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moonstruckme · 11 months ago

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Hi lovely! Me again but with an actual request this time 😭😭 would you be able to write poly!marauders with reader who just got their wisdom teeth out and they’re all taking her home and taking care of her while she’s all loopy and hyped up on pain meds. I think it’d be so silly and cute. Only if you want to though! Much love and thanks!

-🍓

Thanks for requesting lovely!

cw: mention of blood, effects of anesthesia

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

Sirius had offered to be the one to drive you, but no one had let him because of how upset you all knew he’d get. As soon as you come through the door, Remus knows they’d made the right decision.

“I know, darling,” James' voice is low, sympathetic, and a bit panicked, “but I promise you can have them in a couple of days, alright?”

Sirius leaves the dishwater to get cold, beelining for the front door. Remus is hot on his tail. They find James kneeling in front of you, untying your shoes while tears dribble off your chin and into his hair.

“I can make you a smoothie, or mashed potatoes, or any non-solid your heart desires.” He turns his head, mouthing help.

Your face only crumples miserably, and James looks nearly like he might cry too but Sirius comes to his rescue.

“Hey, sweet girl.” He palms the back of your head, careful of your face as he tilts it up towards him. “What’s got you so wound up, huh?”

“He won’t let me have marshmallows,” you cry, words all garbled by the gauze in your mouth.

“So mean,” Sirius commiserates. “I’ll do you one better and make you a chocolate milk, how’s that sound?”

Your tears dry instantly. James lifts your ankle to take off your shoe, and you grip Sirius’ arms, beaming up at him. Or beaming as best you can, with your mouth all numb and full of cotton.

“That sounds amazing,” you sigh, blissful.

Sirius grins right back at you, his hand coasting down your neck and back up again. Remus can tell he’s dying to touch your face the way he normally would, but he restrains himself. “You’ve got a deal,” he says as James pries off your other shoe. “Come watch me work.”

He steers you toward the kitchen, Remus passing a hand over your head as you go by. You give him a sweet, lovelorn look in return.

“Can she have her gauze out soon?” he asks James once you’re in the kitchen.

He sets your shoes by the door. “Yeah, it should be fine by now. They said a half hour.” James leans against the couch and passes a hand over his face. He looks so worn out Remus can’t help but cross the room to him, taking his hand and kissing it lightly.

“Was she very upset the whole time?” he asks.

“No, she’s been all over the place. Far worse than you, though.”

Remus feels heat rise to his face at the memory. He’d had his wisdom teeth out last summer and reportedly spent the rest of the day clinging to whoever was nearest, grousing about how tired he was but never actually going to sleep.

“Oh, uh…” James digs in his pocket. A few receipts and a dime come out, then a small bottle of pills. “They said she should start on these once she got home, but I can’t get them open. Can you try?”

“Mhm.”

“Thanks.” James’ eyes widen, and he rushes off to the kitchen, saying something to Sirius about how they can’t let you use a straw. Remus follows a few steps behind, reading the label of the pill bottle before twisting the top off. It was childproofed, bless him.

When he enters the kitchen, Sirius has you sat up on the counter and is poking around in your mouth. He takes out the gauze carefully, one piece at a time, and sets it on the counter. Remus makes a mental note to deep-clean that later. Your eyes follow Sirius’ movements, slowly widening.

“Is all that blood from me?” Your voice carries a slight quiver.

“That?” Sirius says swiftly. “No, that’s old blood. You’re good as new now.”

“Oh,” you breathe, deflating a bit in relief. Remus chuckles, and your eyes fly to him, lighting. “Rem!”

You open your arms wide. He steps into them, raising his eyebrows at James as you grip his shoulders tightly.

“Told you,” James stage-whispers. “All over the place.”

“I can hear you,” you say, words muffled into Remus’ sweater. He pets the back of your head pacifyingly.

“How are you, sweetheart?”

You take some time to mull this over. “M’okay,” you decide. “I’m a little sad they had to take my tongue, but it could be worse I guess.”

“They didn’t take your tongue,” James says, like it’s not the first time he’s had to tell you this, “you just had some teeth removed.”

“They’re dismantling me,” you say morosely. It’s clear you’ve accepted your fate.

Remus strokes your hair again, leaning away slightly so you’ll look up at him. You do, and even with your glassed-over eyes and puffy cheeks you’re the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

“I’m glad you’re not hurting too badly,” he hums, cupping the side of your head. You smile dopily and lean into the touch. “I’ve got a pill that’ll help make sure you don’t hurt later, too.”

Sirius passes you your chocolate milk so you can take it, and James clucks about how you need to take slow, careful sips all the way until you’ve drained the glass. As soon as it’s out of your grasp you’ve replaced it with Remus’ hand, your fingers tracing the lines of his palm with idle fascination.

“Feel like watching a film?” he asks you softly.

You hum. “That sounds nice. Can I have the fuzzy pillow because they’re taking me apart?”

Remus huffs a laugh, and James groans. “Nobody’s taking you apart, darling,” he reasons. “The dentist only took the unimportant bits.”

“Bit by bit,” you sigh.

James looks in distress, so Remus takes the crook of his elbow in hand, squeezing lightly as Sirius eases you off the counter and into his hold. Remus thinks you’ll be lucky if he releases you before tomorrow.

“You can have all the pillows if you want them,” Sirius promises you. “My poor girl, being taken apart bit by bit. You can have whatever you want.”

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springseasonie · 6 months ago

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First | HRJ (M)

Best friend Renjun x fem reader

Summary: you and Renjun are both inexperienced, so to combat that, he ask you to be his first kiss. But that one kiss reawakens a whole life of suppressed tension the two of you had for each other that just so happens to explode.

Warnings: sexual content, lots of kissing, masturbation, dry humping, horny virgins, fluff

Word count: 4,2k

A/N: took two request and decided to mash them together. I don't know how to write kissing scenes tbh I've never been kissed so that's not in my area of expertise (nothing I write is) hope y'all enjoy!!!

Could you be my first kiss?”

You blinked, no words could be said or thought after his sudden request. Renjun, your best friend since elementary school all through this moment, just asked you to kiss him.

“What,” you said, a soft confused laugh falling from your lips to lighten the mood. Part of you really wished he was joking because you hadn't even had your first kiss. “You're joking… right?"

Renjun stares and shakes his head. “I'm serious.”

“But why” you questioned. He gulped, avoiding eye contact with you.

“I..I don't know,” he answered, lips in a slight pout while looking away from you.

A moment of silence passed through the air, nothing but your breathing and the fan cooling the warm summer air. The initial shock of his words wore off with some time, but he was clearly embarrassed. He's been debating for days to actually say anything to you about this, too afraid that it would ruin something between the both of you. But you laughed.

Your small giggle felt like a cold drink on a hot day, providing him comfort and relief in the current situation.

“Sure. I'll be your first kiss.”

Renjun watched you with wide eyes, legs crossed as you turned your body to him, scooting closer. You're his best friend, the one person he's felt comfortable with for most of his life, so why is he starting to feel so nervous all of a sudden? Why are his palms getting sweaty?

“H-have you had your first kiss,” he asked.

No.

“Yes,” you lie. Renjun glances at you. You can tell he's unsure about your answer, knowing that you tend to lie about subjects like this.

“Don't lie,” he says, frowning. “I'm being vulnerable with you so just be honest with me.”

“Fine. I haven't.” You look at him, eyes flickering from his eyes to his lips. Renjun has always been cute, that's what he was known for. Cute, youthful, pretty boy looks, but now you're looking at him a bit differently.

“So this is a first for us both,” he laughs softly. You and Renjun slip into a comfortable silence as you adjust yourself. Sitting on your side in front of him, you didn't really realize how close you were, but he did. He could feel your soft breathing, smell your perfume, see every pore on your face.

“So..what now,” he says. You don't say anything, just shrug and pout, but he can't stand the silence with you being so close to him. His mind was only on your lips, but now he can't stop his eyes from wandering everywhere else. Your neck, your arms, your legs. His eyes wander to your chest going lower and lower until-

“Your face is red,” you say softly, adding salt to his wound of embarrassment. “What are you thinking about?”

“I-Im not thinking of anything,” he stammered.

“Really? Because all I can think about is that first time we met on the playground in school,” you admit, eliciting a strange look from the boy in front of you.

“At a time like this?”

You nod, a smile tugging on your lips. “Yeah. You were so cute and chubby.”

“You guys used to call me marshmallow,” he recounted rolling his eyes.

You laughed, licking your lips as you watched his face get even more red. “Yeah. Remember middle school when we had that trip to the water park.”

He nodded, giving you a small smile. “We went on the biggest water slide together and got in trouble for not meeting the teacher on time.”

“Yeah…it was embarrassing getting yelled at like that.” Your voice was soft, almost as soft as the way you took his hand at the moment he started playing with his fingers. This moment felt so intimate, the tension in the air getting thicker and thicker by the second. You could feel it, and so could he.

“Did you know people thought we were dating?”

Renjun chuckles, nodding as he looks down at your hands. “Yeah. I kind of wanted to.”

Your brows shoot up, a breathy laugh escaping your lips. “Really?”

“We were 13 and you started looking pretty at that age.”

His confession made your heart skip a beat. If your younger self would've heard this, she probably would've freaked out. Dating Renjun who was like a brother to you? Absolutely not. But now that you're older, it's plausible, doable, realistic.

“What about in highschool,” you ask, looking at him curiously.

“I thought you were pretty in highschool too, but you know I had a girlfriend at the time,” he said, making you sigh.

“Right I remember, she was your first girlfriend. I never liked her,” you confessed, making him laugh.

“I know you didn't. It was obvious.” Renjun sighs at the memories of his first girlfriend. He really liked her, but he was naive and didn't realize that she only wanted one thing from him that he couldn't give. Renjun didn't have the courage to kiss or have sex with her, which led to them breaking up months later. He was bummed about it, with you to help him carry his burden. But now that he's 21, instead of trying to find the right moment, he decided to make one with you.

“Why did you decide today was the day you wanted to kiss me,” you ask, completely changing the topic.

This question immediately pulled him back into reality instead of the deepest pits of his mind. Your fingers were soft on his, playing with his fingers. But he soon felt your playfulness begin to falter when you held his hand in yours.

“Reasons,” he answered.

“You like me that much?”

“Ew, of course not.” The both of you laughed at his response, once again falling into a comfortable silence.

The tension, anticipation, heat coming from the both of you. At this point it felt like a waiting game to see who was going to make the first move. A game you were too impatient for despite never actually kissing someone before. But something told you to just do it, so you did in the best way possible. You kissed him, your hand still on his. And he kissed you back.

It was small, short, sweet, and innocent. The feeling of your lip gloss remained on his lips giving him a sudden wash of comfort. Your eyes flutter open to see him already staring at you, lids heavy as he watches your face.

“That's was nice-”

“You're so pretty Y/N-”

Silence filled the space, allowing you to take in his words. A smile spread on your lips, doe eyes looking at him through your lashes. “You think I'm pretty,” you say, a small giggle behind your words.

It feels like a light burst in his heart when he hears you giggle. He always thought you were pretty, who wouldn't? You would never know, but growing up, everyone fawned over you.

He nods, tongue gliding over his lips. “I always thought you were pretty.”

And with that sentence, the nerves set in. An innocent kiss was one thing but the energy was beginning to shift and you didn't know what to do with it.

“Did the…did the kiss feel okay,” you ask, now looking away from him entirely, palms sweaty in his as you watched your lap.

Renjun didn't say anything verbally, but if you could read his mind, you'd know what he would say. He could probably kiss you forever, taking in the soft feeling of your lips, your soft voice, nice hands.

“Can I kiss you again,” he asks, staring at your mouth.

With a full you nodded, turning your head to him. In one swift movement, his lips were on yours. He attached himself to you so naturally, it almost shocked you. While you were too busy trying to figure out where to put your hands, he already had his mind made up, placing his hand on your thigh.

“I-Im sorry I don't know where to put my hands,” you say, awkwardly breaking this kiss.

The tension in the room multiplies. He could hear your heartbeat out of your chest and you could hear his shaky breath. That's when it dawned on you that this was real. All too real. You were about to make out with your best friend.

“It's okay, you can just-”

“No, I'm okay.” You scooted away from him, his hand still on your leg as you moved. You didn't want to look at him, knowing that if you saw him, his cheeks would be the prettiest shade of pink, lips glossy, pupils dilated. “Is it okay if we just… stop for today?”

Renjun wasn't surprised or taken back, moreso relieved you asked him to stop. If you hadn't, he would've had a bigger issue than just wanting to kiss you. But Renjun wouldn't let you do that to him - do anything to him for that matter. Not even if you wanted to, if it felt good to have your hands on his body, or feel your weight on top of him.

“It's fine,” he said abruptly, trying to make you feel less awkward. “Thank you… for being my first kiss.”

“I should be saying the same thing,” you joke, avoiding eye contact. But something in you wants more. You don't know what it is, if you want to kiss him or maybe more. You couldn't possibly want more, he's your best friend, he's like a brother to you - was like a brother to you. But something about the quiet of the room, the way his hand rests on your bare skin, how flushed his face is right now. The more you look at him, the more you feel the need to squirm where you sit. His eyes are droopy, staring at your lips as you begin to bite them.

There's a small voice in the back of your head saying do it, it's okay, but you can't cross that line. You wouldn't even know what to do and neither would he.

“I uh,” you start, gulping at the tension. “I think I'm gonna go home now.”

His brows shot to his forehead, relief and disappointment washing over him. “Oh yeah, sure. I can drop you off if you wa-”

“No, it's okay. I'll just walk. It's still bright out, I don't mind,” you interrupt.

“Oh.” You could sense the disappointment in his voice but you have to pull away from him as much as possible for the rest of the night. You stood up, gathering yourself in the most normal way you could at the moment, trying not to cringe at how much your panties stuck to your core.

“We can meet up tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sure, your place this time,” he says quietly.

“Okay. Have a good night Junnie.”

You left his room and then his apartment, door shutting loudly as you walked out. Your body was no longer there, but your presence lingered, the smell of your perfume lingered. And unfortunately, your presence helped create the tent that's in his pants at the moment. He couldn't believe it, but the truth is that you made him hard. His first kiss with you made him hard like a teenage boy.

“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself, body heating up at the thought of you doing more to him that just kissing.

He just needed to release some of that pressure, just get rid of it for the night. Renjun reached his hand down his pants grabbing his cock through his boxers. He couldn't even be bothered to undress, just wanting to clear his head. But with every stroke, the foggier his brain got, images of your lips pretty and glossy before you kissed him flashing through his head.

You're so sweet. You've always been sweet to him. So selfless and caring, you even let him have your first kiss. You could've given it to someone you actually liked but you decided to give it to him. And the thought of that makes him stroke his cock faster, small whines and grunts falling from his lips. He can't say this is his first time touching himself to the thought of you.

He moved his hand faster and faster, just you clouding his thoughts. His body became too hot, hand speeding up. Renjun has never been one to cum too fast from masturbating, but you make him crazy, you make him sensitive.

“Fuck, fuck, oh my God..” He came hard in his hands, cum coating his fingers as his soft moans filled the room. But even after cumming to clear his mind, he can't stop thinking about you. Maybe the next day will help him get some more things off his chest, and maybe you can help.

Your stomach did flips when Renjun walked into your room, memories of the night before flickering through your mind. The way he looked at you, his lips on yours, hands on your thighs. God, it was all too much. Once you got home you had to take a cold shower, attempting to take your best friend off your mind.

The water hitting your body only took your thoughts off him for a moment, soon to be replaced by the possibility of his hands sliding between your legs later the next day. And now he's in your bedroom once again looking cute as ever. Hair freshly washed, skin glowing, and he smells amazing. It's almost like he is begging for you to pounce on him.

You say on your bed, watching him walk over to you. His eyes never left your body, the energy from his movements telling you all you needed to know about his intentions, but instead of acting on it, he simply sat next to you.

“How was your night,” you ask, avoiding looking at your best friend.

“It was okay,” he answered, fidgeting with his hands.

“You know, I'm sorry for leaving so abruptly yesterday,” you say, now facing him. Renjun turns to you, lips wet and pupils dilated.

“You don't need to apologize. I was getting…ahead of myself,” he admitted.

“No you were okay-”

“Okay,” he questioned, chuckling softly. “Damn, I know I never kissed anyone but you didn't have to put it that way.”

A warm laugh left your throat, eyes closing as you threw your head back laughing at his sense of humor. That's one thing you always loved about him, he always knew how to make a joke out of a nerve wracking situation. Your laugh relieved tension for your case, but only added tension for him. Your pretty neck showcases for him made the man dizzy. This is the worst part of being a virgin for sure, anything makes him excited.

“Junnie, that's not what I meant,” you giggled. “I didn't leave because of you, I left because of me. I got nervous. It was starting to feel really…”

“Intimate,” he finished.

There it is, that tingle in your stomach.

“Can I be honest with you Y/N?”

You nod, not realizing how heavy you're breathing.

“I know I'm your best friend, and this isn't something I'm supposed to say,” he started. Renjun couldn't control himself anymore, not with you in your shorts and his T-shirt. “I really want to kiss you.”

That's all you needed to hear because you wanted it too. But you needed to hear it again and then you wanted him to take you and do it.

“Kiss me?”

“Don't pretend you don't want me to.”

Before you could even respond, he moves closer to you, hands on your waist like a magnet. Renjun’s heart was beating out of his chest. He's never been this forward with a girl like this in his life, but something about you does something to him. Your expression of shock but also desperation was eating him alive, he needed you badly.

Renjun kisses you like he did the night before, soft and gentle, pressing his delicate fingers into your waist. Plump lips moving on yours like he'd done this a million times, so comfortable with you in his grasp and you love it too. This time you know where to put your hands. Your hands make their way to his chest, slightly tugging at his white shirt. Eyes closed, feeling every inch of his body that's on yours but you see sparks.

You never knew someone could feel this good with just kissing, but it's good to you. The way his lips mold with yours is perfect, coupled with his ragged breathing and the way his tongue licks your bottom lip softly.

“Junnie,” you whisper breathlessly, brows knit. “I uh…”

“Shh..” Renjun, swallows your words whole, kissing you what he thinks is deeper. You go with it, because it feels right, just like anything else with him. “Fuck,” he mumbles on your lips.

“W-what's wrong?”

“I've never been this hard in my life.” Renjun chases your strawberry flavored lip gloss lips once you pull away to look at his painful hard on. He can see you're thinking about something, contemplating on it. But he can't wait for you to make up your mind. His hands leave your waist, flying to your chest as he kisses you more, groping you carefully.

A gasp leaves your lips, the feeling of being touched like this being completely foreign to you, but natural to him. Shaky breaths fall from your plump lips as the male in front of your kisses your face, smudging your own gloss on your cheeks. You gulp, the feeling of his hands squeezing the life out of you making you want more. You need more. You need a release.

“Lay down Junnie,” you say softly, catching him by surprise.

Renjun lays down watching you stand up in front of him. His eyes almost pop out of his head watching you get rid of your shirt. You rest your hands on the waist of your shorts, eyes lingering on the man in front of you.

“I realize what I'm about to do might be stupid but I know you want it to,” you say.

His eyes go even wider. “A-already? We just kissed yesterday. I don't think we're ready to-”

“Relax, I'm not having sex with you. Trust me I'm not ready either, but..” you pause, pulling your shorts down to reveal pink lace panties. “I just want to make you feel good.”

He watched you climb on top of him, heart about to just out his chest when the entire weight of your ass was on his cock. This is the prettiest you've ever been. Renjun follows your hands as they make their way to his chest, tugging his shirt up to reveal his toned body. There's something so sensual about the way you're looking down at him, like you've been dreaming of this.

You lean down, kissing him as your hips roll down on his, his clothes cock making your senses tingle. But before you could move again, he stopped you.

“Wait,” he says. Renjun lifts his hips, tugging his sweats down just enough that you could feel his hard cock directly on your pussy. You rest your body on his once again, the only thing on your mind being getting yourself off at this point.

Renjun marveled at the way you move your body on him with no hesitation. It seemed like all the tension was gone and you knew exactly what you were doing. The way you felt on top of him was indescribable. He's never experienced anything like this in his life and never thought he would be with you.

You grinded on him slowly, taking in the feeling of the fabric on your clit. Nothing but the sound of pants and heavy breathing filled the room. Renjun feels like he died and went to heaven being able to see you like this.

“How does it feel,” you asked, brows furrowed in pleasure.

In all actuality, it feels like it came right out of a porno. You're grinding on him in your pretty panties and his shirt half way up in your girly bedroom. The only thing that's keeping either of you from fucking is anxiety and the sheer fabric covering yourselves.

“Good,” he says. “Fuck, have you done this before?”

“Only on my pillows.”

Every time you spoke, it gave him whiplash. Renjun swears he knows everything about you, but the second he places his hands on your hips he becomes enlightened. Unintentionally, Renjun guides your hips on top of him, your soaking wet panties making his boxers damp. You're so wet you don't even realize how much of a mess you're making on top of him.

You're like a wet dream, a hazy expression while you gaze down at him who's not taking his eyes off of you, makes him want you more. So badly he wants to take your bra off, eyes flickering from your face to your chest every 2 seconds. You know what he wants, but for some reason, you're enjoying the pitiful look on his face. The way his brows scrunch, the way he holds onto you for life.

“Renjun,” you moaned softly. You grinded on him harder, desperately trying to give your clit more stimulation on the girth of his cock.

The man beneath you pants loudly, Every time your hands move on his chest, a shiver runs down his body wanting more of your touch. He's rock hard, every movement you make sending him closer and closer to the edge, but he doesn't want to cum so early, not wanting this moment to end.

“fuck you feel so good,” he groans, hands on your hips guiding your movements. “Y/N, I don't think I can last long if you keep moving like that.”

You kept grinding, whining and whimpers falling out your lips along with him. You didn't care if he came before you, it just felt so good.

“Like this?”

Renjun's brows furrow, mouth open when you circle your hips on him. “Fuck, I'm gonna cum Y/N,” he moans.

“Me too Junnie.”

You move faster, the need to release is taking over your body. You felt Renjun's cock pulsing between your legs, clit rubbing so good against the fabric of your panties. The tight feeling in your abdomen becomes tighter the faster you grinded. Just before you feel yourself becoming undone, Renjun begins to tremble underneath you.

“Fuck Y/N,” he moans. Renjun came hard, his boxers becoming even more damp with his cum. Overstimulated, his strong hands that gripped you before began to loosen, shaking on your hips.

“Junnie, I-Im cumming,” you gasp, whimpering softly on top of him. Legs shaking, hands holding his shirt for life, eyes screwed shut. This view of you is everything he possibly imagined while jerking off, but maybe 100 times better.

Heavy breaths filled the room, your neat blanket now disheveled underneath you both. Renjun looked up at you, admiring how pretty you look even after you lose yourself. Pretty lips, pretty neck, even your sweat smells pretty. But a quick glance to where you bodies meet soon pulls out his own thoughts, realizing what he just did.

“Fuck,” he huffed out. “That was, uh..”

“Good,” you finished.

Renjun nodded, gulping at your direct response. His body stiffened, feeling you run your fingers down his chest unintentionally, face turning even more red than before. He was feeling so confident before, but now he feels like he can shrivel into a corner. You lift your hips from his, both of your fluids making your clothes stick to each other. The cold air instantly hits your wet panties, making you shiver and cringe.

Renjun sits up, leaning on his shoulders to see the damage you two had done. “Damn,” he mumbled. “I definitely need to change.”

“Me too,” you agreed. You laugh softly, looking over to the boy whose face was redder than a tomato. “That got a little out of hand didn't it?”

“Yeah, but it wasn't enough.”

You whipped your head to him, immediately clocking his implication. “Renjun, you're crazy,” you gushed, covering your face in your hands. “We can't have sex right now.”

“I know,” he chuckled softly. “Whenever we're ready, it'll happen.”

“Who said it was gonna be with you,” you joke. Instead of him following along, he just looks at you with a mix of desire and warmth that makes your tummy tingle. Renjun doesn't respond to your statements and just keeps staring at you like he's waiting for something that won't happen, you break the short silence. “I'm gonna get cleaned up.”

He doesn't say anything, just watches you stand up quickly, grabbing whatever clothes you see first. You think he's entirely checked out with the rest of the day, but all he can think about is how perfect you are and how badly he can't wait to be your first.

“I'll be back in 10,” you say, making your way to your bathroom.

“Don't have too much fun without me” he calls out.

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

And now he knows that you're definitely his first love and he couldn't want it any other way.

#nct #nct fanfic #nct u #nct smut #nct oneshot #nct x reader #nct scenarios #nct dream #Renjun #renjun fanfic #renjun smut #renjun imagines #renjun oneshots #nct dream imagines #nct dream fanfic

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mitskicain · 4 months ago

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navi | m.list

. ⁺ . ✦ ‘sayang’ is a double-edged sword — kuroo x reader

synopsis: based on the headcanon of a half-Indonesian kuroo. in which he learns that the language is full of contradictions.

content warnings: ANGST, mentions of bullying, homesickness

word count: 3.5k

· · ─────── ·{ ✐ᝰ.ᐟ}· ─────── · ·

Sayang. A two syllable word that was the unofficial translation of love in the Indonesian language. Technically love was ‘cinta’, but you didn’t like how it felt in your mouth—bulky and awkward—too big for anything. You liked the way ‘sayang’ sounded better, the way it rolled off the tongue so easily—fleeting, almost carelessly. Sayang.

Aku sayang kamu. I love you.

Your mother called you sayang. You recalled running up to her after school, her arms outstretched and wide open, waiting to wrap around you. The sweet scent of her skin that was like honeysuckle and summer, the warmth of her smile—beaming at you from the driver’s seat as you babbled about your day. She would call you that term of endearment whenever she had the chance.

Sayang, come down for dinner. Sayang, it’s time to wake up. Sayang, have fun at school!

Indonesian was your mother tongue. The first language you had learned how to speak. In a way, your entire childhood was defined by it. There were things in your everyday vocabulary that didn’t make sense, or were different when translated. In that way, you always felt like there was something missing when you spoke English or Japanese. When you left Jakarta during the 1998 riots, your mother, alongside a handful of other families, managed to escape from the fiery wrath of the protestors, sought asylum from any other country that was willing to take you. Some of your friends moved to Singapore, others, Malaysia, or Taiwan—for you it was Japan, a country that once had colonized yours but was now your saving grace. With only two suitcases to your name and your mother’s limited Japanese learnt during her high-school years, the two of you tried to make home in the foreign country. You were starting all over again. Language. School. Friends. It would prove to be difficult.

Japanese kids were mean. Not beating-you-up kind of mean, but snickering-behind-your-back mean. Back home, they would say things to your face, pick fights and shouting matches with you, but here, they talked about you in hushed whispers and lingering gazes. It was in the sharpie doodles on your school shoes and the scattered laughter that echoed whenever you slipped up when you read aloud for the class. You were still bad at Japanese—the language a tangle of syllables in your mouth. Your mother told you that it was because your tongue was just used to speaking Indonesian. You thought it was because Japan was foreign to you, in the bad way. In the way that your body silently rebelled against it by fixing your jaw in ways so you couldn’t say things right—so that years later, even after you became fluent, the trace of your mother tongue still lingered.

That was the first thing that Kuroo Tetsuro pointed out. You talk funny, were his first words to you—finger pointed straight between your eyes. A rage bubbled in your chest at the mention of it. It was something that you were insecure about, something you felt the need to hide. You didn’t even know you were muttering to yourself when you played in the playground’s sandbox until he pointed it out to you, and you hated that, and you made sure to let him know how much you did—through a mash of fists and bruises and a black eye (his, not yours).

Your mother made you apologize—the Japanese way—kneeling, on the floor. You were red hot and flushed, humiliated for having done so. Not for beating up the kid but rather for having been caught, and having to apologize. Why should you? He started it. He was making fun of you. “You talk funny,” psh, he looked funny. His sharp cat-like eyes and almost permanent bed head—how could his parents let him out of the house looking like that? Someone might mistake him for a stray.

That apology was how you found out Kuroo was a little bit like you—half-Indonesian, from his mothers side. The tiny Indonesian population in Japan meant that whoever was from the motherland clung together like thieves at sea. Maybe it was because of familiarity, maybe because of homesickness. In a way, all they had left of their home country was each other, speaking the same language, knowing the same songs, the same streets—sometimes even the same people. For them, this was the closest thing to coming home. This was how you eventually became friends with Kuroo, after years and years of living down the street and your mother inviting him over and attending the same school and making the two of you befriend the other.

It was rough at first. You refused to speak Japanese around him, fearing the same insult would come and jab at you when you would. Despite his mother’s nationality, he was never able to understand or speak the language that you did—part of himself almost denying that part of him after his mother left. Maybe that was his way of getting revenge, refusing to acknowledge his mother’s culture, her homeland.

The two of you would pass the time playing congklak, the Indonesian version of the mancala. You practiced counting this way, dropping the shells in each divot one by one—starting again if there were any remaining. He babbled on about TV shows he watched, or mangas he read, trying to make a point about how Japanese he was, how un-Indonesian, and by extension, how unlike his mother. Sometimes you would watch Ikkyu-san together. Sometimes he would flip through the comics you had brought over—Mahabhrata and Gundala and Bobo. You remember the look on his face as he traced over the pages, his nose scrunched in confusion.

“It’s too confusing, all these words look foreign to me,” he would say, putting them back on the shelf.

“So what?” You shot back, “I had to do the same thing when I came here. Kanji still looks like scribbles to me.”

There was no mashing of fists or sound of crying this time, just a mutual understanding of the others’ struggle. You watched him swallow the lump in his throat and pick up the book again, finger tracing the sentences, sounding out the words—like a child learning how to read for the first time. You sighed, defeated, and sat down next to him, trying to teach him. He was a persistent child, often needing to get his way regardless of whatever circumstances but here he was—docile, obedient. Something between the two of you shifted.

Kuroo began to grow out of his shell in middle school; making new friends on the volleyball team and tagging along during their after-practice escapades, oftentimes raiding the local convenience store for all the goodies. Sometimes you would come with, slipping into the background of conversations and keeping to yourself. You still didn’t like talking in front of anyone—so you kept your lips pressed together and our gaze downcast, a faraway look in your eyes. Of course, this caught the attention of some of his teammates.

“Is she mute?” One of them had asked, hands shoved in his pockets, walking a few steps ahead of you. Despite you hanging back, you could still hear him, but then again, it wasn’t like he made any attempt to speak quietly either. Or maybe he thought that you were also deaf.

“Dude,” he sounds, offended for you, “she’s right here.”

“So? It’s not like she ever says anything. It’s like she’s deaf, or mute—or both.”

Kuroo frowns at this statement. At home, he sits across from you, pencil tapping against the pages of his ignored math homework. You look up at him with your eyebrow cocked, as if, beckoning for him to spit it out already.

“Would it kill you to make some friends?” He asks, words sharp and unforgiving. Your shoulders slump at the question, and you give him a deadpan look before returning your attention to your assignment, already miles ahead of him.

“I don’t need them,” you mumble, “too much of a hassle.”

“How do you survive without them? Like seriously, nobody to lean on?”

“That’s how I like it.”

He grumbles inaudibly under his breath at your response, a mixture of frustration and annoyance echoing through his voice. He chews on his bottom lip before speaking up again, this time, rather boldly.

“You’re not alone.” You look up at him, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. He thumps his chest with his right hand almost solemnly, like making an oath. “You have me. I’m your friend. I’m here for you.”

Your eyes widen in shock, a blush creeping up to your cheeks. You press your lips into a thin line, not knowing what else to say. Instead, you nod your head in acknowledgement, and return your attention back to your homework. When you are done with the practice questions, you flip over your notebook so that he can copy your answers.

The first time he called you ‘sayang’ was in the spring of your freshman year. He said it after having heard your mother say that as she bid you goodbye for school. He had let it slip, almost by accident, as he repeated the word over and over in his mind as the two of you walked—sounding it out, feeling the weight of it in his mouth. He liked the way it rolled across his tongue, and something about it—the curve of the letters when spelled out, the softness of it seemed so you. When you had heard it, you stopped, the hair on the back of your neck raising as you looked back at him, almost incredulously. He stares back, puzzled at your reaction. This was the first time he had ever seen your reserved demeanor crack.

“What? What did I do?” He asked, genuine concern evident in his voice.

“What did you say?”

“What, ‘sayang’?” His hands move up to straighten his tie, suddenly nervous. “I’m sorry, was that a bad word?”

“No, it’s..” your voice trails off, cheeks reddening. You turn around and stomp forward, hands tight around the straps of your backpack. “Forget it. Don’t call me that.”

He stays at his place on the street, feet glued to the pavement, wondering what he had done wrong. The guilt creeps in, and in an attempt to absolve it, he hands you a steaming hot pork bun in between classes, even though the heat burns his skin and his fingertips are still red at the end of the school day. It’s something he’s willing to do for your forgiveness. Over the years he will find that he’s willing to do a lot for it, actually. Later, over dinner, he finds out through your mother that it's actually a term of endearment, something close to ‘my love’. The two of you exchanged awkward, embarrassed glances across the table.

The second time he called you ‘sayang’, it was by accident again—spoken absentmindedly as he thanked you for explaining the assignment. Thank you sayang, he said, before realizing and slapping his mouth with his hand. You looked at him with an equal amount of shock and horror. You excused yourself to the bathroom to compose yourself, and when you returned, the two of you acted like it had never happened. He wanted to apologize, but apologizing would mean having to explain himself, and that explanation would mean having to tell you that he had tried learning Indonesian and thought of calling you ‘sayang’ the same way they did in your mother’s sinetrons (Indonesian soap operas).

And you weren’t sure the exact moment that things had changed for the two of you. Before, it was a co-existence, the understanding that you existed in each other's worlds and just that. Now, it had warped into an odd and unfamiliar shape. He was running up to you in the hall, babbling on and on about every single thing—he was more Kuroo than he ever was before around you. And you couldn’t help but notice how much bolder and brighter he seemed. In the mornings on the walk to school, next to you, smiling through his stories of his strange dreams—you couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were actually hazel and not brown, and for a moment, before your consciousness kicked in, you thought he looked beautiful.

The third time he called you ‘sayang’, it was on purpose. No longer a freudian slip or accident, but deliberately—with intention.

The two of you were in the infirmary—you, pressing an ice pack to his swollen cheek, and him, wincing at the sharp sensation. A fight had broken out. It was his friend, that same friend, calling you mute again, but this time Kuroo wasn’t as forgiving. There was the mashing of fists and bruises and a black eye again. His, not yours. Just like when you were kids the first time you met on the playground.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” you speak up, finding some strength in the words. A rage bubbled in your stomach. You couldn’t make up whether you were upset at him or for him. He reaches out to touch the skin of your wrist, the first time he had ever done anything of the sort, and tries his best to keep his swollen eye open. The red will turn ugly and purple within a matter of hours.

“I wanted to,” he says softly, almost like a whisper, voice hoarse from yelling. “They don’t get to do that. Not to you.”

Your expression is almost pained, torn between screaming at him for his showmanship or kissing him for it. You couldn’t decide.

“Still,” you sound, “you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” he repeats, this time, even softer. His other hand plucks out the second button from his uniform, his chest peeking through. He removes the ice pack and slips the button in between where your hand and his cheek meet. It’s still tender and aching, but the skin of his neck, where your pinkie finger grazed over, was so warm and inviting—so soft it seemed like a shame not to touch. You run your thumb over his jaw, tracing over the shape of it, and he winces. Still, he grabs your wrist and presses your hand against his cheek even harder, turning his head to plant a kiss on the skin of your palm.

You didn’t know your hands could ever feel like that. It was as if there were a hundred million nerves that you didn’t know previously existed, and now, suddenly all firing. It was almost too much.

“Sayang,” he mumbles into your hand, lips tracing on your skin—you don’t pull away. You are mesmerized, struck. How you went so long without having reached out for him you wouldn’t know. Again he calls you sayang, whispering it with his eyes closed, almost like a prayer. You bite your lip.

“Yes?” You answer.

His eyes flutter open, a small look of shock painted that is immediately replaced with relief, and then—a grin splitting his face, lips stretched as far as they could with the swelling. His hands wound tightly around yours, and again, that feeling of electricity, soaring right through you.

“You answered,” he says, almost breathlessly.

“You called,” you reply.

It would take 2 weeks for the black eye to heal completely, but even less time for him to slowly integrate ‘sayang’ into his everyday vocabulary. The word that once seemed awkward and bulky now slid off smoothly from his mouth every chance he got. He liked it. Liked the way it felt rolling off his tongue, liked the way you looked every time he did, but most importantly—he liked how nobody else (apart from your mother) called you that. Like an exclusive nickname, but thousand-fold. He tried learning Indonesian again, as an easy way to impress you. Selamat pagi (good morning). Terima kasih (thank you). Cantik (beautiful). On your birthday, he had prepared and memorized a little speech in your mother tongue. You laughed when he said ‘aku cinta kamu’. You tell him nobody says ‘I love you’ like that.

“They only use ‘aku sayang kamu’”, you explain.

“Why not ‘cinta’?” He pouts, flustered at his mistake. “Cinta also means love, right?”

“Cinta and sayang are different,” you explain, cutting into the cake your mother had baked: pandan with coconut and brown sugar frosting. She searched for the ingredients for weeks.

“Cinta is a declaration. Sayang is a promise,” you place the slice of cake on his plate, pushing it towards him, “sayang is the promise of loving someone no matter what—whether that love is reciprocated, whether it is burdensome.”

He shoves his mouth full in an attempt to soothe his embarrassment. The cake is fragrant and light, a foreign medley of flavors on his tongue. He looks over in your direction, happily digging into the treat, and worries that no matter how much he tries to learn about your culture, there will always be a divide—some unabridged gap he will never be able to cross. When the two of you join a cultural exchange trip to Indonesia in the summer before your senior year, he witnesses firsthand how you spring back to life—like a wilting plant finally being watered.

The two of you ravage through the city, attending bustling night markets and festivals. He watches in shock as you devour heaps of sambal with your food. You bargain with a lady for a fair price on batik, a souvenir and reminder of Indonesia that you wanted him to have. You wear these in weddings, you tell him. His mind wanders to you wearing white, walking down the aisle. You run up and down beaches, drink out of coconuts, plumeria flower tucked behind your ear, and chat with the locals—relieved to finally be surrounded by people who looked and talked like you. He watches you throw your head back laughing, and feels his heart ache. You had been homesick all this time. Trapped in a foreign country and forced to abandon your culture for his, living in a society that merely tolerated her identity, never embracing it. His home was not yours, this he now understood.

So when you told him that you were going to move back for college he wasn’t surprised. The country had recovered from the bloodbath of ‘98 and was now brimming with potential for growth. Even Forbes had called it the tiger of Southeast Asia. Some of your friends were also returning. It was a land of undiscovered opportunity.

“I have to go back,” you explained to him. “In Indonesia, I can be somebody; here, I am always second-class.”

And it stung, because he knew you were right, and he knew that it was cruel to make you stay—like keeping a butterfly in a jar. When he sends you off, he can’t help but think of his mother. That was one of the things the two of you had in common: the both of you leaving him. However, this time he doesn’t cry or scream or beg the way he did. He lets you go, maybe even with a little bit of grace, and he does so because cinta and sayang meant different things and he meant the latter.

“Aku sayang kamu,” he tells you as he waves you off. I love you. I love you enough to let you go.

When the two of you meet again, it will be years later and you will be older. You will be dressed in white and he will be in his batik that you had gotten for him all those years ago. He will stand, awestruck, as you walk down the aisle—not towards him, but towards somebody else, and his heart will ache in the way that it did only for you.

Sayang, he will think, but not in the affectionate way. In the way that implies unbelievable loss.

Sayang. A two-syllable word that’s used to convey both love and loss in the Indonesian language. It was strange, the way something could mean the exact opposite of itself, but Indonesian was strange like that. A language that was filled with metaphors and contradictions. One that is hard to forget, and even harder to unlearn. Each word carried a weight, a duality that made almost every conversation a dance between clarity and ambiguity. It was as if the language itself knew that life was never just one thing; it was a series of paradoxes, constantly contradicting itself, where joy and sorrow often walked hand in hand.

Its counterpart definition implied grief. You used it when talking about missed opportunities, or something that goes wrong when you wish it hadn’t. It almost means: what a shame. It was just one of those things that can’t be translated just as is, because the definition was so much deeper. The same way its first definition meant to love someone unconditionally, the second meant to describe the heartache that lingers in the face of loss, a longing that never quite fades. A word that blended affection and regret all in one and could only be understood by someone who felt both at once.

He felt it then, watching you get married to somebody else.

Sayang sekali, he says.

I love you, and also, what a waste.

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author’s note: my debut entry in the haikyuu fandom and its angst 😭😭 aNYWAYS WHERE ARE THE KUROO FANS MAKE SOME NOISE 🫵🫵🗣️🗣️‼️‼️ huge shoutout to @zumicho for having to hear me ramble on and on abt the fic and take forever to write it but it’s finally here !!!! and I’m so excited to share more w u guys aaaa I hope you guys like it 🥰🥰💥💥💥💥

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