Random Thoughts I Have Abt Hq

hold my heart (its beating for u anyway)

Nanami gets a strange feeling.

it’s in his bones, a simple vibration that he knows isn’t physically there, but it jitters still, slowly growing stronger and stronger. It’s a memory he can’t place, but so strong he can taste; it’s copper and sweat, the undercurrent of panic-

“Kento?” 

Nanami blinks away the thought and presses his thumbs into the bridge of his nose to calm the headache that’s started. When he looks up, you’re pushing the screen door open and joining him on the back porch.

Sunset has just begun, casting a golden glow against your skin. The ocean’s foam almost glows with sherbet tones as it laps the shore, so far and yet so close he can taste the salt.

“You okay, dear?”

The feeling hasn’t subsided; it rumbles stronger, like a train powering down the tracks.

“Of course, just tired.” Nanami places his book on the railing. The worn thin, water stained pages flutter in the breeze.

“Dinner’s ready if you’re up for it,” you say, “Yuuji’s setting the table right now.”

He pushes off of the chair with a grunt, his knees protesting the movement. The strange feeling sticks to his bones, begs to be acknowledged-

“All by himself?” Nanami pulls you in by the hip and presses a kiss into your temple as he passes, tugging you back inside. The door creaks closed, tapping his but when he doesn’t move fast enough. “When did he get so big?”

“I don’t know, but it breaks my heart a little!” you croon, “Our baby isn’t a baby anymore.”

“Well, don’t fret. If everything goes according to plan,” Nanami catches your mouth against his this time, “We’ll have another baby to whine about soon.”

You shine at that, but your smile quickly falters when you meet his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask, “You seem off.”

“Yes, just-” Nanami looks outside. The beach is the same as always, forever changing with each wave. Yuuji is singing to himself in the dining room, some jaunty thing he learned in preschool, though he’s not quite getting all of the words correct.

“I just had the feeling that I almost didn’t have all of this.”

okay but kuroo having a baby brother because his dad got married again and had another kid with his new wife and they look so much alike and they're like besties and he buys him personalized volleyball jerseys and always brings him along to the national team's games 🥺 and the boys are probably obsessed with him and he thinks they're the funniest bros ever and its just soft and cute and urgh i want kuroo tetsuro to father my children so bad

Im gonna be so real can yall actually talk about ways we can support trans women in the UK instead of giving all the attention to fucking JKR. I already know that Harry Poter sucks, I wanna know how to actually HELP people. Something something you have to love the oppressed more than you hate the oppressor

bae. @avtso

take it easy baby, make it last all night - iwaizumi hajime/f!reader (1.5k) tags: cali!iwa, college!iwa, tit worship, dry humping, mentioned cumming in pants, no actual sex (sorry fellas), bi iwa is canon and if you disagree you're a coward xo!

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT - 18+

iwaizumi's biggest culture shock when he moves from japan to california for school isn't the different language, the heat, or even the party culture at UCI. 

it's the SKIN.

hajime has never stopped to consider the conservative conventions of his home country at any great length, since it's all he's ever known. but suddenly he's in sunny SoCal, and everywhere he looks he's met with glimpses of exposed skin—of parts of strangers' bodies he never thought he'd see. 

it flusters him at first; never quite sure where to look when he's speaking to a girl in a low-cut crop top, or a guy he meets out on a jog who'd forgone a shirt. but he acclimatizes to it eventually. comes to appreciate it in many ways, too.

take the humble tube top, for instance.

sure he likes bikinis, and mini skirts, and those skimpy skin-tight dresses girls wear on nights out. he likes those tiny running shorts that ride up on the track teams thighs when they go out for runs on campus near the athletics building, muscle tees cut low under the arms that the guys at the gym wear, or those grey-sweatpants whose infamy hajime has come to understand.

but there's something about tube tops that he just adores.

or, at least, something about you wearing one.

he's been watching you quietly for most of the night, flitting around the party like you normally do, nursing your drink in small sips to make it last. your tube top clings snugly to your chest, and fuck he's pretty sure you're not even wearing a bra underneath it. he watches the way your body moves, the way the top moves with it. the way your tits lift and settle again, pretty and soft, each time you subtly adjust the top with a little tug. 

you gravitate towards him in intervals throughout the night, like a moth to a flame.

that's another thing hajime's come to like about america: no one bats an eye at PDA.

you sit comfortably in his lap on the sofa at the house party, playing with his fingers where his hand rests on your thigh. your body is warm. his body is warm. the party's crowded, the little house off campus jammed with students and driving the temperature up, but still he keeps you exactly where you are with his arm looped around your waist.

"hey," you say, peeking back at him over your shoulder after a while of idly tracing your fingertips along his knuckles. "you having fun?"

he is, but probably not for the reasons you think. he couldn't care less about the merriment around him: the happiest he's been all night are the moments where you've drifted back within arm's reach. he nods anyway.

you pout a little, and it surprises him.

"you wanna get outta here?" he asks curiously, picking up on your unvoiced disappointment. your eyes watch his lips as they shape the question, and then flicker back up to his.

"yeah."

the first year hajime spent in california, he lived in a tiny UCI dorm. the second, he moved into a small apartment off campus with some friends he'd met at school. the apartment isn't luxurious by any stretch of the imagination. it's austere; spartanly decorated; and with four college-age boys living in it, it isn't always the tidiest place. but one thing he appreciates about his living arrangement is that on a friday night, the place is usually empty.

not to mention it has a double bed.

hajime has you sprawled across it almost as soon as the two of you stumble through his bedroom door. you laugh a little at his eagerness as you tip back onto the mattress, bouncing lightly atop the padded springs, and then he's crawling in overtop of you, pressing his mouth against yours.

he's greedy as he kisses you, like he's making up for all the times he thought about it while he watched you that night from afar. his hands are just as intrepid, drifting along your body in careful but keen grazes and gropes. everything about you is so soft—it makes his head spin how delicate every part of you he touches feels. the soft swells of your curves, the silkiness of your skin, the little sounds he pulls from you when the presses against the places you like most.

he leans back on his knees, poised between your parted thighs as you lay flat on your back underneath him, and finally—after hours of praising its very existence—hajime tugs down the neckline of your tube top.

your chest spills out as the thin material is drawn away by a single finger looped under the edge as leverage. as your skin, all of your skin, is bared to him, hajime finds himself once again so so pleased with his decision to study abroad. 

god bless america has never rung so true.

"fuck, you're so pretty," hajime groans, cupping a hand around each of your tits and pressing them together. you laugh but it's a breathy sound, more air than anything. his thumbs skim gently against the edges of your nipples, working them into stiff little peaks. after a moment, he dips down and catches one in his mouth, closing his lips around it so his tongue can take up the task.

he continues like this for a while, alternating between each breast, switching from his hands to his mouth as he lavishes your skin with attention and sates the thirst that had built throughout the evening. when he opts to use his hands, his mouth quickly finds its way to somewhere else, keeping itself occupied—your collarbones, your throat, your jaw, your lips. he kisses every inch of you that he can reach, but pays special attention to any little freckle or mark he finds along his way, dragging the tip of his tongue against them like he's savouring the taste of them most.

the two of you have been grinding lazily against each other while he devours you. iwa’s straddling one of your trembling thighs, his knee pressed firmly against the seam of your tiny denim shorts, and his painfully hard cock is pinned against your hip as he holds himself up over you. your tube top is still rucked down around your ribs, and iwa’s own t-shirt had been hastily tugged off over his head at some point during the excitement.

"hajime," you pant, tugging against the short hair at his nape as he suckles a bruise into the top of your left breast. he draws back only enough to meet your eyes, though his are unfocused and heavy-lidded, and his warm breath catches on the wet mark of spit left where his lips had just been attached. you look similarly wrecked: lips swollen and kiss-bruised, your stare glassy, your skin dewy with the flush of perspiration. your lips are still parted after having uttered his name so desperately.

that’s another thing iwa likes about it here. he likes being called by his name.

especially like this.

hajime rocks his hips against your own again, pressing his knee against you a little harder, groaning and he dips down and nips at your skin once more.

“i think i’m gonna cum,” he admits through gritted teeth, half-embarrassed and half-recklessly chasing the high he feels cresting in the pit of his stomach. he’s barely even touched you yet—at least not in any way that counts—but seeing you like this in his bed, tasting you in the way he has been, feeling your body react underneath his own, it’s all just a bit too much.

you could chide him for his clumsy eagerness and he wouldn’t even blame you for it, he feels like a pent-up teenager when he gets like this. but you don’t tease him, or reprimand him. instead, you take his cheeks in your hands and guide his lips back up to yours, letting his tongue slide—hot and wet and indecently noisy—against your own.

“cum then,” you whisper into his mouth, canting your hips up to meet the next roll of his. “wanna feel it, haji.”

and fuck if it’s not the hottest thing he’s ever heard.

iwaizumi moans brokenly, his hips picking up a steadier rhythm as he ruts against you. he’s being greedy, he knows that, but how could he deny you your request when you posed it so sweetly?

but he’ll make you feel good afterwards, just like he always does. unclasping the button at the waist of those tiny shorts, peeling them down with the same reverence he’d paid to your top and turning his rapt attention to what he bares there in just the same way too.

it’s friday night in sunny southern california, after all. and hajime intends to make the most of every minute.

please donate to sami’s family if you can. the cruelty of israel allowing palestinians to have false hope with the “ceasefire” only to tear the rug out from under them can’t be understated—and that’s in addition to the murder, rape, torture, and more committed by israel day in and day out. sami’s family has already been through far too much. consider using “little treat” money on a suffering family.

ATTENTION

If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)

Fill-a-Page February day 23!

I was in a Kuroo kind of mood today. His hair is such a disaster zone omg.

there are reasons why a body stays in motion

summary: you work too hard—kita knows it the second he meets you. he’s not expecting you to take him up on his offer. you don’t either, until you end up on his farm.

tags: shinsuke kita x reader, strangers to lovers, fluff, smut (oral, reader receiving), afab reader (no pronouns used, terms for body parts used("clit")), reader is a first responder, kita is a mother hen wc: 4.7k

the farmer’s market is quiet. mostly because it hasn’t opened yet.

you walk between stalls as the owners of them set up, smiling softly at those who greet you. it’s still a little dark out—the grass under your feet still a little dewy without a sun to warm it. if you were anyone else, you might still be in bed.

but you never made it to bed. in fact, you’ve been up for more hours than you care to count. that much is obvious by the way you sway slightly on your feet in front of Hanaka’s tomatoes.

“hey, you,” she murmurs, affectionate and maternal—reaching beneath the wood top to grab the coffee she’s brought you, as is your weekly tradition. “long night?”

“mm,” you hum around the plastic lid, tipping your head back. the coffee is a little bitter and a little grainy, but it doesn’t matter. truthfully, you’ve been up for so long that things are starting to lose their taste. in this case, that might be for the best. “on call. the phone just kept ringing.”

she nods, sympathy apparent on her face, and you know she understands. Hanaka is retired now—blissfully so, she says—but when you met, she was your coworker. she’d adopted you as some sort of pseudo-child, teaching you and looking out for you. it was a loss when she left, but you were happy she finally was getting to rest. when you found out she’d reserved a stall at the market, you made the effort to be there. even if it meant losing out on your rest.

“silly of you to come straight here,” she admonishes you sweetly, in the way that only she can. it makes you smile.

“and let the coffee get cold? never.”

she rolls her eyes, turning to busy herself with stacking deep green cucumbers into weaved baskets. you let your eyes roam the spread in front of you, reaching to brush a fingertip over the waxy skin of a tomato. your stomach growls—abrupt, and loud.

Hanaka snorts, shaking her head as she calibrates the scale. “head down the row,” she says, pointing in front of her without looking, “there’s a stand that does rice.”

you feel a bit like a zombie as you move among the crowd—still mostly vendors, until you can smell someone cooking. your feet bring you to a halt in front of a grey-haired man, shaping neat triangles of rice around what appears to be pickled cabbage and bean curd. your mouth waters.

"we're not quite open yet—oh." he pauses when he looks up at you, concern immediate and all over his face, "you need to sit down, darlin'?"

it makes you laugh. "is it that bad?"

he smiles at you, directing the man to his left to bring you a folding chair. you thank him, plopping unceremoniously into the seat. when you look up, there's an expertly assembled onigiri in your face.

"ah." it's warm in your fingers and you fight the urge to unhinge your jaw and shove the entire thing in your mouth. "thank you...?"

"Kita," he says, and his smile is kind in a way that feels a little disarming this early in the morning, "don't mention it. can't have you passin' out in front of my stall—s'bad for business."

you chuckle around a mouth full of rice—and holy shit, is it good. you try to tell him that, but to stop eating does not feel like an option. it makes him laugh.

"glad to hear it. can't take credit for the recipe—but the rice is from me."

"you're a farmer?"

"mm. have been for more than a few years now. just started comin' to the market though."

you nod, shoving the last of the onigiri in your mouth and greatly suppressing the urge to lick the stray bits of grain off your fingers.

he goes back to work, packing and shaping in a way that feels casual, but you have a hunch that the motions are some that he's practiced greatly. your lack of sleep emboldens you to let your eyes wander—his hands are calloused and careful, and it's obvious what he does just by the look of them. corded muscle flexes under sun tanned forearms as he shapes each onigiri with great focus, and you find yourself fascinated by the repetition.

"y'think you're closer to livin' now?"

you look up and find his eyes already on you, mirth all over his face. you grin, caught, warmth spreading up your neck.

"think so. what do i owe you?"

"nothin'," he waves you off, brown eyes crinkling. "just go take a nap."

you smile—warmed by his generosity. you get up and leave of rough estimate of coins on top of his register anyway. "see you later then, Kita."

.

..

later comes quicker than you thought. the very next week, as it turns out. you're a little more rested when you see him again, and it's the first thing he notices.

"y'look like you slept." he says by way of a greeting, handing you another perfectly formed onigiri—this time with pickled plum and what you suspect is salmon. it falls apart decadently in your mouth, the flavors complimentary and not overpowering against the rice. it's good.

"i did," you tell him around a mouth full, "wasn't on call last night."

he smiles, gentle around his eyes, as he watches you. "work?"

you nod. "social work—kids, mostly."

he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the counter. he considers you for a moment before he speaks again.

"so not sleepin' is normal for ya."

you shrug, avoiding his gaze. it's a little too early in the day to feel chastised by a man you only just met last week, even if he is admittedly a little handsome and insists on feeding you. he sighs, reaching for a stray piece of register paper.

"you like ducks?"

"like, the bird?" you look up at him, eyebrows arched in confusion. "yeah, i suppose i do."

he smiles down at the paper, scribbling a few lines down on it and handing it to you. "have a few babies that just hatched in the paddies. come by and see 'em if you ever feel like y'need a rest."

he waves you off, turning back to his work, and leaves you a little shellshocked as you look down at the paper. it has an address on it—for what you assume is his farm. you fold it neatly and push it down into the pocket of your jeans with the mental reminder of taking it out before you wash them. you shake your head, smiling to yourself as you turn and head back down the lane, dodging a few folks that are entering the market. you have a few hours before work—just enough time to knock out on the couch.

.

..

a few weeks later, you find yourself bouncing down a rocky lane, rice paddies on either side of the thin road. you figure you have to be in the right place, but feel a little nervous until you arrive to a little cabin at the end of the gravel, the numbers on your paper painted neatly on the side of the mailbox.

it's late—probably too late to be stopping by unannounced—but Kita didn't give you a phone number, and the day had been long. the thought of baby ducks and looking at anything that wasn't the blue light of your laptop felt like a lifeline.

he's leaning against the doorframe as you shut the car door behind you. you smile when you see him—maybe sneaking a little peak at the way his white t-shirt stretches around the biceps he has crossed over his chest. he doesn't say anything until you clear the porch steps.

"y'alright?" he asks quietly. it's a little startling—you're always careful not to let the effects of the day show. you feel exposed in front of him, and it has you shifting on your feet.

"i believe i was promised baby ducks."

the corners of his eyes crinkle and you find yourself genuinely charmed. he doesn't acknowledge your lack of an answer, and you're grateful for it.

"sit," he says, gesturing to a wooden rocker on the porch, "i'll grab 'em."

you do as he says, leaning back and taking in the view. the sun simmers a deep red on the horizon, bathing everything in it's hue. the paddies stretch on for what feels like miles. the house itself feels like an island—the one lane road it's only connection to life beyond it.

the rocker creaks as you push your toe against the porch, swaying gently back and forth. it's quiet, save for the chirp of the cicadas and the occasional bloat of a bullfrog. you jump when you feel something furry rub against your shin.

you look down and are greeted by an orange cat with the most round cheeks you've ever seen. old and a little ratty, it chirps at you, headbutting your leg.

"hello there," you smile, bending forward to scratch behind it's ears. "where'd you come from?"

"that's Barn Cat," Kita says, trudging up the wooden steps. "he hangs out in the fields."

you chuckle, looking up at him. "his name is Barn Cat?

"yup," his grin is contagious. you let your eyes roam around him, looking for the ducks he was supposed to get. they stop on the pouch he's created out of his shirt—widening as you hear several little quacks come from inside of it.

"hold out yer hands," he says, standing in front of you now. you do as your told, and a few seconds later, there's a teeny tiny baby in your palms.

"oh my god," you breathe, not quite able to wrap your brain around how something can be so small, "oh my god."

Kita chuckles, smiling when you look up at him. something about it brings you back to this moment—you're suddenly very aware that you've interrupted this man's evening and ordered him around at his own house.

"i'm sorry for showing up like this," you say quietly, running a fingertip over the downy-soft little body that's now nestled in your lap.

"no need. i'm glad yer here."

you can feel that the smile you give him doesn't quite reach your eyes, and you know that he notices.

"long day?"

you hum, watching the tiny duck tail twitch in its sleep. suddenly feeling a little envious of the rest it's able to get, and how simple its life will be. wake up, swim around, eat bugs, go to sleep. it won't ever think about anyone else. its little conscious will always be clear.

"yeah," you murmur. "it was."

he moves to sit down in the rocker next to you, smiling at the little duck that has taken up all of your attention. when you look up, his eyes are gentle and unwavering from yours. you're certain he's looking too deeply, but you know there's nothing you can do.

"i should get going," you say, mostly to convince yourself that it is true. Kita's mouth turns downward for only a moment, and then that soft smile is back again.

"give me yer phone," he murmurs, extending a hand toward you. you shrug, pulling it out and handing it to him. he types something quick and hands it back to you, Shinsuke Kita and a phone number on the screen.

"meant it when i said you can come by anytime," he tells you, hand lingering still in your space. "call me if ya need anything."

.

..

you get to texting, after that. it's funny—he's a man of few typed words, so you learn about his days through pictures. a criminally early shot of the rice paddies. the baby ducks that look bigger each day. Barn Cat sprawled out in the sun on the porch. dinner there, too—filleted tuna and rice under a waning sun. sometimes he calls, when your schedule allows it. the low timbre of his voice through the speaker frequently (and embarrassingly) lulls you to sleep. you have a hunch that he does it on purpose.

you've showed up at the farm enough times now that you're unable to use the excuse of the ducks anymore, especially now that they're bigger and far less cuddly, but neither of you acknowledge it. he starts showing you around. walks across narrow paths in the fields become excuses to bring you inside—into his home. the cabin is quaint and cozy, and decorated in a way that surprises you. pictures cover the walls—some of Kita as an adult, but mostly of Kita as a child, which makes him bashful and you smile. you stop at one of him as a chubby toddler, sitting in the lap of a woman he's clearly the spitting image of.

"that's gram," he says quietly, behind you. "this is her place. i moved out here when she got sick, and then i just..."

"stayed," you whisper, tracing the edge of the frame with your fingertip. he hums, closer to you now.

"didn't feel right t'leave."

you think it's admirable, but you don't want to embarrass him, so you keep it you yourself. he leads you down the hall, pointing out rooms as he goes—bathroom (you can't hide your surprise at the massive clawfoot tub in the center of it. he just shrugs, continuing down the hall—flushed up to his neck. it makes you smile.), guest room ("mostly unoccupied," he says, and you wonder if it was intentional). his bedroom is slightly larger than the guest room and considerably less decorated, but still tastefully so—the bed is large and looks temptingly soft, and the dresser adjacent to it is an antique, heavy and well-loved. you both linger in the doorway, coated in warm lamp light and shoulders brushing, not talking much and still saying a lot between you.

"you hungry?" he asks, voice a little gruff. you shrug, following him into the kitchen. you take a seat at the bar stool on the other side of the counter, watching him work.

he doesn't ask what you want and truthfully, you know he doesn't need to. there hasn't been a time yet that you haven't liked something Kita's made you. he moves with the same fluidity and grace he does at the market—he prepares your food with the same care, too. you watch him blatantly, this time. his brow furrows a little as he plates it. it's cute—it makes you ache.

you're expecting it to be good, but this is really good—unagi over rice, soft and chewy when it hits your tongue. you groan audibly, savoring each bite. Kita grins at you across the counter.

"good?" he asks, even though he doesn't need to.

you nod emphatically, not bothering to pause long enough to answer him.

"good." he looks awfully proud of himself. that ache twists in your chest again. "don't make it too often. glad ya like it."

it's quiet between you as you eat—you try to leave a few extra for him because he was nice enough to make you something so luxurious, but it's hard to stop yourself.

you linger in the cabin for the next hour or so, finding every reason to stay until you can't anymore.

"y'know," Kita mutters, looking a little shy, "yer welcome to stay in that guest bedroom. s'not like anyone else uses it."

he goes red immediately and it makes you smile. you fight yourself hard to keep from teasing him.

"i have to work early tomorrow," for the first time, that fact feels disappointing. "but i'd be happy to next time."

the smile he gives you leaves you a little breathless. "be careful gettin' home."

.

..

next time comes sooner than you thought it would.

the weekend comes and you shoot him a text, asking him what he's doing tonight. his reply comes immediately—whatever you're doing. come over—i'll cook.

you sit outside to watch the sunset after dinner. it goes down past the hills, extinguishing the light like the flame of a candle. you kick your feet out over the rail in front of you. the cicadas sing from their perches in the trees and the paddies look like an undulating, dark sea from where you sit. the only light is the dim bulb above your head, and the stars don’t pay it any mind. bright and shining, you can’t remember a time that you’ve seen so many.

“do you ever get lonely?”

he’s watching you—you can feel your skin warm where his gaze lingers, but you keep yours in front of you. Kita’s been the picture of hospitality, sweet in the way he’s shown care to you—but he’s seldom talked about himself. you feel vulnerable, toeing the line. he’s silent for a moment, and then it stretches on long enough that you start to regret asking.

“s’hard to, out here with all of this noise.” he says it lightheartedly, but you wonder if he’s deflecting. you have your answer a moment later when he says, quieter, “at night, mostly. y’notice when yer the only person for miles.”

you hum, picking at a splinter in the wooden arm of your chair. you feel the same, somehow. though you have trouble understanding how you can feel lonely being around as many people as you are. you tell him as much.

“they don’t really see you though, right?” he asks, but it’s rhetorical. “you help ‘em but it’s one sided. they remember what y'did but they don’t know who you are.”

it never fails to rattle you, his ability to see right through you. your face heats. “that’s the way it should be.”

“sure,” he says, smiling softly. “but it weighs on ya.”

you tuck your knees under your chin and close your eyes—frustrated, knowing that he's right and still wanting to fight him on it. you jump when his knuckles brush against your own.

"i didn't mean to upset ya, darlin'."

"you didn't," you murmur, shaking your head and willing your limbs to relax, "you're right. i just wish you weren't."

he smiles and keeps the back of his hand pressed to yours. it's a sonic interruption to the silence—you're so aware of the warmth of his skin that you feel it in your eardrums. you wonder if he can, too.

it's a while before you speak again—to bid him goodnight, even if you don't want to.

"goodnight, darlin'." his voice is low and soft, nearly a whisper over the cry of cicadas. you still hear it like he screamed it. "extra quilts're in the closet."

it makes you smile, how he can't help but make sure you're comfortable. it would be easy to mistake it for something else—something more.

"goodnight, Kita."

.

..

you get in the car and drive on muscle memory alone. eyes burning, you dial the number you now know by heart.

"hey darlin'," Kita's voice comes through the speaker like a warm blanket. it helps to settle you.

"hi," you croak, immediately wishing you'd taken a minute to get it together before you called him.

there's a pause. "you been cryin'?"

"only a little." you don't see a point in lying to him. "you around?"

"yeah, i'm here—where are you? i'll come get ya, don't want ya drivin' out here upset—"

you let out a wet laugh, shaking your head. "i'm alright, Kita. i'm already halfway there. i just wanted to let you know i'd be over."

there's another pause, and you can hear the way he's fighting with himself on the other end of the line.

"alright," he says finally, "be careful."

he's waiting on the porch steps when you pull up to the cabin. you're barely out of the car before he's pulling you into his chest. new tears threaten to spill over into the fabric of his shirt. you can feel the way he softens himself to hold you—like you'll shatter in his arms if he's not careful.

"c'mon," he whispers into your hair, "let's go in."

he takes your coat (and your shoes, and your bag) before he's pulling you closer again—keeping you tucked under his arm like something will swoop down and snatch you up if he's not careful. you'd laugh if you weren't soaking in every second of his affection like a sponge.

"can i run a bath for ya?" he asks, reaching to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. the callouses on his fingers brush the curve of it and it makes you shiver. you nod.

he only leaves you for a few moments before he's back, corralling you down the hall and into the bathroom. there's a pile of comfy sweats folded and set on the toilet, and a fluffy towel hanging on the hook.

"holler if ya need anything."

you smile at him, a little more genuine this time, and he leaves you to it. you strip the clothes from your body slowly, hoping that if you do it right, the day will come off with it. you sink down into the warmth of the water and sigh. your eyes start to burn again as you lean your head back on the rim of the tub, this time just at Kita's kindness. you feel guilty for relying on it.

you feel guilty knowing you've been keeping what's in your heart hidden from him.

you use his soap, knowing you'll smell like him—knowing it won't be enough to satiate the longing you feel, but doing it anyway. you're not sure when it started—if it hadn't been there all along—but it's been tearing up your insides for months. he makes it worse with the way he cares for you. it's almost cruel.

you drag yourself out of the tub eventually, drying off in record time just to be swallowed by his clothes , soft and warm and smelling of him. you brush your hair out in the mirror and tie it up on top of your head. you feel a little more like a person now.

Kita's up and hovering at the end of the hallway as soon as you open the bathroom door. you manage a little laugh this time—mostly content and only a little guilty, letting him mother hen over you. you close the distance between you, looping your arms around his middle. you feel him relax, just a little bit.

"you need to talk about it?" he asks, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you closer. you shake your head. "alright. come lay down."

he penguin walks you down the hall, grinning when you laugh. he moves right past the guest bedroom and into his.

he arranges you on the bed to his liking—cocooned in blankets and reclined against his pillows. he lays down next to you, on top of the comforter. respectful of your space, even if you wish he wasn't.

"thanks for taking care of me," you whisper, turning your head to look at him. "sorry for turning up like this."

his eyebrows knit together like he's never heard a more wrong thing in his life. "i'll have ya any way you turn up."

you blink at him, feeling like you've short circuited. you huff out a laugh, closing your eyes. "how unfair."

"mm?"

you open your eyes and feel stuck, pinned to the bed underneath his stare. there aren't many other options than to spill your guts onto his sheets.

"you make it hard not to love you, Kita."

he freezes, eyes locked on yours. your stomach ties and unties itself, but you can't look away.

it's another agonizing moment before either of you even breathes, and then you blink, and he's hovering over top of you, hands planted on either side of your head.

"say it again."

"i love you." it feels like the easiest thing you've ever said.

"tell me i've got it wrong," he rasps, leaning in to nose along your cheek.

"you don't."

your hand fists around the material of his shirt and you yank him down to your waiting mouth. it feels exactly the way you knew it would—warm and soft, not unlike the feeling you get every time you walk through his door. it’s gentle and unhurried, and you know he knows no other way. you let him break you apart slowly. 

he pulls away from your lips, only to press soft kisses to your cheeks, your chin, your brow bone. his mouth brushes against your temple and to your horror, you let out the world’s most pitiful little moan. 

his eyes go wide as he looks down at you, flushed and breathing hard beneath him. your fingers still tangled in his shirt, he closes his own around them and brings them to his lips. he keeps his eyes on you when presses them to the sensitive skin of the inside of your wrist. 

you feel no control of your reaction—your eyes flutter closed as the rest of you shudders underneath him. it’s so little and it’s almost too much. you know he’s figured you out when you’re able to meet his gaze again—deep brown filled with as much adoration as they are hunger. 

“tell me what you need, darlin’.”

"your mouth," you whimper, feeling hot.

"where?" his smile turns a little wicked, still pressed to your skin.

"everywhere."

if you were overwhelmed before, it would pale in comparison to this—his kisses turn hard and heavy, soft lips sucking harsh bruises into your skin. you keen and whine underneath him, writhing both toward and away from his searching mouth. he doesn't take his sweatshirt off of you—he just pushes it up to kiss every inch of skin it exposes. he only pauses to check in with you, only stopping for a second to ask half of a question you'd already started answering before he'd asked it.

he cradles your waist in strong, wide hands and bends down to lap at your navel, nipping sensitive flesh, tongue slipping inside the dip of your belly button.

your hips buck violently, whimpering into the crook of your elbow while you reach down to card your fingers through silver strands. you feel yourself making a mess of his sweatpants.

"please, Kita," you hiccup, nearly slurred in his onslaught. he hums against your skin and you feel it in your belly.

"s'alright sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing gentler kisses between your hipbones, taking the elastic of the sweatpants down with them. "i got ya."

he reduces you to something less than human with the hot slide of his mouth against the inside of your thighs, licking and sucking his way up to where you need him the most and then back down, too far away. it takes a wholly unreasonable amount of begging to get him there, and to get him to stay.

"please, please i just need—oh," your spine bows off the bed and then pulls taut at the feeling of his tongue sliding slowly through your wet heat. he lets out a groan at the taste of you, and you watch through hooded eyes as he grinds his hips into the mattress.

one hand keeps a steeled grip in his hair, and the other one sneaks under his sweatshirt to pull at your nipples. it's sensory overload—the feeling of the pebbled flesh under your fingers and the way Kita suckles gently on your clit has you squealing. he opens his mouth, panting and tongue lolled out, encouraging you to ride it. you don't need to be asked twice.

every snap of your hips against his face pulls a weak moan from him, and a louder one from you. everything is wet and hot and your thighs shake around his head with every drag of your achy clit across his tongue.

"Kita," you whimper, feeling the warmth start to spread, "gonna cum—i'm—"

it damn near melts you into the mattress. every muscle in your body contracts and then releases, leaving you immobile under his tongue. he holds your thighs apart, sucking on your clit while you shake and cry under him. it doesn't stop—every brush of his tongue pulls another dizzying contraction from deep inside you. he only relents when he's licked up every last drop of you.

he kisses his way back up your body and you feel like you're on fire. when he presses his lips to yours again, finally, it douses it. you only smolder underneath him now.

forehead pressed to his, you can't help but let out a little giggle. he grins, his pretty mouth pulled up in the corners, and presses another round of kisses to your jaw.

"i love you," you sigh, pulling him closer. he hums.

"i love you," he nips at the point of your chin, "and you're callin' out sick tomorrow."

there's nothing in your heart that wants to argue with him.