seonghwa doesn’t sound completely convinced as he says that, and Mingi offers him a very fake grin, smile boxy and full of teeth. It makes Seonghwa chuckle as he takes the bleach out of Mingi’s hands, and grabs his tote bag before he makes his way to Mingi’s bathroom. Like a puppy, Mingi follows after him as he grabs the dye, and turns on the light switch for Seonghwa as he places everything in his hands down on Mingi’s counter in the bathroom, “Silver blonde, then?”

Mingi hums and closes the lid of toilet, sitting on it as he watches his friend, “It’ll be a hard process though, I don’t promise I’ll be able to pull it off right away.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” Mingi shrugs, fiddling with his fingers in his lap, “You’re pretty great at these type of things, I trust you.”

“Yeah, well, Hongjoong didn’t see my vision when I dyed his hair half blonde and half black.” Seonghwa huffs under his breath, still pretty salty about his boyfriend not liking the look as much as Seonghwa, and quite literally everyone else around him did. Mingi chuckles, still remembering Seonghwa sulk for a few days because of it. It was endearing how much Hongjoong’s opinion mattered to Seonghwa. When the two were together, Seonghwa’s eyes sparkled, and his skin glowed, his laughter more frequent, and disposition overall just happier. And Hongjoong—Mingi’s known him for four months now, that’s how long the two had been dating for—and despite Hongjoong trying to remain impassive around his lover, it was so very obvious of how in love he was with the taller one. Hongjoong rarely smiled, but when he was with Seonghwa, his cheeks would hurt and flush a light shade of red. Mingi quite quickly realized Hongjoong loved looking at Seonghwa, his eyes somehow always straying onto his lover, lingering there with profound love written all over his face. Mingi was witness to the almost disastrous end of their—at that time—short lived relationship as Seonghwa’s insecurities got the best of him and drew him away from Hongjoong. But Hongjoong didn’t give up, and partially thanks to Mingi—and Wooyoung—here they were now, happy and in love, looking forward to many more years together.

“Hongjoong is quite daft at times.” Mingi finds himself saying as he rolls his eyes, making Seonghwa pause his actions as he looks at Mingi sharply.

“You would never dare say that to his face.” And Seonghwa was right, Mingi would rather shit himself than badmouth Hongjoong to his face. That man might be shorter than Mingi himself, but he’s certain Hongjoong would drag him through all levels of hell and embarrass him to the point he’d be on the verge of tears—simpler put, Hongjoong is ruthless and sharp, and Mingi is scared of him.

“Of course, I wouldn’t dare say that to his face,” Mingi shudders, making Seonghwa almost smile, “He’d make me suffer in my next life too, if I did.”

“Serves you right for always talking shit about others.” Seonghwa chuckles, making Mingi scoff.

“I don’t even do that, hey, I’m just honest.”

“And dumb, but what’s new.”

And just like that, Mingi finds himself half an hour later sitting on the cold tiles of his bathroom floor with Seonghwa, second round of bleach all set on his hair and burning just a little bit his scalp—Seonghwa reassured him multiple times that he wouldn’t go bald, but Mingi is still skeptical about it. A little bit too late for that now, I guess. Seonghwa had placed two towels on Mingi’s shoulders, one at the front and one at the back, to protect Mingi’s sweater in case the bleach dropped on it, and they were kind of dragging down Mingi’s sweater’s collar, but he wouldn’t complain about it just yet. They would be taking the bleach off soon, and he knows Seonghwa would go off on him for whining when all of this was Mingi’s idea in the first place. Music is playing softly in the background, and Mingi tsks as Seonghwa accidentally overlines his pinky nail, smudging his skin too with black nail polish.

“You’re so bad at this, Hwa.” Mingi groans, grimacing as Seonghwa’s tongue is stuck out as he concentrates on painting Mingi’s nails black. They were far from perfect, and Mingi’s heart mourns for a second, until he realizes it kind of looks cool. Edgy. Maybe Seonghwa is onto something.

“Yeah, because it’s usually Hongjoong who paints our nails, and not me.” Seonghwa’s gaze is sharp as he throws Mingi a look, Seonghwa’s own nails painted, but an obnoxious neon pink. It is a little bit out of Mingi’s comfort zone, but Seonghwa said he liked the color and wanted to try it out. And who is Mingi to judge? Plus, he would’ve been a really bad friend if he didn’t do as his close friend wished.

“Okay, done!” Seonghwa grins, closing the black nail polish and putting it aside, “We should wash out the bleach too, before you actually go bald—”

“Seonghwa!” Mingi screeches, getting to his feet in an instant as he faces the mirror on his wall, gaping at himself. His hair is a yellowish color; however it is turning whiter by the second.

“I’m just kidding.” Seonghwa snickers, and then, as if a bulldozer hit the side of the building of Mingi’s apartment complex, his front door is thrown open, and a loud screech resounds through the open door of his bathroom.

“I’ve arrived!” Undoubtedly, the high-pitched voice belongs to none other than their dear friend, Wooyoung, “And I’ve got pizza!”

“Lock the door!” Seonghwa calls out as Mingi leans over his bathtub, letting Seonghwa rinse out the bleach tenderly from his hair. Finally, Mingi’s scalp had felt like it was on fire, but he was too scared to let Seonghwa know. Now, he prays his fair won’t fall out completely. There is shuffling outside the door and then, Wooyoung in all of his glory, barrels through the open door.

“Damn, it smells like poisonous gases in here.” He gags, placing the pizza boxes on the floor as he beelines it for the small window, “And your music sucks.”

“Fuck off!” Mingi hisses, twisting his arm to give Wooyoung his middle finger, “Limp Bizkit is a great band!”

“Yeah, if you like noise.” Wooyoung huffs and suddenly the music is stopped, making Mingi groan as Seonghwa just chuckles, massaging the strawberry smelling soap into his hair.

“You are the noise here, Wooyoung.” Mingi fires back, making Seonghwa snort loudly as Wooyoung puts on some pop music, making Mingi groan. He isn’t in the mood to listen to pop music right now.

“Stop bickering,” Seonghwa says, rinsing the soap out of Mingi’s hair, “and feed me some pizza, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung happily obliges as he opens one box, a slice already missing as he had eaten it on his way up to Mingi’s apartment, and he takes a slice for Seonghwa. He walks over to his two friends, and before he can feed Seonghwa, Wooyoung throws his left arm around Seonghwa’s waist and nuzzles up against his back, making Seonghwa sway and spray the side of Mingi’s face with water.

“Hey!” Mingi yelps as water enters his nose, making Wooyoung cackle into Seonghwa’s back as he hides his face in his friend’s back, inhaling Seonghwa’s familiar scent. Wooyoung can be a complete menace at times, but Mingi and Seonghwa would never admit they love him the way he is. It is hard not to when Wooyoung is such a good and respectful person.

“Oops, my bad!” Wooyoung giggles as he finally releases Seonghwa and holds pizza slice up to his mouth as Seonghwa takes a bite while putting conditioner in Mingi’s hair.

“You can see yourself out if you’re only here to disturb our piece of mind—Wooyoung!” Mingi, it seemed like, is Wooyoung’s target for the day as he had slaps Mingi’s ass hard, enjoying the way he is bent forward and over the bathtub. It makes Seonghwa laugh loudly, the cute sound has Mingi giggling too, and in no time, the three of them are shaking with laughter, reveling in each other’s company. There is nothing more healing to Mingi than spending his time with his closest friends—and Yunho, of course.

『In your arms, in your arms

Staying high in low places』

More days passed and Mingi was helpless. He really doesn’t understand whether he has done something so deeply wrong to deserve this—to be ignored by her. It’s Sunday, and his texts weren’t even read. He thought of calling her, but ultimately talked himself down and found something else to do. Like write his sappy lyrics that is about her. Okay, Mingi has to admit this one. He feels like he is going crazy, and the problem is that he could talk about it to someone, but he just doesn’t want to. Not yet, at least. He is scared if he says it out loud, it would become reality. Her, leaving him. Not that they are together or anything, but Mingi just simply doesn’t want to lose the friendship that’s blossomed between them over the month. It was gradual and not sudden, he knew she still had some prejudice about him and didn’t fully trust him, but they were making progress. And now Mingi hates himself for the near kiss. If he had been a little bit smarter, more in control of himself, it would’ve never happened. And it kills him that he can’t turn back time, but would it change anything? Would he actually do it differently? Would he when she was looking at him with eyes that were shining with curiosity and want? When her expression was inviting and warm and yearning? Yeah, no, Mingi has self-control, but not to the point to stop himself from giving in when someone looked to be wanting just as much as him. And Mingi has to stop thinking about her, for God’s sake he’s been trying so hard over these past few days that he’s convinced he’s finally going mad, so when Wooyoung texts him that they are going out for dinner later tonight, Mingi jumps in delight and starts getting ready.

And they go to his favorite diner too—where him and her had met, and she was all wet from the rain and crying due to something unknown to Mingi—and he has to stop thinking about her when he’s with his friends! The atmosphere is light and cozy, lightning dim but not to the point you can’t see, and the music playing is retro and if Mingi turns around, he can see an elderly couple dance around happily, laughing and talking to each other. His stomach coils at the sight, and he tries to fight the yearning and sadness that tries to overtake him, he really does.

“So, Seonghwa,” Wooyoung breaks Mingi’s intense gaze and mindless thoughts, “how’s that art gallery looking?”

Seonghwa blushes for a second, and hides his mouth behind his palm as he tries to chew his chicken nugget faster, “Good, good. I found a spot for it, finally.”

Wooyoung beams at that and Mingi can see Hongjoong trying to bite down his smirk, “That’s amazing! Why haven’t you said anything?!”

“He thinks he’s gloating if he says anything,” It’s Hongjoong who answers instead of Seonghwa, and his answer makes both Mingi and Wooyoung roll their eyes at his words, “He thinks everything he’s achieved lately isn’t because of his own merit—”

“Hongjoong!” Seonghwa flushes even more, his cheeks already tinged pink from the alcohol he had consumed during the evening, “Why would you say that to them?!”

“So that there’s someone else other than me praising you for your hard work and letting you know that you are the reason these things are happening to you, my love.” Wooyoung pretends to gag when he hears the endearing words leave Hongjoong’s mouth, but Mingi just smiles and takes a sip of his own beer. It’s been a while since he had drunk, he felt the need tonight. He had hoped it would help him unwind—it wasn’t working so far.

“You need to stop having this impostor syndrome, Hwa.” Mingi hears himself talking, eyebrows furrowed as he steals a fry off of Wooyoung’s plate. The shorter one makes a sound of displeasure, and in a petty revenge, steals a pickle off of Mingi’s plate.

“Let’s stop talking about me, please.” Seonghwa says with a sigh, eyebrows furrowing, and it’s obvious he isn’t feeling comfortable. Mingi pretends he doesn’t see Hongjoong place his hand on Seonghwa’s thigh and squeeze. Mingi pretends he doesn’t suddenly feel a pang of jealousy towards the couple. They worked through their differences and doubts, and here they were, in love and going forward. Why could Mingi not have that too? Why did everyone abandon Mingi in the end? His parents told him he had to fend for himself if he chose to be a musician, and if it weren’t for his grandparents funding him until he has finished university—he doesn’t want to think where he’d be. Yunho had once abandoned him too, left him alone in this city, letting him unknowingly almost destroy himself. Wooyoung, now, has Seulgi and he spends a significant amount of his time with her, and is rarely up for their schedules gaming nights, Mingi feels abandoned. Seonghwa is like he has always been like, but he’s not as spontaneous as before. Sometimes Mingi just wants to go on night drives and listen to music and Seonghwa isn’t available because of Hongjoong anymore, Mingi feels abandoned.

“How’s the deal with the label going?” Hongjoong speaks up after the prolonged silence, not uncomfortable by any means, and Mingi heaves a sigh as he downs his beer in one go. Wooyoung raises an eyebrow at that.

“We’re still negotiating the terms, payment, and all the gist.” Mingi mutters, placing his chin in his palm. He’s not drunk, nor tipsy, but he feels a light buzz in his head. One more pint and he might just become tipsy.

“I see,” Hongjoong hums, rubbing his lower lip with two fingers, “But they’re treating you well, right?”

Hongjoong, as usual, is wearing fancy clothes. It’s a Sunday evening, yet he’s dressed to the nines. Mingi feels a little uncomfortable because of that—and just what’s his problem?! What’s gotten into him today? He’s never been like this before; he feels annoyed at himself.

“Yeah, yeah.” Mingi mutters, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Wooyoung, despite being labeled as someone who talks and talks without paying attention to those around himself, has picked up on Mingi’s displeased mood, and scoots his chair closer to his. He grins widely at Mingi and throws his arm around his friend’s shoulder, pulling Mingi into his side. Mingi doesn’t say anything despite not feeling up for the physical closeness, and allows Wooyoung to pinch his cheek.

“Lighten up, dude, what’s wrong?” Wooyoung asks, but not loud enough for Seonghwa and Hongjoong to hear as they have started softly conversing about something. Seonghwa is smiling, eyes narrowed and the way he’s leaning towards Hongjoong have both Wooyoung and Mingi knowing that he’s saying something inappropriate, and if Hongjoong’s eyes widening isn’t confirmation for Mingi and Wooyoung, then Hongjoong choking on his water certainly is.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Mingi gulps, picking around his food before he steals another fry from Wooyoung’s plate and dips it into his own ketchup, “I think I’m tired.”

“Dude, it’s a Sunday evening, how are you tried?” Wooyoung is confused as he finally releases Mingi, and he tries not to let it show on his face that he’s happy for the separation.

Mingi thinks for a second, though, and makes up a stupid lie, “I still haven’t recovered from yesterday’s game.”

“Right.” Wooyoung doesn’t believe him and it’s nothing new to the both of them, Wooyoung sees right through Mingi’s lies. Everyone does, actually, he can’t lie to save his life, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

“I just—” And Mingi almost goes off, but he abruptly remembers where he is as people start clapping behind him, “Nothing, I’m just tired. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Okay.” Wooyoung whispers while looking disappointed, and Mingi suddenly hates himself for making his friend feel like that. He can’t help but think he’s made Wooyoung feel like he’s not worthy of knowing Mingi’s thoughts, of knowing what his heart desires. And he wants to talk about how much it affects him that she hasn’t texted back—and probably won’t, Mingi came to the realization—but there’s a lump in his throat that is kind of making him choke up right now. And when he hears Seonghwa giggling, and he looks up, Hongjoong is leaning towards Seonghwa with a mischievous look on his face, and then Seonghwa steals a kiss from his boyfriend that makes Hongjoong freeze. Wooyoung is typing away on his phone, and Mingi knows he’s talking to his girlfriend, Seulgi, because who else would Wooyoung be talking to? And the lump in Mingi’s throat tightens and he abruptly stands, heartbeat quickening. His three friends look up at him alarmed, and Mingi’s embarrassed, but he can’t help himself as he grabs his phone off the table and pushes it in his pocket.

“Sorry, guys, I’m not feeling well.” Mingi croaks out, clearing his throat as his tone wavers, “I’ll head home now, you enjoy yourselves.”

“Hey, Mingi,” Hongjoong has concern written all over his face and it makes Mingi almost cry. He hates how sensitive he is, “I can drive you home—”

“That’s cool, man.” Mingi is shaking his head at the offer, he needs fresh air and a long walk to try and clear his mind, otherwise he’ll have a panic attack. He can feel it, and he does not want that.

“Mingi—”

“Seriously.” Before any of his friends could insist more, he throws his jacket on and waves at them. And then he’s out of the diner in a second, feeling a little bit bad for not greeting Dahyun first, but the place feels too stuffy and warm for him to stay inside anymore. He takes off and tries to take deep breaths, but his lungs won’t expand fully. His hands are slightly shaking as he grabs his phone out of his pocket and he unlocks it, staring down at her contact. Nothing, still. Mingi’s heart clenches and he bites his lower lip, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. He can’t do this anymore; he feels like he’s breaking. He doesn’t understand why she won’t at least give him an explanation. Fine, she doesn’t want to be friends with him anymore, but she has to explain why. Mingi won’t rest until he doesn’t know the reason, and it’s making him crawl up a wall. He dials a number before he can even think more about it, and he finds himself teary eyed at the familiar male voice.

“Hey, Ming!” It’s cheery as always, and Mingi knows Yunho is smiling on the other end, “Fancy seeing you call, it’s not like I haven’t heard your voice like—four hours ago.”

“Yunho.” And Mingi feels horrible for worrying Yunho, because the last time he called his best friend and sounded like this—things were bad. And by the way Yunho goes quiet before he gasps quietly, Mingi knows he fucked up and he shouldn’t have called when he feels so all over the place, but he needed to hear his best friend’s voice, he needs Yunho. Because there’s no one else like Yunho in the world. No one else who understand him like Yunho. No one else who knows him like Yunho. No one else who’s always been next to him like Yunho has been. No one else who loves him unconditionally like Yunho does.

“Mingi, what’s wrong?” Yunho sounds panicked and before Mingi can stop himself, a tear falls down his cheek, “Please, talk to me. Do I—do I have to come home? I can drive down right now, but it’ll take two hours—”

“Yunho,” And Mingi’s now crying as he crosses the road quickly, walking to a park that’s dimly lit so he can cry in peace, away from prying eyes—not that there are many people out at this hour, “You don’t—don’t have to come home, I just—I’m so confused, and I’m tired, and I need someone.”

“Mingi, you have me, tell me what’s wrong.” Yunho’s voice is soft and Mingi is grateful they aren’t on facetime, because he’s positive Yunho’s eyes are filled with tears right now, and that would just make him cry harder. He tries to wipe at his cheeks, but the tears just keep coming, and the lump in his throat gets harsher and makes it a little hard to speak, but Mingi powers through.

“I met this girl,” He sniffs loudly and takes a deep breath, and Yunho is quiet, listening closely, “you know her, I’ve talked about her a few times.”

“The girl who paints and draws, right?” Yunho asks just to make sure.

“Yes.” Mingi sniffs, his tears becoming fewer, “And she’s—there was a heavy rain on Thursday and I drove her home before it got that bad, but I would have had to wait for it to pass in my car—but she invited me inside. And it was fine, it was fun and everything went well and then—then I—she—we almost kissed. Her mother got home and she interrupted us, and it’s just, she was a little weird right after it, but—she—she hasn’t texted back since Thursday, Yunho. She didn’t even look at my messages and I sent her plenty. I—I don’t know what to do because I think—I think I like her a lot, Yunho, and I don’t want to lose her over something so banal. We’re not even a thing, we’re just friends, but I—I don’t want to lose her too.”

What a word-vomit, Mingi thinks, as he sniffs loudly and rubs at his nose and cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, sitting on a bench as he pulls his legs up and hugs them to his chest. Yunho is quiet for a second on the other end, until he sighs long.

“Oh, Mingi,” He sounds sad, and it makes Mingi chew on his bottom lip again, holding back a new flood of tears, “That’s so fucked, what the hell! I know you feel like shit, and I know what you are thinking right now—I’ve known you for my whole life—so, please, stop blaming yourself for her own actions and reactions. You didn’t do anything wrong and she should treat you better. You don’t deserve to be ignored and you do deserve an explanation. I’m sorry I can’t be physically there for you.”

“This is enough.” Mingi whispers, feeling his heart less heavy now that he’s said all that, “It’s enough that you listen to me and reassure me. Hearing your voice is enough too, Yuyu.”

Yunho chuckles on the other end and Mingi cracks the smallest smile, “You’re so sappy, but I’m glad I’m able to help even if I’m not there with you. I would tackle you in a big hug right now and definitely buy your favorite chips and go on a drive with you, if I could.”

Now, that makes Mingi sad again, dammit, “You know what? Maybe you should drive here tonight.”

Yunho snorts, and Mingi stands, determined to walk home now, “I am planning on going home in a few weeks, actually.”

“Why not tomorrow?” Mingi insists, eyebrows furrowing at having to wait that much more. It’s been almost two months since Yunho has come home.

“We’ll, I’ve already got—”

“Stuff to do and shit.” Mingi cuts his best friend off, already knowing what he would say. They snort at the same time and then break into quiet giggles. Mingi is content all of a sudden, head a little clearer and lump from his throat gone, finally.

“I miss you.” Yunho beats Mingi to it, and Mingi smiles from ear to ear as he turns onto his street, he doesn’t live that far away from the diner.

“And I miss you too.” Mingi says it back, tipping his head back as he looks up at the night sky. The sky is finally clear and he can see the stars and the moon. It makes him smile again, Mingi loves the moon a little bit too much, perhaps, “I love you, Yuyu.”

“I love you, Min.”

And to Mingi, there is nothing more therapeutic than talking to his best friend, hearing his voice, being in his presence and able to share his affections towards him. Yunho is too precious to him.

Sunday (1:01 am)

Me: …you’re ignoring me, arent u? im sorry, y/n, i dont know what i did wrong, but we can talk about it we’re friends, after all…right?

❱❱ Next chapter

↳Perm. taglist: @orshii @jjoongstar @tinyelfperson @thestarskiller @zuuhaa

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@vnessalau @oddracha @chatsgotmytongue

❀ complete the forms if you're interested! ^^

A/N: So, hi again. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, because I have another surprise for you all hehet. If you are interested in Seonghwa and Hongjoong's story, I can happily tell you that I have created their own spin-off on AO3 and it's called Our Atoms Fusing. It's on-hold currently, but I am happy to announce that I will be picking up writing for that too, and it will have in total around 7~8 parts. So, check it out if interested! ^^ I've kept this a secret for long as I wanted the timing to be right lol, despite the hints I have dropped about them, I am so glad I can finally talk about it. Istg, I'm obsessed with these two, I can't wait to continue their story too! And sorry if there are mistakes, I'm spent lol.

Also, if you happened to notice the mistake I made, no you don't, shhh.

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 2 years ago

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boo! surprise bitches! i'm doing kinktober this year! finally doing it! bet you didn't see that one coming, did you hehe 🕸

there is a good mix of both short and long stories coming your way throughout this (and i will also still occasionally post other fics this month that aren't related to this). also, a handful of these fics are darker in nature, thought it was fitting for halloween, so remember to read the warnings, if there's something that's not for you then please, as always, be kind to yourself and don't read the story.

masterlist | join my taglist

day one | sore

stepbro!sirius black x cheerleader!reader + dubcon massage

day two | don't smile

steve rogers + throat fucking + size kink

day three | stuffed

devil!eddie munson & angel!steve harrington + tentecles + double penetration in one hole

day four | a little fashion show

best friend!stiles stilinski + lingerie

day five | stay still

peter parker + bondage

day six | hold up, let me record this

jj maybank + tittyfucking + sextape

day seven | the palace guards

guards!poly!marauders x princess!reader + secrets relationship

day eight | it’s practically like we’re down there with them

mob boss!bucky barnes + exhibitionism

day nine | keep that pretty mouth shut

tommy shelby + keep quiet quickie

day ten | I couldn’t find it in me to wake you

poe dameron + somno thigh fucking

day eleven | I just want you a little longer all to myself

matt murdock + secret office sex

day twelve | nothing more than a toy

rafe cameron + using you like a toy to masturbate with

day thirteen | I still got a few rounds left in me

boxer!steve rogers + bathtub sex

day fourteen | open your fucking mouth

dark!wild west cowboy!joel miller + gun kink

day fifteen | tiny

miguel o'hara x fairy!reader + extreme size difference

day sixteen | the wall between us

cult member!steve harrington + fem glory hole + breeding

day seventeen | be a rebel, be bad, stay here and cuddle with me

spencer reid + aftercare

day eighteen | pleasant pile of pillows

brother's best friend!james potter + pillow humping

day nineteen | ring ring

sam winchester x reader x bf!dean winchester + phone sex + cheating

day twenty | window

perv!neighbour!billy russo + voyeurism

day twenty-one | say yes

fiancé!bruce wayne + possessiveness

day twenty-two | i can think of something better than that

bucky barnes + anal

day twenty-three | double check

dark!professor!ben solo + power imbalance + manipulation

day twenty-four | maroon

vampire!remus lupin + biting + blood kink

day twenty-five | i want you

pirate captain!miguel o'hara + sex as payment

day twenty-six | teamwork

pro football team!avengers (bf!steve rogers, bucky barnes, pietro maximoff, clint barton, sam wilson, tony stark, thor odinson) + gangbang

day twenty-seven | my little flower

din djarin + fantasy au + cockwarming

day twenty-eight | hysteria

doctor!aleksander morozova x hysteria patient!reader + historical au + fuck machine

day twenty-nine | can't fight the moonlight

werewolf!bucky barnes x gf!reader + predator/prey + monsterfucking

day thirty | magical mimic

eddie munson x witch!reader + magical mutual masturbation

day thirty-one | you can’t put it in

stepbro!peter parker + halloween pussyjob

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albondiguilla007 · 3 months ago

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Hinny recs (5k to 40k words)

✨ Sisyphus / 5k / Harry gets another chance - and another and another. At some point, they stop feeling like chances at all.

✨ Uncle Harry / 5k / Grace Dursley is almost eleven years old when she meets Cousin Uncle Harry for the first time.

✨ Light Beam / 6k / 'Dad, hypothetically….. what would you have done if Mum was Sirius' sister?'OrLily notices it first, Harry pines and James cheers.A Jily Lives AU canon compliant with HBP.

✨ The Cry / 7k / In the blurred aftermath of the battle, Teddy just won't stop crying.

✨ Aunt Marge’s Even Bigger Mistake / 8k / Ginny persuades Harry to attend Dudley’s wedding. Unfortunately, both of them forgot that Aunt Marge would also be attending.

✨ lips long parching / 10k / Going solo to her ex’s wedding is not exactly Ginny’s idea of a good time, but thanks to a smuggled flask and a rather sullen Harry Potter, it’s about to get a lot more interesting.

✨ Dudley’s Memories / 11k / Minerva needs help delivering another letter to #4 Privet Drive. At forty, Dudley is not at all what Harry expects. A long overdue conversation ensues. DH cannon compliant, but probably not the way you think. Prologue to "Snape's Memories".

✨ Hogwarts, to welcome you home / 11k /

"You understand, Professor," Harry began, after a moment, "that I don't have my N.E.W.T.s. I never even finished seventh year. Between everything, I never had a chance the first time around, and then afterwards there didn't seem to be much point.

Hermione argued for it, of course, but I was so tired of Britain. So technically, I am completely unqualified for the position."

"Quite a way to begin an interview, Mr.

Potter," McGonagall said, dryly.

Or, three years after the war, Harry Potter becomes Hogwarts' newest

Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

✨ Dudley Dursley's Most Unexpectedly Fortunate Flower / 14k / Dudley Dursley is leading a perfectly normal life, his contact with his odd cousin limited to Christmas cards and peculiar memories.

Until his daughter sneezes and sets the curtains on fire.

✨ Waste of Space / 15k / Out of the blue one day, Dudley Dursley receives an invitation to his cousin's wedding.

✨ gone was any trace of you / 24k / An accident at work left Harry with a mysterious case of amnesia and a wife he couldn't remember.

✨ Five Times Ginny Tells Harry She's Pregnant (And One Time She Can't) / 29k / Six standalone chapters. Six alternate universes. Five times when Ginny delivers some particularly pertinent information..and one time when she can't.

✨ half awake and almost there / 33k / Wherein Harry never could help himself from trying to save the day, and Ginny was just trying to survive her shift without killing any of her customers.

✨ New Leaf to Turn / 36k / Dudley Dursley lived a very normal life. But when an all too familiar letter makes an appearance on his son's 11th birthday, Dudley must seek the guidance of a cousin he hasn't seen in 19 years. Who else but Harry Potter?

#harry potter #ao3 #fanfic #hinny #hinny fanfic #harry x ginny #ginny weasley

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steviebbboi · 7 months ago

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Stevie BB 200 Followers Celebration Writing Challenge!

Howdy lads~ exciting news to share:

I just reached a 200 follower count on Tumblr 🎉🎉🎉

I kinda can't believe it? Writing is indeed good for my soul. Interacting with y'all on here has helped me with my mental and emotional wellness due to just finding such great community on here. Thank you for giving me the space to write and for following along/supporting in my writing journey 💖

With that spiel spoken, I wanted to host a writing challenge in celebration of this milestone! *squealing because i'm so excited to host*

Stevie BB 200 Followers Celebration Writing Challenge Masterlist

*you'll find all writing submissions and writing requests (answered) at the link above*

You could participate by sending in either:

✨ writing request via my Asks (💙)

and/or

✨ writing submissions (💥).

General Rules:

the challenge will start October 1st until the end of November (flexible on late entries for submissions only💥; let's say till mid-December or so).

I'll read/write for Chris Evans characters, Henry Cavill Characters, and Charlie Hunnam characters [and Bucky Barnes specifically lol] (these are my preferences but if there are other characters that you'd like to bring in, just ask me)!

for writing requests 💙, i will only be accepting requests (2 max/person; pls do not send more than 2 asks!) until the end of November.

for writing submissions 💥, go wild! submit as many as you like!

you can do both (send in a writing request 💙 AND send in a writing submission(s)💥) if you want to; rules still apply for the requests though.

use at least one prompt within your request 💙/submissions💥 from the lists below (but def. go crazy if you wanna use more than one! you don't have to claim any prompts).

works can be inclusive! poc, gender neutral, neurodivergencies, mid size/plus size/curvy readers are encouraged!

No word limits but please use a 'read more' after 200 words

Works can be part of an existing series but must be able to stand on their own

tag me @steviebbboi and use the tags #bbboi200celebration and #steviebbboiwritingchallenge in your entry so i can read/reblog your work! (If I somehow lose sight of your submission, please remind me and I'll take a look at it right away ☺️)

Most important one: Have fun!

How To Play:

✨ You must be 18+ to participate in this challenge!

✨ Choose one (or multiple 😏) BB's:

Chris Evans Characters

Steve Rogers/Captain America

Ransom Drysdale

Ari Levinson

Frank Adler

Curtis Everett

Andy Barber

Hayden/Harvard Hottie

Nick Gant

Jake Jensen

Johnny Storm

Lloyd Hansen

Henry Cavill Characters

Clark Kent

Napoleon Solo

Geralt of Rivia

August Walker

Charlie Hunnam Characters

Jax Teller

Raymond Smith *extra brownie pts if you write about him omg*

King Arthur

Sebastian Stan

Bucky Barnes [he's all by himself im so sorry lmfao 🥹]

✨ Choose one (or more) of the following prompts:

*if you don't want to write smut, you don't have to choose anything from the kinks prompt! feel free to only use the following two prompts :)

soft dom!BB

clothes/naked ratio

size kink

slow and deep 👀

breeding kink (non-pregnancy version)

somnophilia

free use

cockwarming

belly bulge

Squirting

consensual non-con

consensual dub-con

cumeating

creampie

anal/or dp

possessive/or protective manhandling!BB

oral sex

orgasm delay

dumbification

daddy/princess kink

overstimulation

sex pollen

prone bone

cockdrunk

threesome (BB/Reader/BB)

ass/pussy spanking

mild degradation

body worshipping

quickie/don't get caught (public sex, threats of exhibitionism, etc.) 😏

Grouchybb! who is only soft with you

Married and loyal!spouse

A/B/O

lumberjack!bb who is a teddy bear on the inside tho

mob AU

biker AU

soulmate AU

mutual pining/idiots in love

childhood besties to lovers

reformed playboy

professor AU

supernatural/mythical (gods, sirens, werewolves, witches, vampires, ghosts, oh my!)

frenemies to lovers

fwb to lovers

locked in AU/forced proximity

medieval AU

fake dating/relationship

sharing one bed

polar opposites attract

break up and make up

spy AU

meet cute

cowboy AU

gentle recluse!BB

brothers best friend!BB

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Yes, take it, slut"

"It's not that big of a deal."

"God, why do you always do this"

"You're impossible."

"Then I guess we gotta be quiet, huh?"

"We're trapped."

"Shh, you wouldn't want anyone to hear, or do you?"

"You're taking me so well, baby"

"Good girl" *for fem readers; adjust accordingly!*

"Tsk, uh-uh, c'mere, honey"

"You always feel so good around me, baby"

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Here, let me help you."

"Yeah, are you a cockhungry slut, now?"

"I hardly think that that's necessary."

"Don't be a brat, baby."

"Aw, does it feel good right there?"

"I'm sorry!"

"What do you want from me?!"

"I didn't mean to!"

"What do you think you're doing here?"

"Nope. Again."

"Don't worry, I got you."

"Just stay still, there you go."

"Just one more, I promise."

"C'mon, don't you wanna be good?"

"Stay over there!"

"You better hurry up, baby."

"Thaaaat's it, you're doing so well, honey."

"Uhm, I'm not sure that's going to work."

"Please, I'll beg, please!"

"Be honest."

"Be careful there, darlin'."

"Are you okay?"

"Are you sure you wanna go there?"

Scenarios? Any! Go. Wild.

✨ I love reading/writing angst w/HEA, soft dark (nothing too dark though), fluff and SMUT (as you can see w/the many many kinks).

no incest (stepcest is ok if tasteful lol), no infidelity, no watersports, no murder, no gore. if you're unsure if a trope is appropriate, ask me!

if im ever uncomfy with writing something, i will lyk and we can talk more about it to see if we could work with it!

feel free to ask any questions!

i think i got everything!

Have the best time, laddies~ thanks for celebrating with me!

All are welcome to join in the fun! ❣️

Tagging a few mutuals who may be interested but no pressure bbs:

@bigtreefest @mercurial-chuckles @stargazingfangirl18 @yenzys-lucky-charm

@sweater-daddiesdumbdork @buckets-and-trees @hotdamnhunnam @laurfilijames

@autumnrose40 @eloquentlytired @misscherry-26 @stellar-solar-flare

@darsynia @navybrat817

#steviebbboi answers #bbboi200celebration #steviebbboiwritingchallenge #200 followers omgggg #writing challenge #chris evans fanfiction #henry cavill fanfiction #charlie hunnam characters #writing prompts #writing community #writing prompt #writeblr #writers challenge #writers stuff #signal boost for writers challenges #signal boost #boost

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amethystarachnid · 5 months ago

Note

I have an idea for this Accidental Roommates AU (example: both character and reader book the same apartment and are now roommates), and I hope this makes sense to you! So, it's with Tony&fem!reader. They'll turn into a lovely couple after some time, and adopt a kitten/cat together? Tony Stark is the biggest cat dad in the world, and no one will convince me otherwise hehe.

Thank you! 🧡 (or you can ignore this)

ROOM FOR TWO - part I

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Multiverse

ᯓ★ Story type: short fanfic

ᯓ★ Word count: 6k

ᯓ★ Summary: Finding out that the apartment you were supposed to live in is overbooked isn't the best way to start college, especially if your roommate it Tony Stark in all his arrogance. Will things between you two change when you have to co-parent a stray kitten?

ᯓ★ part II

ᯓ★ TW(s): pure fluff

ᯓ★ AU: Accidental roommates

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

A campus rental, small and cozy, isn’t what you pictured when you imagined your first college apartment. The place is narrow, the walls are beige, and the furniture is outdated—but it’s private. Or so you thought.

When you first walk in, your suitcase bumping against the doorframe, you’re ready to start unpacking, excited about this small taste of independence. But before you make it past the entryway, you hear footsteps and a muttered curse.

Then you see him. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at you like you’re the one who doesn’t belong here.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. His voice is sharp, confused, and a little annoyed. He’s got dark hair that’s messily falling into his eyes and he’s wearing a band T-shirt, ripped and faded like it’s been through too many wash cycles. His jeans are equally worn, fitting him a little too well, and he has this stance—relaxed but tense at the same time—that suggests he isn’t someone who’s often surprised. You know who he is, of course. He’s in your engineering class, always the one who asks questions so far above everyone’s heads that even the professor sometimes looks thrown.

“Um… I live here?” You don’t mean to make it sound like a question, but it kind of is. Because despite the paperwork in your bag and the email from the landlord, this feels wrong. Or at the very least, unexpected.

“No, you don’t,” he counters, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow. “I do.”

You shake your head, forcing yourself to stand a little straighter. “I signed the lease last month. I have emails and everything.”

“Yeah?” He pulls out his phone, scrolling with one hand before he flashes his screen toward you. “So did I.”

You squint, trying to make out the details through the faint glare. And then it hits you. Your landlord—the one who’d been juggling your papers at your first meeting, his glasses slipping down his nose as he talked in circles about tenant rights and late fees—must have double-booked the apartment.

Great.

Tony sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, this has to be some kind of clerical error. I’ll call the landlord and sort it out. This isn’t—” he gestures to you, almost like he’s waving you off, “—what I signed up for.”

“Hey,” you say, putting a hand on your hip. “I didn’t sign up for this either. You think I wanted a roommate?”

“Considering I was promised a solo apartment? No.” He rolls his eyes, the look almost theatrical. But there’s something tired in it, something that tells you he’s just as put out as you are.

You cross your arms and look him over, not backing down. “Fine. Call him.”

He stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re challenging him, before he pulls up his phone again. He dials, waits for a second, and then mutters a low curse when he’s sent to voicemail. “Of course,” he grumbles. “The guy’s probably out somewhere completely unreachable.”

“Figures,” you mutter back. “This is a disaster.”

Tony shoves his phone back into his pocket and leans against the counter, watching you with a resigned sort of amusement. “Well, I don’t have anywhere else to go. And unless you’re secretly a millionaire with a spare apartment lined up, I’m guessing you don’t either.”

The sarcasm in his voice makes you narrow your eyes. “I have a backup plan, thank you very much,” you lie, because you’d rather not give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s got the upper hand here. But he’s not buying it. The way he’s smirking tells you that much.

“Right,” he says, dragging out the word, “but if you’re planning on staying at this backup plan, you’d better let me know soon because I’d rather not waste time unpacking if I’ll be the only one here.”

You bite back an irritated response, taking a deep breath instead. “Look,” you start, forcing yourself to be diplomatic, “why don’t we just… figure this out later? The landlord will be available at some point, and we can get this sorted then.”

“Fine by me,” he replies with a careless shrug, but you notice his eyes linger on you a little longer than you expect. “So what’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you reply shortly, unsure if you want to give him any more than that just yet.

“Tony,” he says. There’s something about the way he says it that feels almost like a challenge, like he’s waiting to see how you’ll respond.

But you just nod, trying to ignore the way he’s sizing you up, like he’s deciding whether you’re friend or foe. You’re here to study, to focus on your degree—not to get tangled up in whatever Tony Stark’s got going on.

“So, um…” You gesture around the apartment awkwardly, not really sure what to do next. “I guess we should… set some ground rules?”

“Sure.” He pushes off the counter and stands in the middle of the small kitchen, arms folded as he looks at you expectantly. “You start.”

“Alright,” you say, steeling yourself. “Number one: respect each other’s space.”

He nods, almost a bit too seriously. “Agreed. Number two: no loud music after ten.”

You arch a brow, half-smiling. “Already calling me a party animal?”

Tony shrugs, unbothered. “I’ve seen you in class. You don’t look like the type who needs extra chaos, that’s all.”

You’re not sure if it’s a compliment or a jab, but you let it slide. “Number three: split the cleaning. I’m not a maid, and I don’t plan on cleaning up after you.”

“Noted.” He holds up his hands in a mock defensive gesture. “I’m pretty tidy anyway.”

“Good.” You cross your arms, feeling slightly more in control of the situation now that you’re laying down some structure. “Number four: don’t touch my food.”

He smirks at that, leaning a little closer. “You think I want your ramen?”

“It’s very good ramen,” you retort, bristling a bit at the implication.

“Sure, sure,” he says, grinning now. “Anything else?”

“Not for now,” you say, though you know there are probably a dozen more things you could add. But you’ll figure those out as you go. For now, you just want to unpack and get this over with.

“Cool,” he says, nodding in agreement. He turns, heading toward the living area, which also serves as a shared bedroom thanks to a convertible couch and a twin bed crammed into one corner. “So, who gets the couch?”

You hesitate, looking between the couch and the twin bed. The bed is closer to the window, which would be nice, but the couch has more privacy since it’s further from the door. “Uh… maybe we take turns?”

Tony snorts, plopping himself down on the couch and stretching out, arms folded behind his head. “I’m good here,” he says with a smirk, like he’s already staked his claim.

Your irritation flares again, but you let it go, deciding that it’s not worth the fight. “Fine. I’ll take the bed.”

“Perfect.” He doesn’t even open his eyes, clearly satisfied with the arrangement.

You grab your suitcase and start unpacking your things into the small dresser on the far side of the room. Every now and then, you catch him watching you from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t say anything.

The silence stretches out, a little too heavy and a little too tense, until you can’t take it anymore.

“So,” you say, desperate for a distraction, “what’s your major?”

“Mechanical engineering,” he replies without missing a beat. “What about you?”

“Engineering, too,” you say, feeling a bit relieved that you have something in common. But he just raises an eyebrow, like he’s not sure if he’s impressed or skeptical.

“Didn’t peg you as the type,” he says, his tone teasing but not unkind.

You laugh a little, rolling your eyes. “Yeah? And what’s ‘the type’?”

He shrugs. “Just… different. I dunno. You don’t seem like you’d be into all the math and circuits and long nights in the lab.”

“Shows what you know,” you say, surprised by your own defensiveness. But it’s true—engineering is your passion, even if people don’t always expect it from you.

Tony sits up a little, watching you with newfound interest. “Fair enough. Maybe you’ll surprise me.”

The way he says it, like he’s almost daring you to, makes you feel like you have something to prove. “Maybe I will.”

He grins, and you can’t help but smile back, despite yourself. There’s something about him that’s annoyingly charming, even if he’s a bit smug.

“So, guess we’re stuck together,” he says, stretching again and giving a mock yawn as he looks around the small space. “Might as well make the most of it, right?”

“Right,” you say, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in your stomach. It’s going to be a long semester.

The evening settles in, the sky outside darkening as you both settle into your corners of the small apartment. And even though it’s awkward and tense and neither of you is thrilled about the arrangement, there’s a strange sense of possibility in the air. As much as you hate to admit it, maybe being roommates with Tony Stark won’t be the worst thing in the world.

Or maybe it’ll be a disaster.

The first few weeks of living with Tony Stark are, in a word, chaotic.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize that sharing a space with him means constantly navigating a fine line between friendly coexistence and utter frustration. He has this way of making himself at home in every corner of the apartment, like he’s somehow managed to expand into all the free space. You can’t go to the bathroom without finding his razor on the sink, his textbooks spread across the counter, or his laundry draped over a chair. And then there’s his music—always loud and mostly classic rock, blaring at all hours, completely ignoring your “no loud music after ten” rule.

One morning, as you walk bleary-eyed to the kitchen for coffee, you trip over a pile of Tony’s sneakers lying by the door.

“Tony!” you shout, cursing as you nearly spill your coffee. “Your shoes are everywhere. I can’t even walk in here without tripping.”

He pokes his head around the corner, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. “Relax, Y/N, it’s just a couple of shoes. Don’t get your circuits crossed.” He grins around the toothbrush, somehow managing to look amused and cocky at the same time.

You glare. “It’s not just the shoes. It’s the shoes, your textbooks, the dishes you leave in the sink—do you know what a dishwasher is?”

He raises an eyebrow, half-amused, half-unbothered. “Do you know what a chill pill is?”

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath, and try to focus on your coffee. He’s insufferable, really, and yet… somehow, every time he flashes that grin, you feel a flicker of something you can’t quite name. Not that it makes him any less irritating.

The semester picks up, and with it, so do the all-nighters. You’re both in the same engineering program, and you’re both competitive. When he’s hunched over his laptop at two in the morning, the screen casting his face in an eerie blue light, you find yourself in the same position, furiously scribbling equations, desperate to finish before he does. Occasionally, you catch him glancing over at you, eyebrow raised, like he’s silently challenging you to keep up. And you do.

One night, you’re both exhausted, sprawled on opposite ends of the couch after a particularly grueling set of lab assignments. You’re barely holding a pencil in your hand, too tired to even write another line. He’s in the same state, eyes half-closed, notebook resting against his chest.

“You’re not as bad at this as I thought you’d be,” he mumbles, half-asleep.

“Thanks,” you mutter back, too tired to argue or throw a sarcastic response his way. “You’re not that bad, either.”

He huffs, like he’s barely holding back a laugh. You don’t know why, but the sound actually makes you smile.

Tony’s bad habits still drive you crazy, though, especially when it comes to his tendency to hog the tiny bathroom you both share. One morning, after he’s been in there for over twenty minutes, you finally bang on the door.

“Tony, hurry up! I have class in half an hour!”

The door cracks open, and he peeks his head out, hair still dripping from his shower. “Calm down, I’m almost done.”

“Almost done? You’ve been in there forever!” you snap, crossing your arms.

He grins, completely unfazed. “If you’re so desperate, feel free to join me.”

You feel your face heat up, and before you can come up with a comeback, he winks and shuts the door again, leaving you fuming and red-faced in the hallway. That’s Tony, always pushing buttons just because he can.

Over time, though, things… change. Somewhere between the petty arguments and the grudging coexistence, you start to fall into a rhythm. You still bicker, but there’s an unspoken understanding now. You’ll swap the couch and the bed without making a fuss, automatically take turns in the kitchen, and sometimes, you’ll even study together.

You find out that Tony’s more than just the arrogant guy from class—he’s sharp, quick with a joke, and oddly attentive. Sometimes, you’ll wake up to find a fresh cup of coffee waiting for you, and he’ll wave it off, muttering something about it being “just convenient.” And in return, you start picking up his shoes without complaining, throwing his clothes into the hamper, and even bringing him snacks during your late-night study sessions.

It’s a Friday night, and for once, you’re not spending it at home or at the library. You’ve actually got a date—a rarity in your life—and you spent more time than you’d like to admit getting ready, carefully putting on makeup and smoothing down your dress.

Tony, of course, has been watching with that teasing glint in his eyes the entire time, slouched on the couch with his laptop, occasionally smirking like he knows something you don’t.

“You’re actually going out with this guy?” he asks, after you’ve checked your reflection for the fifth time.

“Yes, Tony, people do go on dates. You should try it sometime.”

He laughs, that casual, easy chuckle that you hate because it always manages to sound good. “I don’t need a date, Y/N. I get enough action as it is.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your purse. “Enjoy your action tonight, Stark. I’ll be back late.”

But as the evening wears on, your mood changes. You’re sitting at a café table, checking your watch for the third time. Your “date” was supposed to meet you half an hour ago, but there’s no sign of him. A growing feeling of embarrassment builds in your chest, and with each passing minute, it gets worse. You don’t want to be that girl who waits around for someone who clearly isn’t coming. With a sigh, you grab your bag and head home, hoping Tony won’t notice your early return.

When you open the door, though, Tony looks up from the couch, eyebrows raised. “That was… fast.”

You sigh, closing the door and leaning against it, trying not to let the disappointment show on your face. “He, um… he didn’t show up.”

Tony’s expression changes, softening a little. He puts his laptop aside and stands up, crossing the room to stand in front of you. For once, there’s no teasing in his eyes, no smirk. “Wait, he stood you up?”

You shrug, forcing a smile. “It’s not a big deal. I probably wasn’t his type, anyway.”

“Not his type?” Tony’s face hardens a little, his tone sharp. “Y/N, he’s an idiot. You’re amazing. He just missed out on something great.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “You don’t have to say that.”

He shakes his head, his hand reaching out almost instinctively to touch your shoulder. “I’m not saying it because I have to. I’m saying it because it’s true.” His gaze holds yours, steady and warm, and for the first time, you realize just how intense his eyes are.

There’s a moment of silence, heavy and charged, and you feel your pulse quicken. You’re standing close, closer than usual, and for once, there’s no witty comeback, no sarcastic remark from him. Just Tony, looking at you like he sees something in you that no one else does.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat. “I just… I guess I feel a little stupid, that’s all.”

Tony’s face softens, and to your surprise, he pulls you into a gentle hug, his arms wrapping around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re not stupid, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice a warm murmur against your hair. “Some guys are just idiots. Trust me—I know a lot of them.”

You laugh against his shoulder, feeling some of the hurt and embarrassment melt away. “Thanks, Tony.”

He pulls back slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders, his gaze searching yours. “Anytime. Seriously.”

For a moment, you just stand there, lost in his eyes, feeling something shift between you. He’s still Tony—annoying, messy, impossible—but there’s something else there now, something unspoken. And suddenly, the idea of him as just your roommate feels almost… disappointing.

He seems to feel it too, because he lets go and steps back, clearing his throat. “So, uh… if you want, we could watch a movie or something? My treat. I have some popcorn in the cupboard, and I promise not to talk through the entire thing.”

You smile, nodding. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And as you settle onto the couch together, for once in comfortable silence, you can’t help but feel like this night turned out better than you expected.

The first time it happens, it’s an accident. You don’t even plan on a second Friday movie night, but somehow, it just becomes part of the routine.

A week after your canceled date, you both end up crashing on the couch with a couple of cheap takeout containers, both too tired to think about cooking or studying. Tony puts on an old action flick, and you spend half the movie rolling your eyes at the ridiculous stunts, only to find him muttering a dramatic running commentary just to make you laugh. By the end of it, you’re not sure if the movie was any good, but you’re grinning, and you realize it’s the most relaxed you’ve felt in weeks.

From then on, Friday movie nights are a thing.

Every Friday, no matter how hectic your schedules are, you and Tony put aside a couple of hours to flop down on the couch and watch something. The movies vary—from classic thrillers to cheesy rom-coms, and even the occasional animated film—but somehow, it always feels like the best part of your week. And, slowly, it becomes one of the best parts of living with Tony.

You look forward to the comfort of those quiet evenings, knowing that you can just curl up with a blanket and relax without any pressure or expectations. Tony usually picks the movie, claiming he has “refined taste,” and you mostly let him—except for the times when you insist on watching something with a little more plot and a little less gratuitous explosion.

One Friday Night

It’s late in the semester, and you’re running on fumes. Between exams, projects, and late-night study sessions, you’re barely getting four hours of sleep a night. You’re slouched against the arm of the couch, wrapped in your favorite blanket, trying to keep your eyes open as Tony scrolls through the movie options.

He shoots you a look, one eyebrow raised. “You sure you’re up for this? You look about two seconds away from passing out.”

You wave him off, trying to suppress a yawn. “I’m fine. Just… pick something, preferably not too loud, and not too complicated.”

“Noted,” he says with a small smirk, settling on a lighthearted rom-com.

You start the movie together, but within minutes, your eyelids are drooping, the exhaustion from the week catching up with you. Tony glances over at you occasionally, eyes softening each time he catches you nodding off, but he doesn’t say anything. He just shifts slightly so you’re more comfortable, like he’s already expecting you to fall asleep.

And then, without really thinking about it, you let yourself sink against him, your head resting on his shoulder as you drift off. He freezes at first, his body going stiff as he looks down at you, eyes widening. But you’re already halfway to sleep, curled up with your blanket, completely unaware of how close you’ve moved.

Tony’s expression softens, and he settles back into the couch, letting his arm drape casually along the back, his body relaxing beneath your weight. He takes a deep breath, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He’s always liked having you close, but you’re usually too guarded, too quick to pull away if he even nudges a little closer during the movie. But right now, with you dozing off against him, he can’t help but feel a quiet kind of happiness.

When the credits roll, he’s still sitting there, one arm around your shoulders, careful not to move too much in case it wakes you. He’s not sure why it feels so right, holding you like this, feeling the warmth of your body against his, but he doesn’t want it to end. Not yet.

Eventually, you shift a little, mumbling something in your sleep, and he swallows, feeling his heart skip a beat. He’s never thought of himself as someone who’s into all that romantic stuff, but right now, he’s sure he wouldn’t mind just staying here like this for a little longer.

After that first time, the accidental cuddling becomes a regular part of Friday nights. Some weeks, you manage to stay awake for most of the movie, laughing and joking with him, but other times, especially when you’re exhausted, you inevitably end up leaning against him. And each time, Tony stays perfectly still, like he doesn’t want to ruin the moment, secretly relishing the feel of you snuggled against him, warm and close.

He never says a word about it, and you don’t notice, or at least, you don’t seem to. It’s a quiet, unspoken thing between you. And in a strange way, it brings you closer, turning those Friday nights into something special.

One Friday, as you’re drifting off, you mumble something into his shoulder. “Thanks, Tony… for putting up with me,” you say, voice thick with sleep.

He chuckles softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Anytime, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice low. “You’re a lot easier to put up with than you think.”

And even though you’re already asleep, the faint smile on your lips tells him you know.

One rainy Tuesday, you’re buried in textbooks, barely aware of the time, when the door bursts open, and Tony steps in, drenched from head to toe. There’s water dripping from his hair, his hoodie soaked through, but that’s not what catches your attention. It’s the tiny, gray-furred creature cradled in his arms, mewling pitifully as it clings to his chest.

You gape at him. “Tony, what—?”

He grins, holding up the little kitten, who peers at you with wide, curious eyes. “Found her outside the library, all alone in the rain. Look at this face—she’s practically begging for a home.”

You blink, not entirely sure how to respond. “Tony, we can’t just… bring a stray home.”

“Why not?” He’s already taken off his jacket, now gently rubbing the kitten dry with the inside of his sleeve. “She clearly needed someone, and I figured, hey, we’ve got space. I already named her and everything.”

You fold your arms, fighting a smile. “Oh? And what, pray tell, is her name?”

He lifts the kitten up, gazing at her with an affectionate look you’ve never seen on his face before. “This is Dumpling,” he says, voice soft as he scratches under her tiny chin. “She looks like a dumpling, don’t you think?”

You burst out laughing, surprised at how fitting it is. The kitten has round, wide eyes and soft, fluffy gray fur that’s sticking up in odd directions. Despite your initial protests, you can already feel yourself softening.

“Alright, Dumpling,” you sigh, reaching out to stroke her tiny head as she lets out a delicate purr. “I guess you’re ours now.”

Tony grins, triumphant, and Dumpling stretches a little, her tiny body relaxing against his chest. And just like that, you have a cat.

Within days, Dumpling has taken over your lives—and, somehow, your relationship with Tony transforms right along with it. The two of you fall into an easy routine of “parenting,” like you’ve somehow become an unlikely team. Dumpling’s food bowl is filled, water is changed, and cat toys litter the living room floor, a mess that somehow makes the apartment feel homier.

You and Tony develop a sort of playful banter around it, too.

One morning, you catch him standing at the kitchen counter, holding a small spoonful of tuna over Dumpling’s head, his expression one of extreme concentration as he tries to get her to “high-five” for it. You snort as you walk into the kitchen.

“Really, Tony? We’re training her now?”

He turns, smirking. “Hey, she’s got potential. I think with a little more time, she might be able to help us with homework.”

You roll your eyes but secretly love the way he’s taken to Dumpling. “You’re just spoiling her,” you say, grabbing your coffee.

“Oh, and you’re not?” He raises an eyebrow, pointing to the fluffy cat bed you impulse-bought online last week. “I think someone’s getting a little too attached.”

“Okay, fair.” You shrug, and as if on cue, Dumpling saunters over to you, rubbing against your leg and purring. You bend down to pick her up, laughing as she curls up in your arms. “But I’m the responsible one. She’s clearly a daddy’s girl.”

“Oh, so I’m ‘Dad’ now?” he teases, reaching over to scratch Dumpling behind the ears. She stretches into his hand, and he gives you a mock-stern look. “That makes you the mom, doesn’t it?”

You feel a slight flush at his words, but you roll your eyes, playing along. “Fine. But if she wakes up at three in the morning, ‘Dad’ is definitely taking that shift.”

He chuckles, and there’s a warmth to it, a little spark that seems to light up every time he glances at you.

As the weeks pass, Dumpling becomes an integral part of your Friday night ritual, usually curled up in your lap or wedged between the two of you as you watch movies. She has this adorable habit of pawing at Tony’s arm if he stops petting her, and though he pretends to be annoyed, you know he secretly loves it.

One night, Tony is stretched out on the couch, Dumpling sprawled lazily across his chest as he scratches her head. You’re curled up beside him, drowsy after a long week, watching a classic rom-com as the rain patters against the window. It’s cozy, peaceful, and you’re so comfortable that you can’t help but let your head rest against his shoulder. The weight of his arm, slung casually over the back of the couch, feels like it’s holding you there, like maybe he wants you just as close as you want to be.

Somewhere in the movie, Dumpling hops down and trots off to her bed, leaving just the two of you on the couch. You’re both quiet, the movie long forgotten as the rain falls softly outside.

When Tony shifts beside you, you feel him turn slightly, his gaze lingering. You look up at him, and for a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, the space between you seeming smaller and smaller.

He clears his throat, almost like he’s about to break the silence, but instead, he just chuckles softly, brushing a stray hair from your face. “You know, I think Dumpling was onto something.”

“Onto what?” you murmur, heart beating just a little faster.

He grins, that warm, gentle grin you’ve come to love. “She figured out she likes being close to you way faster than I did.”

Your breath catches, and you’re not sure if it’s the rain or the warmth in his voice, but something inside you pulls you toward him, drawn by the tenderness in his eyes, the way his fingers lightly brush your cheek. “Tony…”

He leans in, so close now you can feel his breath on your skin. “Yeah?”

You don’t answer, and he doesn’t wait, his lips capturing yours in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s tender, unhurried, like he’s savoring the moment, and you melt into him, feeling the warmth of his hand gently cradling your face. All those unspoken moments, the teasing, the playful “parenting” of Dumpling, the late-night study sessions—all of it seems to click into place, like you were always meant to be here, like this.

When you finally pull back, your face flushes with warmth, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“I didn’t know I needed that,” he says softly, a little breathless, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek.

You smile, your fingers finding his as you hold his hand. “Neither did I. Guess we can thank Dumpling.”

He laughs, that soft, happy sound that makes your heart skip a beat. “Yeah, our little matchmaker.”

From then on, the apartment feels different, warmer. Friday nights turn into something even sweeter, and Dumpling, your shared “little family member,” watches with a quiet approval, curling up beside you as you and Tony share the couch, hands intertwined, each of you finally knowing exactly where you belong.

Being with Tony as a couple is somehow both everything you expected and completely different. The teasing and playful dynamic remains, but there’s a new, unspoken warmth in everything you do together, a kind of quiet intimacy that’s hard to put into words.

You both quickly fall into a routine, but with small moments that make your heart race, the soft touches and lingering glances that remind you this is real now. Dumpling is still the center of attention in your little “family,” and her mischievous nature keeps you both on your toes.

It’s a lazy Tuesday morning, and you’re attempting to get ready for class. You’re putting on your makeup in the bathroom when Tony comes up behind you, arms slipping around your waist, chin propped on your shoulder as he gazes at your reflection in the mirror.

“You know, you look pretty cute in the mornings, even if you’re annoyed,” he murmurs, grinning as he watches your expression in the mirror. Dumpling is at your feet, playfully pawing at the hem of his jeans as he nuzzles against your shoulder.

“‘Annoyed’ is putting it lightly,” you say, though a smile slips through. “Dumpling decided to wake me up at 4 a.m. because someone decided it was a good idea to feed her a can of tuna last night.”

He shrugs, unrepentant. “She deserves the best. Besides, you look extra pretty when you’re slightly annoyed.” He presses a gentle kiss on your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

You roll your eyes but turn to face him, the playfulness in his eyes melting into something softer. He brushes a thumb over your cheek and then kisses you softly. You hear a soft meow at your feet, and Tony chuckles against your lips, pulling back only to scoop Dumpling up. “Alright, little one. Mom and Dad have classes to get to. Try not to destroy the place while we’re gone.”

Dumpling mews indignantly but seems satisfied when Tony scratches her head, her loud purr filling the bathroom.

Word about you and Tony spreads across campus faster than either of you expects. For a while, you just think you’re imagining the occasional stares, the murmurs when you and Tony sit together at lunch, his arm slung casually over the back of your chair as he chats with his friends. But soon enough, the stares turn into glares, particularly from some of the girls who used to linger around him before you two were official.

You overhear whispers in the library one afternoon as you’re studying. Two girls at a nearby table are staring over, murmuring to each other with pinched expressions.

“Can you believe he’s with her? Tony Stark?” one of them says, not-so-subtly looking you up and down.

The other girl huffs, rolling her eyes. “She must’ve done something to reel him in. I mean, he could do way better.”

Their words sting, but you pretend not to notice, focusing instead on your notes. Just then, Tony appears behind you, pressing a kiss to your temple, and plopping down in the seat next to you. The two girls exchange wide-eyed glances, their whispers silencing instantly. You try to brush it off, but Tony notices the tension in your shoulders.

“Don’t listen to them,” he says quietly, his hand finding yours beneath the table. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

You look at him, and he gives you that soft, reassuring smile that makes everything else fade away. With him beside you, the whispers and stares don’t matter. You squeeze his hand, feeling a quiet pride at being the one he chose.

The Friday movie nights are still sacred, but now they have an even cozier feel. You and Tony snuggle up on the couch, Dumpling curled between you or lazily sprawled across your laps. The cat’s purring is a constant soundtrack, her favorite place being Tony’s lap, where she can knead her tiny paws against his hoodie.

One night, you’re nestled together, Dumpling snoozing away as the credits roll on an old thriller Tony insisted on watching. You turn to him, still feeling the thrill of the movie but comforted by his warmth beside you.

“I think we make a pretty good team, don’t you?” you murmur, resting your head against his chest.

He chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “The best team. Even if Dumpling keeps trying to sabotage my snacks.” He’s referring to how Dumpling “steals” the popcorn from his lap whenever he’s not looking.

You smile, pulling his arm closer around you. “And if she’s got any competition for attention on campus, I think I know who her biggest fan is.”

He laughs, his arm tightening around you, his face lighting up. “Well, can you blame me? Between you and Dumpling, I’ve got everything I need.”

It’s a quiet Saturday morning, and you’re curled up in bed, still half-asleep, when you feel the mattress dip slightly. You open one eye to see Tony settling Dumpling gently beside you, her little head nestled into your pillow. He grins as you blink at him, half-confused and half-amused.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss you. Dumpling lets out a tiny squeak between the two of you, as if demanding her own share of attention.

With Tony’s gentle kiss, the cozy weight of Dumpling snuggled next to you, and the soft light filtering through the window, you can’t remember ever feeling this content. It’s just a small moment, but it’s perfect, each day settling you further into this life you’re building together.

One night, you’re both lying in bed, Dumpling curled up at the foot, fast asleep. You’re wrapped in Tony’s arms, his fingers gently tracing patterns along your shoulder as you lie in comfortable silence, the room lit by the soft glow of the city outside.

Out of nowhere, Tony clears his throat, and you can feel his heartbeat quicken slightly. He takes a breath, then murmurs, “I love you.”

It’s so soft that you almost miss it, but your heart skips, warmth flooding through you. You look up, seeing the nervous but hopeful look in his eyes.

A smile spreads across your face as you reach up, touching his cheek. “I love you too, Tony,” you say, voice soft but steady.

His face breaks into a grin, and he pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead as if sealing the words between you. Dumpling lets out a sleepy, annoyed noise, but you both laugh, neither of you moving.

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