#even if i go missing from posting here sometimes

[mxxnlitwonders]

all yours (mine) in every cycle — phainon (█████)

✎ gender. afab, she/her ✎ contains. explicit smut, VERSION 3.4 SPOILERS, double penetration in one hole, double penetration in two holes, Yandere Phainon (kinda), Mildly dubious consent, loss of virginity, multiple orgasms, yearning phainon, plot what plot, Netorare (by technicality), cum eating, squirting ✎ wc. 10k 

✎ summary. Phainon wanted you, needed you. If he didn't have you, he felt like he was suffocating. You were all that he had left of home. He would protect you until his dying breath before he let death touch you. Even then, he'd come back from the grave to keep you safe.

You are all his, and he is all yours.

Each cycle, each iteration, he would always take you in the way that you deserved. Except this time, this cycle, it was different. He was there.

No longer was Phainon your first.

✎ ameris’ notes.  special thanks to fae, ten, and tae for the help on beta reading and support!

I debated for a while to post here again, wondering if i should stick to ao3. but here i am!

[AO3 Link]

“Fuck,” Phainon (?) murmurs your name under his breath. You’re not sure what overcame him. He was supposed to be on a mission to rescue more survivors and bring them back to Okhema. He might have mentioned getting back sooner, but you didn’t expect him to suddenly appear in your room as you were getting ready for bed. 

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” he nudged his nose under your ear, talking in a low voice that sent a warmth between your legs. It didn’t help that his knee was against your core, tempting you with something more that you’ve been begging for. 

“What do you mean, Phainon?” You reached up to grab his face with both of your hands so you could bring his gaze back up to yours. Your brows furrowing as it hadn’t been too long since he left. “The expedition was supposed to be longer. Did something happen?” Your thumbs stroke his cheeks as he leans deeper into your touch.

His eyes flickered between both of yours. There was a certain sadness behind his eyes. You couldn’t tell if it was the trick of the lighting from the Dawn Device or if it was truly flickering between his calm blue or deep, unwavering golden eyes that you thought saw more lives than the one in front of him. 

“I just-” He buried his head between the crook of your neck before wrapping you in a tighter hug. You promptly wrapped your arms around his neck, waiting patiently for him as you played with the hairs on the back of his head. They were surprisingly soft and clean for just returning from an expedition. Although sometimes he’d go wash himself up before returning to you. “Khaslana.” 

“Huh?” 

“My name... It’s Khaslana.” Khaslana pulled away from your neck to look at you with a fiery need to hear his name leave your lips. After all, for each cycle, he’s never once told you his name. He’d only ever hear of his other name leave your lips as you both made love each cycle before going to reclaim the last Coreflame among the sky. Just this once, he wanted to be selfish. Even if it meant your first time would be with him and not this cycle’s version of him.

“Khaslana,” you said, smiling at him, “it suits you.” 

Khaslana felt guilty feeling his cock hardening at how innocent you looked in this moment. After all, you believe him to be your Phainon of this iteration. But after all these endless cycles, he missed the feeling of you melting in his arms. The way that your pussy would suck him in, begging for him to fill you up with his cum. He missed the way that you would rake your nails down his back, desperate for more. 

Well, he is still Phainon, isn’t he? This iteration will soon become a part of him. So it wouldn’t be wrong to take your first time now. 

Besides, your Phainon wouldn’t be back from the expedition for another few days, if he remembered correctly from previous cycles. He’ll help keep your bed warm. Khaslana was meant to be yours, and you were meant to be his. And even if you weren’t, he’d make you his. 

You let out a sudden gasp when Khaslana placed his lips on yours with a hunger and a need to make you his, as if you already weren’t. He took advantage of the gasp, letting his tongue slip into your mouth. The slick of his tongue against yours made you weak in the knees. As if he already knew, he placed his hands on your hips, pushing his knee up into your warmth.

Khaslana swallowed the moans that you let out as he grinded into you, letting out a grunt when you pulled his hair to pull him away. Amongst the glimmer of light that was let in, the glint of the string of saliva caught your eye. 

“I need you,” Khaslana breathed out, his tongue darting out to catch the string back to him.  “Please.”

You felt a rush of heat flow up your neck and to your cheeks as you finally felt how hard he was against you. This was your first time with him. How would you even be able to take him? But his golden eyes were so desperate for you. And honestly? So were you. Every lonely night you’ve spent without Phainon was filled with your fingers between your legs, wishing it were his calloused fingers. 

“Okay,” you whispered with a smile, holding his face between your hands. “I’m all yours.”

He began to kiss your neck, biting and leaving marks that left you at his mercy, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d done this with you. Khaslana bit harshly against the part of your neck that met your shoulder. 

“Ah!” His tongue darted out against the mark that was left behind, asking for forgiveness. You lightly laughed at how sweet he was, like a puppy that accidentally hurt their owner. “Come on Khas, let's move to the bed.” 

His heart skipped a beat at the nickname you gave him. Happiness surged through him, as if he were waiting for you to truly enter into his heart. He just wished that in one of these cycles, the other version of him would let himself be open about his name for once. 

But he’ll take what he can get. Khaslana just felt guilty that he waited this long, this many cycles, to finally fuck you as him, as who he truly is. 

He wonders, would you still love him for all the sins he's committed? Would you deny him of you for the harm he’s placed on the other Chrysos Heirs, all in the belief of the hope that there will be one cycle where an outsider interferes? 

It doesn’t matter. 

You’ll forget all of this soon enough, he’ll have to savor this moment. 

Khaslana slides his hands down below your ass, spreading them slightly through your gown before he picks you up. You let out a scream of delight, not expecting him to be so bold when before he would blush at you kissing his ear, then his neck, his chest, his stomach, before he stopped you from going any lower. 

He chuckled against your neck, leaving small kisses while carrying you to the bed. A chill ran through his body as you continued to run your hands through his hair. It had been too long since he'd felt your touch. The fact that the last time he had you writhing beneath him was a whole cycle ago, he couldn’t bear it. Khaslana wanted you—needed you. 

This time, he’ll take you over and over again until his carnal desires are satisfied. Even then, he’s not sure the night would be enough. 

“Khas,” you murmured as he left a few marks on your neck to your collarbone. 

“Yes, my love?” Khaslana asked, looking up at you, your hair adorning your face. To him, you looked like a goddess sent from beyond the skies. 

“Put me down already,” you lightly laughed at him before giving him a small kiss on the corner of his lip. Although he moved his head, thinking you were trying to kiss him. 

“Such a tease.” He gently placed you down on the bed. His hand trailing up from your calf before pushing your leg to the side, spreading your legs before him, your gown riding up your sides. Khaslana raised a brow when he saw what was in front of him. 

“I-” you blushed, trying to cover your bare self with your gown before he grabbed your wrists to place them over your head with one hand. Your breath hitched in your throat at the sudden dominance he began to display for you.

“Don’t cover yourself, I want to see you,” he said, his hand lightly brushing against your soft, plush skin before reaching your bare lips. “But I wasn’t expecting you to sleep for the night without your panties.” 

You pursed your lips, nervous at the fact that the man in front of you was so mesmerized by you. A gasp left your mouth as Khaslana brushed against the outside of your pussy when you heard a groan leave his lips. 

“You’re already so wet for me,” he thought aloud. Your arms struggled against his hand.

“Please,” you whined. “Touch me? Need you.” 

Khaslana slid in one of his fingers, feeling your warm slick surround him. His cock throbbed in his pants, he wanted to fuck you senseless against the bed but he’d have to wait. The first time you’ve had sex, you were so nervous that it hurt. He wants to make you feel good this time so that every time you have sex, you will only be able to think about this moment right now. 

You sighed, even though it was just one finger, it felt so good, better than you could imagine. He reached all the parts of you that you couldn’t reach these past few nights. You already felt yourself becoming addicted to him. 

Khaslana’s thumb toyed with your clit as he put in another finger, reaching and continuously prodding at the one spot that kept making you struggle against his hold. The room was filled with your quiet whining, the slick of your cunt getting louder as he placed another finger in. You whined, shutting your eyes, toes curling as you felt that familiar buildup in your lower stomach. Never did you imagine that he would be the cause of the dirty sounds coming from your pussy so soon. 

He called out your name. “Look at me.” Khaslana released your wrists to grab you by your chin, forcing you to stare up at him, your eyes fluttering open. Khaslana groaned, feeling your pussy clench around his fingers. 

“What, do you like me treating you like this?” His grip on your chin tightened ever so slightly. With your free hands you grabbed the wrist that was toying with your pussy. He tsked, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he took pride in how your hips were grinding against his, your eyes blown out as you tried to chase the upcoming orgasm. 

Khaslana let go of your chin, grabbing the ends of your gown to reveal your breasts. He sucked in a breath as he stared at them, mesmerized. No longer was the shy Chrysos heir in front of him, instead one filled with the wanton need to cum on his fingers. 

He changed his pace, instead having the base of his palm grind against your clit as he continued to bring you closer and closer to the edge, his head bending down to wrap your nipple with his lips, lightly nibbling, making you arch your back as you got closer, closer, and closer—

You gasped his name out loud as his fingers left your warmth before you could reach the climax. His mouth left your breast with a light pop. 

“I was so close, Khas,” you whined. Khaslana laughed lightly before bringing his fingers up for you to see. Your slick covering his hands, causing some webbing between his fingers. You held your breath, watching him clean up your mess finger by finger with his mouth. You felt yourself clench around nothing, your cunt begging to be filled by something once more as you watched the erotic scene unfold in front of you, air thick with lust.

Never in a million years did you think that the man before you would be so bold. Not that you were complaining. 

He patted your thigh, “It’ll be alright, my love, you’ll be begging for me to stop soon enough.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched him move away to strip his armor and his top accessories off. Sure, you’ve felt his toned muscles under all of his clothes, you’ve watched him on the training grounds, but never did you realize how much work he put into his body, even if he didn’t mean to make his body look like... that. 

Subconsciously, you pushed yourself up to reach for Khas before you quickly got your senses back, pulling your hand back to your side and looking away, embarrassed at how you were ogling him just a few moments ago. 

With a smile (which looked more like a smirk), Khaslana reached for your hand, leaning in and placing your hand on his chest. 

“Don’t worry,” he brought your hand to his mouth, kissing the tips of your fingers lightly, “whatever you want to do to me, I’m all yours.” 

“Khas...” You reached for his neck, pulling him down to crash his lips against yours. He groaned into you, his hands moving to push the gown up and over your head, briefly breaking away from you so that he could leave you bare underneath him. His hands roam your body with a sense of familiarity. You felt his fingers pinch and twist against your perky nipples, making you cry out, but he wouldn’t let up, savoring his lips against yours. 

Your legs moved to each side of his hips. Khaslana, being so in tune with your body from cycle after cycle, moved his hands down to your hips, bringing your warmth against his hardened member still underneath his pants to grind down into you. There was, without a doubt, a stain that was left behind on the front of his pants. But neither of you cared, too desperate to be part of each other.

You both pulled away from each other, panting. You’ve never seen your boyfriend this flushed, but you’re sure he could say the same for you. 

In Khaslana’s eyes, he missed seeing how desperate you’d be for him. No longer did the voice in his head exist, saying that this was wrong; that you’re not really his; that he’s betraying your trust by not telling you the truth. But even if it was wrong, it felt so right to have you underneath him like this. Stripped bare for him to admire, pussy dripping all because of him, for him, your neck filled with his marks. He frowned, however, when he realized there were no marks on your chest. 

He had to change that.

Bending down, he mouthed at the space between your breasts, suckling and kissing before making his way to one of your breasts. Khaslana tried to put as much of you into his mouth before suckling and biting. You cried out in pain and pleasure, your hands gripping his hair. You couldn’t tell if you were trying to push him off of you with the way you were grinding against him in desperation. 

He eventually moved to focus on your nipple, alternating between suckling and biting. His other hand was playing with your other breast before switching to give it the same amount of attention. 

“Please,” you begged, your hands letting go of his hair to fumble where his belt was against his pants, “need you. Been touching myself every night since you’ve been gone, to the thought of you.” 

Khaslana groaned deeply at the image; you all by your lonesome, touching yourself, crying for him as you waited every night for his return. He couldn’t explain how happy he was to let himself see you again. 

“You’ll have me. I promise,” he murmured against your chest before moving to help you unbuckle his pants. “Won’t have to touch yourself every night anymore.” He clumsily shoved off the rest of his clothing, desperate to feel you. You couldn’t help but laugh at his excitement before he sent you a light-hearted glare. But it wasn’t the glare that stopped you in your tracks, but the size of him. 

Khaslana wrapped his hand around his member, stroking it languidly, “You can take it, I know you can.” His free hand caresses your face. Your hands hesitantly reach out, and he chokes on his breath as he realizes that this time, in this iteration, you’re the one to initiate touching him. 

He lets go of himself, letting you wrap your smaller hands around him instead. He jerks at the touch of you before you end up leaning over to let out a small lick with your tongue against the tip. Khaslana shut his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be able to control himself if he kept watching how vulgar you looked. 

Although he’s not sure how much more control he has. Not with the way that you wrapped your lips around his tip, your tongue swirling around him before taking the rest of him into your mouth. Your hands gripped his thighs, squeezing him once, then twice, as if asking Khaslana to look at you. 

So he does. 

“Fuck.” His hands make their way to your hair, gripping it hard, slightly thrusting into your mouth. He couldn’t help it, not with the way your innocent eyes looked up at him, his dick in your mouth, how you ran your tongue against him, how you used your hands to stroke whatever you couldn’t fit in your mouth. If only you knew that he wasn’t who you thought he was. 

Khaslana thanked the heavens for the type of stories you would pick up from the market to read. Otherwise, he would have thought that this wasn’t your first time. 

You continue to move your head, hollowing your cheeks the best you can despite the ache in your jaw. But there was something about making him so flushed, his golden eyes darkening as you continued your movements, that just ignited a fire in your core. You needed him, craved him, wanted him. You needed him to come undone in your mouth, a warmth pooled in your core with that thought of him feeling hot and heavy and your mouth. 

That is, until Khaslana pulled you off of him, panting with regret from not being able to finish in your mouth. 

“I need to cum in you,” he murmured, his fingers swiping up and down your cunt, begging to be filled. 

“My mouth is still me, no?” You asked cheekily, looking up at him your tongue darted out to lick his underside before he pushed you fully down and into the bed, flipping you over on your front, ass up, with your arms restricted behind you. An incoherent noise left your mouth, no doubt that this was making your pussy drip with want.

“Brat,” he said against your back, laying kisses where he could reach. “Who taught you how to be a brat, hmm?” 

You cried underneath him, wiggling your ass towards him as if that was your response to the question. Khaslana could only groan at how wanton you looked. He wanted to tease you for longer, punish you. But he’ll have to save that for the next time Phainon leaves you for a few days.

Khaslana gave his member a stroke and then another before he lined it up with your entrance. As if teasing, he slightly pushed in, only to pull back out to swipe his tip along your folds. Even going as far as tapping his dick against your bud. You whined with need. 

“Please don’t tease me,” you called out, trying to push back against him as best as you could in this position. Although this was your first time with him, with anyone, you couldn’t help but act like a brat. It’s as if you’ve been with him for a millennium, as if your body was made for him like a perfect mold. 

“You drive me insane,” he replied, finally placing himself at your entrance, “let me know if it hurts, okay?” You nod your head in response. With that, he pushed in slowly. You let out a sigh, feeling how he filled you up, stretching you so well that you felt like he was about to split you in half. You wanted to sob at how good it felt for him to finally, finally, be inside you. He was right, you were able to take him, and you still wanted more, more. 

And more he gave, even when you thought that Khaslana bottomed out, he still had more to give you. You whined, crying out in pleasure against the mattress below you. If you knew sex felt this good, you would have made him fuck you sooner. 

“You’re doing so good for me,” he let go of your arms to move both of his hands to your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin back and forth. You moved your arms underneath you, pushing up ever so slightly against the mattress, your eyes flickering down to watch the sight of his last few inches entering you. Before you knew it, his hips met yours. Khaslana was so deep that you could swear you felt him in your stomach. 

He couldn’t believe that he was able to take your first time again. Khaslana almost felt guilty. 

Almost. 

He took away Phainon’s chance to watch you unfold for the first time. But Khaslana was greedy. You made him greedy. He pressed one of his hands against your stomach, trying to find where he was on the other side. A gasp of pleasure left your mouth, your arms giving out with how full he was making you feel. 

The two of you stayed still for a few moments, his hands moving to stroke your sides from your waist to your hip soothing you and giving you words of praise. Your cunt clenched every so often around him, trying to adjust to his size and Khaslana would squeeze your waist each time. 

“You can move,” your voice muffled against the mattress. 

Khaslana squeezed your hips, “What’s that?” 

You huff, moving your face to the side to glare at him the best you can, his face full of mischief and so instead of asking him again, you took the initiative to grind yourself on his dick, moving your ass back. But his hands held you in a death grip as you tried to move. 

“Don’t try to be cute, tell me what you want, my love.” He bent down to whisper, “I’ll give you whatever you want, but you have to ask loud and clear for me.” 

You whimper from the feel of his breath against your ear. Your pussy clenched around his cock and he couldn't help but groan before sitting his head against your back, trying to restrain himself. 

“Need you, please? Want your cum,” you cried out. His cock twitched at the sound of you begging for him to fill you. To reward you, he reached down to play with your clit, feeling your slick already seeping out of you. His other hand groped your breast, squeezing it and occasionally twisting or pulling lightly on your nipples. 

“Now was that so hard?” 

Khaslana pulled back, leaving only his tip in between your plush walls before thrusting deep into you. Your cry gets caught in your throat as you feel him rock his hips into yours, desperate to reach the deepest parts of you. 

“Feels good,” you cry out, “so big, I can’t-” 

“Yes, you can, you can take it.” Khaslana pinched your nipple, tugging on it, making you choke on your sounds of pleasure as your body began to get closer and closer to the edge once more. With his deep thrusts into your pussy, his other hand playing with your clit. 

The room filled with his heavy panting, your scandalous moans, the lewd noises that your pussy makes each time Khaslana thrusts into you, he couldn’t help but grow more turned on. He stared down at your pretty little asshole, thinking about the time that he stretched that hole wide. But it's not like he could stop, oh no, he wouldn’t stop even if he could. Your cunt just kept coaxing him to stay, wanting him to fill you up until you couldn’t take it anymore. 

And his dick, the girth of him stretching you out so deliciously, stimulating every part of you while still hitting that one part that had you gripping the sheets underneath you. 

“Khas, ‘m close,” you moaned out, moving your hips in time with his to get him even deeper. Khaslana’s hips stuttered with how irresistible you looked beneath him. Your ass bouncing against him, the small hole puckering as if begging to be filled alongside your pussy. An angel asking to be ruined by the devil. Your supple skin giving way to his fingers as he gripped your waist, his fingers swiping back and forth on your clit with a precision you never would have expected from him for this being your first time together. 

It wasn’t until your pussy clenched around him, pulsing, your mouth opening as a debauched moan filled the room. Your toes curling with the way he kept thrusting deep into that one spot you could never reach, with the way that his fingers toyed with your clit so meticulously, the knot finally untying itself in your stomach. Khaslana wasn’t too far behind in following suit, what with how your cute little cunt kept tightening around him, begging for him to fill you up deep. 

He wanted to fill you up—needed to fill you up. Khaslana no longer just wanted to take your first time. He needed to pump you so full of his cum so that when Phainon of this cycle comes back to fuck you for the first time, he would have to ask you who was already here and you would only be able to say him in confusion. 

Khaslana called out your name, the air filled with the scent of sex, the warmth of his seed filling you in so deeply and so fully that it threatened to spill out of you already. But it’s not like he was surprised how much cum he had. It had been too long since he last filled you; he still had so much more to give. He slowly pulled out of you, watching as his cum threatened to drip out before he swiped it up with his fingers to push it back in. You whined under him, trying to move away, but you couldn’t help but rock your hips back towards him. 

He flopped down next to you, wanting to bask in the afterglow with you. You turned onto your side to admire your lover, your hand reaching up to caress his face with his blue eyes staring deep into yours. But your hand hesitated to rest on his face, your eyes widening as you looked behind your supposed lover. Khaslana felt an all-too-familiar presence in the room. His eyes flickered to gold, and before you knew it, what looked like an angel fallen from the heavens appeared in front of you and the space beside you was empty. His form he took up was different and yet all too familiar.

The presence in question had his sword raised in front of him, pointing at Khaslana. You sat up, stunned. 

“Khaslana?” You called out, your eyes flickering back and forth between the man who just shared your first to another man whose blue ocean eyes were filled with betrayal and pain, but looked so much like Phainon, like your Phainon. The man in pain froze at the mention of his name—his real name.

Phainon was delighted to finish the expedition early with almost no bumps in the road. It meant he got to go back home to you and watch your eyes widen with surprise. Although there were times you would come on the expeditions with him, seeing as you too were a Chrysos Heir, just not one that was chosen to be a Titan in the next Era Nova. However, with Okhema having more and more attacks, you chose to stay back to help out if there was a need for it. 

There was a small pep in his step as he headed to the baths, Mydei making sly comments at him and how it seemed everything he did was for you. But he wanted to clean himself up for you. He felt a bit guilty for denying each of your pursuits for something more intimate in the bedroom each time. 

But there was a good reason for that! He swears. But coming to terms with it means that maybe he isn’t the hero that he dreamt of being since his time in Aedes Elysiae. Phainon so desperately wanted to keep you to himself. And if he opened himself up to you like that, take your first and give you his, he feared that he would want to keep you all to himself, shelter you from the world. 

All he knew was loss, and he couldn’t lose you. Not now, not ever. 

So how else was Phainon supposed to react to seeing you in bed with someone else, with their cum dripping out of you. What is he supposed to do when he sees that someone else looks exactly like him? 

(Until he doesn’t and instead has golden eyes and lighter colored hair, but the man still is undeniably, although Phainon will try to deny it, him or some version thereof.)

Khaslana raised his weapon defensively in response to Phainon. 

“Did you-” Phainon’s voice cracked “-why did you—” 

“It’s not her fault.” Khaslana interrupted, his eyes flicking back towards you, your face filled with confusion. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let you be on the other end of the blade.

Khaslana should have known better. Not every cycle can or will go exactly as it had in the past. His presence being here, he being in your bed very well could have been the butterfly effect to lead this cycle’s variation of him back to you. 

You were their everything.

“If you don’t explain yourself quickly, consider this your final moment,” Phainon demanded, his sword piercing the skin against Khaslana’s neck, gold glimmering underneath.

Khaslana’s eyes flickered to yours, and an emotion that he could not describe was etched across your face. Confusion? Hurt? Betrayal? 

Or was that a hint of want and need hiding underneath your eyes? 

Phainon raised his sword in response, maneuvering Khaslana’s gaze to return to his. 

Words would be too difficult for him, for even you to understand. But if the explanation came from Phainon, then maybe... 

Khaslana took a step forward towards his other self. The blade against his neck pierced deeper, allowing for the golden blood to flow, proving himself as a Chrysos Heir. And so, despite the rage burning beneath Phainon’s eyes, the blade that he held with determination, he faltered. 

Sudden memories flashed through his mind. Memories that he has yet to make and memories that he’s already made. Memories that he knows were in the past, and yet he never experienced them himself until now. 

Then the memories of you flooded through. 

Your laugh, your smile, your love, your warmth, and your tears and suffering. 

In some cycles, after every demigod and Chrysos Heir fell from his hands, you were the last one to remain, the last to step up to see Era Nova succeed even if you weren’t part of the prophecy. Only for him to end the cycle there because he already succeeded in his mission. Never would he dream of a timeline where you were put to rest because of him. 

Phainon’s eyes glimmered with pain and regret. But he can’t even blame the master of all cycles in front of him. He lowered his sword, letting it dissipate, to look over at you. Your hand gripping the blankets to cover yourself the best that you could, trying to make sense of what was in front of you. 

Phainon walked over to you, settling down on the bed beside you, his hand rising up to meet your cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, stroking your cheek. You let him, revelling in the warmth he gave you.

“What’s going on Phai?” Your eyes flickered to the angelic man in the room who wouldn’t dare look at you right now then back to Phainon. 

“Do you trust me?” He asked. You nodded your head without any hesitation. If the man told you to jump, you would. Phainon, your Phainon began to explain everything. The endless recurrences, the Flame-Chase journey, how Era Nova could never be, Lygus’ true intentions... 

Khaslana stood there, listening. He stayed to ensure that Phainon didn’t do anything to you. Not that he would, he knew Phainon wouldn’t (he was him), but Khaslana needed an excuse to stay by your side, if only a little longer. 

Phainon watched you in silence. Your eyes flickering between the two of them, their presence ever so large, and then there was you, a Chrysos heir with no destiny. And here he was, Khaslana, who willingly took on the burden for the hope that the cycles would be broken. Then your Phainon, the man destined to be the Deliverer, and soon to take on the mantle of the many versions that came before him. You were nothing compared to the two of them.

Shame overwhelmed you, causing you to lower your head. Not only did you barely have a role to play in this story, but you felt a tinge of guilt; you couldn’t even give your first to him, even if they were the same person. And yet, there was still a heat that blossomed between your legs, knowing that the two of them stood in this room and wanted you just as bad as you wanted them.

As if sensing your dilemma, Phainon placed his finger underneath your chin to bring your gaze back up to his. The guilt you may be feeling is nothing comparable to the pain he’s put on you (and the others) in the countless cycles. He wouldn’t mind holding the pain for the two of you. 

“Don’t worry, my love,” he placed his forehead against yours, “you were and always will be my first.” And maybe you weren’t his, you were still, and always will be his. 

“That’s not-” you pulled away, your eyes meeting Khaslana for a beat, your legs subconsciously rubbing together as you tried to cover yourself up more “-I just...” 

Silence entered the room, Phainon pursing his lips. All he wanted was for you to be happy, for you to lean on him whenever you could, even if you didn’t want to. He wanted to fulfill all of your wishes, your deepest and darkest desires. He wanted to be your confidant as much as you were to him. 

You felt a dip on the bed behind you. Khaslana, still in his angelic form, rests behind you, his fingers dancing over your bare back, his breath against your neck, and his eyes met his counterpart in front of him. 

“You could still take her first, she has another hole after all.” 

A small, depraved whine left you that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but the two men in front of you watched your every breath during every moment he was with you. 

Khaslana’s hand went up to your neck, giving you a new piece of jewelry that you’ve been wanting for a while now. He nibbled against your earlobe, his other hand softly grabbing the blanket you’ve been using to cover up to reveal your bare body to the man in front of him. 

Phainon clenched his hands in his lap. His eyes lingered on your glistening pussy, the cum leaking out practically asking him to stuff it back in. With slightly shaking hands, Phainon placed his hands on the insides of your thighs, slowly pushing your legs up towards you. He glanced up, your face flushed with your hands resting above your breasts, your eyes filled with need, begging for him to touch you. 

If this were your desire, then he would fulfill it. 

He lowered his head close to your warmth, his tongue darting out with slight hesitation between your folds, groaning at the taste of his cum and your pussy mixed together. The hesitation dissipated, his hands gripping your thighs, pushing them harder to expose more of you. Phainon flattened his tongue against you, tasting your sweetness mixed with Khaslana’s with each stroke before he would settle his tongue against your sensitive bud to tease you then back down your slit, repeating those actions over and over just to hear your melody fill up the room. 

Khaslana moved his hands to your breasts, groping them as he had earlier, playing with your perky nipples, teasing them before pinching them hard, surprising you, making you need to hold onto something to ground yourself. He hummed, watching your brows furrow at the stimulation. The squelching sounds were music to his ears to the scene unfolding in front of him. 

Phainon’s eyes looked up at you when he felt your hands tug his hair. His dick hardened, if it could anymore, from the sight of you; lips parted, eyes shut, your hands on him, and your hips grinding against his mouth as if there was no tomorrow. He couldn’t believe that he got to see you so debauched, so desperate for him. 

God, he wanted you. Needed you. He craved for you every moment he was away. Phainon couldn’t believe that he would stop himself from giving in to your advances. He grinded into the bed for some friction, tongue as deep in your hole as possible, trying to reach all the parts of you as he could. He groaned against your cunt, the vibrations flooding through you. 

You threw your head back with a deep sigh at the feeling of falling apart on his lips, your juices spilling out onto Phainon’s face and the mattress below the three of you. Khaslana took this chance to cup your face, bringing your lips to his, devouring you as if this was his last. You parted your mouth, desperate to feel his tongue roll over yours. 

All of your senses felt overwhelming but you had to admit, you were filthy for wanting both of them. You couldn’t help but love the way they were both possessive over you, wanting to protect you, wanting to fill you. 

It was only fair to make them both take you. 

Khaslana was the first to pull away, his golden eyes couldn’t decide where to settle; your eyes or your swollen lips panting as you came down from the high. But he settled for your lips when your gaze moved towards Phainon. 

Phainon sat up, his tongue licking his lips to savor every last drop you gave him. His eyes filled with lust as he stared deep into your soul. As if he were searching for your deepest and darkest desires so that only he could fulfill them.  

“Phai,” you reached out to him, your grabby hands that you would always do when you wanted to kiss him. So he did, with a gentle caress on your neck, he kissed you. But upon hearing his nickname, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of want. 

He felt guilty, ashamed even, to want to be called by his given name. After all, it had taken him endless cycles to open up to you, if Khaslana is any show for that. So for now, he’ll be satisfied with this, with the nickname he’s been given by you all this time. 

Hands, Khaslana’s, roamed down your side, lifting you up ever so slightly to spread your cheeks. Although he had his time with you earlier, he still desperately craved your attention. His two fingers dipped into your heated core, covering himself with your slick before he moved them back, now prodding at your untouched hole. 

You squealed, breaking apart from Phainon’s kisses, “W-wait!” 

Khaslana paused. 

“I-” you blushed, staring down. Unable to let the words out of your mouth you turned yourself around, exposing your bare ass to Phainon. Your hands held onto Khaslana’s shoulders for support while looking back at Phainon with heavy-lidded eyes, coaxing him into taking your puckered hole.

Mesmerized, Phainon groped each one of your cheeks with his hands. Squeezing them, letting his hands run over your plush skin. God, how he wished he took you sooner. His eyes flickered up to you, Khaslana taking care of your need to have your lips on his, his hands kneading your breasts. He never thought that he’d ever be jealous of himself and yet here he was. 

Phainon slid his fingers into your cunt, listening to your muffled moans that made his pants feel ever so tighter. But right now, he wanted to focus on you. 

He took out his fingers, watching how much you dripped with need, with the mixture of yours and Khaslana’s fluids webbed his fingers. 

With one hand on your cheek, Phainon lightly circled the rim of your little asshole. Your hips cant backwards, desperate for more. And who was he to deny you of your wishes? He pushed his finger in, the mixed fluids on his fingers helping aid his mission to stretch you out. 

He gently moves his finger inside of you, allowing you to get used to the feeling before he adds in another. You toss your head back, reveling in the new and foreign feeling, yet not opposing it either. Khaslana begins his onslaught on your already marked neck, licking, biting, kissing every part of your skin that he could reach. 

Phainon shuddered at how tight your asshole was, you were already clenching around his fingers. He was desperate to feel you around his cock, clenching, sucking him in with every thrust. 

A third finger entered the fray, your melodic noises with a slight crescendo. Phainon prodded at your walls, stretching you further, thrusting his fingers every so often for you to get used to the intrusion. The sound of your slick lubricating your asshole with every thrust of his finger rang through the room. 

“Ph-phai! I-mmph!” Phainon stuck his other two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, continuing his motions in your asshole, hitting that one spot that made you see stars from this hole. 

Your pussy clenched at his aggressive actions, the build up in your core growing faster, the knot wanting to become undone. It didn’t help how Khaslana in his angelic form (which seemed so debauched with the current scene before you if you thought about it [you didn’t]) suckled at your breast, his tongue flicking back and forth over your perky nub, only ever letting go to give your other one the same amount of attention. Then there was the feeling of Khaslana’s already hardened dick resting against your stomach. 

Phainon whispered your name into your ear, “You can take this, I know you can.” His words mirror the same sentiment as Khaslana’s from earlier. His perpetual motions, the empty feeling of your pussy but your asshole being filled and his continued words of praise pushed you over the edge. 

Your cunt clenched around nothing and Phainon groaned deep into your ear with the feeling of your rim squeezing his fingers, wishing it was his cock in you instead. 

“Never thought you’d be able to cum with just fingers in your cute little asshole,” Khaslana chuckled. Phainon agreed silently, but he had yet to gain the confidence to say something as lewd as that out loud. He felt that he was already delving into his dark desires with his rough handling of you earlier. (He almost forgot that although this was his first time with you it wasn’t his first time with you).

His fingers slipped out of you, allowing him to watch your gaping hole clench and unclench. 

With a sigh, Phainon moved off the bed, shedding off only the heavy armor, too desperate to feel you to take off anything else. He unbuckled his pants, pushing it down just enough to pull himself out. Your breath hitched, staring at how his cock was practically purple with how hard he was, precum drooling from his tip. Although him and Khaslana were the same size (duh), you couldn’t help but feel a bit weary with his cock deep in your asshole. You already felt like you were splitting apart earlier. 

Khaslana teased his dick at your entrance and squeezed your waist with his free hand, forcing your attention back to him and taking you out of your thoughts. 

“Come on now,” he murmured against your lips, “pay attention to me.” 

You whimpered at his demand, your hands finding hold in his longer and fluffier golden hair. The bed dipped behind you, Phainon’s hands on your hips, his dick poking at your other entrance. 

Your eyes widened, looking back, “Wa-wait! At the same time?” 

Both of them laughed, squeezing and stroking the parts of you that they held onto. Their eyes met with each other and although they hated having to share you, their need to watch you fall apart was greater. 

“Remember?” Khaslana spoke first. 

“You can take it, you can take both of us,” Phainon finished. Butterflies churned in your stomach, and you weren’t sure if it was excitement or fear. Maybe both. You could barely handle Khaslana fucking your cunt, but your little ass too, at the same time? 

You didn’t feel confident that you could satisfy both of them. 

“It’ll be okay,” Phainon kissed the back of your neck, his thumb rubbing circles on your hip. He felt like he was torturing himself, holding back until he knew your nerves were gone. 

There was a small beat before you nodded your head, you turned to look at Phainon and reached back to pull him down for a kiss. Your lips parted to let him in. Khaslana took this as the chance to pull you down onto his cock. He let out a visceral groan at how wet you were, how much you were dripping, and just how tight you were even after all of this preparation. 

Phainon broke the kiss first, much to his distaste, but he wanted to watch your bodies join together as one. This time, Khaslana roughly pulled you in for a kiss, his dick already deep inside you. Phainon was surprised at his patience, Khaslana was waiting for him to enter before he started moving. 

Phainon used his hand to guide himself into your hole, with the preparation and all the slick from before, he entered easily enough. 

“Ah, fuck,” he moaned out, your asshole swallowing him. He also felt Khaslana’s dick on the other side of your thin walls separating the two of you. Slowly, he pushed in, your warmth, all of you, surrounding him bit by bit. Phainon was mesmerized at the sight of his dick disappearing deep into you, shocked that all of those dreams became a reality. 

Your hand reached back to rest on his hip, your hand grasping at his pants, making him pause as he was worried he was going too fast. But when he stopped, you pulled your lips away from Khaslana’s. 

“N-No,” you breathed out, staring back at him with only lust in your eyes, “Don’t stop. More. Wan’ more.” You tugged on his pants, pulling him deeper into you.

You were going to be the death of him. 

“Just a little more.” Lie. He still had a little over half of his dick left to go. A little faster, he pushed in, feeling the tightness and feeling Khaslana’s cock twitch on the other side. Phainon knew that Khaslana was barely hanging on, wanting to fuck up into you. In a few more moments, his hips were pressed up against your ass. 

All three of you let out a sigh of relief; finally Phainon took your first, Khaslana could breathe as he was fearful he would cum then and there with all the friction, and you--you were filled so, so, so full to the brim. You didn’t know where you started and ended anymore. All you knew was that you needed to be defiled, used, fucked, and filled. 

No longer did you care about the Flame-Chase Journey, this was where you were supposed to be. Sandwiched by your boyfriend and his other variant, their cocks deep inside of you, stretching you out. 

You don’t think you could ever go back to fucking yourself with the toy that Aglaea got you. But you suppose you don’t need the toy anymore if you could keep both of them here. 

Phainon thrust into you first, testing the waters after letting you adjust to the two of them, your eyes rolled back into your head, already feeling overstimulated. Khaslana hissed at the feeling of you tightening and Phainon’s dick separated by the thin wall. He began to fuck into you as well. 

You moaned with each of their thrusts, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes, entirely overwhelmed by all the stimulation. Phainon wrapped his arms around your torso, keeping you close to him with Khaslana holding your hips, thrusting himself up into you. 

The squelch of your pussy and your ass joining with your melody as the harmonic accompaniment. This moment slowly searing itself into your mind, your mouth agape, one of your hands barely hanging onto Phainon’s arms with your other resting on Khaslana’s abdomen, his taut muscles underneath your fingertips. You were so full and you just desperately wanted to be filled with their cum. If you had any of your sanity left, you’d feel guilty for wanting more. 

“ ‘S too much,” you cried out, tears trailing down your cheeks. Phainon kissed your neck, his grip on your entire body tightening. 

“If it’s too much, why are your holes sucking us back in?” Phainon asked, voice hoarse. You couldn’t answer, no, not with the way Khaslana reached for your sensitive bud, rubbing it with his thumb to continue to stimulate you. 

You wanted to push them away; you felt like you were going to meet Thanatos’ Hand if they kept this up. Your eyes rolled back, gasping when Phainon bit down on your shoulder, groaning into you as he kept fucking deep into you at the same pace as Khaslana. 

Khaslana sang you praises, his dick kissing your cervix nice and deep. Describing you as a beautiful whore, begging and crying for their cocks. And... he wasn’t wrong. You loved this, you loved being spoiled by them, feeling them fucking into you at the same pace, only ever feeling slightly empty for moments not too long. 

You have to bite back a moan, the tight knot threatening to unravel once more as they continue to abuse your insides. The pressure in your abdomen built up, a familiar and yet foreign feeling appeared. 

“ ‘M close, Phai, Khas,” you cried out, your hips lightly rocking back and forth as you tried to help them fuck into you. “Feels good, ‘m so full.” 

“Come on, my love,” Phainon grunted, feeling his climax approaching. “You’re being such a good girl for us.” 

You were, you were such a good girl taking their cocks like it was nothing. Letting Khaslana play with your little bud. You’d be such a good girl that you’d let them do this every day if they wanted to. The thought of them doing this every day alongside both Phainon and Khaslana, filling you up. 

Khaslana moaned out your name, cumming deep into you, his thrusts growing more shallow. Feeling his warm seed filling you up once more with his thumb rolling over your clit pushed you over the edge and then some. The foreign feeling you felt earlier suddenly disappeared as clear liquid escaped you, spilling over Khaslana’s abdomen, making the man groan with desire over the debauched scene that unfolded in front of him. Your pussy spasming around his cock, milking him for every last drop. 

Phainon followed soon after, thick ropes of his seed filling your hole, deep groans escaped his mouth into your ear and your asshole clenched around his dick like it did to his fingers earlier. 

You whined at the feeling of both of their cum filling deep inside of you painting your walls, your high slowly fading away. But one different thing different to when Khaslana fucked you for the first time, their dicks weren’t softening. 

Khaslana grabbed onto your hips, his eyes locking with Phainons. 

“Think she can take one more?” He asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

Phainon’s eyes darkened, his grip on you loosening before pushing you down on top of Khaslana, your eyes widened. “Of course she can.” 

“Wa-wait!” You straightened your arms to try to get up and off of Khaslana

Khaslana grabbed hold of your hips, thrusting up into you, “You can keep going, you’re a good girl for us, right?” 

Your eyes rolled back, your entire body falling down on top of Khaslana, your arms no longer had the strength to hold you up. You felt so, so overstimulated but it felt so, so good with their cum filling you up, dripping out of you and their cocks in both of your holes. You’re so sure that they’ve ruined you. They created you to be their perfect mold so that no one else could ever make you cum in the way only they can. You’re almost scared that you wouldn’t be able to cum without the two of them. 

A whine escaped your mouth when Phainon pulled out of you, but the feeling of his cum dripping out of your ass made you squeal with delight. With furrowed brows, Phainon couldn’t help but wish his cum was in your pussy instead (though, don’t get him wrong, he loved watching your gaped asshole spill out his cum every so often). He wanted to fill you up. He wanted you to come to him the next day out of fear that it was his cum that was the reason your period was late. 

Phainon so desperately needed to breed you until it was certain that it was only going to be his cum dripping down your thighs. 

At this point, Khaslana slowed down, waiting for Phainon to join because, as much as he’d hate to admit, he wouldn’t be able to ruin you without him. His eyes widened with shock when he felt Phainon line himself up at the entrance of your pussy. But then again, he’d do the same thing. 

An incoherent noise left your mouth, but at this point, you didn’t care. Your hips rocked back and forth on Khaslana’s dick, wanting more friction. You cried for Phainon to hurry up and hurry up he did. 

You didn’t know if you should be thankful or if you should be ruined. Or both. 

This time, the stretch felt different but still so deliciously pleasurable. Phainon pushed his cock into your pussy with Khaslana’s already so deep inside. There was little to no resistance and the three of you weren’t even the slightest bit surprised. Not with how much of your slick spilled out mixed with Khaslana’s two loads of cum already inside. 

You don’t know how much you could take but you wanted to keep going, needed to keep going. And when Phainon finally filled you with Khaslana holding his breath, you’re the one who began rocking your hips back and forth. 

“Fuck.” You’re not sure who says your name this time, or maybe it’s both. Not when the tingling sensation began to build up in your abdomen once more. You wanted to chase the high again. You wanted to feel them pump you full of your cum to the point that you’d still feel their cum dripping out of your cunt, down your leg a few days from now. 

Although your asshole felt empty this time, your pussy was stretched out beyond belief, your cervix being bullied beyond relief. You almost wished there was a way for a third to fill up your asshole (maybe one of your toys?). 

Phainon and Khaslana begin fucking into you, their cocks hitting your deepest parts, the sound of flesh against flesh filling the room once more. The squelching noise was louder than before. Your moaning motivated the men to keep driving into you even as they continued to work up a sweat. 

“Doing so good for us, sweetheart,” Khaslana murmured into your ears. “You’re still so tight for us.” He felt your cunt clench at the soft nothings, Phainon’s groans following not a beat later. 

“Fuck, your pussy feels so good,” Phainon cried out. “Both of your holes feel so good.” 

“Jus’ for you,” you slurred out, wanting to please them but you barely had any energy to say anything else, too sensitive for anything more. 

“Should feel her mouth next time,” Khaslana smirked up at him, knowing that was the last hole he had yet to experience. 

“Only if you feel her asshole,” Phainon quipped back. If you were coherent still, you would have slapped the two of them for fighting over your holes, but you were so lost in the pleasure that you couldn’t comprehend anything else. 

This time, Phainon reached down between your and Khaslana’s body, finding your clit and rubbing it. You cried, your legs squeezing Khaslana’s hips, your hands clenched as you buried your face into Khaslana’s neck, his hands on your waist as if grounding you into this moment.

“Gon’ cum ‘gain,” you whined, the high approaching you again. Your cunt squeezed them tighter and tighter before your release finally broke free. Your entire body shook with relief. 

Phainon and Khaslana kept fucking into you, letting you ride out the high but it wasn’t until he came faster than he expected, his cock twitching in you with each spurt painting your walls white. Khaslana wasn’t too far behind, and though this was his third time cumming today, he still had more to spill into you (he could honestly keep going if you asked). 

Their cocks began to soften, your body relaxing from the high. You whined at the loss when Phainon pulled out, and Khaslana followed suit. The cum already dripping out of your pussy and Phainon watched before scooping it with his fingers before sliding it back into your pussy. 

“Let's get you cleaned up,” Phainon spoke softly, getting off the bed. Khaslana nudged you with his nose, breathing in your scent deeply. 

You let out a tired groan, flopping over and off Khaslana’s chest. “Tired.” 

Phainon laughed, scooping you up into his arms, about to move you towards your private bath, when you patted his arm to stop. 

Khaslana sat up, his wings sunken, not flying high like they had earlier when the two men had a stand-off. His face was crestfallen as he realized he would have to leave and leave the two of you be. 

“Khas,” you reached your hand out to the master of all cycles, “come join us while you have the chance.” 

Admittedly, Phainon was a bit jealous, but he couldn’t lie... He enjoyed the fact that, despite everything he told you and everything he had done (since Phainon would soon replace him for the next iteration), you still loved him. 

You still chose him. 

You still cared for him. 

Even in his darkest hour, when he hated himself for not saving his hometown, not saving Cyrene, you chose to love him. So he too chose to love himself if it meant keeping you in his life and if it meant being able to continuously put one foot forward in front of the other. 

“You’ll have to go back to collecting the Coreflames, and I’ll meet you on the battlefield then,” Phainon called out. “Come, join us. Relax for a bit. I’ll be taking up your mantle soon enough.” 

Khaslana gritted his hands. He knew what was going to happen, what had to be done. But if this could be his moment of solace, then just this once, he’ll enjoy himself. He got up from the bed. Phainon nodded at him before turning back to walk towards the baths. 

You wrapped your arms around Phainon to pull yourself just enough to look back at Khaslana before saying, “Your wings are pretty, I like them.” 

Khaslana smiled, knowing that this was his answer to his turmoil from earlier. That despite all the sins he’s committed, the worlds he’s burned just for the chance for the next to survive, you still chose him. 

do NOT stick anything into your pussy after it was in your asshole, thank you

this man singlehandedly brought me back from the dead! this is very shameless.

no feeding my works to gen ai training! thanks :^)

[scarletwinterxx]

be the rest of your life or whatever - choi seunngcheol imagine (2)

this is waaaaay tooooo cute to stay in my drafts, also so many readers are asking for this so here you go😅 if you haven't read the first part, check it out here!

currently working on two fics i'll hopefully post for ww and sc's bday but i have lotsssss of editing to do. so here's a quick spin off?? part 2??? whatever you call this HAHA hope you like it!

you can follow me on x, niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

Living together came with a rhythm. a kind of dance you didn’t choreograph but somehow perfected anyway.

Like how he swears up and down the keys are missing, again, and he’s tearing the apartment apart like someone broke in and stole just that.

Did you check the pocket of your jacket? After a beat of silence... 

“…Don’t say anything.”

Or how he leaves his socks in the weirdest places on the back of the couch, the bathroom sink, once inside the microwave which he claims it was “a joke. And somehow, you're the designated sock police.

But in return?

He opens every jar for you like it’s a challenge from the gods. Like, you’ll struggle with a jar of kimchi for three seconds before dramatically setting it down and calling out,

“Choi Seungcheol, fulfill your purpose.” And he’s there instantly, chest puffed like a knight, twisting that lid with one hand like he was born for it.

“Anything for you, milady,” he says.

“...Okay but put it back in the fridge though.”

He restocks the snacks without asking, always the exact brand you like even the weird seasonal ones. You refill his protein powders and label them so he doesn’t accidentally scoop pre-workout at midnight again. He insists on doing the heavy lifting at the grocery store. You insist he buys less of everything you know he’s not actually going to eat.

You steal his hoodies. He pretends to be mad. Then buys more hoodies “accidentally” in your size.

He hogs the blanket. You retaliate by becoming a human starfish.

You always find the TV remote. He always remembers where you left your glasses.

You cook when you’re in the mood. He cooks when you’re not.

“I don’t want to cook today.”

“Great. That makes two of us. Wanna order chicken?”

“God, I love you.”

The laundry is a war zone. He folds like a human disaster. You have a system. He doesn’t get it. You stop trying to explain. He starts handing you clothes with puppy eyes. You fold everything. He brings you snacks as tribute.

And sometimes it’s quiet just brushing teeth side by side, bumping hips while folding towels, scrolling on the couch with your legs tangled, his hand absently running up and down your back.

It’s a million tiny moments. Mundane. Messy. Magical.

You live together like you’ve always been meant to.

And in the chaos of socks, jars, keys, and too many snack runs and there’s no one else you’d rather do this whole life thing with.

=

He’s pacing behind you in the kitchen like a man on a mission. Shirtless, gym shorts hanging low on his hips, towel slung around his neck and hair still damp from the shower but instead of enjoying the rare peace of post-workout bliss, he’s spiraling.

“I’m serious,” he huffs. “They’re cutting out everything. No sugar, no bread, no ramyeon. do you know what that means? That means I can’t even look at your late-night snack stash without getting side-eyed by the trainer.”

You’re barely listening. Not because you don’t car but because you’ve got a spatula in one hand, half an eye on the simmering pot, and you’re already used to the sound of him monologuing behind you

“You don’t even like bread that much,” you reply calmly

“Exactly! That’s not the point. The point is, now that I can’t have it, I want it more. I’ve never wanted toast this badly in my life. And don’t even get me started on coffee. I asked if I could just have one iced vanilla latte and the coach looked at me like I asked for a cigarette.”

You hum thoughtfully and give the stew a stir. “Okay, but… why the sudden panic? You've never cared this much before.”

“I don't know,” he grumbles, tugging the towel off his neck and flopping dramatically onto one of the stools at the counter. “It’s different now. National team stuff feels bigger. Like… all eyes on us, you know? I feel like I need to be in the best shape of my life.”

You pause mid-stir, then turn to look at him.

He’s frowning at the countertop, brows knit together, abs still annoyingly visible for someone claiming to be “out of shape.”

And you, in your oversized t-shirt and fluffy socks, holding a ladle and feeling every bit the picture of domestic chaos, tilt your head.

“Why?”

He blinks up at you. “Why what?”

You smile, soft but exasperated. “Why the pressure? You already made the team. You're already good. And… I like you like this.”

He stares.

You shrug, returning to the stove. “I like you when you're all sweaty and complaining about toast. I like your stupid grumpy post-practice face. I like when you eat three servings of dinner and then act surprised you're full.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “I like you, period. Whether you're sculpted like a Greek god or soft like a steamed bun.”

His laugh breaks before he can stop it. “Soft like a steamed bun? That’s your bar?”

“You love steamed buns.”

“I—okay, valid.”

You grin to yourself, stirring again like it's the most casual confession in the world. Behind you, you hear the stool creak. A few seconds later, warm arms wrap around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“Do you also like me when I keep eating while I’m on a ‘diet’?”

“Do you also keep lying to your trainer about what you ate?”

He presses a kiss to your cheek. “He doesn’t need to know about the tteokbokki incident.”

You laugh, leaning back into him.

“See?” you murmur. “Perfect just like this.”

“You’re dangerous.”

“You’re easy.”

He pinches your waist and you yelp, elbowing him gently in return.

And in that tiny kitchen, with the smell of dinner in the air and the background hum of life after college settling into something real, something solid you realize neither of you would trade this for anything.

You turn around in his arms, wooden spoon still in hand, and eye him up and down like he’s your favorite guilty pleasure at 2 a.m.

“Go on,” you say, smirking. “Tell your scary trainer your girlfriend likes you like this.”

You gesture vaguely to his entire body shirtless, towel-hair, the faintest pout still on his lips from earlier.

“I dare you. Look him dead in the eye and go, ‘My girlfriend thinks I’m delicious just the way I am.’”

He throws his head back laughing. “Delicious? What am I, a snack?”

“You’ve always been a snack,” you say, poking him in the side with your spoon. “Now you’re just a full meal. Extra side dishes. Dessert included.”

He catches your wrist mid-poke, grinning. “Wow. Remember when you refused to admit I was hot?”

You scoff, dramatic. “I was protecting myself.”

“From what, exactly?”

“From the endless ego that would’ve followed!”

“Too late,” he says smugly, pressing a kiss to the side of your mouth. “I’ve got receipts now.”

You narrow your eyes. “Yeah, well… now I sleep in your bed.”

“You do,” he says proudly.

You lift a brow. “And steal all the blankets.”

“And wear my shirts.”

“And finish your fries.”

He sighs, leaning in, voice softening. “And still somehow call me the lucky one.”

You go a little quiet at that, cheeks warming, until

“Also,” you add quickly, because God forbid you let the softness linger too long, “you do snore. Loud. Like a dying vacuum.”

He gasps. “Rude.”

“And you hog the bathroom.”

“You use all the hot water!”

“Because I have longer hair!”

“Because you’re high-maintenance!”

You’re both smiling too wide to care, leaning into each other in between jabs. The stew simmers away forgotten for now as he hooks his arms tighter around your waist and rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he murmurs.

You grin “Damn right I am.”

And right there, wrapped in each other, laughter tangled in the air you're both more than okay with the fact that this is what forever might look like.

The sun’s barely up, the soft golden light slipping through the half-closed curtains. The apartment’s quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of Seungcheol getting ready. duffel bag zipped, shoes quietly set by the door, phone and keys in their usual spot.

But before he leaves, he makes one last stop. Bck to the bedroom.

You're still tangled in the sheets, half-facedown with hair a mess, one leg kicked out and the other tucked underneath the comforter. His hoodie is slipping off one shoulder, revealing the marks he left last night, the reason you're still dead to the world this morning.

He stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, smirking like the devil himself. Damn right you're tired, he thinks. I should get a medal for that performance.

But it’s not just the pride. It’s the way your brow twitch slightly, lips parted, cheeks still pink with leftover warmth, curled up in the cocoon of their shared bed like you belong nowhere else. There’s something deeply satisfying in knowing that this—you—is what he gets to come home to.

He steps closer, gently kneels beside the bed, brushes the hair from your face.

“Still knocked out, huh?” he whispers, voice low and affectionate. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You grumble something unintelligible, barely stirring, and that just makes him smile wider.

He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

You shift slightly, brow scrunching.

“Cheol…” you mumble, still far from the waking world.

“I’m heading out,” he murmurs against your skin. “Eat when you wake up, okay?”

You barely nod, eyes still closed, and he can’t help but press one more kiss to your lips. He stands, adjusts the hoodie you’re wearing so it covers you properly, then heads out, casting one last glance at your sleeping figure before the door shuts softly behind him.

He never leaves without kissing you goodbye.

And no matter how early the hour or how long the day ahead—he never forgets who he's coming back to.

=

You walk into the apartment with a spring in your step and a very mischievous glint in your eyes. He’s sprawled out on the couch, fresh out of the shower, hair damp and wearing those sweatpants. The grey ones. The dangerously effective ones. 

He’s half-watching a game, half-scrolling through his phone, fully unaware of the chaos you’re about to unleash.

You drop your bag, stretch like you just ran a marathon, and casually stroll over, plopping onto the couch beside him like you’re not about to start a war.

“Hey,” you say sweetly, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Hey, baby.” He doesn’t even look up. “How was your wax appointment?”

You grin. Game on.

“Oh, it was great,” you say, keeping your tone breezy. “Really smooth. He did a good job.”

There’s a pause. He blinks. “He?”

You nod, completely deadpan. “Yeah. This new guy. Super professional. Like he had the gentlest hands. Barely felt a thing.”

His head slowly turns toward you, phone now lowered in his lap. “He? Did a—wax?”

You nod again, eyes wide, innocent. “Uh-huh. Brazilians, you know? It’s delicate work. And oh my god he was so thorough. Light hands, like feathers. Kinda soothing, actually.”

He’s blinking at you like he’s buffering. Like his brain just short-circuited.

“Wait. Hold on. A guy waxed your entire—” He waves vaguely toward your lower half like his vocabulary’s given up. “Down there?!”

You shrug, completely unbothered. “Mhm. He even complimented me. Said I had very ‘cooperative skin.’ Isn’t that cute?”

Seungcheol shoots up to sit fully upright, eyes bulging. “Cooperative skin?! WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!”

You bite your lip to stop from laughing. “It means I didn’t flinch or move. He was really impressed. Very gentle. Like his hands were magical. Want me to call and get you a slot?”

Seungcheol looks personally victimized.

“You’re joking.”

You smile sweetly. “Want to see? He did such a good job—”

“NO!” he yells, lunging for a pillow and smacking it against his face. “NO, I DON’T WANT TO SEE, WHAT THE HELL, BABY—”

You finally crack, bursting into laughter so loud it makes the lamp shake.

“Oh my god—your face!” you wheeze, flopping over dramatically onto his lap as he groans into his hands. “You looked like you were about to file a police report!”

“I ALMOST DID!” he shouts. “WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT? DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY BLOOD VESSELS I JUST POPPED?!”

You’re laughing so hard now you’re crying, clutching your stomach as he glares at you.

“I was this close to showing up to the salon, flipping over the reception desk like ‘WHERE’S GENTLE HANDS?!’”

“‘Where’s Gentle Hands!’” you repeat, howling. “That sounds like a mob boss!”

“You’re insane,” he grumbles, covering your face with a throw pillow as punishment. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Still giggling, you peek out. “Love me enough to help me moisturize my cooperative skin?”

He groans, gets up, grabs another pillow, and throws it at you.

“You’re banned. No more waxing appointments without adult supervision.”

He’s still glaring at you, pillow abandoned somewhere on the floor, his arms crossed and jaw clenched like he’s fighting the urge to combust.

“Oh, it’s so funny, huh?” he bites out

You wipe a tear from the corner of your eye, your grin stretching ear to ear. “I mean… a little. Just a teeny bit.”

He narrows his eyes like he’s trying to calculate whether he’s mad or just irrevocably in love with you. “I endured years of you arguing with me about everything under the sun,” he starts, pacing now like he’s testifying in court. “Before we even dated. Before I could kiss you to shut you up. Before I could call you mine when you were out here being stubborn for sport.”

You snort. “I was not stubborn for sport.”

He ignores you. “You’d correct my essays, roast my fashion, roll your eyes at me so hard I could feel the breeze—”

“Because you wore neon socks to an actual class presentation.”

He whirls around, ignoring the interruption like a true professional. “—and I endured it all. You know why?”

You blink, smile faltering just a little. “…Why?”

He points at himself with both hands. “So no other guy gets to just—” and then he pauses, looking utterly offended as he motions vaguely in your direction like your entire existence is too holy to even describe, “—all of this. Absolutely not.”

You burst out laughing again, nearly falling off the couch. “So you’re telling me… you suffered through my sass just so one day you’d have exclusive rights to my bikini waxes?”

He stops pacing. Blinks. Tilts his head. “…Yes.”

You’re on the floor now, actually wheezing. “That is the dumbest, most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

He huffs, hands on his hips. “You think I was gonna let gentle hands the rsthetician waltz in and touch what I’ve literally bled on the soccer field for?! My prize?!”

You gasp between giggles. “Your prize?!”

He crosses the room in two long strides, grabs a blanket, and tosses it over your head like he’s done with your chaos. “Court is adjourned. You’re in timeout.”

You peek out, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

He sits beside you, smug and slightly red in the ears, arm slung over the back of the couch. “You love me.”

You nudge him with your foot. “Unfortunately.”

He turns, eyes gleaming. “So… there was no Gentle Hands?”

You grin, leaning close. “No Gentle Hands.”

He exhales in relief, then squints. “It was a woman, right?”

You pause. Then smirk. “Nope. It was a robot. Future tech. Laser hands. Very gentle. Super efficient.”

His mouth opens. Closes.

“…You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“Still worth it.”

=

Like most couples, you do get into arguments. Like today, it started with something dumb. Most of your fights do.

Something about the laundry. Or his wet towel being on the bed again. Or you leaving your half-full coffee mugs in random corners of the apartment. 

The kind of thing that escalates not because it matters, but because you’re both Leos. Two overly dramatic, overly expressive, overly passionate fire signs locked in a tiny apartment with too much pride and not enough chill.

So when voices rise, hands get flaily, and the “Oh, you’re really doing this right now?”s start flying you know it’s about to be one of those nights.

And true to form, neither of you backs down.

You huffed, “Fine,” and grabbed your blanket and stormed off to the couch like you were doing him a favor.

He stood in the kitchen, jaw clenched, arms crossed, mumbling under his breath like a sitcom husband—“Unbelievable. All this over a towel. A damn towel. I dried my hair with it, not set the apartment on fire—”

You waited, expecting the usual rhythm: you cool off, he cools off, one of you mumbles something semi-sincere and the other reluctantly folds.

But tonight? You were not folding.

And neither was he.

At least, not right away.

The night stretched on.

You laid stiff on the couch, scrolling your phone, blanket over your shoulder like a shield. You weren’t crying or anything this wasn’t that kind of fight. It was the principle of the thing. The stubborn Leo principle.

The apartment stayed quiet.

No footsteps. No fridge door. No sneaky tiptoeing into the living room to nudge your foot and say, “You coming to bed?”

Fine, you thought. Two can play this game.

But sometime past midnight, your eyes grew heavy. Your phone slipped from your fingers. You drifted off, frown still slightly on your face, curled up awkwardly on the too-narrow couch.

Seungcheol was in the bedroom, pacing. Definitely not sleeping.

He kept glancing at the door like it would open itself and you’d walk in, dramatic sigh and all, whispering, “It’s cold without you,” and make this easier.

But it didn’t.

And you didn’t.

Eventually, the silence started gnawing at him. That’s the thing about being mad at you, he always ends up missing you mid-argument. It’s infuriating.

He poked his head out, expecting maybe you’d moved… but no. There you were.

Blanket sliding off your shoulder, legs dangling off the couch, mouth slightly parted in sleep, as if the couch was the battlefield and you’d fallen mid-stand.

He sighed, ruffling his hair. “Of course you fell asleep out here. So dramatic,” he muttered.

But the worry was already creeping in.

He padded out, gently crouched beside the couch, and stared at your sleeping face for a second. Your lashes fluttered, cheek smushed against a throw pillow, face still in that half-pout from earlier.

God, you’re cute when you’re mad.

Even cuter when you’re fake-mad.

He reached out, brushing your hair back, voice low. “Hey. Come to bed.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t stir. Or maybe you were pretending not to hear him just to prove a point. You would.

He hesitated. Then sighed again. And finally he folded.

Like he always does.

He reached under you carefully, lifting you with practiced ease. You grumbled something incomprehensible and shifted in his arms, nose scrunching at the sudden movement.

He smiled. “Yeah, yeah. Keep acting like you don’t love me.”

You were still half-asleep, but your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like muscle memory.

By the time he tucked you into bed, blanket pulled over your shoulder just right, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

“Still mad at me?” he whispered, lips brushing your skin.

You mumbled something.

He leaned closer. “Huh?”

“I said,” you slurred, barely conscious, “don’t ever put a wet towel on the bed again.”

He choked out a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

And even as you dozed off again, triumphant in your victory he curled in beside you, grinning to himself because even when you're mad… you still ended up in his arms.

The room is dim, the only light a soft glow from the hallway spilling through the cracked door. You’re warm now, blanketed in more than just the comforter his arms wrapped around you, chest rising steadily beneath your cheek, steady and solid like home always is when it’s him.

You’re already half-asleep, body still limp from the move back into bed. You hadn’t even opened your eyes when he laid you down, just grumbled something about “sabotage” when he tried to take off your socks.

But even then, even with your pride still faintly bruised and your mouth pouting in sleep you stayed close. One leg draped over his, your fingers still tangled in the hem of his shirt like your body knew better than your ego.

And Seungcheol doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares at you in the quiet for a bit. Brushes your hair off your forehead. Watches your lips twitch and shift like you’re dreaming of arguing with him even there.

He sighs, but it’s not exasperated. It’s soft.

Then, his voice, low and warm in the stillness:

“I love you.”

You don’t respond right away, but he knows you heard it. Your brow twitches, lips parting like your brain’s slowly wading through sleep to send the message back.

And sure enough, a few seconds later, you murmur it hoarse and quiet, barely there.

“I love you too.”

It’s like breathing. Even after a stupid fight. Even after the eye-rolls and pettiness and temporary exile to the couch. It never changes.

You never sleep without saying it.

No matter how tired, no matter how stubborn, no matter who folded first it always ends the same way.

I love you.

He shifts a little, pulling you closer, nose brushing against your temple. “You were being impossible.”

You mumble into his shirt. “You left a wet towel on the bed.”

He chuckles. “So that’s what’s gonna haunt you in your sleep tonight.”

You nod, eyes still closed. “Every time I think about how damp the comforter felt, I lose a year off my life.”

He laughs again, pulling the blanket higher around you both. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re lucky.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead one last time before settling in beside you. “I really am.”

[wvyik]

NSFW ALPHABET.

sam winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: my take on the infamous NSFW alphabet where each letter represents a different aspect of sam's freaky, loving, and sometimes unexpected side in bed!!

♯ warnings: mdni!! extremely explicit content, mature themes, adult language, graphic sex details, explicit descriptions of intimacy, kinky stuff, too much masturbation going on, hair pulling, choking, body worship, switch! sam, light voyeurism, unhinged, highly detailed cock description.

♯ notes: thank you for the anon that brought you this post!!! this has been on my mind for way too long. if you missed it, here’s the dean version of this post. i’m officially registering as a whore.

A = AFTERCARE..

Sam is top-tier, elite, gold-star certified in aftercare. Like, let’s be real. Sam Winchester has a guilt complex the size of Kansas, deep emotional intelligence (even when he tries to bottle it), and a lover boy heart under all that trauma. So after sex? He’s gentle as hell.

It doesn’t matter if it was rough, slow, quick, emotional, or downright feral; he’s checking in. He’s the type to brush your hair out of your face while your chest is still heaving. He cups your jaw and whispers, “You okay, baby?” with that raspy, post-orgasm voice. He won’t stop touching you, but not in a sexy way. Like, soft touches. His palm on your thigh. His fingers lacing with yours. That kinda thing.

Sam’s also super intuitive. If you’re the talky type after sex? He’s gonna lie there and listen to you ramble and giggle with you like you’re both drunk off each other. If you go quiet? He’ll pull you to his chest and just breathe with you. Run his fingers down your spine. Let the silence feel safe.

Lowkey, he’s a clean-up king too. Grabs a towel, helps you wipe down, maybe even carries you to the bathroom if you’re too wobbly. You just know he’s the kind to whisper “I’ll be right back, don’t move” before slipping out of bed to get you water or a snack.

And let’s not forget: he’s always gonna be overthinking. Like even if everything went perfectly, Sam’s still gonna be laying there like, was I too rough? did I make them feel good? do they still like me? So if you curl into him, praise him a little, you can feel his body relax like you just unclenched every knot in his soul.

B = BODY PART..

Sam’s favorite part of himself? His hips.

This man is so unaware of how lethal he is until you’re under him, and suddenly that slow, deep roll of his hips becomes his favorite weapon. Sam doesn’t walk around thinking he’s sexy, but the second he sees the way you react to the way he fucks? The way you grab his waist, beg for more, whimper when he grinds deep and doesn’t let up?

That’s when it clicks.

And it turns into obsession. Not in a cocky way, but a hungry one. He’ll hold your legs open and grind slow, steady, deep— not just to get himself off, but to feel you fall apart. It makes him feel powerful. Grounded. Needed. Like you were made for him and he was made to fit into you just right.

However, when it comes to you… your stomach.

Soft or toned, flat or plush, he’s obsessed. The gentle curve of it. The way it twitches when he runs his fingers low. The way it stretches when you arch. He’ll pull your shirt up just to kiss it. Slide his palm over it slowly while you’re laying together, like he’s memorizing you. During sex, he’ll rest his hand there, right under your ribs like he’s holding all of you together while he fucks you open.

And if you’re insecure about it? Sam’s the guy who will not shut up about how beautiful you are. “Don’t hide from me, baby,” he’ll whisper, lips hot against your skin. “You know how crazy you make me?” And then he’ll show you. With his mouth, with his hands, with every inch of himself.

C = CUM..

Sam Winchester is not some careless, casual spur-of-the-moment guy when it comes to this, nah. When Sam finishes, it’s a whole experience. He’s in his feelings about it. His soul is involved.

Where he likes to finish? Sam’s a deep finish kinda man. He wants to come inside. Always. That doesn’t mean he does every time (he respects boundaries 1000%) but he’s obsessed with the idea of being inside you while he fills you up. Like it does something to his brain. You’d feel his hips shudder and he’d bury himself all the way in, holding you still, letting out this low, broken groan like he’s losing his entire mind.

And if you let him? That whole “dripping out of you” thing after? He stares at it. Literally lays there between your legs and just watches it slowly spill out while you whine and try to close your thighs. He’ll spread you open again and mutter something like, “God, look at that… made you take all of it.”

How he cums? LOUD. Like, Sam does not cum quietly. All that control, all that restraint— gone. He’s whimpering, panting, moaning into your neck or your shoulder or your fucking mouth if you’re kissing when it happens. It’s deep, it’s needy, and it’s so goddamn personal.

His hands will be locked on your body like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he lets go. Thumbs bruising into your hips. Forehead pressed to yours. All that tension? It explodes.

Kinks around it? Breeding kink. Sorry. Sorry but NOT sorry. That man does not casually cum in someone, he breeds. He fucks like he’s trying to own you. Doesn’t even mean he wants babies, necessarily (though that fantasy might linger in his brain on bad days when he wants a soft life he thinks he doesn’t deserve) but it’s the claiming. The act. The feeling of “I gave you everything I had.” That gets to him. Hard.

He also loves watching it drip down your thighs if he pulls out. He’ll tease you about it. Drag a finger through it. Maybe push it back in just to see you squirm. All slow and lazy and smug with that post-nut, hair-sticking-to-his-forehead kinda look.

D = DIRTY SECRET..

Sam Winchester’s dirty secret? He fantasizes about being corrupted.

Yeah, I said it. It’s not even about you being some evil little seductress or whatever, it’s about him not having to be good for once. He grew up being the “responsible one,” the “good son,” the guy who overthinks every moral choice. But in the dark, behind closed doors? He dreams of letting go. Of someone dragging the sin out of him, teasing it out, making him beg for things he’d never say out loud.

In his head? It’s always messy. Shameful. Hot.

He pictures you tugging his hair while he’s on his knees. Telling him he like being used. He does. He fucking does. He likes the idea of you riding him until he’s whimpering. Scratching your nails down his chest while he stutters apologies for how fast he came. Of you pulling him in by his dog tag or his belt loop and saying, “C’mon, Sammy. Be bad for me.”

He’ll never admit this to you. Ever. He plays it cool. Maybe a little dominant, a little protective. But behind his eyes? He’s imagining what it’d feel like to lose it. To fall apart under you. To be the one who’s teased, overstimmed, punished a little, not cruelly, but like he’s yours. Like he doesn’t have to hold it together anymore.

And the dirtiest part of all? He touches himself to the thought of you ruining him. Not hurting. Not degrading. Just… undoing. He’ll come fast. Embarrassingly fast. And then hate himself a little for how bad he wants it.

E = EXPERIENCE..

This is not a “yes or no” question with Sam.

Here’s the truth,

Sam hasn’t slept with as many people as Dean, not even close. His number isn’t low-low, but it’s definitely selective. He’s never been the one-night stand guy unless he’s in a full-on emotional spiral (see: post-Ruby, soulless Sam era, or when he’s trying to shut his feelings down). He doesn’t fuck just to fuck. That’s never been his vibe. But when he does fuck?

He means it.

Sam’s got emotional experience. He’s got intensity. He listens to your body. He feels everything, and that makes him dangerous in bed, not ‘cause he’s reckless, but because he’s so focused. He’s a fast learner, a people pleaser, and painfully observant. You gasp a little louder when he sucks there? That’s now in the rotation. Your legs twitch when he angles his hips just right? He will not stop until you’re begging.

So does he know what he’s doing? Too fucking well. And he doesn’t brag about it. Doesn’t have to. He’s got the kind of confidence that makes you nervous when he starts kissing your neck like he’s got all night.

He’s experimental, but only if you are too. He’s not scared to try new things. Wants to explore. Communicates really well. That whole Stanford brain? It’s in the bedroom too. He analyzes what makes you tick.

And don’t even get me started on his stamina. That man can go multiple rounds and still have the audacity to ask, “You okay to go again?” while your legs are shaking. Long fingers, long tongue, long everything. And he uses all of it.

But what makes it even hotter? That little rookie edge that never fully goes away. He’s not cocky like Dean. He gets flustered sometimes when you praise him. Looks down at you with those big brown eyes like he can’t believe you’re moaning his name like that. He blushes if you say something filthy. That mix of power and softness?? Deadly.

F = FAVORITE POSITION(S)..

1. MISSIONARY. BUT.. I’m talking feral missionary. Let’s get this straight: Sam loves eye contact. He wants to watch you fall apart. Wants to see every flutter of your lashes, every little twitch of your mouth when you moan his name. He’s a romantic. A bit of a control freak. So missionary? When he’s deep inside you, his hands pinning your wrists into the mattress, sweat dripping down his neck, his forehead against yours while pounding into you? Yeah. That’s peak Sam Winchester.

And if you wrap your legs around his waist? Or hook your ankles behind his back and pull him in deeper? He’ll literally lose his mind. That skin-on-skin closeness is everything to him. He loves the intimacy. Loves the grip he’s got on you. Loves that he can thrust slow or hard or hold you still and grind into you while you gasp like he’s in your lungs. He lives for your reactions.

2. YOU ON TOP, FACING HIM (COWGIRL). Not reverse. Face-to-face. Sam likes seeing your body, your expressions, your hands on his chest. But what kills him is the power. You’re in control. You set the pace. And he LOVES that. He’ll put his hands on your waist, let you ride him until he’s groaning through gritted teeth, whispering things like, “God, just like that… keep going, baby…”

But the moment he sees your thighs start shaking? He flips the script. Grabs your hips, starts thrusting up into you while you whimper, overwhelmed. He lives for that whiny, fucked-out look you give him when he takes control back just enough.

3. FROM BEHIND, BUT… Make it emotional. This is like, on the bed, both of you half-naked, bodies tangled. He’s kneeling behind you, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your waist or rubbing slow circles over your clit. Deep, controlled strokes while he leans in to kiss your shoulder, whisper in your ear, “You feel so fucking good… you take me so well, sweetheart.”

If he’s feeling unhinged? He’ll hold you by the throat and fuck into you like he needs it. But afterward? He’ll press kisses down your spine like he’s sorry for ever letting go like that. Because that’s Sam. Gentle and a freak.

G = GOOFY..

Sam is serious in the sheets… Most of the time.

He’s intense. Focused. Like he’s got a fucking mission; to worship you, ruin you, and make you feel so good you forget your own name. Especially if he’s in a soft or angsty headspace? He takes sex seriously. Like it matters. Every moan, every stroke, every look? Feels like a fucking prayer.

BUT…

He has a very chaotic goofy side that only comes out when he’s really comfortable with you. Like you’ve been fucking for a while, there’s trust, there’s closeness, there’s banter… THEN it starts.

To give out a few examples: He’ll chuckle when your stomach growls mid-foreplay and be like, “We should’ve eaten first…” while still pulling your panties down, Or he’ll groan dramatically when he realizes he forgot a condom again like, “Okay this is the fourth time this week, I swear I’m not doing it on purpose..” If you make a stupid joke while you’re on top of him? He’ll laugh, but then thrust up suddenly and say, “Still funny?” with that smug fucking face.

And if you’re shy or embarrassed about something mid-sex? He instantly makes you feel better. Might joke gently. Kiss your forehead. Murmur, “You’re perfect, baby. I promise.” He keeps things light without making it unserious. He’s the king of making you feel safe enough to laugh and moan in the same breath.

And oh the post-nut giggles? Oh he gets them. Not every time, but if it was extra messy or especially intense? He’ll bury his face in your neck and laugh like, “Jesus Christ, what the hell did we just do.” It’s soft. It’s sweet. It’s sexy as fuck.

H = HAIR..

Let’s start with the obvious: Yes, the carpet matches the damn drapes. Brown. Thick. Yeah. He’s not fully shaved, he’s neatly groomed down there. Enough that it’s never in the way, never too wild, but still super Sam. Like, you pull his pants down and you’re greeted with trimmed hair, a big cock, and the scent of his skin and it’s just so real. So raw. You’re instantly feral.

Chest hair? OH MY GOD. YES. It’s there. It’s fine but it’s still enough to feel when you’re laying on him after sex. A little patch between his pecs, trailing down his stomach in that V-line of sin. That happy trail™. It leads straight down and you follow it with your lips every time like it’s ritual.

Facial hair? Depends on the era. Sometimes he shaves. Sometimes he’s stubbly. But when he’s got that little beard scruff going on? Oh yeah. You feel it burn your thighs when he’s going down on you. You feel it drag along your neck when he kisses your collarbone. You tell him not to shave and he listens. Every time.

I = INTIMACY..

Like i already said, sex with Sam is emotionally based. And that’s what makes it so intense. Sam’s the kind of lover where even if it starts rough, needy, desperate, somewhere in the middle of it always turns into something deeper on a personal level.

He looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.

When he’s inside you, it’s like the whole world disappears. Like nothing else matters except the way you’re holding onto him, moaning into his mouth, whispering his name like it’s the only word you remember. He’s so focused. So connected. He makes you feel like you’re the only person who has ever touched him.

Kissing? Always. He has to kiss you during sex. Even if it’s messy, even if you’re turned away or on top, he’ll find your lips. He’ll guide your face to his with shaking fingers, panting against your mouth like he needs it more than air. That closeness? That skin-to-skin, soul-to-soul type of thing? That’s what he lives for.

He says the softest things, too. Especially when you’re not expecting it. It hits harder because he means every single fucking word.

And the thing is? Sex doesn’t always have to be soft to be intimate with Sam. He can rail you into the mattress and still make you feel like you’re the center of his universe. That’s the duality. That’s what fucks you up. He holds your heart while he ruins your body. Because for him? Intimacy is everything. Not a bonus. Not some accidental side effect. It’s the whole reason he’s there.

J = JACK OFF..

First of all, how often? Sam pretends he doesn’t do it much. Like he’ll act all focused, always reading lore, training, being the world’s biggest buzzkill, but behind closed doors? He’s so fucking down bad it’s unreal.

If he’s around you and can’t have you? It’s a problem. Like, he’ll lock himself in the bunker’s bathroom after seeing you walk around in one of his hoodies with no pants on, cheeks red, muttering to himself like, “Fucking hell, get it together, Sam.”

And then… yeah. The pants come off. Fast.

When? At night. In the shower. When he’s on a hunt and misses you so bad he can’t sleep. When you send him a voice message that wasn’t even hot or something, but your voice alone has him rock fucking hard. And sometimes? Middle of the day, unexpectedly. You laugh a certain way. Bite your lip. Call him “Sammy” with that soft little look in your eyes? Yeah. He’ll be hard for hours and finally give in when he’s alone.

How? He starts slow. He tries to keep it clean. Like, he’ll palm himself through his sweats and sigh like, “Just a quick one, get it out of your system” but that is never what ends up happening. Because the second he wraps that big hand around his cock and thinks about you moaning? Whining his name? Riding him? Begging him to come inside you? He’s done for.

Sometimes he leans back against the wall and imagines you straddling him, fingers digging into his shoulders while you whisper in his ear. Other times he gets on his knees in the shower and pictures you standing over him, telling him what to do. Either way? He finishes hard. With a groan he tries to muffle.

And afterward? He’s so ashamed. Like full hands-over-his-face, “God, what’s wrong with me” energy. But it never stops him from doing it again the next night.

What does he think about?

You. Always you. Not even just the sex. Sometimes it’s your laugh. The way you pout. The little sigh you make when he kisses your neck. He builds entire fantasies in his head, like you sneaking into his bed in the middle of the night and grinding on him under the sheets… or dropping to your knees while he’s trying to study lore and saying, “You’ve been so good, baby. Let me help.” It’s the emotional + the physical. He goes feral for both.

K = KINK(S)..

1. PRAISE KINK. Sam needs to hear how good he’s making you feel. Not in a cocky way, but like, he craves that validation.“You’re the only one who makes me feel like this.” He’ll literally start panting harder, fucking deeper, the second you whimper that shit. He never grew up being told he was good enough. So in bed? When you make him feel like a god with your voice? It wrecks him. He’ll mutter little broken replies too, all breathless, “Yeah? I got you, baby… s’only me, right?” (YES IT’S ONLY YOU SAMUEL.)

2. OVERSTIMULATION KINK. Sam is lowkey addicted to watching you come over and over again. The first orgasm isn’t even the goal; it’s just the beginning. He’ll use his fingers, his tongue, his cock… and he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, pulling at him, whimpering that it’s “too much.” But he’s so sweet about it. He whispers, “You can do it, baby… gimme one more. Just one more.” And when you cry for him? That’s when he praises you even more, calls you his good girl, pretty thing, perfect angel while he works you through it with those perfect fucking fingers.

3. LIGHT DARCYPHILIA. Hear me out, if you ever cry during sex, (From the pleasure of it or from being so emotionally overwhelmed?) Sam loses it. He goes into full soft-mode. Whispers your name over and over. Kisses your tears. Tells you how beautiful you are, how you feel so good, how he has you. It’s never power thing with him. It’s connection. He’s never felt anything like that before, and it makes the orgasm hit harder. For both of you.

4. HAIR PULLING (ESPECIALLY HIS). If you tug his hair when you’re on top or while he’s between your legs? He literally moans. Like chokes on it. His hips will stutter. He’ll let out this rough, low, “fuck— do that again.” And he loves to gently pull your hair too. Mostly to make you look up at him while he fucks you. To get that eye contact he’s obsessed with. To see your face while he ruins you.

L = LOCATION..

1. HIS BED. This is his main HQ for sex. Why? Because it’s safe. Private. Cozy. He can take his time, strip you slowly, light a candle or two if he’s feeling soft. The sheets are always warm. His pillow smells like him. There’s usually a lore book or journal half-open on the nightstand that he shoves aside to pull you underneath him. He’ll fuck you into the mattress like it’s the last time every single time.

2. THE IMPALA. He tries to not do this often because Dean would literally murder him if he found out, but when you’re both desperate on a hunt, there’s only one room available at a shitty motel and you don’t wanna traumatize Dean? Yeah. That backseat becomes your whole universe. You straddle him, bouncing in his lap with your panties shoved to the side, and he’s gripping your hips like his life depends on it. One hand braced on the ceiling, the other shoved up your shirt, and he’s groaning your name like a prayer. Everything’s cramped and sweaty and messy and ughhh. Yeah.

3. MOTEL ROOMS. You step into a cheap, flickering-light motel room and the second the door locks? Sam turns into a different man. He doesn’t care about taking it slow, he wants you. Against the wall. On the desk. On that creaky-ass bed with the ugly blanket bunched up under your knees. He loves fucking you in front of the mirror there, too. One hand in your hair, the other on your waist while he watches you both move. And God forbid the shower’s working. That’s where he gets especially filthy, pressing you to the wall, sucking water off your skin, fucking you under the spray until it runs cold.

4. LIBRARY TABLES IN THE BUNKER. You’re sitting in his lap. Trying to “study.” His laptop’s open. His eyes are locked on your neck. And before you can even flip a page, his hand is sliding under your skirt. He eats you out on top of lore, bends you over old books, moans your name into the crook of your shoulder while he fills you from behind. You’re panting. He’s groaning. Pages are fluttering off the desk. And when it’s over? He marks the page and says, “We’ll come back to that later.”

M = MOTIVATION..

Sam is not the type to just randomly get horny and go jerk off like Dean does. Nah. He builds up. Here’s what gets him going:

1. YOUR VOICE. Soft. Whiny. Teasing. Anything. You could just be reading off a menu, and he’ll suddenly be thinking about your lips around his cock. You whimper his name when you’re sleepy? His brain short-circuits. You moan a little too loud during a stretch? “Goddamn it…” He’s hard. Fully. And now he has to figure out how to not fuck you into the kitchen counter.

2. YOUR BRATTY BEHAVIOR. Sam doesn’t know how to handle it when you talk back. You roll your eyes? Get a little snarky? Say ‘make me’? He gives you that look. That “Are you sure you wanna start this?” look. And the second you smirk or sass him again? You’re pinned to the mattress in 0.4 seconds with his hand on your throat and his voice in your ear, “You’ve got a mouth on you tonight, huh?”

3. NEEDING HIM. You curl into his lap and whimper “Sammy, please”? You grab at him mid-kiss like you’re gonna break without him inside you? He gets this overwhelmed, aching urgency to take care of you. To fuck you slow. To kiss every part of you like he’s trying to fix something inside you. Because what turns him on most isn’t just sex. It’s that you trust him. That you want him. That you’re so fucking soft with him and no one else gets that.

4. FEAR OF LOSING CONTROL. Oh yeah. Sam’s biggest turn-on? Is that moment where he realizes he can’t not have you. It’s psychological. A little dark. That feeling like, if he doesn’t touch you, fuck you, hear you fall apart for him, he might lose his mind. It’s what makes the sex rougher. It’s what makes him whisper “Mine.” It’s what makes him finish so deep and so desperate that he can’t even open his eyes for a second afterward.

N = NO..

Anything non-consensual, degrading, or humiliating. Even in roleplay, even in dirty talk, no means no. Period. Sam’s not into anything that makes you feel small. He’s obsessed with you, babe. He’d never be able to look you in the eye after calling you names or slapping you across the face. He doesn’t even like it when you say you’re not good enough.

Also, public sex where you could actually get caught. He’ll bend you over in a secluded spot, sure. He’ll pull you into the backseat on a lonely road. But the second there’s even a chance of someone seeing you? Absolutely not. Not even a little exhibitionism. Not his thing. It makes him tense. He’s so protective, and the thought of you being exposed, humiliated, or seen like that by some random asshole makes his stomach twist. He wants your body to be just for him. Not a show. Not a joke.

Pet play, daddy kink, or calling you baby girl is a big no for him, too. It’s just not his language. It makes him feel weird. He’s not into calling himself “Daddy.” Or calling you “Baby girl.” He’ll call you baby, sweetheart, angel, his girl, but nothing that gives off weird power dynamic vibes. Especially not the kind that messes with your innocence or infantilizes you. That shit makes him uncomfortable. And pet names like kitten, princess, puppy? No.

And Meaningless sex. Maybe he could’ve in his soulless era. Maybe during some fucked-up grief spiral post-Jess or post-Ruby. But normally? If he doesn’t care about you, he’s not hard. He’s not in it. He’s not mentally or emotionally there. He’s an intimacy guy. That’s his fuel. He needs that trust.

O = ORAL..

Let’s start with the only thing that matters, Sam loves going down on you more than he loves himself. No exaggeration. That man lives between your thighs. You sit on his face and it’s like home sweet home. He’ll literally moan into your pussy, his big hands gripping your thighs like they’re sacred.

He’s slow at first, torturously slow. Draws lazy circles with his tongue, looks up at you through those ridiculous lashes while you twitch. And the eye contact?? He’s obsessed. Keeps his mouth on you the whole time, staring up at you with that ruined, messy face like he wants to see your soul leave your body.

And oh my god, he talks. You grind on his tongue and he’s saying shit like, “That’s it… tastes so fucking good… look at you.”

He eats pussy like he’s starving. Like he has to. And when you cum? He doesn’t back off. He locks you down and rides it out, tongue still working you while your legs shake around his shoulders and you’re whining his name like a prayer. If you push at his head, he growls, “Uh-uh. One more. Gimme one more.”

And yes, he jerks off to the memory of it later. One hand wrapped around his cock while he thinks about the way you screamed when he sucked on your clit. Degenerate. Oh my god who said that??…

Now let’s talk receiving.

He loves it. He’s just not needy about it. He’ll never ask for it, but the second your hand brushes his thigh, he spreads his legs a little wider, eyes locked on you like; Are you sure? Are you really gonna do this right now? And when you drop to your knees his head tips back. He moans like you just saved his life.

But what kills him isn’t just the sensation; it’s the look on your face while you do it. The soft glances. The way you worship him. He gets overwhelmed fast. Starts gripping your hair. Moaning through his teeth. Begging you with breathy little, “F-fuck, baby, you don’t have to—oh my God…”

There’s definitely a few times he accidentally finished faster than he wanted to and blushed for the rest of the day. But he’ll make it up to you. Oh baby. He’ll drag you onto the bed and make you cum twice with his mouth before you can even breathe.

P = PACE..

His default pace? Slow. Deep. Sensual. He moves with full strokes, hips grinding slow, keeping his forehead against yours or his mouth on your neck. Every thrust has weight. Has meaning. He needs to feel all of you, how your body grips him, how your breath catches when he rolls his hips just right, how your thighs tremble when he doesn’t pull back all the way and instead just grinds into your spot again and again and again, “That feel good, baby? Yeah? That’s it. Let me take my time.” Sam wants to witness you falling apart. He wants to be right there, eye-to-eye, panting into your mouth while you gasp and squirm under him.

But oh, when he gets desperate…

Fast. Rough. Deep. Unhinged. It happens when he’s been holding back for too long— on a hunt, or when he’s been jealous, or if you tease him all day and act innocent. Suddenly you’re bent over the desk, hands braced, and Sam’s behind you pounding into you so hard the books fall off the shelf. He’s gripping your hips, his voice tight, low, groaning things like, “This what you wanted? Huh? Couldn’t wait five minutes?” He’s not always vocal, but when the pace picks up? He’s feral. He moans. He curses. He says your name like it’s the only word he knows. You’re not walking straight tomorrow if he’s in one of those moods.

Q = QUICKIE..

He’ll pretend he doesn’t like them. Sam will act all rational like, “I’d rather wait till we’re alone… I don’t want to rush anything… it’s better when we have time…” But deep down??

That man is a fucking liar.

Because when he’s hard, when he’s needy, when you press up against him in the hallway and whisper “Five minutes. Please, Sammy.” he’s already unzipping his jeans.

It doesn’t happen super often. Sam doesn’t crave them as much, but when they do happen? It’s because he’s so overwhelmed by you he can’t think straight. Like; when you wear something provocative, grind on him and stuff like that. Suddenly he’s grabbing your hand, dragging you into the nearest room, locking the door like, “Okay. Bend over. Now.”

How he feels after? Lowkey guilty. But not for long. He wipes you down with his shirt sleeve and kisses your forehead like it was a sacred act even though your legs are still shaking. He always promises to make it up to you that night.

R = RISK..

Public stuff / getting caught? Like i said. NOPE. IMMEDIATE SHUTDOWN. Sam is not into getting caught. He will risk your back being blown out in a gas station bathroom, sure, but he needs control.

But like… fucking you with the bunker door unlocked while Dean’s asleep down the hall? Yes. That kind of “you have to stay quiet” risk?? He lives for it. He gets off on the idea that he’s the only one who knows how ruined you look under him. It’s secret. Not public. That’s the difference.

HOWEVER, THERES A FEW RISQUÉ THINGS HE WOULD DO, LIKE..

⭑ Letting you tie him up. (Nervous at first, but goes feral once he trusts you. He begs so pretty.)

⭑ Phone sex in the middle of a hunt. (Voice all low and strained while he jerks off in a motel bathroom.)

⭑ Letting you suck him off while he’s on the phone with someone.

S = STAMINA..

First round energy?? Foreplay for a solid 20 minutes minimum. Fingering you slow, teasing kisses down your body, tongue between your thighs until you’re a sobbing mess and he’s still calm as hell, like, “One more before I even touch you, yeah?”

Then when he finally slides in? It’s slow. He doesn’t like to rush. He doesn’t even care if he finishes right away, his entire goal is to make you cum at least twice before he even thinks about pulling out.

But when he gets close? He lasts. Like… too long. You’re still on round one, shaking, nails clawed into his back, and he’s still going with sweat dripping off his jaw and his voice all raspy like, “Almost there, baby… just hold on for me a little longer.” Like no. Sir. I can’t. I physically cannot take any more. And yet you do, because he holds you through every stroke and tells you how good you are the entire time.

Multiple rounds?? YES. ABSOLUTELY. CONSISTENTLY. He’ll go two rounds minimum on a regular night. If you’re both worked up or he’s been gone for a while? Three. Four.

Recovery time? Quick. Man’s metabolism is on crack. Give him 10-15 minutes and a sip of water and he’s ready again, hard against your thigh while he kisses your shoulder and whispers “Can I?” He doesn’t even need sleep after, just a cuddle. A praise session. A little pillow talk about how fucking perfect you are. And he’s back in action.

T = TOYS..

First of all, YES. Sam owns toys. He just keeps them very private. Hidden in a locked drawer in his bunker room, tucked under layers of boring-ass lore books, so Dean never even thinks about touching it. He doesn’t have a million flashy things. No neon-colored silicone junk. His collection is intentional. A little sleek. A little intimidating. And all designed to make you scream.

On you? Oh babe. That’s his favorite. He uses toys like a study tool. Like he’s learning your body from scratch.

Vibrating bullet while he fucks you? He watches your face while he turns it higher. Moans softly when your back arches. He’ll hold it against your clit and stay buried inside you, whispering, “Come on, baby. Let it go. I’ve got you.” He does not move until you’ve cum twice. He lives for how soaked it makes you.

Wand vibrator?? That thing does not leave the nightstand. He’ll strap you down or hold your legs apart and just… watch. Tells you not to move. Keeps his hand firm on your stomach to feel you twitching. And when you beg to cum? He leans down and murmurs, “Then do it for me. Right now.” And when you do? He praises the hell out of you, while flipping it back on for another round.

On himself? He doesn’t usually need them… but for you?? He’ll do anything.

You ask him to try a cock ring? He nods, already flushed. You want to ride him while controlling the vibrator against his dick? He’s breathless, trying not to bust instantly just from how filthy it looks. And handcuffs?? Don’t even get him started. You cuff him up one time, sit on his face, and he’ll be ruined for the rest of his life.

U = UNFAIR..

First of all, He lives for it. He’ll spend hours making you squirm just because he loves seeing that pretty little tension in your jaw. You whimper? He smirks. You roll your hips toward him? He backs away. And when you pout and beg? “You’re so cute when you’re needy, baby.” AND THEN DOESN’T EVEN TOUCH YOU.

Physical teasing? He’s a literal terrorist. He’ll touch everywhere but where you need. Kiss your thighs. Suck your neck. Drag his fingers up your stomach and stop right before your clit, just to hear you whimper.

One of his favorite moves is holding the base of his cock, rubbing the tip through your folds for what feels like forever, grinning at how messy and needy you get. AUGHGGSGG.

V = VOLUME..

Sam is a moaner… Like, a real, honest-to-God moaner. The first time you go down on him? He gasps. Whimpers. Whines. His hand tangles in your hair and he’s trying so hard to hold it together, but that first swirl of your tongue? He chokes out a guttural “Fuck—baby…” and it just keeps going from there.

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He gets so wrapped up in the moment, so into you, that his brain just shuts off and all that’s left is raw sound.

OH AND When he goes down on you? He moans into your pussy like it’s his job. Low vibrations, messy tongue, and every single one of his desperate little grunts are just as much for your pleasure as his own. He gets off on your sounds. Groans louder the louder you get.

However, Sam is the loudest when he cums. All that control he usually has?? Gone. He’s cursing, moaning your name, whining, clutching at your hips like he might fall through the bed. If it’s intense, like one of those long, slow, emotional kind of finishes; he’ll whimper. Full-on, breathless, high-pitched whimpers. And he collapses on top of you, still murmuring, “So fucking good… Jesus… I love you so much…”

W = WILD CARD..

Sam has a very specific, deeply repressed kink for being caught jerking off. AND LISTEN. He doesn’t want to want it. It goes against everything he thinks he is. But somewhere in the deep dark crevices of that messed-up Stanford dropout brain of his?? There’s a wire that got twisted. A part of him that lives for the shame of it.

He has a whole-ass fantasy of you walking in on him. Not in a hot, “oops babe caught you” way. No. He wants it messy. He wants to be red-faced, panting, fist wrapped tight around his cock, back hunched, completely wrecked, sweaty hair sticking to his face and his mouth hanging open like a desperate animal.

And then the door creaks. And you’re standing there. Watching. “Oh my God— Sam?” He freezes. Eyes wide. Hands still. “Fuck—I thought you were asleep—shit—” He scrambles for a blanket but it’s too late. You’ve already seen everything. And instead of looking disgusted, you tilt your head and give him a look. And that’s it. That’s the fantasy. That look you give him. That sick little thrill that comes with being caught with his guard down, not in control. It makes him cum so hard he blacks out.

Realistically? He’d NEVER bring it up. Too mortified. Too wholesome on the surface. He WANTS to be humiliated, but only by you. Don’t be fooled though. He’s still your good boy. Even when he’s trembling with guilt and cum all over his hand.

X = X-RAY..

You better listen carefully because im about to get real fucking specific out here.

Let’s not even lie about it, this man is hung. Like not pornstar fake-looking veiny monster but in that “why is that shit still growing??” kind of way.

Soft? It’s still intimidating. Like you accidentally brush his thigh and think it’s a wallet or a knife but no, ma’am. It’s the holy weapon. Hard? You’re staring at it like, “Okay. That’s gonna hurt. And I want it to.”

We’re talking like 8.5 inches BUT HE FUCKS LIKE IT’S TWELVE. Because he knows how to use it. It’s not just big, it’s mean. It curves just slightly up and hits your g-spot like he’s got a goddamn degree in it. A little too wide to comfortably deepthroat without tears but you still do it like a patriot!!

When it comes to girth, this is where he’s unreasonable. Thick. Like genuinely. Your hand doesn’t close all the way around it and the first time he slides in.

⭑ Tip? Pink. A little swollen when he’s worked up.

⭑ Shaft? A couple veins, nothing too crazy, but one nasty one that runs up the underside and THROBS when he’s close.

⭑ Curve? Slight, upward, aka DESTROYER OF WORLDS.

⭑ Balls? Big. Warm. Hang low when he’s relaxed. He’ll literally grunt if you play with them too long like an old man getting up from a recliner.

Oh, and i imagine he’s got that silky skin but steel underneath kind of vibe. When you jerk him off, it’s smooth as hell but you can feel how rock hard he is. Sometimes when he’s super turned on, it jumps in your hand. Like it literally twitches just from the sight of you.

Overall vibe check? (…Yes im doing this.) That dick has the audacity to look polite and wholesome and then ruin your cervix like it’s personal. Like it didn’t ask for permission, it gave a gentle kiss and then wrecked your shit for hours. The kind of cock that ends friendships, starts wars, and has you sitting there the next morning with shaky legs and a religious awakening.

Y = YEARNING..

I feel like I may be repeating myself, (That’s what I get for caring way too much just to write one paragraph for each headcanon.) Sam’s sex drive is pretty high, but it’s rooted in emotion. When he loves you?? When he’s in it?? He wants you all. the. time. In ways that go way beyond just “I’m horny” and straight into “I need to be inside you to feel like a person again.”

It’s the longing that kills him. He could go days without touching you and still be craving you like he’s starving. Just seeing you laugh across the bunker? Feeling your hand brush his thigh under the table? He’s hard. He’s aching. He has to excuse himself to the hallway to take a few deep breaths.

He’s SO emotionally attached to sex. He jerks off just thinking about your moans. Not your tits. Not even the way you ride him. Just the sound you make when you whimper his name. I gotta drive that point home.

Z = ZZZ..

It depends on the type of sex.

If it’s a full-blown, body-shaking, filthy, 3-round, “I’m gonna wreck you” session? That man is out like a fucking light. He rolls over, panting like he just ran 15 miles, wraps one massive arm around your waist, and just… collapses.

If it’s slow and emotional? He stays awake a little longer. Just to soak it in. You’re all pressed against his chest, sticky and glowing, and he’s whispering shit like, “That was everything.” He strokes your hair while you fall asleep first. He tucks the blanket around your shoulders and passes out with his mouth slightly open against your hair. Probably drooling a little. Would lick it up ngl.

But if you’re not okay? If you seem shaky? Sensitive? Just need aftercare?? Sam will stay up all night. No matter what. He gets soft and focused, cleans you up real gentle, makes sure you’re warm, gets you water, and pulls you into his chest.

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[jisungsdaydreamer]

Love Playlist #4: Coffee (Seungmin)

«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME» 

“You’re my favorite customer.”

Pairing: Seungmin x Fem!reader Genre: strangers to lovers, college au, fluff Warnings: basically nothing, besides Seungmin being whipped, also I didn't proof-read or have a beta on this, sooo if it's kinda bad then you know why LMAO Word Count: 7.3k

P.S. ♡ If you like my work, please consider giving me feedback in the form of reblogs, comments, and asks! ♡

Kim Seungmin knows what he wants in life. Every morning, he wakes up at the crack of dawn, long before anyone else has even had the opportunity to hit snooze on their alarms. While completing his treadmill run, he reviews his upcoming tasks on his tablet, precisely color-coding them on his Google Calendar in order of importance. Post-workout, he takes a quick shower and has his breakfast, a basic bowl of plain oatmeal and a cup of unsweetened plum juice. He’ll then make the thirteen-minute drive from his little apartment to work and open the store up for business by six, working on the morning shift alone until his bleary-eyed coworkers start to trudge in, one by one. 

And he loves what most would deem monotonous, especially because one day, this place will be his. From the usual trickle of his cherished regulars to the outdated grandfather clock behind the counter, he will never get tired of everything that is Morningstar Cafe. After all, he grew up here, watching in his little dinosaur onesie as his father cut the smooth red ribbon to the doors. That grand opening day from so long ago had turned into his entire childhood before stretching into his adult years as well. He had never left town, deciding to attend the university only minutes away from his beloved sanctuary. And he intends to stay here, taking over the shop when his parents retire. Morningstar is his dream— it always has been— and that will never change.

“You look like an oreo with that hair.”

Seungmin rolls his eyes, wiping down his beloved steam espresso machine and setting it back in its place. He crosses his arms and takes in the idiot that is his best friend.

“You’re the one who’s always telling me to make a change. I made a change. Stop complaining.” Seungmin shrugs, leaning against the counter.

Jeongin groans, attempting to kick up his feet on the stool next to him, before drawing them back when Seungmin smacks his shin. “I didn’t mean getting Monster High highlights. I meant making a real change, like taking a break or something. You’re gonna burn yourself out, man.”

“I’ll be fine, Jeongin. This is what I want, remember? This place is everything.” Seungmin glances around the shop proudly, observing the spotless floors and breezy ambiance. 

“Bro I swear, once you go Genshin, you never go back. Just once, hop onto game night with us. It’ll be so cool,” Jeongin pleads, flashing Seungmin a pair of his signature puppy eyes. “Let loose a little.”

He just shakes his head, diligently tapping on his tablet as a customer approaches. “Sorry Jeongin. I have to get back to adulting.”

Jeongin makes a sound of disgust. “You sound like a millennial.”

Nevertheless, his friend stomps back to his usual table next to the window, back slumped with dejection. Seungmin sighs, turning to the customer to take their order. One iced matcha latte with vanilla and oat milk. 

He occasionally attends the hangouts that his friends plan, but for the most part, he’s the one who texts the group chat that he can’t make it. He does get a little jealous when he hears everyone else laugh about the things they did, spouting another inside joke he has missed. He does wish, sometimes, that he could be the one on late night drives and impromptu trips to the convenience store to load up on junk food. 

So it’s not that he doesn’t want to spend more time with his friends; he just can’t. Between all of those prerequisites for his business administration major, his marketing internship at a local startup, and working at Morningstar part-time, he barely has any time to breathe. He can’t jeopardize his routine when there is so much at stake, and of course, his friends understand. But that doesn’t mean that there can’t be any hurt, on both ends.

Shaking his head, Seungmin offers the customer a tired smile and their order.

“No, I swear there was a spark on our date!” You frantically swipe at your phone screen, trying to find the profile that has now magically disappeared from the dashboard of the latest dating app to have you in a chokehold. “There’s no way he blocked me!”

With a groan, you flop back onto the coach, tossing aside your phone. From the moment you decided to put yourself out there, every attempt at romance has been an epic fail for you. You’ve tried everything, from online algorithms to blind matches set up by your friends, but nothing has worked. None of your dates have progressed past the first few meetings, because either the guy turns out to be a jerk or uninterested. Finding someone organically was thrown out of the picture years ago. But now you’re a senior in college and still single, throwing the mental clock on your life into a spiral.

And as for your latest rejection, you aren’t even surprised, if being truly honest. The entire time you were at dinner together, Jake had been checking his phone and had clocked out of your date before dessert even arrived, rambling that he had to attend to some emergency at his frat house. Typical. 

Barely fazed by your misery, Beomgyu tosses his stupid bouncy ball against the wall from where he is sitting next to you, lazily catching it when it jumps back into his lap. “You know what they say, delulu is not the solulu.”

“Glad to see that you find my horrible love life funny, Gyu,” you say, glaring at who is unfortunately one out of two of your best friends. “You and your awful TikTok humor.”

Beomgyu just shoots you a little finger heart, smiling sweetly, before getting back to messing around with his bouncy ball. 

“Okay, you cannot be complaining about bad love lives when you’re around me,” Terry pipes up from where he is slumped over the dining table, stuck completing one of the many endless reports for his major, systems biology. 

You give Terry an apologetic look, remembering that terrible heartbreak he went through back in October. “Sorry, T.”

“It’s all good.” Terry waves the minor offense away. His hair, once a shocking fuchsia, has now faded to a pale baby pink, almost reminiscent of how he’s changed over the past few months. You figure a broken heart does that to someone, but you could not know for sure. You’ve never been in a real relationship, anyway. “On the bright side, we’re miserable together.”

“That’s…” You trail off as your phone rings with a new notification. Tentatively, you click on it, before you register that you’ve received a new match. Sheepishly, you look back up at Terry. “Or maybe I might have just landed myself another date.”

“Well, I’m still happy for you. I hope it works out.” Terry gives you a genuine smile, along with a thumbs-up. 

How sweet he is, compared to Beomgyu, the literal thorn in your side; with great difficulty, you pry Beomgyu’s toes off from where they are digging into your hip. Before you get the chance to give him a piece of your mind, he scurries off into his room, leaving you to sit on the couch in silence and stare at your phone. This date will probably be a bust like all of the others, but who are you, if not a glutton for punishment?

“And don’t forget, your papers on synthetic controls are due at midnight. Have a great weekend!”

Seungmin perfunctorily shuts down his computer and begins to pack up with the rest of the class, sliding his notebook and laptop case back into his bag. Stifling a yawn, he trudges out of the first row, where he always sits, and starts to make his way out. He actually really enjoys his econometrics course, but he would be lying if he said that the endless vortex of classes did not take a toll on him.

“Kim Seungmin, can you please hang back?”

Seungmin glances over his shoulder, meeting his professor’s eyes. Professor Collins shoots him a small smile and motions for him to come over to the podium at the front of the room, where he stands waiting for him. 

“Is everything alright, Professor Collins?” Seungmin picks at the strap of his backpack, already thinking about how many seconds he’s losing by staying here instead of booking it to Morningstar. His gaze automatically wanders over to the clock hanging up high on the wall, before snapping back to Professor Collins, taking in the slightly worried look on his face.

“I was hoping you could tell me that, Seungmin,” Professor Collins says, hanging over a small sheet of paper. Seungmin scans the paper, realizing that it’s a scanned record of his grades the entire year. 

“Professor Collins, these are—”

“I know. Perfect.” Professor Collins leans back against the lectern. “Since last semester, you have astonished me. And my colleagues in the business school who have had you in years past have nothing less to say about your outstanding work.”

Seungmin shakes his head slowly, trying to understand. “That’s very kind of you to say, sir, but I’m still not sure why you wanted to talk to me.”

Professor Collins sighs. “Every day you come into class, it’s visibly clear that you’re tired, Seungmin. And you know I’m the faculty sponsor for the entrepreneurship club here; whenever you attend meetings, I can see you fighting the exhaustion.”

“I’m fine, professor. I just have a lot going on right now.”

“I know you do, Seungmin. You are the school’s star student, but just take it easy. You should have time for yourself too, to relax and enjoy your youth.” 

Seungmin nods, listening with his ears but thinking with his heart. He has to get to Morningstar already, or he’ll be late to his shift. “I know, sir. I know. I’ll look out for myself, I promise.”

Before his professor can dispute his resolution any further, Seungmin hurries out. He appreciates Professor Collins’ concerns, but taking it easy? Not going to happen, when Seungmin has so little time and so many things to do. His youth means nothing to him compared to one day being able to reap the benefits of his hard work, to make his parents proud. 

Seungmin texts Jisung to let him know that he’ll have to skip their weekly post-class detour to the Subway kiosk at the student center. The moment Seungmin gets to his destination, he rushes inside, haphazardly tossing his backpack into the tiny employee lockers in the back of the store. 

Hastily, Seungmin ties on his apron, waving goodbye to Jungwon, the barista on the preceding shift. Tonight, it’ll just be him working at the cafe. From his time in customer service, Seungmin has learned that most people hate closing shifts. He, however, loves the serenity of it, all while winding down to one of his jazzy cafe playlists. On Fridays especially, the cafe is nearly empty and business is calmer, giving him the chance to relax at the counter and catch up on some reading. And besides, more often than not, his friends will drop by to pester him— usually either Jeongin or Minho— and he’ll try his best to pretend like he isn’t bursting with happiness whenever one of them walks through the door. 

After spending a few minutes trying to find the perfect song to start off his shift, Seungmin finally settles down on one and starts tidying up the place. And just like that, Seungmin is lost in his own world, mopping the floors and bussing the tables. Until—

“Excuse me, do you work here?”

Seungmin looks up from where he’s wiping down the counter, flicking the bangs out of his face so he can get a clear look of the patron with a voice sweeter than Morningstar’s famous homemade caramel syrup. He nearly drops his spray bottle, taking in a fluffy white scarf and bright eyes.

Clearing his throat, he sets the bottle down on the table, wiping his damp hands on his apron. “Yes, how may I help you?”

And then you smile, a sight that makes Seungmin nearly collapse. Your cheeks are pink from the December cold, and your hair is charmingly dusted with a light smattering of snow; you look like a winter fairy straight out of one of the storybooks that Seungmin stacked into the little library shelf in the back. He’s never seen you before, a change in his routine, but for once, perhaps he wouldn’t mind. 

“This is my first time here, and I was wondering if you could give me a recommendation off of the menu. Oh, and, I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you! What’s your name?”

“Y/N. I mean, Seungmin. I’m Seungmin,” he stutters, the back of his neck heating up. No, he definitely does not recognize you, or the effect you have on him. “And I— uh, that depends on how you like your coffee.”

You give Seungmin a bashful shrug, doe eyes sparkling up at him. “I’ll admit, I’m not a big coffee person. But I always go for anything sweet.”

A small flicker of feeling ignites in his heart, prompting him to put away his cleaning supplies and pull out the store’s milk frother. “You’re at the best place for caffeine in the city. Game on.”

You take a seat at the counter, setting your purse down next to you as you closely watch Seungmin whip up your drink. No one ever gives him this much attention when he’s working; at the very most, customers will exchange pleasantries before taking their leave. No one has ever asked him for his opinion on one of his favorite things in the world. 

A few moments later, Seungmin places a mug in front of you. It’s his turn to watch tentatively as you bring the dish up to your mouth to taste the drink, soft lips carefully kissing the rim. Your eyes widen in surprise and delight, easing his nerves. “This is so, so good! What is it?”

Seungmin lets out a sigh of relief, grinning at you. Seungmin notices a little foam from the latte dusting the corner of your mouth, and it takes everything to keep himself from reaching out to brush it away. “A cardamom cappuccino. It’s sugary, but the spice prevents it from being too overpowering.”

You hum contently, unzipping your wallet and placing a few bills on the counter, definitely more than is owed. “It’s perfect. Just what I was looking for.”

He shakes his head, pushing the money back towards you. “It’s on the house. A sweet drink for a sweet person.”

The words are out before he can stop them, undeniably whipped for the pretty stranger who has turned his day upside down in the best way possible. Seungmin shuts his mouth, peeking at you fearfully through his bangs. You probably think he’s some kind of a creep trying to come on to you, by now. 

But you just give him a smile, one that is tinged with slight sorrow. “You’re too kind, but keep it, Seungmin. I’m actually waiting on a date.”

There it was. Of course he could never pursue anything, even with you— you’re spoken for, and Seungmin can’t do any kind of relationships. It makes sense. 

“Oh. Where is he?” Seungmin folds his arm and plasters on a friendly face, one that barely hides his skepticality, because who in their right mind would make you wait?

“He— there’s a lot going on at his frat, apparently. He told me to order something and wait for him.” You avert your eyes, turning towards the seating area. “I’m going to find a place for us to sit, now. I’ll talk to you later, Seungmin.”

Seungmin tries not to keep staring at you, busying himself with the shop. A few customers come and go, but you’re the only one who has his attention, sitting by yourself in the back. The bastard never shows up, but you stay there in perseverant wait, chin resting in your palms. 

The clock’s hands keep turning, and then, it’s almost closing time and you’re the only one left in the entire store, besides him. But he doesn’t have the heart to tell you that, not with how you dejectedly look out the darkening sky beyond the window. 

Seungmin resolves to at least parcel a pastry for you, since you insisted on paying for the latte. He makes his way inside the storage room to retrieve a box for the dessert, but when he comes back into the main room, you’re gone. The table you were sitting at is wiped clean, and your mug is perched on top of the dish return stand, a small note with a thank you and smiley face stuck on it. 

With a sigh, Seungmin takes the note and places it in his pocket. You’re most definitely going to wreck his plans, and for once, maybe he wouldn’t mind. 

You should have known that Yunho would ghost you. You’ve heard stories from your friends who had shared classes with him in the past, of how he’s an insufferable ass who thrives off of his father’s wallet. But when you got matched with Yunho through one of the hot new dating apps, you thought you could give him a chance, which turned out to be a bust. You had pathetically wasted away your Friday night, waiting for someone who wasn’t worth it. 

You flop back onto your bed, staring up at the LED lights on your ceiling. On the other hand, you met a certain barista that had been pleasantly plaguing your thoughts, so maybe your Friday wasn’t completely screwed up. The moment you had the chance, you left Morningstar, because you didn’t want Seungmin to witness your walk of lame out the door. Because the moment you laid eyes on him, you couldn’t remember anything else. The curious way he had blinked up at you, when you asked him to recommend a drink. The precise, attentive way he had buzzed around the counter, making your order. The beautiful smile that you wished you could make your own. 

After a lengthy internet stalking session (initiated by none other than Beomgyu, of course), you had discovered that the barista’s name is Kim Seungmin, one of your fellow senior students at school. He is set to be valedictorian of the business department. He is a marketing intern at ITEM Technologies, one of the hottest companies to grace the market right now. Oh, and, he volunteers at puppy shelters on Saturdays. He’s perfect. He’s too good for you. And you have a gigantic crush on him. 

With a giddy sigh, you get off your bed and throw open your curtains, taking in the unusually nice day for the middle of winter. The sky has already dimmed to a cerulean blue stricken with the sun’s lingering magenta footsteps. The light breeze floats in through the window, along with the laughter of the neighborhood below. It’s a good day, exactly one week after you first saw him. 

Terry’s old roommate, Soobin, is throwing a birthday party for his best friend, and you were invited as well. But you decided not to go, not when it’s been so long since you’ve finally had the freedom to think and act for yourself. No upcoming exams, all assignments finished, thoughts of bad dates vanquished— the allure of hope hangs in the air, of possibility. And you intend to take full advantage of it. 

Quickly, you put on your favorite jeans and a light cardigan to beat the evening chill, a spritz of flowery perfume on your neck and a spring in your step, and you’re ready to go. And you even catch the shuttle bus that circles campus and the surrounding area, saving the walk time to Morningstar. 

You excitedly scan the store, letting the mouthwatering scent of espresso and freshly baked good envelope you like a warm blanket. But Seungmin is nowhere to be found; the only person who seems to be on shift is a boy you recognize as Jungwon, a junior in your geology elective course. It’s strange, because you have come at almost the exact same time as last week, but maybe he isn’t working today.

But you are not quite ready to leave Morningstar just yet, so you sit down at the counter, looking up at the dizzying array of options listed on a wooden plaque hung up on the wall. You decide to pull out your phone and Google the sweetest coffee options, ducking your head down in focus, when someone sets down a steaming cup in front of you. You stare curiously at it for a moment, observing a frothy creamer heart topping the beige latte, before looking up. 

It’s Seungmin who has his fingers looped around the delicate handle of the cup, the one who offers you a smile warmer than the lovely weather. “It’s good to see you again.”

You blush in confusion, wondering why you hadn’t seen him earlier. “It’s good to see you too.”

“I left for a little while to take a phone call, and when I came back, here you were.” Seungmin pushes the cup closer to you, answering your thoughts like he has read them.

“What’s this?”

“A rose vanilla latte. You seem a little down, but I swear that it’ll cheer you up.” 

You take a sip of the latte, the warm, creamy liquid gliding down your throat. It’s delicious, you have to admit, but it isn’t the real reason why you’re smiling like an idiot. “You seem to know exactly what I need every time.”

Seungmin grins. “Call it a barista’s intuition.”

You ponder on your next words for a moment, before speaking up. “Seungmin, I’m sorry I left the other day without saying goodbye. I got stood-up on my date, and I was just embarrassed.”

You’ve quite literally just met Seungmin, but somehow, you feel like you owe him an apology. Maybe it’s the way he now sits down next to you, or how disarming his smile is, but something about him makes the honesty just tumble out of your mouth, no matter how awkward it might be to confront. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. Look, that guy was an asshole.”

“Jeong Yunho. I’ve heard what people say about him,” you sigh, taking another swig of the latte. “Either they never show up, or they turn out to be a horrible person. I don’t know why I never learn.”

“They’re all missing out,” Seungmin scoffs, making your heart skip a beat. The vehemency in his eyes is undeniable, and for a moment, you consider if there could one day be the possibility of him liking you back.

“Well, what about you?” You purse your lips in anticipation, attempting to change the subject in a way that can potentially pinpoint his relationship status. Smooth. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Seungmin hesitates before answering, uncertainty clouding over his gaze. “No. I guess, I’m just not looking for a relationship right now. Of any kind.”

“Oh,” you breathe. Just like that, your hopes have vanished to dust. Because of course Seungmin couldn’t be in a relationship— none of them ever could be, and at least, not with you.

“You know, because of school and everything,” Seungmin says quickly. “It’s not because I have commitment issues, or anything. I just can’t balance a relationship with all of that.”

You nod slowly, trying to digest his words. Either way, the other shoe has dropped. “I get it. But why can’t you have both?”

“I…” Seungmin trails off, exhaling out loud. “I can control my work, my studies. But love is completely out of my own hands. I don’t know if I can trust it.”

“You can’t.” You down the rest of your latte, shrugging. “But that’s the beautiful thing. You’re putting your faith in someone else. Sometimes, you get hurt. That’s the risk. But if you don’t, well, you never know.”

There’s a moment of silence in which you both just gaze at each other, not because of a lack of anything else to say, but with some kind of an understanding. But then your reminder app chimes, alerting you to the FaceTime call you have scheduled with your grandmother. You bring out your wallet to pay, but Seungmin places his hand on yours. You know it’s to stop you, but you can’t help but feel that electricity jolt through you, the criminal yearning in your veins. 

“It’s on the house today. Seriously, don’t even try it.” Seungmin bites his lip, as if considering an afterthought. He goes ahead with it. “And I look forward to seeing you here more often. Just you.”

The next few weeks pass by in a blur, but at the same time, Seungmin feels as though he would rather watch paint drip than relive those excruciatingly slow moments where he resists the urge to just scream out all of these confusing new feelings, whatever they may be. Sometimes, you sit in the corner of the shop at what has now become your usual table, tapping away on your computer while occasionally throwing Seungmin a grin. And other times, you stay perched at the counter, sipping on a drink in your quest to taste your way through the entire menu, entertaining Seungmin as he works. 

Either way, Seungmin has too good of an idea of the kind of girl you are. Lovely, sweet, and hopelessly romantic. Your smile could cure a bad case of the Freshman Flu, when ironically, it also makes Seungmin feel dizzy and slightly sweaty. But it makes sense because after all, the entire existence of you seems like a contradiction; you are an absolute angel who is definitely bad news for Seungmin. 

“How does everything you make taste so good?” you ask, swirling your straw in your cup. Today, you asked Seungmin to surprise you with your drink, and you correctly declared that it was a raspberry hibiscus cappuccino. It’s become a little game with you both— he makes you something, and you have to guess what it is. 

“It just comes naturally,” Seungmin says with a dramatic flourish as he rinses out the blender. 

“Are you sure about that?” You tease, leaning over the counter so that you’re directly facing Seungmin, who is now frozen in place. “I have a feeling all the drinks you give me are extra delicious, just for me.”

Seungmin swallows, trying not to look down at your lips and inevitably imagine himself kissing them. The shop feels pindrop silent, and Seungmin feels pinned in place by your gaze, along with the fact that your pretty face is only centimeters away from his. “I, uh, maybe. You’re my favorite customer.”

He jerks out of your magnetic hold and furiously starts scrubbing at the dishes, ducking his head to hide his blush. But you just laugh, barely noticing how debilitated Seungmin feels in your presence. “I knew it.”

“Just don’t tell Jeongin, or my name might end up in the local newspaper headlines,” Seungmin jokingly grumbles.

You cross your fingers and place them on your chest as you stand up from your stool. “I promise I’ll take your secret to the grave, if you promise to keep mine.”

Seungmin tips his head down, so that you can reach up to whisper into his ear. “I promise.”

You look up at Seungmin with your beautiful eyes, earnestly smiling at him. “You’re my favorite barista.”

Seungmin feels his carefully curated plans for the future slipping out of hands, just like that. Everything that has transpired recently comes flooding back to him— all of the stolen glances, the hushed conversations over the counter. He realizes that you’ve become the highlight of his days, that your mere presence outweighs any preference he might have once harbored for his rigid, unfeeling lifestyle. Seungmin is sure that if asked right now, on the spot, if he would trade you or his beloved dehumidifier that he won for being a student patrol in fifth grade, he’d choose you. Because believe it or not, he has feelings for you. Big, bursting feelings for you, all spelled in glittery pink pen in the air. 

“I, um. Wow,” Seungmin breathes. “I’m honored, and my lips are sealed in place.”

“Shame. I love your smile.” You grin at Seungmin, placing your emptied mug in his hands. “Later, Minnie.”

Minnie?! 

Seungmin barely hears the jingle of the door as you make your exit, too busy internally screaming over the fact that you just gave him an adorable nickname, even though he absolutely abhors being called by anything other than his full government name. When you do it, however, Seungmin can swear that you could call him garbage and he’d still swoon. Not that you’d ever do that, though— you’re far too sweet. 

He picks up a dish rag and floats over to the sink to wet it, giggling to himself in thought, before immediately wishing he could hurtle himself off of a three-story building. He most definitely does not giggle.

Seungmin groans to himself, shaking his head. “What are you doing to me?”

The next day, Seungmin finds himself hunched over the register again, glumly scrolling through his Instagram feed on his cellphone and lingering on your account when it appears. It’s a photo of you holding a porcelain mug and swaddled in the ugliest Christmas sweater he’s ever seen, but your smile somehow seems to bring beauty even to that. There’s an empty space next to you, in front of the bedazzled tree, that Seungmin can’t help but wonder if it could have ever been him standing there.

“I mean, they’d be idiots not to take up the deal. The company is going under for sure, of course—”

Seungmin cringes at the loud, arrogant voice that has just permeated his cafe, and lifts his head up to be startled with the underwhelming profile that belongs to the resident tool of the finance department, Jeong Yunho, with his coiffed hair and know-it-all smirk. But the true surprise comes with Yunho’s date: you. 

You very deliberately don’t spare Seungmin a single glance as Yunho pompously parades you over to one of the tables in the dining area, and even as Yunho proudly orders for you without even bothering to find out what you might like, you barely meet Seungmin’s eyes. 

“Chamomile is just so delightfully astringent. You have to try it.” 

“I don’t know, Yunho. I’m not a big fan of bitter stuff. I’d rather—”

“Oh, but you’ll see! It takes a very delicate palate to understand and appreciate, but I have a feeling you’ll have it,” Yunho cuts you off, yammering about his vast knowledge of all things caffeine. 

Seungmin snorts as he scribbles your order— definitely not chamomile tea— into his little sticky pad, quietly noting the way you immediately tense whenever Yunho resumes speaking. “Coming right up, it’ll be a minute.”

Seungmin busies himself at the counter, trying his best to tune out your conversation with Yunho, which mostly includes Yunho bragging about his family’s various business exploits. But before he can gauge your reaction, you’re in front of him, waiting patiently at the counter as Seungmin finishes up.

“I would have brought the drinks over to you.” Seungmin mutters, placing the two mugs in front of you. 

“It’s fine.” You give Seungmin an uneasy smile. “I needed to swipe a few sugar packets anyway.”

“Of course.” Seungmin responds in clipped words, as he turns to busy himself in his work again, but you stop him. He freezes, gaze dropping to where you are clutching his hand.

“Seungmin, please.” Your tone is soft, pleading, and there is genuine concern in your eyes. “You’re angry.”

And he snaps, thread breaking after being pulled apart for so long. “You’re right, Y/N, I am. Why are you with Yunho? He’s the same ass who stood you up. Don’t tell me you actually think he likes you.”

Hurt flickers across your face at Seungmin’s harsh words, and you immediately let go of him. “I don’t know, Seungmin. He asked me for a second chance, and it seemed sincere. So maybe I’ll see where it goes with him.”

Seungmin casts a skeptical look over at Yunho, who’s checking himself out in the glass reflection of the window. “Him? Sincere? You know he’s not the right guy, and—”

“Are you saying you are?” You cut Seungmin off sharply, narrowing your eyes, and for once in his life, Seungmin is at a loss for words.

“I—”

“Look, Seungmin. I gotta go.” You shake your head in disappointment, taking the drinks without even sparing him another glance. It’s what he deserves anyway, for being a coward who craves excuses.

He watches you make your way back to the table, as you pass a mug to Yunho, who accepts it without so much as a thank you. Seungmin scowls, observing the way you quietly savor your drink, while Yunho takes a sip of his own, paying you absolutely no attention at all. Right then, Yunho’s expression sours like bad milk, as if it couldn’t get any worse. He makes a show of looking around the cafe, before his eyes meets Seungmin’s. He snaps his fingers at Seungmin like the latter is a dog, waiting on his beck and call. 

But because Morningstar could use the tips, and because he doesn’t wish to clock Yunho and cause a scene in front of you right now, Seungmin shuts his mouth like a glue trap and stonily walks over to the table. “Yes?”

“This. This tea. It’s terrible.” Yunho gags theatrically, making Seungmin’s blood boil. Fresh chamomile, from his family’s own little garden. Harvested in the late morning, delicately sourced. “It tastes like moldy weeds.”

“How do you know what moldy weeds taste like?” Seungmin snips back, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yunho, it’s fine, just—”

“Are you speaking back to me?” Yunho scoffs, ignoring your attempt to de-escalate his temper. “The customer is always right! You’re wrong!”

“Fine.” Seungmin snatches the mug back. “What do you want instead?”

“A normal latte. You can do that, right?” Yunho demands, leaning back in his chair in the most irritatingly assured, condescending way. 

Seungmin just glowers at him, barely managing a nod. He turns to walk away, but not before hearing the latest nonsense that Yunho spews.

“Why did you even want to come here? You have such terrible fucking taste. You clearly don’t know anything,” Yunho barks, like you aren’t even a human being worthy of basic respect. 

Seungmin doesn’t even have to turn around to know what the cocky fucker’s face looks like. He doesn’t even bother waiting to listen to what you say in response, just stalking off to the counter with a mission, barely seeing anything but the red clouding his vision. 

Really, Seungmin wants to throttle Jeong Yunho. Yes, he’s an asshole, everyone knows that. But Seungmin can only be civil for so long; he will not stand for anyone disrespecting you like that, not even if it means preserving his dignity. 

The act of the latte— measuring and pouring the ingredients, taking in the aroma of the fresh coffee beans, paying attention to every single detail of his favorite art— it uncharacteristically blurs. None of it matters right now. 

In seconds, Seungmin has whipped up Yunho’s order, marching back over to your table. 

“—Aw, don’t be like that. Look, once I take over my dad’s company, it’s only bathing in dollar bills from now on.” Yunho cackles obscenely, all signs of his earlier irritation gone. Your pretty face, however, is twisted with anger, like you were in the middle of arguing with Yunho about something. “Why does it even matter?”

Seungmin has no idea what this new disagreement is about, but hearing Yunho gab senselessly is enough for Seungmin to place the new mug of coffee in front of him without any guilt at all. He folds his hands behind his back expectantly, waiting with baited breath for Yunho to taste his creation. 

The reaction doesn’t disappoint; it’s comical, really, the way things unfold so fast. Yunho spits out the giant gulp of his drink, the coffee spraying everywhere. 

You rear back in disgust, while Seungmin just placidly watches Yunho jump out of his chair like a kangaroo, zeroing in on him like a missile. Yunho roughly jabs a finger into Seungmin’s chest, and it hurts, but Seungmin is too triumphant to let the pain be anything more than a minute pinch. 

“YOU! What the fuck did you put in my coffee?” Yunho screeches, skin an unflattering shade of vermillion. “I know you did something!”

Seungmin exhales smoothly, feigning innocence. “Well, you made it clear you didn’t want your coffee to be sweet, so…”

He watches both yours and Yunho’s eyes trace over to the counter, where a giant container of salt sits, shiny white and clearly opened in use. 

Seungmin looks back at where Yunho had spit out the drink, where it had splattered all over the table and floor. It would be a bitch to clean up. Yunho doesn’t give Seungmin the chance to proceed to the supply closet and fetch the mop, however, because he’s already grabbing Seungmin by his collar and shoving him up against the wall.

Seungmin isn’t stupid— he knows Yunho is on the wrestling team, while Seungmin can barely rep one-hundred thirty pounds in the gym. He hangs limply while Yunho screams into his face, while you shout at Yunho, trying to peel him off. Unfortunately, your efforts are wasted, because Yunho is too strong, and his ego has taken too big of a hit for him to back off now. 

“I want to speak to your manager! Where is that fucker? I want this shop shut down! I want it gone!” Yunho roars, shaking Seungmin in his hands like a maraca. Seungmin isn’t afraid, however, Yunho most definitely looks ridiculous, practically assaulting him like this. 

Yunho raises his fist, like he’s about to feed Seungmin a nasty punch, and Seungmin winces, closing his eyes and bracing himself, but the hit never comes. All he hears is a small grunt that doesn’t belong to Yunho and the thud of someone falling heavily onto the floor. He opens his eyes to see Yunho sprawled out on the floor, groaning in confusion, while Minho, of all people, hovers over him. And you’re standing on the side, clearly horrified by the entire scene. 

Seungmin doesn’t have the chance to ask if you're okay before Yunho is springing back up like an evil jack-in-the-box, his latest target now being Minho. 

“And who the fuck are you, asshole?” Yunho tries to get up into Minho’s face in a clear attempt to be threatening, but Minho nonchalantly pushes him back without batting an eye, making him stumble. 

Seungmin stifles a laugh, meeting your eyes. You now mirror him, nothing but amusement left in your eyes. It fills his chest with an inexplicable joy, of being able to share a moment like this once again, even if it has to be over your spectacularly terrible date. 

Yunho sputters angrily, steadying his footing by clutching the table behind him. He looks like an absolute idiot, even more than before. 

“You need to leave,” Minho states calmly, his face barely moving. It’s a little scary; Seungmin decides he’s glad Minho is his friend, not his enemy. 

“Um, no!” Yunho retorts, still not having learned his lesson. “Not until I—”

“He’s right,” you cut in, glaring at Yunho. 

“But- but he—”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, picking disinterestedly at an invisible speck of dust on your sweater. You look over at Seungmin even as you speak to Yunho, your annoyed expression turning into something more apologetic. “We came here to work on a group project, because I had the misfortune of getting stuck with you. But you couldn’t even go five minutes without rambling about your father’s useless company. I’m going to be asking the professor if I can work alone, because this isn’t going to work out.”

Seungmin stands there in surprise, while Yunho just balloons in rage. You don’t even spare Yunho another glance, just softly gazing at Seungmin.

"How dare you! I’m suing you! I’m suing him! I’m suing this whole damn shop! I won’t stop suing all of you until you’re up to your eyeballs in legal bills! Wait until my father hears about—”

“That’s great. Now get out of the shop or I will remove you myself.” Minho’s eyes glitter dangerously, effectively shutting Yunho up. Minho might not have been endowed with the most brawns in this university, but everyone knows about the rumors, about what will happen to you if you mess with Minho or his friends. Yes, most of these rumors were flamed and fanned by Jisung’s jobless self, but that doesn’t change the fact that it would be a terrible idea to cross Lee Minho.

“We will see what happens!” Yunho huffs, whirling out of the cafe with an indignant squeak. 

Now mildly bothered about what could happen to Morningstar, Seungmin turns to you and Minho. “Can he actually sue me for this?”

“Potentially, for food tampering or something.” Minho smirks, throwing away the plastic wrapper of the pastry he copped before turning to leave. “Make sure you have Chan on speed-dial.”

Seungmin watches Minho exit the shop as he chuckles to himself, the bell on the door chiming as it shuts behind his retreating form. His friend really is such a treasure.

“Seungmin,” you breathe, and he whips back to look at you, where you sport a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry for lying. I wasn’t here on a date with Yunho. I only said that… well, to make you jealous.”

He studies you for a moment, saying nothing, before he’s tipping back his head and groaning. “Why did I do that?”

You laugh, walking over to him and placing your hand on Seungmin’s arm. All he can do in response is look down at it in wonder, where you are touching him so gently. “He deserved it.”

Seungmin shakes his head. “Not that salt thing. I would never regret that.”

“Then what are you talking about?” You give him a questioning look. 

“I shouldn’t have let some other guy take you out on a date,” Seungmin finally sighs, slipping his hand into yours with a newfound confidence. There’s no delaying the inevitable, what he has been denying himself for so long. And for someone who always clowns on Jisung for being an idiot, he really is so stupid. “It should have been me.”

“Minnie… what are you saying?”

Seungmin nearly melts, hearing that nickname again, one that he has now grown so fond of. He smiles at you, cupping your face. “I’m saying, I’m an idiot for letting you go. I’m not going to do that again. I was too scared to let you into my life, and in doing so, I almost lost you. I need to live, and I want to do it with you. I like you.” 

You stare back at him, astonished, before breaking out into a smile. “Finally. I like you too.”

Seungmin looks into your eyes with purpose, unafraid and unabashed. “Go out on a date with me, please.”

“Yes.”

“Can I kiss you?”

You don’t answer, just pulling Seungmin down to your lips instead. You taste like the cinnamon dolce latte he made for you in place of the chamomile— vanilla, spice, and all his. You’re so, so sweet, and finally, you’re his. 

Seungmin pulls back, lips slightly red but painted with a besotted smile nevertheless. “Soo, how about we skip the coffee and just go straight to dinner?”

“That would be perfect.”

Check out the rest of boys' stories on Love Playlist!

«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME»

TAGLIST Returning to Love Playlist after being gone for so long feels like a warm hug, even though I definitely did rush a bit on this one. Like drinking one of those Morningstar lattes. I know Hyunjin was supposed to be next, but I so so badly wanted to write Seungmin's first so THERE. But also tell me why my campus has ZERO cute coffee shops??? I miss my hometown... Anyway, I really am sorry for the delay guys :( It's been YEARS since I updated this series, which I feel so bad for because a lot of original readers who looked forward to the next one-shots are probably not active here anymore. But time is always passing, might as well make my peace with it. I'll be working on the next parts as soon as I crank out the rest of my other wip, Anti-Romantic. Hope you liked this one! ❄️❄️☃️ -Dreamy

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[rillils]

Somebody pls correct me if I'm wrong, but one thing I noticed while rewatching CATFA is how, in the first part of the movie, Bucky is always the one to initiate physical touch with Steve -- while in the second part, the opposite is true.

Allow me to elaborate.

I hardly need to mention alley!Bucky throwing his arm around Steve's neck and pulling him into his side, tugging him along towards "the future". Shortly after that, there's this blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment, when he catches Steve before Steve tries to enlist again:

Bucky could have simply called his name to get Steve's attention, but he chooses to accompany that with a gentle touch to Steve's back instead.

[ which is such a tiny detail, but I believe it's worth mentioning because: 1) I'm a sucker for little gestures that are seemingly irrelevant but really speak to how comfortable the characters are with each other; and 2) in the context of Steve being partially deaf, something like this makes me think of a younger Bucky, learning early on that touch was much more likely to get him Steve's attention than vocal cues alone, especially in crowded/loud places where it would have been difficult to pick up Bucky's voice amongst the noise. And he's so used to it after all these years, that he does it unthinkingly, sometimes even when it's not necessary. ] [ but that would need its own post I guess sdksjdk ]

And then, of course, there's their goodbye hug. And the way Bucky makes a point of walking back just to wrap Steve in his arms one last time, putting his weight into it and hooking his chin over Steve's shoulder just to lock their bodies together for a moment, well that is just, yeah. *screams*

But once Steve gets the serum? Once he shows up in Kreischberg to rescue Bucky, all buffed up and a whole head taller, with no backup except for his own muscles and the power of love? From here on out, it's always going to be Steve reaching for Bucky first.

It's Steve pulling him up from the lab table, Steve cupping Bucky's face in his hand, Steve hanging back and reaching his arm out to Bucky when Bucky is visibly struggling to keep up with him. Steve grabbing Bucky to help him hoist himself over the railing, Steve holding onto Bucky's arm and eventually, reluctantly letting go of him, watching on with anguish written all over his face.

It's Steve clapping Bucky on the back when they've finally made their way back to camp. Steve, once more, resting his hand on Bucky's shoulder at the end of the bar scene.

There's a clear turning point somewhere in here, after which Bucky never initiates physical contact anymore. Not on screen, anyway.

Which could mean nothing. But I love to read too much into things, and I just thought it might be interesting to take a closer look at this.

I'm probably projecting my own issues on him here, but Bucky has always struck me as the kind of person who tends to isolate himself when he's hurting. You know, the kind who'd rather just curl up somewhere quiet, away from everyone else, to nurse their wounds in private, only resurfacing when they've got all those emotions back "under control", bottled up inside where they belong.

For one, this would tie in with the model of masculinity Bucky would have been fed since he was a child. A real man is strong, a real man is a provider, a real man suffers quietly and never breathes a word of it to anyone; he doesn't bleed all over his loved ones, he keeps his shit together and fixes what's broken, no fuss.

And indeed, we see Bucky do this with Steve all time. He's always putting on a brave face with Steve, always doing his darndest to cover up his own fears and insecurities with a smile, a joke, a casual shrug, trying to shoulder the weight of his pain alone, even though Steve can see right through him most of the time.

Which is why it wouldn't surprise me if, at least in the early stages post-rescue, Bucky were to withdraw into himself. Put some distance between himself and Steve while he tries to come to terms with everything he'd been through, until he feels a little less brittle, a little less like he'll come apart with the first strong breeze. Until he feels solid ground under his feet again.

He wouldn't do so consciously -- but retreating into old coping mechanisms, no matter how unhealthy, is an easy trap to fall into, and at some point the behavior becomes so ingrained into you that it's your first natural response. The little bubble of security you turn to. And that's hard to un-learn. And when Steve rescues him from the hydra facility, Bucky is grappling with so many painful things at once, that he just needs something, somewhere safe to retreat into.

In this sense, the lack of physical touch on Bucky's part, when he used to be so easily tactile in his relationship with Steve, so comfortable with being all up in Steve's space, with tugging Steve into his space, would be one of the most blatant signs of the pain he carries within.

Bucky feels unmoored, displaced. Everything in his world has been turned upside down, and nothing is the way it was supposed to be anymore.

He's been through hell, and he probably thought he was going to die in there, tied to that cold slab of metal in a dark bowel of a room, too out of it to even remember where he was. But not only has he come out the other side somehow, he now has to deal with the aftermath of what Zola has done to him. And he has no fucking idea what that was. All he knows is that he's been changed, and he can feel it, and that's fucking terrifying.

Steve was supposed to be home safe, but he's out here instead, running straight towards certain death with open arms.

It used to be just the two of them in their own codependent little bubble, but now Steve's world is rapidly expanding, and everybody wants a piece of him.

[ A quick tangent: I think this shot from the movie paints the perfect picture in that respect.

It kinda speaks for itself, doesn't it? Steve, at the heart of the crowd, the center of everybody's attention, and all these people - even the very same people who laughed and jeered at him and called him Tinkerbell just a week ago - reaching for him, grabbing for him, cheering for their newfound hero. And Bucky?

Bucky's right behind Steve. His shadow. His double. Quiet. The brittle smile already gone from his lips and from his eyes. Fading into the background.

It's not that he minds that Steve's in the spotlight. Hell, he pushed Steve in the spotlight ("Let's hear it for Captain America," was it?), and by doing so he also spared Steve from facing the consequences of his insubordination, because who the fuck would punish a universally celebrated war hero, right? And besides, how could he watch Steve's six if he were standing anywhere else?

But.

But some place deep in his heart hurts. ]

Imagine how he must feel, watching Steve be the best version of himself that he can be, while Bucky himself is falling apart, and doing a poor job of hiding it. How scared he must be, feeling the change churn inside him like some sort of poison, wondering how long before he'll turn into a monster just like Schmidt did. How soon before he starts shedding his skin, before the horror lurking underneath it is revealed to him and to everyone around him?

Hearing Steve confirm that this is Permanent, that the serum Amplifies -- and what if it latched onto the ugliest parts buried deep inside Bucky, and amplified those instead of what good he had in him?

Perhaps this is one more reason why he hesitates to touch Steve, to get any closer than necessary: the fear slowly eating away at him. The doubt slithering under his skin. Is he even still human? Was he truly saved or was it already too late? Does he still deserve a place in Steve's life? Does Steve even need him at all, now?

The feelings of inadequacy. Him, chewed up and spat out by the war, worn thin, made bitter, made angry, made into something twisted and wrong, juxtaposed with Steve, glowing, golden Steve, with his eagerness and his ideals and his strength and his big, pure heart.

And you know what makes my heart ache? Despite all of this, you can still see Bucky gravitating towards Steve all the time. Leaning towards him even when their bodies don't touch. Like he longs to be close again, but he's not sure how. Not yet.

Which is not to say that he never gets past this stage. After all, this is only what we see on screen, and there's a whole fucking lot that the movie doesn't show us - but what the hell, we can fill in those gaps ourselves. And where I'm concerned, imagining the moment when Bucky finally breaks down in Steve's arms, when he lets Steve hold him and finally allows himself to hold on to him too, like he's needed to do for so long, is as heartbreaking as it is satisfying.

Now, I know I've already rambled on forever, but there's another angle to this that I'd like to look at.

On the matter of flipping the initial dynamic presented between them...

We know how, from the very start, Steve and Bucky are written to be each other's mirror image: identical and opposite at once.

They go through the same metamorphosis, but where Steve actively takes part in Erskine's experiment, Bucky is dragged into Zola's lab against his will. Steve gets to choose; Bucky is forced into it without so much as a warning.

Steve's transformation is clear and instantly visible, and the camera pans over his golden body awash with light, as he sighs in relief, no longer in pain. Bucky's change is subtle, sneaky; it creeps up on him from the inside, unknown, undescribed, foreign, unnatural; a feeling like a chill up his spine. He's not aware of how much, nor in what ways, his body has been changed, until he starts to see the signs. Until the symptoms start to show, like a disease.

When we see him in the aftermath of his own transformation, Bucky doesn't look like a powerful demi-god ready to sprint after the bad guy, like Steve did. Bucky is doubled over in pain. He's weak, he can barely stumble after Steve, hunched over, occasionally holding his stomach, and there's a recent scrape on his cheekbone, a spot of dried blood, like they had to brutally subdue him before they could get him strapped down to the table Steve found him on.

Where Steve is a miracle of science, Bucky is the product of a waking nightmare.

CATFA plays with this "opposites" theme a lot, going so far as to completely flip over the dynamic between Bucky and Steve in every possible way.

In the beginning, Bucky is introduced as Steve's protector, his good and caring friend who rescues him from bullies, who tries to talk some sense into him, who sees him and supports him ("You've got nothing to prove"), who wants to keep him safe.

But after Steve gets the serum, their roles are reversed. Suddenly, Steve is the protector to Bucky's dude-in-distress. Steve is the strong righteous man, the knight in shining armor rescuing Bucky from the people who mean him harm.

In the beginning, we constantly see Bucky seeking Steve out. It's Bucky finding him in the alley, as though he could sense that Steve's in trouble; it's Bucky talking him into going to the fair, and later finding Steve when Steve strays from the group. It's Bucky coming to Steve for a last goodbye, walking back just to hug him, always reaching out first.

But later on, this pattern is, again, reversed. Steve comes to Bucky's rescue. Steve seeks Bucky out at the pub, when Bucky has deliberately isolated himself from the newly-formed team. Steve takes that first step and asks him, dressing it in a half-joke, if Bucky will stay by his side.

It's like there's always one of them chasing after the other, and they only ever come together for a brief moment, just to be ripped apart again.

And the one time they're reaching for each other at the same time, right there at the end? They fail.

They're not allowed to touch. The story won't let them.

They try, desperately try, but they literally just… can't reach.

How's that for some star-crossed lovers, huh.

Finally, I just think it's fucking hilarious how this significant shift only happens after Steve hits his magical growth spurt and becomes, visually, the ideal standard of cis straight masculinity. Once he's finally A Real Man(TM) both on the inside and especially on the outside - someone that all women will desire and all men will admire. And I say it's fucking hilarious because:

1) the hypermasculine macho man the writers were probably hoping to write is actually just a really sweet, awkward guy who barely shows any interest in the girls thrown at him, and whose most meaningful, most tender relationship is with another guy. oops

2) by applying this heteronormative lens to Steve's relationship with Bucky, making them each other's yin and yang, the hero and his damsel, the typically masculine role vs the typically feminine role, actively pursuing vs being pursued, the writers actually played themselves! 'Cause even while they refuse to allow Bucky to be Steve's official love interest, the narrative that they built with their own hands is literally out here pushing the idea of Steve as, well, Steve as Bucky's strong alpha male, for lack of a better word

3) in a movie in which Steve is (quite forcefully) pursued by two separate women, the only person Steve actively pursues is another man.

See? Fucking hilarious, dude.

[uhuhmaries]

Still Into You | CHAPTER 8

Warnings: NSFW/18+

Series: PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

College kicks in like a punch to the gut.

You meet new people. A few friends from class. Some from your sorority. There’s this one guy, Milo, who walks you to your Art Theory lecture with oat milk lattes and tells you you’re too pretty to keep looking down at your shoes.

You laugh. You don’t flirt.

But you wonder if Harry would care if you did.

Harry’s busy. Really busy.

He’s trying to wrap up his Master’s coursework faster than anyone in his department. Football practices pile up. Frat house events double because of fall rush. You hear his name whispered from all corners— Styles. President. Captain. The one who could sleep with anyone.

But he still texts you. Sometimes.

u up? come over. missed u today. wanna ride me til i stop thinking?

And it’s always hot. Always intense. But always empty when he kisses you and falls asleep without asking how your day was.

You try to play it cool.

You throw yourself into your fashion classes. Join a sewing circle with upperclassmen. You go out more. You wear tighter skirts. Lip gloss instead of chapstick.

But when Harry forgets to reply to your texts for two full days, only to show up unannounced at your dorm and ask if he can “make it up to you” by going down on you until your legs shake—

You start to feel like you’re just the reward after a long day. Not the thing he thinks about during.

You throw a tantrum. Not loud. Not cruel. Just quiet. Icy. Petty.

You ignore three of his messages. You take selfies with Milo— nothing flirty, just enough to post. You tell Liv you might start dating for real soon. “Just for fun,” you say. “To feel something.”

When Harry does get a hold of you again, he invites you to a frat dinner. Doesn’t even say please.

So you show up in red. Red lips, red dress, red heels.

And you barely look at him.

Later that night, back in his room, when he grabs your hips and tries to pull you on top of him, you say it— a little louder than you mean to:

“You don’t actually care, Harry. You just want someone to fuck when your brain won’t shut off.”

He stills.

Your voice keeps going, trembling and furious:

“You don’t try. You say you don’t want labels but you act like I’m yours. You get jealous, you text me when it’s convenient, you call me baby when I’m naked— but never when I need it. I’m not your therapy. I’m not your fucking cure.”

Silence. He stares at you. And for the first time in weeks— he snaps.

“Jesus Christ, you think I’m not trying? You think I don’t have enough going on without adding a full-blown relationship with an eighteen-year-old who throws tantrums when I don’t say the exact right thing?”

You blink. He’s never raised his voice at you before. He scrubs a hand over his face. Frustrated. Ashamed. Angry.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, but it’s clipped. Tired. Not tender.

“I’ve had a shitty day. My professor grilled me in front of the whole class. My knee’s fucked from practice. And I still came here hoping to see you and forget the rest of it. But you—you’re not happy unless I say all the perfect shit, and I can’t do that right now.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Your voice is small. “So you just want me to shut up and open my legs?”

He freezes. The air turns sharp.

“Don’t do that.”

You shrug. “Feels like that’s all I’m good for lately.”

“That’s not fair.”

You swallow hard. Then stand. Grab your bag before you turn your head to him.

“Neither is falling for someone who only wants me when it’s dark out.”

And then you leave.

Weeks pass.

No texts. No late-night knocks. No booty calls. No apologies.

Just silence.

The longest he’s ever stayed away.

You tell yourself it’s for the best. You tell your friends you’re fine. You focus on uni, your sorority, your sketches, anything that doesn’t have green eyes and dimples and fingers that once traced your body like a prayer.

But some nights— when your phone buzzes— your stomach still flips before you realize it’s not him.

It’s the week of the Northcrest football championship. The biggest one of the year. Frats are throwing bets. Sororities are choreographing cheers. People care more about this than finals.

Your roommates beg you to come.

“Just for the atmosphere,” they say. “Everyone’s going. You need it.”

You almost say no.

But you’re tired of sulking. Tired of wondering.

So you go.

The stadium is packed.

You’re wearing your school colors. Hair down. Lip gloss on. High heels. Just enough edge to feel like armor.

Your friends grab snacks, take photos, make TikToks you barely appear in. You try to stay present. Laugh when they laugh. Sip your soda and pretend your eyes aren’t searching the field.

But you are.

And then— There he is.

Harry. In full uniform. Helmet tucked under one arm. That damn jawline, sharp as ever. His biceps flex as he high-fives teammates, laughing like nothing ever touched him, like nothing broke.

Your throat goes dry.

He doesn’t see you right away.

But you see her.

A cheerleader. Blonde, ponytail too high, hands too familiar.

She clings to him before kickoff, whispering something in his ear, nails raking down his chest through the jersey. He grins. Doesn’t pull away. Lets her fix his shoulder pads like she belongs there.

You hear some girls nearby where you're sitting make casual comments.

“Is that Harry Styles?” “He’s so hot.” “Wonder if he’s single.”

You say nothing. Your heart is silent, too.

He finally spots you.

Right as the anthem ends, his eyes flick across the bleachers —just a quick scan— and land on you.

His smile falters for a second.

You look away before it can mean anything.

The game kicks off.

And he plays like hell. Fast. Aggressive. Focused.

You don’t know if it’s rage or pride or adrenaline— but every time he scores, the stadium goes feral. The cheerleaders scream. The crowd swells. And you… you feel nothing but cold.

Because you know what it felt like to hold him afterward. You know how quiet his voice gets when he’s tired. How soft his hands are after gripping the world too hard.

But now… you’re just another girl in the crowd.

The game ends in victory.

Everyone rushes the field. Your friends want to follow— but you don’t.

You stay behind. Stand still. Watch from the bleachers as he’s lifted onto shoulders, drenched in sweat and praise.

The cheerleader from earlier runs up to him, throws her arms around his neck. He lets her.

You’re still standing when he finally walks toward the bleachers.

Helmet off. Jersey soaked in sweat. Eyes scanning the small clusters of people who stayed behind.

When he sees you, he slows.

His lips tug into a cautious smile.

“Hey.”

Your heart gives a pathetic stutter. But your lips curve into something polite— something detached.

“Hi.”

He looks exhausted. Buzzed from the win, flushed from the cold, hands still red from gripping victory too tight.

“You came,” he says.

You nod once. “My roommates dragged me.”

His jaw ticks. A faint flicker of something in his eyes— amusement? Disappointment?

You keep going. “Congratulations. You played… amazing.”

“Thanks.” He sways slightly on his feet. “Means a lot. Coming from you.”

Before you can say anything else— She appears.

The cheerleader. Blonde. Perfect. Smug.

She wraps her arms around his waist, presses a kiss to his damp jawline, and grins at you.

She knows.

You can see it. You say nothing. Just glance down at her neck— and your stomach drops.

Bruises.

Bite marks. His marks. Fresh. Dark. All over her throat and collarbone.

She doesn’t cover them. She wears them like trophies.

You swallow hard.

His arm doesn’t move. He doesn’t push her off.

You nod again, lips tight. Turn toward his teammates— a few of whom you recognize from parties.

“Congrats to all of you,” you say. “Hell of a game.”

They thank you, one by one— a few giving sympathetic looks, like they’re not sure if they should say more.

Harry says nothing.

Neither do you. You just leave.

Liv’s text comes as you’re walking toward the parking lot:

Where r u? Let’s grab coffee. Just us.

You don’t say much when you get there.

Just sit across from her in a corner booth at a 24-hour diner, fingers curled around a plastic cup of iced coffee that tastes like water.

She watches you carefully.

“I heard,” she says softly. “About him. Her. You.”

You nod. Stare out the window.

“I’m done,” you say. Your voice doesn’t crack. “It’s over.”

Liv doesn’t argue. She just reaches for your hand.

And holds it.

“Let's go. Let's grab a drink.” Liv breaks the silence after she consoles you. She stands up and pull your hand. You follow her to walk to her car and a few moments later, you end up at a party near campus.

Well you weren’t going to go. Liv said you needed to let go, even just for a night.

So you drink. Hard.

Vodka shots. Champagne. Someone hands you a lime with sugar and it makes you laugh. You sway to music that’s too loud and bass that rumbles through your chest like a second heartbeat.

You dance with strangers. Let a guy twirl you like you’re light as air. Scream the lyrics to a song you don’t know.

For a second— it works. You forget. You’re just you.

Until someone at the keg says—

“Styles just showed up.”

You turn your head. And there he is.

Harry.

Still damp from the post-game shower. Wearing all black. Arm draped around her shoulder like he doesn’t even care she’s got fresh bite marks leading down her cleavage.

Your blood goes cold.

He sees you.

Stops.

But doesn’t move. Doesn’t come closer.

He just watches you. Eyes dark. Expression unreadable.

And beside him, the cheerleader smirks.

Leans up to kiss his cheek.

And makes damn sure you’re watching.

You take another drink. Too fast. Too much.

Your throat burns.

The room is spinning. Not fast— not yet. Just slow enough to make the lights too bright and the floor too soft.

You wave it off. But your eyes are on him.

You’ve been quiet for too long. Bitten your tongue too many nights.

And the alcohol is doing all the talking now.

You step forward. Your cup spills a little.

Liv’s voice echoes behind you— warning, worried, trying to stop you. But you’re already in front of him.

Your voice cuts through the bass:

“Did you fuck her before or after you begged me to keep things simple?”

The cheerleader freezes. Harry stiffens. People turn. A hush falls— the kind that only happens right before a car crash.

You don’t stop. You can’t.

“Is this why you didn’t want a label? So you could do whatever the fuck you want and call it freedom? So you could fuck around and not feel guilty?”

His eyes darken. “You’re drunk.”

You laugh— loud and bitter.

“No shit. I'm not even trying to hide it. You think saying that justify your whole charade? I’m not stupid.”

“You made me feel crazy for wanting anything real from you. For wanting to be someone you chose. And now you’re out here parading her around like I never fucking mattered?”

The cheerleader tries to scoff, step away like she’s not involved.

You step in closer.

“You knew I was younger than you. You knew you had all the power. And you used me like a warm body and a distraction and I still liked you.”

“But I’m done.”

Your voice cracks.

“I don’t care if you’re Harry Styles, golden boy of Northcrest, future fucking therapist— you're just another coward with pretty eyes and commitment issues. Fix your shit.”

The room is silent.

Harry’s mouth opens. But you don’t wait for him to speak.

You throw your drink to the ground— it splashes at his shoes, and stumble away.

The last thing you hear is Liv yelling your name— Then nothingness.

The next morning.

You wake up on the couch of Liv’s dorm, wearing someone else’s sweatshirt, your mouth dry and your stomach twisted in knots.

Your head pounds.

The sun is cruel through the windows.

Liv’s sitting across from you, a coffee in one hand, her eyes unreadable.

“…I fucked up,” you whisper.

She doesn’t say anything at first.

Just hands you a glass of water.

You drink, hands shaking.

“You don’t remember?” She asks.

Flashes come back.

His face. Your words. The way the crowd had gone dead quiet.

You groan, collapsing back into the cushions.

“You went off,” she says gently. “Fully. In front of everyone. Facts though.”

“What did he do?” You croak.

Liv shrugs, careful. “Nothing. He just… took it. Didn’t say a word. Watched you walk out like you ripped his chest open.”

You exhale.

She hesitates.

“…He was still there when I left. Alone.”

You press your hand to your forehead, heart pounding like it wants to crawl out of your throat.

Your phone buzzes.

One message. From Harry Styles.

I deserved that.

But I still wanted you to know I never touched her until after we stopped speaking.

And even then… it didn’t mean anything.

You stare at the screen like the words are supposed to make it hurt less. They definitely don’t.

Without thinking twice, you block his number.

Liv leans over and gives your back a firm, reassuring pat— like she’s proud of you for choosing yourself this time.

“If he really wants you,” she says gently, “he’ll grow up and show it. But for now… you’ve got your whole freshman year to enjoy. Don’t waste it on someone still figuring himself out.”

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

THIS CHAPTER MAKES ME ANGRYYYY AHHSHAHSHSHHWHW

[bidisasterevankinard]

Happy anniversary 🎉 @hippolotamus <3333 I'm sorry I still can't post the whole chapter, but here's some frat boys idiots scene for you <3333

Evan hates being late to parties. And not just late in a cool way when the party basically starts and you just show up just when music is on and people are meddling together and no one would think they are too cool for you to come on time. No. He’s that time of late that basically everyone already too drunk to even understand where they are, some people throw up outside the house, some fuck not even thinkign to hide, some sleep, some leave. He’s that type of late.

Stupid chemistry homework. 

He’s especially sad that Tommy hasn’t even checked on him. Hasn’t asked if he’s coming or not. Hasn’t even called him at all. Evan found out about the party from Eric.

But now he’s here, gets a drink from Jared? Jake? From Tommy's team and hopes to finally spend more than mealtimes with Tommy this week. He misses their talks. 

First look around leaves him empty. If Tommy’s around he can’t see him, but he sees his team and goes to say hi. 

The talk is not too long, they basically just make more plans for additional work out, and Vic finally shares his protein powder recs, but then cheerleaders show up and Evan runs not to see Arilene.

He’s not in the mood to let her down easy, and if she tries to reach his abs once again, he will stop being polite to her.

He finds a free couch in another part of the huge room and plops at it, looking around once again, he finally finds Tommy, but his stomach falls when he sees his brown-haired friend in the middle of the dance floor. His beautiful chocolate hair is between Katie’s - if he remembered her name correctly - small fingers. His powerful arms, that got like twice bigger in a year, around her waist and go lower and lower, basically getting under his mini skirt. 

Tommy smirks in her lips, biting her bottom, and kissing her again, even dirtier than before. 

Evan can see their tongues dancing too, just like their beautiful bodies, moving in sync with yet another slow song he doesn’t care about.

His mood sours. He hoped he and Tommy again would sit together on slow songs, like always, when they are at the party together, making fun of all the couples, bitching about them and then go and drink twice their weight in alcohol and dance when normal music starts.

And now he’s alone.

He gets up and goes to mix himself something to drink. At least this Tommy can't take from him.

The kitchen is less crowded and music is barely heard and he happily takes a reprieve from all the lights and sounds. Sometimes all these parties are just too much. Overstimulate him too hard.

“What are you pouting about?” a kind familiar voice comes from behind.

Turning, he sees Marcus, sitting on the kitchen counter, smocking into the open back door. How the guy makes the act seems so cool, hot and pretty at the same time Evan doesn’t know. His friend’s - now pink - hair as always are wild and curly, but today a little bit hidden under black bandana. The piercing in his lip makes his smile only more genuine.  If it was anyone else, Evan’d deny the accusation that he pouts. 

“My friend’s dancing with a chick,” he shrugs, aiming for as nonchalant as possible, “I hate to be alone at parties. And today I'm not in the mood to flirt or meet new people.”

He gets closer, but not close enough to smell the smoke. He hates it.

They stay in the kitchen alone in silence, watching each other. Some people come and go, but they don’t care. Marcus continues smocking and  mixing something at the same time. Evan mesmerized how his long pale piano fingers on his wide palms dance something complicated.  

 When he’s done his magic, Marcus smiles, pouring two drinks, grabbing his wrist and pushing one cocktail to him.

“C’mon then, enjoy your better drink and let’s go dance. I’ll be your party-slash-dancing buddy.”

Swallowing down the giggle from the touch of warm and soft skin on him, Evan smiles, blushing from the wink, tilting his head.

“Even slow songs?” he asks, blinking rapidly. “I-I still remember you promising me to teach me.”

“Especially slow songs,” winking again, Marcis gets him back to the living room.

The crowd gets even thicker, the smell of sweat, drinks, cigarettes, perfumes only more prominent. But tequila in his gut and Marcus’ smirk, with loud fast, beating like his heart, music get him in the mood in seconds.

He has to stick his body to Marcus' on yet another move of the crowd. And he can understand why girls love to dance with tall guys. Marcus is half a head taller than him and just an inch bigger in shoulders, but when his hands cage his waist, Evan feels like he’s flying high.  

Even if he feels like someone is setting him on fire with their eyes.

Evan lets his body act with music, letting it  and Marcus’ hands on his hips guide his every move.Letting his body go, he moves with the song, pushing his head on a comfortable shoulder. He plasters himself as close as he can to his friend's broad frame, closing his eyes and just taking in how good it feels, how freeing to just dance and  think about nothing.

Marcus whispers words of the song in his ear, the warmth and light smell of strawberry cocktail he must have had and the cigarettes carefully caress his senses and Evan melts from it. 

He's so hot. He never felt so hot and free, not like right now with a lot of tequila soda and juice in him and Marcus’ body warmth and hot breath on his neck.

But he feels hotter when he opens his eyes and sees bright dark like thunderstorm skies eyes that take him all in. If the looks could set on fire, Evan knows Tommy already would just leave an ash from him.

Smirking, he winks. It’s Tommy’s fault he has another friend to be his dance buddy. Tommy the one who chose Katie over his company. He could stick himself like this to Tommy. But it’s Katie Tommy chose to hold, so his loss.   

Marcus’ hands move lower on his hips, and he smirks when his friend squeezes his thighs.

“Fuck, your thighs are too perfect, sweety.”

“Thanks,” just a whisper and then a moan when Marcus’ dick throbs near his ass.

How big is he? How would it feel inside…

“COPS ARE COMING.”

And just like that his thought process, he doesn’t even remember about what, ends and Evan uses all his football player speed to run fast.

After five minutes, when he's sure he can’t hear anyone, he stops and almost pukes his guts out, but takes a minute to breathe the fresh smell of Boston night.

He jumps when he hears the voice.

“Have you had fun with Marcus?” Tommy comes closer. His hands are crossed around his beautiful henley hidden chest. His voice is cold and biting and Evan can’t understand why.

“Yeah,” he nods, “what, you had bad fun with Katie?”

Tommy comes even closer, biting his lip, for a second Evan believes he will say something, his Adam’s apple moves like it always does when Tommy bites back his words, but nothing comes. His best friend just shrugs and nods in the direction of their house.

Evan starts walking, hiding his hands in jeans. He should have taken a hoodie with him, not just gone in T-shirt.  

“Katie’s fine, but she’s like Arilene.”

“Gives too much attention?”

“Yeah. I just figured why not to try and give her a chance and see what will happen?”

“You had fun on the dance floor,” Evan says, feeling his stomach being on fire again. Tequila must still be inside him even after running. 

Tommy nods. “Yeah,” he winks and in a fake whisper says, “and even more fun in her room before the party. We were late because of it. So late.”

“That’s cool,” Evan says, throwing his teeths.  

How could Tommy love to spend time with his chick more than him?

They enter the house carefully. Eric asked about silence as he has an important test tomorrow. 

“Do you want to watch something?"

“Nuh,” Evan shakes his head, not even looking at Tommy, “I’m going to study for a chemistry test next week and I have a morning workout with boys. Need to sleep.”

“Oh,” Tommy sounds sad, and Evan swears internally. He doesn’t want to be an asshole to his best friend. Tommy is too important. “Raincheck to Sunday?” he turns to Tommy with a smile.

Tommy smiles back. “I’ll even make us pizza.”

“Cool,” Evan nods with strange feeling in his stomach. Good night, Tommy.”

“Night, Evan.”

In the shower Evan looks at the mark from Marcus’ nail that is left on his side. He feels hot about this once again, but too tired to think it all out. He just falls into bed and in seconds he’s asleep.

[yukkiji]

Hi!!! Could I request a childhood bestfriends to lovers for Kenma? Like something cute where they’ve been neighbors forever and his mom loves you so you’re over at his house all the time sorta thing. I’d love it to be super fluffy. (I would also like nsfw added if it’s fits lol) I absolutely love how you write and I’m excited to read it!! ❤️❤️❤️

press start to fall

where you’ve known kenma long before he became kozuken, but it’s only after years of quiet yearning, messy dates, and lingering touches that he finally realizes he’s always been yours—and you, his.

starring. kozume kenma x fem!reader ft. tetsuro kuroo

genre. fluff, romance, slowburn, smut, timeskip!kenma

wc. 11.2k

cw. oral (f. receiving), missionary, cowgirl, cockwarming, doggystyle, nipple play, praise kink, possessiveness, hickeys/marking, jealousy, desk sex (semi-public vibe stream room), dirty talk, streamer!kenma.

author's note. alot of things happened and i want to update since life has been stressful after our hourse got robbed lol anyways i hope you guys enjoy this and i'll try to post my drafts as much as possible hehe but not much will be proofread since it's hard to proofread using a very ancient phone HAHAHAHA

you knew kenma before the world did.

before the name kozuken trended in every corner of the internet. before the arenas, the esports contracts, and the millions who watched him stream in real time.

you even knew him before he was the genius setter of nekoma high, before his hands learned to speak the language of volleyball better than his mouth ever could.

you knew him when you were just two—barely taller than a stuffed bear—when the moving truck pulled beside his house. cardboard boxes stacked high, unfamiliar faces everywhere. your parents busy with directions, while you wandered toward the boy next door.

he had a bowl cut and a long-sleeved shirt that looked too big for his small frame. he was hiding behind his mom’s legs, half of his face tucked into the fabric of her skirt.

his eyes peeked at you. cautious. watchful.

he didn’t speak.

but you walked up anyway.

you remember squatting down to his level, offering the worn-out bunny plush in your hand. he didn’t take it, but he didn’t run either.

that was enough.

his mom laughed softly and crouched down beside him. “kenma, say hi.”

he didn’t.

but he looked at you, and you looked back.

somehow, it was enough.

you became a regular fixture at the kozumes’ house after that.

not long after the move, it became natural—expected, even—for you to be there. at first, it was a few afternoons here and there. your parents said you were just making friends, but they didn’t know it wasn’t about friends, not really. not in the way kids usually made them. kenma didn’t like tag or chasing games. he didn’t like yelling or loud giggles or getting mud on his clothes. he liked puzzles. his game boy. the little pixelated cat game he spent hours on. and he liked you, in that quiet, instinctive way a child decides: this person is safe.

you didn’t need him to talk. you didn’t fill silences with noise. you’d just sit near him, legs folded underneath, sometimes handing him your extra crackers, sometimes placing stickers on his arm until he blinked and said, “i like this one.”

his mom—warm, doting, endlessly grateful—started greeting you like one of her own. she’d open the door before you even knocked, press a cup of cold juice into your hands, and say, “kenma’s in his room. go on up.”

she’d pack bentos with two sets of everything. tie your shoelaces if she noticed they were loose. once, when you caught a fever and couldn’t visit for two days, she called your house and asked if she could drop off homemade soup.

“he’s quieter than usual,” she said on the phone. “i think he misses his friend.”

you were seven, maybe eight, when she first said it—half-laughing, half-sincere:

“you know, one day you’ll marry my son.”

kenma turned red from his spot on the couch. you kept chewing on your senbei and didn’t respond. but a part of you tucked the words away and didn’t quite forget.

the years passed, but the routine stayed.

elementary school turned into middle school. his hair grew longer, his voice deeper, his hands steadier on the controller. you helped him set up his first real console. brought snacks during exam season. let him lean on your shoulder when he fell asleep mid-game. you never minded.

and then there was kuroo—loud, wild-haired kuroo, with his permanent smirk and too many volleyball flyers in his backpack. he burst into both your lives like an open window in a quiet room.

“you’re always here,” he teased the first time he saw you. “are you kenma’s girlfriend or something?”

kenma nearly dropped his game boy. you didn’t blink.

“someone has to get him outside,” you said, matter-of-fact.

kuroo laughed. kenma rolled his eyes. somehow, it worked.

the three of you became an unusual trio—one half-charged with sunlight and sharp teeth, one soft-spoken and screen-glowing, and you, always in between. the tether. the neutral ground. the quiet rhythm that pulled kenma outside and made kuroo slow down enough to listen.

by middle school, kuroo was already a year ahead and louder than ever, somehow always getting into trouble but never quite punished. he had a knack for persuasion and a voice that refused to be ignored. it wasn’t a surprise when he joined the volleyball club.

what was a surprise was how often he started poking his head into kenma’s class after school, smirking as he leaned through the door.

“practice ends at five. you coming today?”

kenma didn’t even look up from his console. “no.”

“we need another setter,” kuroo insisted. “and you’re annoying when you just sit there and don’t use your freakish brain for something other than combos.”

kenma clicked the next button. “i don’t like getting tired.”

kuroo groaned. “you’re such an old man.”

you watched this exchange happen three times that week. kuroo, persistent as ever, kenma brushing him off with all the energy of a sleepy cat.

then came the afternoon kenma skipped lunch and stayed in his room, lights off, blinds drawn. you knocked, once, then let yourself in—he never locked the door for you anyway.

he was on his bed, stretched out with a pillow over his face. his switch sat beside him, untouched.

you padded over and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, resting your arms on the mattress. “kuroo’s not wrong, you know.”

kenma shifted the pillow just enough to peek one eye at you.

“you’re good,” you said. “really good. i’ve been watching you two play since we were ten. i know you don’t care about winning or any of that, but when you’re on the court, you move like you’ve already seen everything happen.”

he looked away.

“i hate running,” he muttered into the mattress.

“so don’t run. just set. you don’t even have to move that much,” you said with a small smile. “just stand there and be a genius like always.”

he didn’t answer, but you could tell he was listening.

“besides,” you added softly, nudging his arm, “if you join, i’ll be cheering for you. every game. even if you just stand there and blink dramatically while everyone else runs in circles.”

his lips twitched, just slightly. “that sounds annoying.”

you smiled. “you’re already used to me.”

he didn’t say yes. not right away.

but the next afternoon, he showed up to practice with kuroo, sleeves rolled up, hair tied loosely back, expression unreadable.

you cheered anyway—from behind the gym doors, pressed up against the cool metal, heart pounding when he made his first perfect set.

you clapped when he got it right, even if no one else noticed. and when kuroo shouted, “that’s what i’m talking about!” across the court, you saw the tiniest flicker of pride cross kenma’s face.

he wouldn’t admit it, but you knew he liked the feeling.

from then on, things started to shift—not suddenly, but slowly, like the way clouds roll before a storm. kenma started showing up to practice more. not every day. not without a complaint. but he came.

you were there for every step of it.

he’d grumble about drills and sprints, complain about how kuroo never shut up, and say he was quitting at least once a month—but then he’d glance toward the doors where you always stood, sometimes with a juice box, sometimes with a towel, always with a smile, and somehow… he stayed.

he never cared much for being known. never liked crowds or spotlights or people yelling his name. but you could tell volleyball made something in him click—not in the loud, flashy way it did for kuroo, but in the quiet way that matched his rhythm.

he wasn’t playing to impress anyone. he was playing because he’d learned how to move in a world that made sense to him. one full of patterns and choices. and for all the chaos, the court had rules.

and maybe—just maybe—because you promised to cheer.

by the time high school rolled around, everyone knew who he was.

kozume kenma. nekoma’s brain. the genius setter with a distant stare and hands so precise it looked like the ball just wanted to obey him. people talked about his court vision like it was magic. opponents started prepping strategies just to counter him. coaches praised him even when he barely looked up from his warmups.

you were still there, always watching from the sidelines. sometimes pressed against the gym wall, sometimes in the front row at nationals, wearing a red and black hoodie with his number scribbled in sharpie on the sleeve.

kuroo teased him endlessly. “our genius has a personal cheer squad. what a spoiled guy.”

kenma would shrug, eyes on his phone. but you caught the slight twitch at the corner of his lips.

he never needed the attention. but he always looked for you in the crowd.

and you never missed a game.

seasons blurred together—spring tournaments, fall practices, rainy mornings waiting at the gates of nekoma, and hot summer nights where kenma would walk you home, still holding a half-finished sports drink in one hand and his phone in the other.

you knew his every habit. the way he chewed the inside of his cheek when he was thinking. the way his fingers hovered before making a decision in-game. the way he didn’t speak unless it mattered—and how, when it came to you, sometimes he’d speak anyway.

and somewhere along the way, that familiarity became something heavier. warmer. confusing.

you didn’t notice it at first. not really.

until kuroo did.

it was a lazy afternoon after practice—one of those days where the gym felt too hot and the hallway vending machine refused to take your last coin. you, kuroo, and kenma sat outside the school gate, backpacks at your feet and drinks in hand. kenma had already zoned out, phone in his lap, game loading. his leg was almost touching yours. almost.

“you know,” kuroo said, too casually, sipping his drink. “for someone who’s not dating kenma, you sure act like you are.”

you blinked. “what?”

he smirked. “i’m just saying. you pack his towel, carry his charger, cheer at every game. that’s girlfriend behavior.”

you rolled your eyes. “i do that for you too.”

“yeah, but i’m not the one who looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the room.”

your breath caught.

kuroo grinned. “you didn’t notice? kenma likes you. has for a while.”

you laughed—awkward, quick, a deflection. “kenma doesn’t like anyone. he barely likes talking.”

“doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel anything.” kuroo leaned back, arms behind his head. “you’re just too close to see it. and he’s too dumb to realize it’s love.”

you didn’t know what to say after that. and kenma didn’t even look up. just quietly beat the level on his game while your entire world shifted three inches to the left.

you didn’t walk home with them that day.

instead, you wandered. just a few blocks. past the bakery that closed too early. down the street where the sakura trees used to bloom.

your heart was pounding for no reason. your hands were cold.

kuroo was teasing, right? exaggerating. reading too much into things.

but then you thought about the way kenma always sat beside you—not across, never far. the way he’d quietly tilt his phone screen toward you if something funny came up. the way he never said no when you asked him to do something, even if he grumbled while doing it.

and suddenly it all felt like too much.

because maybe… maybe you liked him too.

no. loved him.

and you didn’t know when it happened—maybe when you were seven and he let you put butterfly clips in his hair. maybe during his first match when you lost your voice from yelling his name. maybe every single time he looked at you like you were the only one who never asked him to be more than he was.

you got home and sat on the edge of your bed like the floor might give out. your brain was buzzing. you couldn’t focus on anything.

you were in love with your best friend.

and you didn’t know what to do with that.

and suddenly, your phone buzzed.

[kenma]: wanna come over

[kenma]: i found a co-op game i think you’ll like

[kenma]: you can bring snacks if you want

you stared at the message for longer than you should have.

usually, you’d be out the door in two minutes.

usually, you’d already be knocking by now.

usually, you never said no.

but this time, everything felt different.

your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

you typed. deleted. typed again.

then sent:

[you]: sorry. not tonight. kinda tired. raincheck?

three dots appeared. then disappeared. then nothing.

you turned your phone face-down and curled into your pillow, heart aching in a way that felt too loud for the silence around you.

kenma stared at the screen.

not blinking.

not scrolling.

just... staring.

the soft blue light of his phone screen lit up the corners of his face, painting his cheeks in quiet confusion. the controller in his hand had long gone idle—his thumb paused mid-button press, stuck in a half-played game he no longer remembered starting.

behind him, kuroo flopped onto the bean bag with a loud sigh, cracking open a canned drink like he’d been waiting hours to do it.

“you done sulking over there or what?” kuroo asked, raising a brow. “you sent that invite ten minutes ago. you haven’t even touched your game.”

kenma finally blinked.

he clicked the screen off and set the phone down face-first on the bed beside him.

it buzzed once. a notification. unread.

“she’s not coming,” he said simply, as if it didn’t matter. as if it didn’t sting a little more than he expected.

“wow.” kuroo sat up halfway. “she never says no.”

kenma shrugged. “she’s tired.”

“is that what she said or what you’re telling yourself so you don’t spiral?”

kenma reached for his switch and opened a different game. something mindless. no plot. no real need for focus.

“it’s not a big deal,” he mumbled.

kuroo didn’t respond right away. just stared at him with that unreadable, calculating expression—the one that usually meant he was about to say something emotionally annoying.

“you know, you act weird when it comes to her.”

kenma didn’t look up. “she’s my best friend.”

“exactly,” kuroo said, too quickly. “but like… you don’t act like she’s just that.”

kenma exhaled, slow. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you ever notice how you only let her use your charger? or how you always check if she’s watching before you try something new on court? or how you’ll let her eat your fries but if i even look at them—”

“you double dip.”

“irrelevant.”

kenma sighed and leaned back against the headboard. his eyes were tired but stubborn, like they always were when he didn’t want to admit something—even to himself.

“we’ve known each other since we were kids,” he said. “of course i do that. that’s normal.”

kuroo scoffed. “kenma, i’ve known you almost as long. you’ve never once let me touch your charger without threatening to end my bloodline.”

kenma stayed quiet.

kuroo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “look. i’m not saying you’re in love with her—”

“i’m not.”

“sure,” kuroo said, voice tight with sarcasm. “totally. that’s why you looked like you got soft-blocked when she said she wasn’t coming over.”

kenma clicked too hard on the joystick.

the screen wobbled.

“she just always comes over,” he said, quieter now. “that’s all."

“and you always wait for her.” kuroo's voice lost its teasing edge. “you notice when she’s not around. you look for her after practice. you smile more when she’s here—not at her, but because she’s here.”

kenma didn’t answer. the silence stretched between them like an unplugged cord.

“you’re not in love, fine,” kuroo said finally, hands raised in surrender. “but maybe start asking yourself why she matters more than anything else does. and maybe—just maybe—think about what happens if one day, she stops waiting for you to figure it out.”

kenma’s jaw tightened. his hands curled around the switch.

but still, he said nothing.

because kuroo didn’t know what he was talking about. because you were his best friend. and that meant comfort. familiarity. someone who understood him without having to ask.

it wasn’t love. it was just… normal. wasn’t it?

the days that followed were strange, but you tried not to let them feel that way.

you still woke up to kenma’s messages about a patch update or a new co-op title you could try. you still saw him at school, still passed him his favorite snack during lunch, still walked with him after practice when he wasn’t too tired to leave early. you did all the same things. but everything felt… louder now. like someone had taken a magnifying glass to your every move and suddenly you couldn’t act without feeling watched. even if the only person watching was you.

and then there was kuroo.

kuroo, who had decided—apparently without your consent—that your entire emotional state needed to be unraveled and laid bare under gymnasium lights.

kuroo, who gave you the most insufferably smug look every time you crossed paths in the hallway.

kuroo, who winked at you during homeroom like he’d read your diary and now had leverage for life.

you cursed him under your breath every time he walked by.

sometimes you cursed him out loud.

a quiet, sharp “traitor” when he stole your seat beside kenma in the gym.

a hissed “you are the actual worst” when he raised his brows at you after kenma handed you a drink without being asked.

you almost tripped down the stairs once because he whispered, “he only does that for you.”

you told yourself it wasn’t real. that it didn’t mean anything. that everything was the same and the only problem here was kuroo and his dumb insight and his even dumber smirk.

except now you noticed every time kenma looked at you.

you noticed how his eyes would flick toward you when something funny happened on his screen—like he wanted to see if you were smiling too.

you noticed how his shoulder would lean a little too close when you sat side by side, how his fingers would twitch between you like he was thinking about reaching out but couldn’t decide if he was allowed.

you noticed how your heart beat in places it hadn’t before.

and it was exhausting.

a few days later, it happened.

the two of you were alone after class—something that should have been normal. something that was normal.

you were sitting on the edge of the school rooftop, swinging your legs against the ledge, the wind tugging lightly at your uniform sleeves. kenma sat beside you, back hunched slightly as he tapped away at his switch. the golden hour light softened everything, turned the edges of the sky into melted amber.

you weren’t speaking, but the silence had never bothered either of you before.

until now.

kenma didn’t look up from his game when he asked it.

“do you like kuroo?”

the question knocked the air out of your chest so fast you had to double-check if you’d heard him right. you turned to him sharply, mouth parted, but he was still focused on the screen. casual. unreadable.

you blinked. once. twice. then shook your head quickly, too quickly.

“no,” you said, too flat to be believable, too fast to be normal.

kenma paused. just for a moment. his thumb hovered over a button mid-press.

“he talks to you a lot,” he said. “and you glare at him even more now. isn’t that a thing people do when they like someone?”

you almost laughed. the audacity of kenma trying to be observant now of all times.

but instead, you swallowed, fingers curling into the hem of your skirt.

“i glare at kuroo because he’s annoying,” you muttered, “and because he says things he shouldn’t.”

kenma tilted his head slightly. “like what?”

you hesitated. then shrugged.

“just... dumb stuff,” you said. “stuff that gets stuck in your head and makes everything worse.”

he didn’t press you for details.

instead, he nodded once, slowly, and went back to his game.

you hated how relieved you felt.

you hated how your heart wouldn’t slow down.

and most of all, you hated that you couldn’t say what you actually meant.

that you didn’t like kuroo. you liked him.

you liked the way he never expected you to be more than you were. you liked the way his voice softened when he said your name. you liked that every version of him—quiet child, genius setter, slow texter, tired gamer—had always been yours in a way no one else’s was.

but you didn’t say any of that. you just sat beside him in the fading light, pretending nothing had changed.

even if it had.

you didn’t talk about the rooftop conversation again.

there was no follow-up. no awkward tension. no clarifying moments.

the next day, you passed kenma a snack during lunch, and he took it without looking up from his phone. everything moved forward as if nothing had been said. the silence wrapped around the truth, comfortable and untouched, just like it always did.

but something in your chest felt different.

and no matter how tightly you wrapped your routines around it, the feeling stayed.

college came before you were ready.

you didn’t go far. just a train ride away. a campus tucked inside a sleepy city that still had your favorite chain cafe and a bookstore you could disappear into for hours.

kenma didn’t go to college. he barely even considered it. his world had long since shifted toward screens and algorithms and a growing audience who knew him as kozuken—not kenma from class 3-b, not kenma who hated group work and only ever sat next to you.

streaming suited him. he could stay inside. make his own hours. speak when he wanted and vanish when he didn’t.

you still saw him often. maybe not every day, but enough.

you still had a spare key to his apartment. your place was just next door anyway.

you came over after classes, usually in oversized sweatshirts and socks that didn’t match, flopping down on his couch with takeout and half-finished group project complaints. he’d pass you a controller. you’d pick the map.

everything stayed the same.

until it didn’t.

you started dating.

casually, at first. group hangouts that turned into one-on-ones. classmates who were funny, charming, sometimes a little too confident. there were no sparks, not really, but you were trying.

maybe because part of you had finally stopped waiting. maybe because you were tired of hoping for something that might never happen. maybe because kenma never gave you a reason to believe he wanted you the same way you wanted him.

so you tried. you went to restaurants that felt too loud. bars that smelled like syrup and stale citrus. rooftops and study rooms and late-night walks that led nowhere.

and sometimes—more often than not—you still ended the night at kenma’s apartment.

he never asked why you were wearing perfume. never asked who had smudged the corner of your lipstick. never asked if your sighs meant disappointment or something else entirely.

but he noticed.

he always noticed.

kenma didn’t know when it started—this dull, unfamiliar ache in his chest.

he was used to quiet. preferred it, even. but lately, the silence after you left felt hollow.

and he hated how much he noticed the little things. the extra attention you gave your eyeliner. the way your hair framed your face differently. the soft, glossy color on your lips that wasn't there before you left for your date—but sometimes was slightly off when you came back.

he never asked. never commented.

but every time you opened his fridge in someone else’s hoodie, every time your voice had a softness to it that wasn’t meant for him, something boiled beneath his skin.

and yet, he couldn’t explain it. not really.

you were still his best friend. that hadn’t changed.

but something inside him had.

because part of him—the part that lived in flickers and stolen glances—started hoping.

hoping that maybe, one day, you’d get dressed up like that for him. even though he liked you best in pajamas, curled into his couch with your hair tied up and no makeup on.

it all cracked the night kuroo dropped by.

kenma’s apartment was dim, lit by the soft glow of his monitor and the blue light of a paused menu screen. he sat on his desk chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, thumb idly spinning the joystick even though the game was frozen.

kuroo let himself in, as usual, a convenience store bag hanging from one wrist.

“you look like you haven’t slept in years,” he said casually, tossing a bottle of tea onto kenma’s desk.

kenma didn’t glance up. “i streamed till 3. slept at 4.”

“right. and that has nothing to do with the fact that your best friend came home last night looking like someone kissed the soul out of her.”

the joystick stopped spinning.

kenma’s eyes flicked toward kuroo, narrow, unreadable. “what do you want.”

kuroo sighed and dropped into the beanbag, stretching like a cat before cracking open a soda. “just saying. it’s been a while since she came home looking that lit up. what if it works out this time?”

kenma didn’t answer.

kuroo tilted his head. “you ever think about that? what happens if some guy actually gets it right?”

silence.

“like, what if he’s nice and funny and brings her her favorite stupid matcha latte and doesn’t freak out when she gets clingy during horror movies?”

kenma’s jaw clenched.

kuroo watched him carefully now, his usual grin nowhere to be found.

“what if she starts going to his place instead of yours?”

kenma didn’t move, but his grip on the controller tightened.

kuroo leaned back, one hand resting behind his head. “what if someone finally takes her seriously enough to ask her to be his girlfriend?”

there was a pause.

a beat.

a breath held too long.

and then kenma spoke, low and quiet.

“…she can do what she wants.”

kuroo raised a brow. “so you’re just gonna sit there, pretend it doesn’t bother you, and hope she keeps orbiting you like she always does?”

kenma didn’t respond.

didn’t need to.

because something in his eyes—dark and heavy and sharp with realization—said everything.

kuroo saw it. caught it in the flicker of kenma’s stare, in the stiff way he dropped the controller on his desk like it had betrayed him just by being there.

but kuroo didn’t smile. didn’t tease. not now.

he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “so what are you gonna do?”

kenma didn’t answer.

not right away.

his fingers twitched once, useless without a screen or controller to fidget with. he glanced toward the hallway—the one that led to your apartment, the one he could walk blindfolded and still end up at your door.

“i don’t know,” he muttered.

kuroo tilted his head. “kenma. you’ve known her since you were kids. you’ve built your entire life around her without even realizing it. she’s in your house more than she’s in her own. she has your spare key. she uses your shampoo. you like her.”

kenma’s eyes narrowed. “she’s my best friend.”

“and?” kuroo challenged. “that’s not mutually exclusive.”

kenma’s shoulders tensed.

“you think i don’t see how you look at her?” kuroo continued, voice quieter now. not mocking. not pressing. just real. “you’ve never looked at anyone the way you look at her when she’s half-asleep on your couch or when she’s excited about something stupid like a 2-for-1 pizza deal.”

kenma exhaled slowly, like it hurt.

“she’s been going on dates,” he said after a moment, voice flat. “and she doesn’t talk about them.”

kuroo nodded. “yeah. maybe because she doesn’t want to hurt you.”

kenma looked at him, the corner of his mouth twitching. “or maybe she doesn’t think it matters.”

“it matters,” kuroo said firmly. “especially to you.”

kenma ran a hand through his hair, slow and dragging, like his thoughts were too heavy to hold up anymore. “what if i’m wrong? what if she doesn’t feel the same? what if i ruin everything?”

kuroo let out a soft, tired breath.

“okay. but what if you don’t say anything… and someone else does? what if the next guy she goes out with isn’t casual? what if she stops showing up here because she’s finally found someone who actually says what you won’t?”

kenma didn’t respond. just sat there, jaw clenched, staring at the monitor like it might have answers buried in the pixels.

the idea of you not coming back—of your key never turning in the lock again, of your voice not filling the quiet spaces between his routines—sank into his chest like a stone.

“look, i’m not telling you to run to her door with flowers or confess on stream or whatever,” kuroo said. “but if you’re gonna keep looking at her like that… eventually, someone will notice. and it might not be her.”

kenma said nothing.

but the silence wasn’t the same as before.

it was full of something unspoken. something rising.

something that finally had a name, even if he couldn’t say it out loud yet.

and this time, kuroo didn’t press.

he just stood, stretched, and clapped kenma once on the shoulder before heading for the door.

“think about it,” he said. “before it’s too late.”

then he left.

and kenma stayed still, staring at the hallway.

like maybe you were already halfway out of reach.

kenma couldn’t focus the next day.

he tried streaming. made it thirty minutes before logging off mid-match with a vague excuse about frame drops. he hadn’t eaten anything except instant miso and a handful of chips. the room felt stuffy. too quiet. too clean.

he didn’t know where you were. hadn’t messaged you since the night before. hadn’t asked.

because if you were out again—with him again—he didn’t want to know.

still, something made him reach for his hoodie and step outside. maybe it was instinct. maybe it was avoidance. maybe it was the thin hope that he could walk it off, or dull the noise in his head with the fluorescent hum of a convenience store.

he shoved his hands into his pocket, phone buzzing silently against his palm, and kept his eyes low as he turned the corner toward your apartment complex.

and then he saw you.

right there, in front of your door. key in hand, leather jacket hanging off one shoulder, mouth slightly parted like you’d just said goodbye to someone. maybe you had. maybe you were already watching them walk away.

your lipstick was smeared just enough to notice if you were looking.

kenma looked.

he froze in place for a second too long, eyes flicking from the corner of your mouth to the curve of your cheek where your makeup was just a little too faded, a little too touched. something in his stomach twisted.

you looked up and smiled like nothing was wrong.

like you didn’t look like someone had just had their mouth on you.

“hey,” you said, breathless, like you’d been moving quickly. or maybe you were nervous. he couldn’t tell. “you heading out?”

kenma nodded slowly. “convenience store.”

“can i crash at yours?” you asked, already crossing the short distance between you.

he wanted to say no.

he wanted to say, not tonight, not like this, not when you smell like someone else’s cologne.

but you were already in front of him, already kicking off your shoes at his door like you’d done a hundred times before. like nothing had changed.

he followed you in.

your leather jacket was draped over one arm, and underneath you wore a tight black tube top—nothing else covering your shoulders. nothing to hide the faint, purple mark just below your collarbone.

kenma saw it.

he wasn’t supposed to. you hadn’t meant to reveal it, probably. but his eyes caught on it and didn’t move.

a hickey.

small. shallow. recent.

the same twisting sensation returned—hotter now, sharper. it crawled beneath his ribs and sat there, simmering.

you flopped onto his couch like always, arms stretched behind your head, exposing more skin than usual. more skin that wasn’t his to look at, but he couldn’t stop. couldn’t not see it.

“you okay?” you asked, glancing up at him through tired lashes.

kenma blinked. nodded. “yeah.”

he walked past you without meeting your eyes, heart hammering somewhere near his throat.

he didn’t know what made it worse—the fact that someone had touched you like that, or the fact that you came to him afterward like it meant nothing.

like he was just the soft place you landed when the excitement wore off.

and maybe that’s all he was. maybe that’s all he’d ever been.

he went to the kitchen. didn’t know why. didn’t need anything.

he just couldn’t look at you anymore without giving something away.

you noticed it the second you stepped inside.

something felt different. not visibly. the room looked the same—same dim lights, same faint smell of shampoo and fabric softener, same low hum of his console in standby. but kenma’s silence was sharper than usual, pointed in the way he moved, careful in the way he didn’t look at you.

he always looked. even if it was just a glance. even if it was just to make sure you were really there.

but tonight, he wouldn’t meet your eyes.

he barely said anything.

he padded toward the kitchen without a word, hoodie sleeves tugged over his palms like they could hide whatever it was he didn’t want to feel.

you frowned, sitting up straighter on the couch, your fingers subconsciously reaching for the edge of your jacket before remembering you’d already tossed it by the door.

you didn’t think he saw the hickey.

you hadn’t even thought about it. it wasn’t that deep. it hadn’t meant anything.

but suddenly you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

the tension in the room crackled around you, invisible but heavy, and your voice came out softer than intended.

“kenma?”

no answer. the fridge door opened and shut.

you shifted, hugging your knees to your chest. “are you mad at me?”

he still didn’t answer right away.

then—

“why would i be mad?” flat. emotionless. the way he sounded when something did bother him, and he didn’t want to talk about it.

you blinked. “i don’t know. you’re just… being weird.”

kenma came back into the living room, not with snacks or a drink, just… empty-handed. like he’d gone in there to breathe more than anything else.

he stood across from you, arms folded loosely, and for a second you thought he might brush it off. say he was just tired. tell you you were imagining it.

but then his eyes met yours, and everything dropped.

“do you always come here after they’re done with you?”

the words weren’t cruel. his tone didn’t spike or snap. he didn’t shout. didn’t raise his voice.

but it cut all the same.

you stared, breath caught in your throat.

“what…?”

kenma looked away, jaw tense. “you go out with them. come back here like nothing happened. still wear their cologne. have marks on your skin. and then you sit on my couch like you’re—like this is still normal.”

you didn’t know what to say.

because you didn’t mean for it to be like that. it wasn’t intentional. this wasn’t some elaborate game to string him along or keep him close. he was your safe place. your best friend. and maybe that made you selfish. maybe you’d taken advantage of the fact that he was always there—always steady, always soft.

“kenma,” you said quietly, “i didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

his throat bobbed. “you didn’t have to mean it.”

and that was what made it worse.

because it hurt anyway.

because somewhere along the line, he’d let you make a home in him.

and he didn’t know how to tell you it felt like you were burning it down every time you came back smelling like someone else.

you stood up slowly, unsure whether to reach for him or give him space.

“why didn’t you say anything?” you asked. “if it bothered you?”

kenma exhaled sharply, eyes still averted. “because you’re not mine.”

you froze.

the words hung in the space between you like smoke—thin, bitter, impossible to un-hear.

for a moment, all you could do was stand there. looking at him. really looking at him.

he wouldn’t meet your eyes now. his posture wasn’t angry. not defensive. just... drained. like he'd finally said something that had been sitting on his chest for far too long, and now he didn’t know how to take it back—or if he even wanted to.

and you realized—

this whole time, you’d been waiting for a sign.

a reason.

some shift in his voice or eyes that would make you feel less insane for loving him the way you did. you’d been so scared to lose the comfort, the familiarity, the normal—that you never considered he might’ve been holding back for the same reasons.

and now, here you were.

lipstick fading. breath shaky. a hickey from a boy whose name you didn’t even want to remember. and kenma standing in front of you, eyes low and voice tired, finally showing you the part of his heart he kept locked behind every silence he’d ever given you.

you swallowed.

“do you want me to be?”

his head lifted, just slightly. brows furrowed.

“what?”

you took a step forward.

voice softer now. smaller.

“yours,” you said. “do you want me to be?”

his mouth parted. no sound came out.

you didn’t wait.

didn’t let your heart overthink it.

you stepped close enough that he could smell your perfume—the one he said smelled like green tea and summer mornings—and gently, carefully, placed your hand over his.

“i didn’t know how to say it,” you whispered. “i’ve liked you for a long time. i didn’t think you felt the same, and i thought… maybe it would be easier if i stopped hoping. so i tried.”

his hand curled under yours. not tight. not desperate. just there—like it always was.

“i hated it,” he said quietly. “every time you left and came back like nothing happened. i didn’t want to be the person you landed on when no one else worked out. i wanted to be the one you picked first.”

your heart cracked in half and reformed all at once and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel unsure.

you stepped in.

closed the distance.

wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in—comfort, safety, and something warm that made your chest feel full to the brim.

“i’m here now,” you murmured. “and i’m not going anywhere.”

kenma let out a breath like he’d been holding it for months.

his arms came around you slowly. gently. like he was afraid you’d disappear if he moved too fast.

“good,” he said, barely above a whisper. “because you were never supposed to be someone else’s.”

kenma’s arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until you could feel the gentle thrum of his pulse against your chest.

you’d never realized how still he could be—how his presence could make everything else fall away, leaving nothing but the softness of his touch, the depth of his breath, the heat between you two.

it felt like time slowed as his hand brushed against the back of your neck, pulling your face up just slightly until his eyes met yours—eyes that held something unspoken. something you could almost taste in the air, sharp and heavy.

you didn’t move. didn’t know what to do except hold your breath and wait.

but then, without warning, kenma leaned in.

the kiss came soft at first. tentative. testing. lips barely brushing, like he wasn’t sure you were really here, really with him, or if this was some kind of dream he could wake up from. but then—something shifted.

the kiss deepened.

his lips found yours with more pressure, more need, as though he’d been waiting for this moment as long as you had. his hand gripped the back of your head, pulling you closer, tilting your face upward so he could kiss you like he wanted to memorize it—like he wanted you to be his. completely. unconditionally.

you could taste the faint edge of his possessiveness in the way he kissed you, in the way he held you so tightly like he was afraid someone would come and take you away if he let go. his lips moved against yours with a ferocity that was unspoken, a heat you hadn’t felt from him before, and it set something alight inside you.

his fingers tangled in your hair, tugging you closer still. his other hand slid down your back, pulling you into him, pressing the length of your body against his.

a quiet groan slipped from his throat when you kissed him back—soft at first, but eager. and it made something tighten low in your stomach, the need for him suddenly overwhelming, like you couldn’t get close enough.

when he finally pulled back—just enough to breathe—you were both still pressed together, chest to chest. his forehead rested against yours, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

“you’re mine,” he whispered, voice rough. low. possessive in a way that made your heart race. “always. don’t you forget it.”

you swallowed, your breath still coming in uneven gasps, and nodded slowly.

“i won’t,” you whispered back, a little breathless. “i won’t ever forget.”

and for the first time, you felt it in the way he kissed you again—this time deeper, slower, as if sealing the promise he’d made. the promise that neither of you would ever have to pretend again.

kenma's hands didn't stop moving. they slid down your spine, tracing the dip of your waist, then settled firmly at your hips, grounding you against him. his lips moved against yours with growing urgency, like now that he had you, he couldn’t risk letting go. not even for a second.

you barely noticed the way you were moving until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the couch, and he gently guided you down. you fell back into the cushions with a breathless laugh, your head tilted to watch him, lips kiss-swollen and eyes hazy.

he climbed over you slowly, deliberately—like he was giving you the chance to pull away, even if his body said he hoped you wouldn’t.

you didn’t.

you reached for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him down until his mouth met yours again—hotter this time, wetter, your bodies pressing flush. his weight on top of you felt like gravity. like something you'd needed for years without knowing.

when his tongue slipped between your lips, you let him in without hesitation.

you moaned into his mouth, fingers moving up to tangle in his hair. he groaned softly at the sound, grinding down against your hips in response—just once, enough to make your breath catch.

“kenma—” you gasped, breaking the kiss, eyes searching his. “are you sure?”

he nodded immediately, eyes blown wide, his voice low and rasped. “i’ve never been more sure of anything.”

his hand slid up your side, fingertips brushing the exposed skin of your ribs just above the edge of your tube top. his thumb ghosted over the faint mark on your chest—the hickey from someone else—and for a second, you thought he might stop.

but instead, he leaned down and kissed the skin beside it.

then lower.

and lower.

until his mouth pressed gently against your collarbone, teeth grazing the spot just enough to make you shiver.

his fingers slipped under your top, slowly pushing it up, watching you for any hesitation.

there was none.

he pulled it off over your head in one smooth motion and sat back for a second—just to look.

his breath caught.

you’d never seen him look like this before—like his entire world had narrowed to just you. every inch of his attention was locked on your skin, your expression, your body laid out beneath him like you were the most precious thing he’d ever been given.

“fuck,” he whispered, eyes darkening. “you’re perfect.”

heat pooled in your stomach. your thighs squeezed together on instinct.

“kenma—”

he leaned down again, capturing your lips in a kiss that left no room for doubt. this time, it was possessive. claiming. the kind of kiss that said you’re mine now and you’ve always been.

his hand moved down your stomach, over the waistband of your jeans, and paused.

you nodded once.

that was all it took.

he popped the button and dragged them down, fingers catching your underwear along the way. your breath hitched as cool air met your skin, and kenma settled between your thighs, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

he was quiet for a moment. reverent.

then—

“let me taste you.”

your body jolted at the request—at how low and deliberate his voice was. it wasn’t a question. it was a need.

you nodded again. couldn’t form words even if you tried.

kenma ducked his head, and the first lick was slow, deliberate, the flat of his tongue dragging through your folds with aching precision.

you moaned—sharp and sudden—one hand flying to grip the back of the couch. his hands anchored your thighs, thumbs rubbing soft circles into your skin while his mouth worked between your legs, tongue flicking against your clit until your whole body trembled.

“so sweet,” he murmured, breath hot against you. “better than i imagined.”

“kenma—” your voice cracked, hips rolling toward him, chasing the pressure. “please.”

he sucked your clit into his mouth, fingers joining in just as he moaned against you—and that was it.

your orgasm hit fast, sharp, stealing the breath from your lungs as your thighs clamped around his head and your hands buried in his hair.

he didn’t stop until you were shaking.

until your moans turned into whimpers, and even then, he pulled away slowly—kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks, his expression soft but hungry.

he leaned over you, wiped your tears with his thumb, and kissed your forehead.

“i’m not done,” he whispered. “i need to be inside you.”

his bedroom was quiet. still.

the only sound was your breathing and the soft padding of your bare feet against the floor as he led you inside, his fingers laced gently with yours. he didn’t say anything—just tugged you closer, pressing a kiss to the side of your head as he backed you toward the bed.

you sat on the edge, eyes fluttering closed when his hands ran over your arms, down your sides, settling at your hips. your jeans and top were already gone, and his hoodie was long forgotten somewhere in the living room.

he bent down, kissing your shoulder, your collarbone, your sternum, until you felt boneless beneath him again.

but still—something bubbled in your throat. a truth you hadn’t said aloud yet.

“kenma,” you murmured, fingers lightly curling around his wrist to pause him.

he looked up, immediately still. “did i hurt you?”

you shook your head quickly. “no. no, it’s not that.”

his gaze softened as he waited.

you hesitated. not because you were scared, but because it felt… fragile. this truth. like once you said it, it couldn’t be undone.

“i’ve never… gone this far before,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “it’s my first time.”

his eyes widened a little—but it wasn’t shock. or pressure. it was something gentler, something relieved. something like he was grateful.

you saw it in the way his shoulders dropped, the way he kissed you after—so soft, it felt like he was thanking you without saying the words.

“good,” he whispered against your lips. “i’m glad.”

your chest fluttered.

he kissed you again, longer this time, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth, his hand moving to cup your cheek like he needed to remind himself this was real. you were real. this was real.

when he laid you back, he took his time.

his clothes joined yours in quiet pieces—the hem of his shirt tugged over his head, sweatpants dropped to the floor, the sharp lines of his body slotting perfectly between your thighs. his skin was warm against yours, his breathing shallow but steady.

“you’re sure?” he asked again, voice husky as he hovered over you.

you nodded. “i want this. i want you.”

kenma let out a breath that trembled.

he reached between your bodies, guiding himself with slow, careful fingers, brushing the head of his cock between your folds—soft, wet, and aching for more.

his lips never left yours when he pushed in.

inch by inch, slowly, carefully, his cock stretched you open, filling you in a way that made your back arch, breath catching in your throat. he groaned low against your mouth, his grip on your hips tightening just slightly.

“fuck,” he breathed. “you feel—so warm. so tight.”

you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders, every nerve lighting up. it didn’t hurt—not really. but it was overwhelming. full. new.

he stilled once he was all the way in, resting his forehead against yours.

“you okay?” he asked, voice soft, strained.

“yeah,” you nodded, voice breathy. “just—give me a second.”

his thumb brushed your cheek.

you’d never seen him look like this—so undone, so focused, so possessive even as he moved with so much care. this wasn’t a hookup. it wasn’t casual. it wasn’t something to forget in the morning.

this was kenma. your best friend. the boy you’d loved for years.

when your body finally relaxed, you whispered, “move.”

and he did.

slow, deep thrusts. his hips rolled into you with a rhythm that made heat pool in your belly and your eyes flutter shut. he kissed you through every moan, every whimper, every breathless plea.

his hands never left your body.

and his voice never stopped.

“you’re mine.”

“wanted this for so long.”

“gonna make you feel so good.”

your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. your moans turned to gasps, body arching with each stroke as his pace quickened, building that heat, that pressure, that perfect friction right where you needed it most.

when you came, it was with a choked cry into his neck, your body trembling beneath him, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

he followed soon after—grunting against your throat, burying himself as deep as he could go before shuddering through his own release, filling you with warmth as he whispered your name like a secret.

he stayed there for a moment.

his body pressed close to yours, skin flushed, breath warm against your neck. you could still feel the slow thrum of his heartbeat against your chest—irregular, fast, like he couldn’t quite come down. like he didn’t want to.

you were the first to move, brushing his hair out of his eyes with trembling fingers. he lifted his head slightly, eyes meeting yours—dazed, hooded, a little wrecked. and still, still, there was something simmering beneath the softness. something deeper.

something possessive.

his gaze flicked down to your collarbone.

to it.

the mark.

that fading, unwanted bruise left behind by someone who didn’t matter—someone who never stood a chance.

kenma’s eyes darkened again.

his thumb brushed over the skin just beside it. not harsh. not angry. but there was something territorial in the way his touch lingered.

“i hate that it’s there,” he said quietly.

you blinked. “what?”

his voice stayed low, rough. “that he got to leave something on you first.”

your breath caught.

“it didn’t mean anything,” you said, gently.

his eyes met yours—sharp and heavy. “i know. but i mean something.”

then he leaned down and pressed his lips to the other side of your collarbone.

kissed it.

sucked at the skin just enough to make you gasp.

then a little harder.

“ken—”

he pulled back only to admire the small, blooming mark he’d left. then another. and another, this time on the swell of your breast as his hand palmed the soft flesh, thumb brushing your nipple until it hardened under his touch.

you were already aching again.

wet.

your legs shifted beneath him, thighs tightening around his hips instinctively.

he noticed.

“sit up,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “ride me.”

your body jolted at the request.

you moved to obey, sitting back on your heels first, watching as he leaned against the pillows with one arm behind his head, cock already semi-hard again—slick with your last release, thick and flushed and hungry.

you swung one leg over him, settling into his lap, hands braced on his chest. his hands immediately slid up your thighs, then your waist, then higher—fingers cupping your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples.

“fuck,” he whispered, eyes glued to your chest as you hovered just above his cock. “you’re so pretty like this.”

you lowered yourself slowly, both of you gasping as the head of his cock slid past your entrance.

your hands pressed to his chest for balance, and with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips, you sank all the way down.

“fuck—” he groaned, hands gripping your waist hard enough to leave shadows. “just like that. take it.”

you moved slowly at first—rocking your hips, savoring the stretch, the angle, the way he filled you deeper like this.

kenma's hands roamed freely now. squeezing your thighs. sliding up your back. but he always returned to your chest, like he couldn’t get enough. he cupped your breasts with both hands, thumbs flicking your nipples, watching them bounce as you moved.

his mouth latched onto one, sucking softly, then harder, teeth grazing before he kissed the skin again, leaving another faint mark just below the curve.

you whimpered. your rhythm faltered.

he caught your waist, steadied you, whispered, “keep going, baby. you’re doing so good.”

you picked up the pace—bouncing now, thighs burning, eyes glassy as pleasure built low and tight again. his cock rubbed perfectly against that spot inside you every time you came down, and the sounds—skin against skin, his groans, your moans, your name rasped under his breath like a prayer—wrapped around you like heat.

“you’re mine,” he whispered again, leaning up to kiss your neck, your chest, your mouth. “no one else gets to have you like this. no one gets to see you fall apart like this.”

“i’m yours,” you gasped, losing pace, your body shivering from how full you felt. “i’ve always been.”

that broke something in him.

he fucked up into you hard—once, twice, deep and fast—and you cried out, nails dragging down his chest as your orgasm ripped through you with sudden, overwhelming force.

he followed almost immediately after.

his grip on your hips tightened, head falling back, jaw slack as he filled you again, pulsing deep inside while your body trembled around him.

you collapsed onto his chest, still panting, both of you soaked in sweat, skin flushed, lips swollen.

his hands stroked your back gently. possessiveness melted back into quiet awe.

“i should’ve told you sooner,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“i would’ve said yes,” you whispered.

“say it now, then.”

the room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and your breathing, still slowing from the high you both rode just minutes ago.

you lay on kenma’s chest, cheek pressed to the warm skin just below his collarbone, listening to his heartbeat. steady. real.

his fingers brushed lazy circles into your lower back, and every so often, you’d feel him glance down at you—like he was checking. like he still didn’t quite believe it either.

you tilted your head up slightly, met his sleepy, half-lidded gaze.

“you okay?” you murmured.

he nodded slowly. “feels like a dream.”

you smiled. “feels like a good one.”

his arms curled around you tighter, burying his nose into your hair.

“hope i don’t wake up.”

morning came soft and golden, sunlight filtering in through the edges of his curtains.

you stirred first, body sore but satisfied, your skin warm under the blankets. there was a dull ache between your thighs—the kind that made your stomach flutter. you blinked blearily at the clock, then turned over in the sheets and reached for your phone.

except you weren’t wearing anything.

you looked around, found kenma’s hoodie crumpled at the foot of the bed, and pulled it on. it was far too big, swallowing you whole, the hem just barely covering your ass. it smelled like him—shampoo, cotton, and something deeper that made your stomach twist all over again.

you padded out into the hallway quietly, yawning into your sleeve, and heard the soft clicks of a keyboard coming from his stream room.

he was already setting up, headset pushed back, screen aglow.

“morning,” he said without looking up.

“barely,” you teased, stepping in and leaning against the doorframe.

kenma’s eyes flicked up—immediately zeroing in on you. or more specifically, the way his hoodie hung off one shoulder, your legs bare, and the way the soft fabric clung to your chest.

his gaze darkened just slightly.

“you’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”

you smirked, pushing off the wall and walking toward him.

“what do you think?”

he reached out and grabbed your hand, tugging you into his lap like it was second nature.

you straddled him, thighs pressed to the sides of his chair, your hands on his shoulders for balance. he tilted his head up to kiss you, slow and sweet at first—but quickly deepened it when his hands slipped under the hoodie and cupped your breasts.

“still sore?” he murmured between kisses, his thumbs rubbing slow circles over your nipples.

you moaned softly. “a little.”

he grinned, proud, kissing down your jaw. “good. i hope i left enough marks.”

“you did,” you breathed. “everywhere.”

his hips shifted beneath you, grinding up ever so slightly—enough for you to feel he was already half-hard.

you kissed him again, tongue sliding against his, slow and messy and a little too deep for early morning.

“i should make you breakfast,” you mumbled against his lips.

“you should stay right here.”

you laughed softly, brushing his hair back. “you have a stream.”

he groaned and let you go, reluctantly. “fine. food first.”

you made scrambled eggs, rice, and toasted seaweed—simple, warm, comforting. kenma sat at the table in his hoodie and sweats, hair still a little messy from sleep, eyes glued to your every movement as you moved around his kitchen like you belonged there.

he was quiet. but not the awkward kind.

just… content.

every time you turned around to pour water, grab utensils, or slide food onto his plate, his eyes followed you. and every so often, you caught him staring at your bare thighs peeking out from beneath his hoodie.

“you’re really enjoying the view, huh?” you teased, sliding his plate in front of him.

“i earned it,” he said, deadpan.

“fair enough.”

you both ate like it was any other morning, except every time your knees brushed under the table, every time his hand grazed yours, your skin buzzed.

and as he finished the last bite of egg, he leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking to the hallway behind you.

“i could still be a little late,” he said casually.

you raised a brow. “kenma.”

“just one more round.”

“where?”

he stood, slow and deliberate, chair sliding back.

“right there,” he said, nodding toward the stream room.

the door clicked shut behind you.

you stood at the entrance of his gaming room—half-breathless, half-excited, heart hammering.

his pc lights glowed in soft blues and purples. the two monitors displayed his open stream software. his chair still warm from earlier.

kenma came up behind you and pressed a slow kiss to the back of your neck, his hands sliding up your thighs, beneath the hoodie.

“bend over the desk,” he whispered, voice thick.

your breath hitched.

you stepped forward, placing your hands on the edge of the desk, pushing the clutter aside—his headphones, a controller, a few snack wrappers—until there was just space for you to lean.

kenma lifted the hoodie up just enough to expose your ass.

“fuck,” he muttered, palming it, watching the way you arched into his touch. “you really weren’t wearing anything.”

you looked over your shoulder, smirking. “surprised?”

he didn’t answer—just dropped to his knees behind you, spreading your legs.

you gasped as his tongue licked a slow stripe up your folds, teasing and slow. he groaned at the taste, burying his face between your thighs with no hesitation.

you moaned loudly, one hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other covering your mouth.

“quiet,” kenma said against your pussy. “don’t want the mic to pick it up.”

you whimpered, hips rocking back.

he ate you out until your knees were shaking, until you were dripping and gasping and begging.

and only then—only then—did he stand, undo his sweats, and slide inside you in one smooth thrust.

you cried out, your forehead pressing to the cool surface of his desk.

“fuck, kenma—”

his grip on your hips was tight, grounding, his pace deep and measured.

“look at you,” he said, voice low and reverent. “bent over my desk. letting me fuck you where i stream. where everyone watches me.”

you moaned, louder than you meant to.

“you like that?” he asked, slamming in deeper. “like knowing this is where i win games—where they all watch me—and now i’ve got you right here, taking my cock like you were made for it?”

“yes,” you gasped, shaking.

“i should turn the stream on,” he murmured, grinning against your shoulder. “show them what’s really mine.”

you clenched around him so tightly he groaned.

“but i won’t,” he whispered, kissing your spine. “because this—this is just for me.”

his hand snuck around to rub your clit, fast and skilled and maddening.

you came hard—loud, shaking, walls clenching around him.

he followed with a low growl, burying himself as deep as he could go, warmth spilling inside you.

after a moment, you both collapsed onto the desk, breathless and sweat-slicked.

his hand tangled with yours.

“stream’s late,” you muttered, cheek against the wood.

“worth it.”

you both stayed like that for a while—slumped over his desk, bodies sticky and flushed, his hand lazily stroking your side as your heartbeats slowed in sync.

the glow of his monitors lit the room in gentle color. outside, the day stretched on quietly, as if the world had given you a moment to just be.

after a while, he kissed the nape of your neck.

“i should stream.”

you made a sound that was somewhere between a whine and a laugh, still folded over the desk. “you’re the one who made us late.”

“and i regret nothing.”

twenty minutes later, he was in his gaming chair again—sweatpants barely tugged up, mic live, camera off.

you were straddling him quietly under his hoodie, your legs draped over the armrests, your face tucked into his neck.

his cock was still buried inside you, warm and thick and pulsing. he hadn’t moved. hadn’t let you go.

cockwarming.

you’d barely heard of it before this. but now—now it felt like the most natural thing in the world. like being as close to him as possible was the only way to keep the morning from slipping into a dream.

he played with one hand, the other wrapped securely around your waist.

the chat was already rolling.

“yo kozuken’s late lmaoo” “no cam again?? 😭” “he’s suspiciously calm today.” “wait… did he finally get laid???”

you bit his shoulder through the hoodie to keep from laughing.

kenma’s lips twitched. he didn’t respond to the chat. didn’t deny it either.

his fingers tapped calmly against his keyboard, the only betrayal of his pleasure being the slight hitch in his breath every time you clenched around him just to tease.

you felt him smirk.

his hand slid under the hoodie again, fingertips brushing the marks he’d left all over your skin.

he pressed a kiss just below your ear.

“you okay?” he whispered.

you nodded.

his voice dipped even lower—barely a breath.

“mine.”

and you smiled.

because you were.

you knew him before the world did—before the screen names, before the uniforms, before the stage lights and streaming queues and fan chats trying to guess what kind of girl could love someone like him.

you were there when he was just a quiet boy hiding behind his mother’s legs.

and now—after all this time—he was finally yours.

and you were his.

completely.

[writingdevil]

I read that requests are back open, apologies if I'm wrong you can just ignore this

So I've seen various people headcanon post-canon Skeptic having a fear of large bodies of water, and I wanted to ask if I could get a hurt/comfort fic with this concept? I don't really care if platonic or romantic or who comforts him, thank you in advance

(Yeah, I've seen that hc before!! I know Everest wrote a fic about it as well, so you can read that as well if you want! I decided to have this be grey brothers, because I need more of them, so enjoy!)

(Warning-Drowning!)

Skeptic liked to know things. Information was power, in his mind.

Whether it was within the construct or out of it, Skeptic yearned to understand and learn the truth, because that was the only way Skeptic knew how to live, how to show that he cared about his flock and the environment around them.

Over the months, he's learned a lot about his flockmates, information that he's considered crucial and valuable.

He knows that Paranoid can't stand being stared at.

He knows that both Hero and Opportunist were people pleasers.

He knows that a lot of them secretly cry themselves to sleep, because they miss the Long Quiet.

Some truths were easier to swallow, as they made living with each other go more smoothly. But some truths were harder to live with- truths about himself.

Skeptic knew he wasn't invincible, but he was one to keep pushing forward and to try and not let silly things stop him in his investigations.

He wouldn't let the fact that he trembled in the pitch darkness stop him from looking for what he needed.

He wouldn't tell people that he wasn't comfortable with people going near his head or neck area. Where was the logic in disclosing that information to others?

Some truths- hurt, and for once, Skeptic was fine to not dig deeper, if it came to himself.

He didn't like knowing the things that made him weak.

But sometimes, the truth was too big to ignore. The logic always found a way to make him crumble, even when it should do nothing but support him.

It happened when he went on a stroll with Smitten. The two of them were particularly close, and Smitten brought a colourful balance to Skeptic's harsh, analytical side of thinking.

Smitten had dragged him out of the house for a break, refusing to take no for an answer, and Skeptic's always been weak to his brother.

"Isn't it such a lovely day, brother?" Smitten asked with a dreamy sigh, gazing out at the flora around them with a smile.

Skeptic shrugged, looking around him with a vague disinterest. "It's alright, I guess."

Smitten stopped, letting Skeptic catch up to him, smiling in amusement at the frustrated look Smitten sent him.

"Brother," Smitten said with a sigh, "can you at least try to appreciate this break and let your brain take a rest?"

"I am!"

"You are not." Skeptic chuckled at how serious Smitten was taking this. He was pouting in a way that reminded Skeptic of a fledging, walking slower, thus forcing Skeptic to slow down and extend the walk.

"You need to give yourself time to not have to think so hard. Not everything is a mystery to be solved."

Skeptic barked a laugh out at the notion. "Maybe to you, it is."

But even as he said that, Skeptic couldn't help but admit that, the longer he was out here, he did feel a bit lighter.

His head was clearing up more and more with the fresh air he was breathing in, and he could admittedly feel a certain- peace within himself as he took in the nature around them.

Maybe this walk wasn't half bad.

Well, that's what Skeptic thought, until he saw the river.

They walked upon a river, and every muscle within Skeptic tensed up at the sight of it. He almost stumbled in his steps, his eyes refusing to tear themselves away from the shiny surface of water to the right of them.

Skeptic's throat burned with tension, as if he could already feel water filling his lungs.

What was happening? This has never happened to him before. Why was his body shaking and his mind racing in fear?

That was when another truth about Skeptic was revealed in that moment- Skeptic was terrified of water.

He's never had a problem with water up until now, which was why he was so shocked at the reaction he was currently having.

The only thing that managed to shake him out of his stupor, was Smitten, clapping him on the back, strolling ahead with merely a, "Oh, what a pretty river," to comment.

That- That was enough to make Skeptic blink back to reality, taking a few deep breath, before cautiously resuming his walk.

Everything was alright. Everything was completely fine. Skeptic was still safe and dry and more importantly, on land. So long as it stays that way, Skeptic will be alright.

He made sure to keep a wary eye on the river as he caught up to Smitten, and he said, "You know, I wasn't sold on it at first, but this is actually- quite nice."

Smitten gasped in delight, twisting to face him fully, joy bursting from his eyes, and that was exactly the reaction Skeptic needed to take his mind off his awful new truth about himself.

Skeptic smiled fondly at how happy Smitten looked. To be honest, getting to make Smitten happy was just as important to Skeptic as Smitten's shared goal with him.

"Do you mean that?" Smitten asked, his wings flapping excitedly behind him, and Skeptic chuckled at his giddiness, and nodded. "I wasn't thrilled at the fact that I wasn't working at first. But I have to admit, getting to step away and not think for a moment is- nice."

Embarrassment flared across Skeptic's cheeks at how shoddy his gratitude was coming across. If only he was as eloquent as his brother when he came to the heart.

But as he felt hands take his, he realised that Smitten didn't mind at all, smiling at him with so much fondness that Skeptic wasn't entirely sure he deserved.

"I'm glad I get to be able to do this for you, brother. I'm glad we can share this together."

Skeptic chuckled. "You make it sound like it's a big deal."

"It is!" Smitten insisted, tugging on his hands. "It's a very important moment! The moment I can say that I successfully got you to stop working!"

Skeptic burst out laughing, and didn't resist when Smitten tugged him along, and soon enough, Skeptic found himself being spun around by Smitten, and his laughter grew louder as the spinning got faster.

For a moment, there was nothing to care about other than his brother in the world right now. No questions. No hard hitting truths. Just him and Smitten.

Then, there was a single second- Skeptic's not sure when- where Smitten's grip on his hands slipped, and maybe Skeptic's foot caught on something, who knows.

All he does know is that- one second, he's spinning around, and the next- he's falling backwards-

-and water crashes into him.

The last thing Skeptic hears is Smitten giving him a muffled apology, before his mind goes blank with terror.

Ice cold fear grips him, and he immediately starts thrashing and flailing, but his body was so heavy with all his wings and feathers, and he just kept falling deeper and deeper, until the sun was starting to lose its shine this far down.

Skeptic twisted and desperately tried to reach out and grab something, but all there was was water, water, water- and it was only dragging him deeper into its cold abyss- like shackles chaining him down.

His throat burned while his limbs became ice. His mind drowned in petrifying terror. All he could remember was her and the cabin and all the things that he couldn't fix-

Skeptic realised another truth in that moment- he was going to die right now.

As the sorrowful truth hit him, Skeptic reached a hand out towards the long forgotten surface, his lungs reaching their limit now, and he just let out a garbled mess of what would've been Smitten's name, before he found his eyelids growing heavier as water filled his lungs and energy was sucked out of him from the watery prison he was in.

Everything was starting to go dark, and Skeptic's mind was beginning to shut down...

...but then a hand grabbed his wrist.

The sudden motion of it made Skeptic's eyes flip open in shock, only to find Smitten, diving down and grabbing onto Skeptic, pulling him up with a determined glint in his eyes.

Skeptic yearned to help, but he found that he couldn't move his limbs anymore, and the fear still had a suffocating grip on him, but it didn't seem to matter to Smitten one bit.

He just kept swimming up and up and up, never faltering for even a second, and Skeptic's eyes started to flutter shut again, this time content to be with Smitten in his final moments.

Then his face tasted air.

All he could hear was Smitten's laboured breathing, and Skeptic still felt as if the water was dragging him down to his death, until he felt something soft on his back, and hands on his chest.

There was a muffled noise above him, and he knew that it was Smitten talking to him, but Skeptic's mind wasn't there in that moment- not until he felt a harsh pressure on his chest.

Suddenly, his eyes flew open, as water poured out of his mouth and onto the grass below him, and how could something so cold make his throat and chest burn so much?

He coughed violently, arms reaching out to clutch at Smitten's arms, as he twisted around, retching and coughing up all the water in his system.

Skeptic wasn't sure how long he spent there, hurling up water until it felt like his lungs were capable of air again.

He took his first painful gulp of air in, his throat raspy and stinging every time Skeptic breathed. His entire body shook, feathers puffing up to try and regain some amount of body heat.

Exhaustion clung to every part of Skeptic, but as he lifted his head and met his brother's worried gaze, all Skeptic was reminded of was the fact that he almost died.

The horror and reality of it all was enough to make Skeptic burst into tears and throw himself into Smitten's arms, who instantly caught him and held him tightly.

Skeptic sobbed into Smitten's shoulders, clutching at the feathers on Smitten's back, as Smitten hugged him protectively, shushing him softly while rubbing a warm and soothing hand down Skeptic's back.

"It's okay," Smitten whispered, running his fingers through Skeptic's damp wings. "It's okay, you're safe now, brother." Skeptic just cried harder, and Smitten let a pained sound out as he pressed Skeptic even closer to him.

"You're safe, you're safe. I won't let anything happen to you ever again, I promise."

Smitten started to press kisses to the top of Skeptic's head, and it finally was enough to make his body relax and slump against the other, who continued to hold Skeptic, rocking him back and forth as he whispered reassurances in his ear.

As Smitten's presence calmed him down and chased his fears away, Skeptic finally felt his mind relax and calm down, and his eyelids grew heavy with fatigue, and all he could focus on was the way Smitten whispered, "I love you," into his ear.

That day, Skeptic realised quite a few things about himself.

The truth was, he had a fear of water, that made his mind go blank the second the fear hit him.

But he realised another fact that day.

His brother would always be there to protect and save him.

The logic of his brother's love for him was enough for him to fall asleep, safe in Smitten's arms.

[rosekeu]

FROM THE SEAFOAM [denji x reader]

Chapter Three: The Birth of Venus on Earth [ Masterlist! ]

sypnosis: you died. then got reborn, now faced with two difficult choices- you must choose your fate. meanwhile, denji is comtemplating his love interests'.

P A S T

My brother always tells me there are glowing sea creatures in the deepest part of the ocean. 

Ones where if you look at them for too long you'll be hypnotised. 

I never believed him. 

Although sometimes when the boat rocks gently against the deep blue waves, shining against the moonlight,  I stare directly at the seemingly bottomless pit.

And I almost do. 

The thought of something so scary lingering in the deepest parts of what I call home is enough to keep me up at night. It makes me clutch my doll harder.

But today the sun is shining brightly above me and those thoughts disappear.

I hear a pleasant hum spilling from my mothers lips— a song she only gets to sing at sea.

If I were to compare my mother to something it would be a pretty siren. Not the kind my father reads to me at night, the seducing creatures that drown passing sailors. I mean the kind that even the ocean would silence itself to hear her hums.

Her voice lulls me to sleep every night, even when there's harsh waves beating against the hull. 

Now her fingers are threading through my hair, pulling it  into a braid neat enough to survive the harsh winds that surround us. Her hands are soft and warm.  

My father stands steady at the wheel, his cheeks sunburned, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel as if nothing in the world could surprise him.

And then there’s my brother, posted at the rail, closest to the edge — always the bold one.

A pair of binoculars in his hands. Searching.

He’s looking for dolphins this time. 

“Mom saw one yesterday…” he tells me, eyes narrowed behind the binoculars. “Said it was following the boat, I’m gonna spot it first!”

The idea of dolphins makes my heart lift, something gentle– something cool!

“Go with him.” Mom urges me, voice soft behind me. She’s tying off the end of my braid, fingers lingering for a moment before she lets it go. “You’ll miss them if you stay here, honey.”

I hesitate. My doll’s head is damp against my skin. 

“Go on.” She brushes a soft kiss against the crown of my head.

I nod and shuffle to where he stands, posted at the railing like our dad would on his late night stargazing. He doesn’t turn when I arrive—just passes me the binoculars with a grunt and a half-smile.

The water sparkles magically under the harsh sun above us. I squint through the lenses, searching for a flash of grey, a tail or a snout. 

“See anything?” He asks, a bit too casually.

“No…”

“Here…”He says, nudging me. “Try leaning over a little more.”

I do, just a tiny—then a shove. 

I’m under.

Sudden. Cold. Suffocating.

The air inside my lungs vanishes as the world flips. A scream bubbles in my throat but never makes it out. The sea wraps around me like a cage, tight and choking. The weight of it is heavy. Endless. My doll slips from my grip, slowly lowering into the sea's depths. 

My limbs fail pathetically, panic taking over me. I can’t tell which way is up.

I can't breathe.

I CAN'T BREATHE!

The pressure builds up inside my ears. My eyes sting. 

I try to scream again.

Please…Someone help me.

Mom— I'm right here…

Brother, pull me up.

It’s not funny anymore…

It rips through my throat like shards of glass. Salt water burns. My chest caves, searching for oxygen that won’t come. 

Everything hurts. 

Everythings silent.

Until—

A voice .

I hear it inside my head. Muffled. Old. 

“My child of salt, did you call for me?”

The voice coils itself in the water, slow and surprisingly gentle, like it's been waiting. Like it knows me.

Then—

Hands. Warm and familiar. 

And they drag me up, up, up.

The water's surface splits open and I burst out choking, coughing saltwater, hair sticking to my face. The world looks…blurry?

My brother is there, on his knees on the edge of the rail, face pale, eyes wide. 

“You’re okay.” He pants, voice cracked. “You’re okay– I didn’t know– I’m sorry!”

I’m too busy crying to answer, clinging to his shirt, my hair dripping onto the both of us. 

He smells like sandalwood and sun and sweat. Like home .

“I always pull you back.” He mutters, I think more to himself than to me. “Always.”

His voice shakes more than mine. 

Behind us, I hear Mom shouting, footsteps thundering the deck and Dad is spilling profanities at him. But for just a second, it’s just me and him. Curled together. He holds me tighter than he ever has before. 

Something deep beneath the waves snickers. 

P R E S E N T

You wake up gasping for air.

Coughing until you're able to take a decent breath of air, spitting sand and  water onto the shore. The cool tide keeps touching the tips of your toes, like it didn't just swallow you whole. Everything is fucking cold— your skin, the wind, the water. 

It’s barely morning. The sky is a mix of pale purple blending into dull gray.

You're naked. 

Body covered in dark bruises—big and ugly ones.

Your wrist—

It's wrong. Bent in an unnatural manner.

What the hell.

And suddenly—

SNAP!

It jerks back into place. The pain is fast and blinding. You scream through clenched teeth.

“Jesus.”

You look up.

A man stands a few feet away, black coat, sharp blue eyes, cigarette hanging between his lips. Smoke curling from his mouth like fog from a gun barrel. Calm. Detached. And a weird ponytail that defied gravity?

 His eyes narrow on you, with a look you know all too well.

The kind reserved for devils, or things too close to them.

Revulsion incarnate.

You’ve never seen him before, but you can tell what he is. You recognize that uniform— and somehow that katana strapped onto his back. 

“I don’t know what kind of deal you made,” he says, exhaling smoke, “but you’re not human.”

You keep your mouth shut. Throat too raw. You pull your knees up to your chest, feeling exposed in front of him. Trying to keep the miniscule amount of dignity you had left. 

Something lands beside you with a wet thud . Clothes.

“You’ve got two choices,” he says flatly, flicking ash into the wind. “Come with us. Public Safety. Or die here, stripped and alone.”

You laugh. Didn’t he just see you heal?

“Fucking kill me.” You croak. “Do it.”

He watches you for a beat. The wind picks up. His phone buzzes in his trousers. He glances at it.

“You want to see him again?” He extends his phone towards you. Showing a grainy screen. 

A photo.

A woman with red hair. Smiling. 

So creepy.

Her eyes don’t match. They’re too calm. Too knowing. They look more like voids than anything else. Like she watches from across the tide, patiently waiting for you to drown again. 

You’ve also never seen her before–but you know her. Somehow.

It's a gut feeling, passed down through the curse that runs through your veins. The Ocean knows too. 

Denji is beside her. Who only seems to be wearing a coat and that stupid grin of his. “You stand up.”

Something in your chest caves. 

Like the Ocean Devil has reached inside you and pressed a fist right up against your fragile ribs.

For a moment, you think—you won’t see him again. Maybe that’s the price. Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe you're meant to vanish like foam in the tide, and he’s meant to keep going. 

Without you.

So you don't move.

He’ll be better off.

“You want him to stay alive? ”

That makes you freeze.

The air shifts. 

It’s like something tears through you, raw and deep— like your soul is being dragged backwards.

Just like last night.

Just like when the Ocean Devil pulled you.

It didn’t drag you back to the shore. It didn’t drown you.

It made you go back… for him.  

To make sure he stays alive, even if you don’t.

You can still feel it inside your chest—the Ocean Devil—looking around through the cage of your ribs with fingers made of claws and icey-deep coldness. It digs in, wraps itself around the soft, pulsing muscle of your heart, squeezing it tightly. 

Like it wants to crush it in its palm until it bursts.

Until your heart stops being yours .

Until you give in. To serve. To obey. 

That voice which haunts you.

“My child, go.”

Your fingers curl around the clothes. The fabric clings to your skin, still slick with water and unease. You stand. Legs trembling, head spinning, but you still stand.

Not for yourself. Not even for the voice. 

But for the boy with shark teeth and light in his eyes.

–

Meanwhile…

“From now on, you're in my care, Denji.” Makima turns her head from the car window. Her tone is light on her tongue, almost cheerful. 

“I expect ‘yes’ or ‘woof’ for answers. I don’t need a dog who says no.”

Denji shifts in his seat.

His mouth opens. Closes.

“…When you say that”

“Someone in forensics once told me,” Makima throws him a small smile. “that when we get dogs that aren’t helpful, we put them down.”

I thought she was nice. 

I kind of liked her. 

I had no idea she was scary like this. 

Treating me like a damn dog.

Memories flash. Denji’s eyes widen. 

Pochita’s dead.

He reaches for the cord without thinking, curling it around his calloused fingers. It's cold against his chest. A heartbeat that doesn’t belong to him anymore. 

Pochita died for him. 

He became his heart. His second chance.

He wanted him to live like a normal person.

He wanted him to… learn more about the ocean!

That's what he said, right?

And just like that he thinks of you.

You, with sunburned cheeks and odd obsession with the waves. You, who tried to teach him how to fish for a meal. You, who patched him up after a rough day of work. You, always staring out at the water like you were waiting for something to speak back.

And–

God, that amazing bikini. The pink one. (Was he ever gonna get over it? No. Probably not.) The one that barely covered anything. 

As if you came to life from one of his tattered lewd magazines.

The way it hugged your breasts— The way it almost left nothing to the imagination— The way you didn’t even notice how hot you looked—

It drove him utterly insane. 

Would you let him touch your boobs? 

It’d never hurt to ask…right? 

He would, so very nicely~

“—That applies to your mermaid friend.”

Denji jerks and his stomach grumbles suddenly. 

He didn’t say anything out loud? Did he?

But now with Makima…

She promised him food. A warm bed to sleep in.

She was the first girl to ever hug him. It felt..good to him.

And Makima said she liked Denji-type boys! 

It felt like true love to him. Or atleast what he thinks love is supposed to be.

She said he was special. That he belonged to her.

And that made his chest swell up with something stupid.

You never said anything like that.

You didn’t promise anything. You didn’t ask anything either. 

You gave him food without saying why. You made his stomach flip in weird ways he didn’t understand. Plus, you were smoking hot!

In his head the only con was that you were sorta… odd?

From the get-go, you made it crystal clear you didn't want to live.

You didn't value your life. Your weird relationship with the beach also freaked him out a bit, but hey— he’s not one to judge. 

He glances at Makima beside him—so calm, so beautiful, so in control.

Who does he want more?

Beach girl? Or Makima?

A RIVALRY HAS STARTED INSIDE CHAINSAW’S HEART!

credits to @kiyaedits for the cute dividers!

[shaineybainey]

Superman Initial Thoughts

[not spoiler-free, my friends]

• Absolutely loved it. At first, I didn’t know where it was heading. But then things got better and better and better. Tbh, besides The Flash, I wasn’t invested in any of the DC heroes. Like, yes, I recognize them, but it was really difficult to connect to them. It felt like I didn’t know who they really were. But this movie breathed life into who Clark Kent/Superman is.

• For one, Clark’s relationships were so interesting. Like, the man is a millennial with millennial problems, okay? From his something-ship with Lois to his semi-estranged relationship with his Earth parents to that weird message from his bio parents that’s worth posting on the AITA subreddit…Clark was going through it, okay? And then he has pseudo friends that seem distant but actually do care about him, then being cyber bullied…Yeah, dude was going through A LOT.

• I also loved the message that even the strongest people need help, too. Clark benefited from the assistance and support of the people around him many many times. Superman is Superman because of them.

• LOVED Lois Lane. She definitely is not a damsel in distress here. She’s proactive, and she’s going to do what has to be done. I really liked that because it showed that even the non-metahuman characters can very much save others too.

• Jimmy Olsen. Oh boy. That man is a hot mess lol

• Clark’s Earth parents are so amazing. They love him so much. And his dad just… His dad loves him to the moon and back. It was so beautiful to see. And his father’s reminder that he, Clark, is the one who will make the choice of who he will be, and that he is proud of him… Man, his parents were just the greatest.

• Nicholas Hoult as Lex Luthor was an A++ choice. He brought to the fore who Lex Luthor actually was. He expressed hatred and jealousy and envy and malicious excitement with such expertise that in the end I was just like, “Oh. So that’s who Lex Luthor is.”

• The Justice Gang. Hot Mess Express in Suits 😂

• Guy Gardner. I really thought I wasn’t going to like him, but I was wrong. Like, yes, he’s abrasive, but you can’t help but like him. He’s grouchy, but in a funny way? He reminds me of Squidward for some reason. Him flipping the tanks by actually flipping them off was unhinged. You can’t help but laugh.

• Don’t get me started with Mr. Terrific. Probably in my Top Five Favorites of this movie. Personally, I like him best when he’s apart from his teammates. He and Lois worked the best together because they’re both no-nonsense and straight to the point. I wouldn’t mind him and Clark becoming closer friends too.

Him freaking out after Clark said he brought Krypto back to the city was hilarious.

• Hawk Girl was a little disappointing. I was really looking forward to seeing more of her abilities, but it didn’t get showcased much :(

• Krypto. Sometimes a good boy, many times a bad boy. Kara should’ve trained that dog better. Nearly killed her when she got home because he was so excited to see her lol Even though he didn’t listen to Clark well, it’s still nice that he responds to him whenever he calls. My favorite is when Clark woke up after the Kryptonite poisoning, and Krypto was just laying on top of him, waiting for him to wake up then wagging his tail when he did.

• I felt bad for laughing, but when he tore Lex up?? Yeah, that dog was so upset at him for breaking into their home and kidnapping him 😂

• Side note: kept tabs on the Guardians of the Galaxy cast members who were also here. Bradley Cooper (Rocket) as Jor-El, Pom Klementieff (Mantis) as one of the droids (22, I think?), and Sean Gunn as Maxwell Lord. I know Chris Pratt isn’t there (for now), and no sightings of Karen Gillan, Dave Bautista, or Zoe Saldaña. Unless I missed them.

I think that might be it for now. Will add some more if I think of anything else.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

For moment, you are home.

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[fantasticalleigh]

💙🤍happy 40th birthday to the Most Suffering-est Man of All Time: Drew McIntyre💙🤍

[freakinator]

fans are replaceable just as ccs are replaceable, thats just the reality of the entertainment business lmao

[greyedian]

longing for the day when making fanart stops feeling like i'm massively disrespecting the source material lol

[tailoredshirt]

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