hi hi i’m nyushaaaa,, og since card 242, im a boxer & do mma
love the kavkaz fighters especially but willing to write on request for other fighters! mainly wish to write fluff/angst/slow burn but later on wish to explore tension n smut hehehk haven’t written since quarantine lockdown so im a bit rusty >:))
masterlist
Ikram Aliskerov:
PART 1: https://www.tumblr.com/amrubabie/801341575619903488/between-mountains-and-ikram-aliskerov-part-1
PART 2: https://www.tumblr.com/amrubabie/802218484629209088/between-mountains-and-ikram-aliskerov-part-2
SYNOPSIS — Helping the quiet TA, who shrinks himself down to avoid taking too much space, come out of his shell. You’re slowly understanding why he thrives in an environment where he’s told what to do — and he shows you why he’s hesitant to be in charge.
TAGS — MDNI (18 + only) nsfw. work contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. Gentle Giant!Choso, Dork!choso, overly freaked out!reader. Nerd!choso, SIZE KINK, sub to top(M), Switchy. rough. making out. couch sex. lifting. mutual masturbation. Changing positions. Missiònary. excessive use of sexual innuendos, dacryphilla, inconsistent writing (?). Choso will do anything you ask. PWP. Teasing, Degradation (both). pet names. crack.fluff. reader is nice to him obv. but freaked out.
WC: 14k — art by k4eny on twt
a/n: Hello blog, IM VERY HAPPY W THIS ONE and i promise to not leave u high and dry! this is highly inspired by an augustinthewinter audio (im a #freak) — Also what if I release my drabbles HEH
75%
The score read on your last mock test for your Historiography class. Your worst subject for the semester by far. Next week was going to be your midterm. Now, since your professor, Mr. Gojo, knows his students a little too well, he facilitated a surprise mock text to see how much you all understood the lessons.
A chorus of curses and groans start filling up the classroom with each student receiving their results as they’re handed out.
“…Now I can assure you, if you guys are worried about scoring higher than each other, it won’t matter because theoretically almost all of you failed.”
Another set of groans and a little bit of laughter comes from the class. You’re back to looking down on your paper, flipping through the pages to check every question and each correction out of habit, noting down what you have to improve on. Then you stumble upon the last page with the words;
Feel free to ask for help :) You smile, knowing exactly who wrote this without them being in the room. You look up to double check and you’re right, it was just your prof still going on about Khaldun or something — you tune him out to make way for the giddy feeling rushing through your stomach.
Usually you’d hate for people to offer help when you’re forced to do something you were unprepared for, taking the sentiment as a passive aggressive version of getting called incompetent but this time, you ponder while rereading the sweet little note in green ink— of course he used green ink to avoid students from being discouraged — and it's one of those times your stupidity has done you some good.
It’s an hour and a half later when class ends, people filing up to leave the doors of the lecture hall when a voice calls out to you.
You smile at your professor, a little strained, but it’s okay, you tell yourself, you expected it. You walk up to him, bag on your shoulder, unzipped because you rushed down. You’re still smiling when you’re there, already preparing for what he has to say.
The smile falls and you sigh, “I know that look.”
He’s standing with his arms crossed, dark shades balanced on his straight nose, looking down at you with nothing short of paternal disappointment. “Yes, and you shouldn’t be too familiar with it either. Seventy-five? really? I thought we were talking recommendation letters last week, turns out you’re barely passing my class?”
You swallow back, not really knowing what to do so you kinda just stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to air out his worries. “I know it's like, a little weird to put this much pressure on you but c’mon kid, you’re looking at being the next assistant after Choso to help your resumé right?”
You nod, still not saying anything, but you can’t deny how you perk up when you heard his name.
Your professor pauses briefly mid rant after spotting how you only met his eyes when he mentioned his current TA’s name, a light bulb flickers on in his head.
He squints, “You’ve been familiar with each other, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” You’re quick to reply, stopping yourself from physically gulping out of nervousness.
“He been showing you the ropes bit by bit?” he mutters, uncrossing his arms and leaning over the desk.
“Bit by bit, yes.” You echo, unable to reply without being scared of saying the wrong thing to tick him off.
“And…” He feigned thinking about it, fidgeting with he pen in his hand and tapping the butt end of it on a thick stack of paper. “…He’s also helping with lessons to keep your grades up?”
You say nothing, keeping your mouth flat and shut. You peer up at him, and shake your head slowly, “No sir.”
He tsks, standing up to his full height. “It’s not necessary but you’re aware there’s an average for you to keep up just to become a TA right? We wouldn’t want students biting off more than they could chew.”
You nod once more, though this time, a lot more fervently. “I—yes, sorry. I’ll-“
“Get to it, yeah.” He finished for you, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He waits for you to move, watching how you’re still standing there and waiting for him to also tell you to move. You’re so alike, he thinks.
He nods upwards, dismissing you. You thank him while you’re already turned your back, eagerly making your way to your next mission.
Gojo watches the door swing inwards from the impact of your departure, a smile in his tone when he mutters to no one, “That’ll give her some motivation.”
You’re rushing to your next class now, given the fifteen minute grace period you were granted had now been shaved down to ten, no thanks to your professor, forcing you to take two steps at a time when making your way to the other side of the building.
You’re looking down at your phone, deleting and retyping a message in your instagram dms. It’s when you pass the stairway that an unexpected force uncontrollably comes on to you. You thud against it, breath caught, hand tightly clutching at your phone. You stumble on your steps, holding onto the closest thing you feel for. You don’t fall, you don’t even come close to the ground, but your knees certainly felt like they couldn’t carry you.
Because here you stood against a very worried, very tightly holding you, Choso Kamo. Your mind blanks, your class just a few doors away, forgotten. Unintentionally, a small smile spreads on your face.
“Hey, I was—“ He laughs nervously, “I was looking for you.” His hands wrap around your nearly limp arms, almost covering the expanse of it, yet held at a respectable position.
“You okay?” He tilts his head down to meet your eyes, a look of concern etching back on his terribly handsome face, he swallows thickly and you watch his adam’s apple bob decorating his thick neck.
He takes a second to peer back at the stairs, then back to you before he realizes how his grip still clutched on you. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his hands down at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I was about to-“
“-Me too actually.” Cutting him off, you couldn’t help but smile even wider, uncaring if you looked too excited. You raised your phone, “Was about to send a dm but I got class in like,” You flip the screen to face you, “two minutes.” A pinch of apprehension makes its way to you but you push it back.
His eyes widen behind his rectangular frames, lenses making them appear bigger than they actually are.
“Really? Shit, “ He cursed, regretful, “I don’t have class anymore so I could just wait out—”
“Sit in with me?” It comes out of you before you could stop it. “—or not.” You quickly add, retreating. “I could just go and email you.”
“No—I mean, Of course. Yes. Me, I’ll go.” He smiled with a toothy grin, ignoring how you said email instead of your socials in hopes you won’t bring up how he stuttered over his words. You’re caught off guard and before you know it, he’s already making his way to the door without even being sure which class it was.
He’s reaching for the handle when you stop him, “Oh, next door, please.” He nods bashfully, adjusting the strap of his comically small backpack on himself and apologizes under his breath. He follows you inside, you push, prying the door open. His palm flat against the wood, effortlessly holding it for you both.
Luckily your professor hadn’t been in class yet, so you weren’t spotted as the only late comer (technically no, with company, you weren’t.) The class was sparsely filled as it was only part of your minor and this schedule wasn’t as popular, so you could basically sit anywhere. You scan over the room, and you spot some seats at the very front. You’re about to take a step forward when you realize you’re being a little rude.
“Where d’ya wanna sit?” You ask, head tilted up with a smile. You try to ignore the gleefulness that comes with the idea you’re gonna be seated next to him. Again, you push this feeling down, knowing it’s completely unprofessional and straight up childish. Though conversely, what you feel for him is not in the slightest, childish.
“Back, definitely.” He answers a little too fast, blinking to check with you. “If you want.” He adds.
He’s so polite, you could just die.
You find comfortable seating by the right side of the class, second to last row and close to the back per request. This classroom was a little smaller, so distance from the whiteboard wasn’t really an issue.
You’re listening to your elderly professor repeat instructions about a future assignment and knowing he’s just going to be posting the guidelines, you just tune him out again, distracted. You have to learn to stop doing that.
But you’re shamelessly peeking at the side, Choso’s writing something down, you watch his face as he continues without a care in the world, back hunched down to get closer to the papers maybe, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in focus. You look down at what he’s writing when he flips the sheet over, the sound of the paper is quiet amongst the loud hum of the air conditioner.
He’s checking something, a test again? You wonder if yours is there. Something catches your eye, he’s even writing down notes in the side for each correction. Maybe he’s also writing notes of encouragement for others. You don’t wanna wanna act all sensitive but something in your chest dampens. A lick of disappointment knowing you weren’t just given a little extra effort.
You shift in your seat, suddenly aware that you completely distracted yourself again and let your overactive imagination take over. You bite your cheek, brushing off the disappointment and sit properly on your seat. It moves the entire table though, you moved a little too roughly. Choso backs up in his chair, the commotion throwing off your professor in his fruitless discussion.
You gasp before immediately turning to check on your hard of hearing professor. He mumbles some incoherent complaint but you don’t wait to think and just apologize, “Sorry,” and it’s hopefully enough to divert the attention from you both.
Choso grunts, “No—sorry, my chair was too loud.” He pulls the long, shared desk back with one pull of his hand, before hunching to go back to work. There’s already a furrow in your brows at the apology, and you’re staring at the side of his face, his hand behind his full, overgrown hair, expression mirroring your own except towards his papers.
You adjust back, only this time you’re a bit farther, scared he’ll probably sense you’re being a little invasive. So you keep your eyes up at the projected screen and let the silence pass, the light sound of the ballpoint scratching paper on the smooth surface of the table and your teacher murmuring mix behind the stupid thoughts interfering and prodding at your composure.
You made this unnecessarily awkward, eyes looking back down on the paper without trying. You’re still kinda curious what he’s writing down. He’s writing down notes to the side, red pen and all— red pen and all?
You do a double take, your uncontrollable, imposing, borderline deluded thoughts returning back to their place in your hopeless brain. Did he use a red pen for everyone or green? He used green earlier, definitely. What the hell? Why does it matter?
“Can I help you?” The inner monologue in your head ceases at the question. You glance up at him, a crooked smile on his face, dimple gracing his features. He waits for you to say something, you process how it's a little close to a tease. You’re unable to say something and end up nodding.
He smiles, achingly sweet and sincere, still waiting for a response. You blank out, unable to think of a proper fake answer in time.
A last flick of your gaze at the paper outs your thoughts, he looks down at them. “If you’re looking for any of your own, this isn’t your section’s.” He assures, trying to fill in the silence you were so talented in bringing out in your conversations.
You giggle out of pure giddiness, unable to hold it in as you act like a school girl and not a college student. It’s probably so strange to him that you’re acting this way — internally reprimanding yourself is your only avenue for self control at these moments. You hope he doesn’t think the same way. “No um, you’re so focused on writing nice notes for everyone and marking every point.“
He smiles wider, eyes turning into pretty crescents. He shakes his head once, sitting back on his chair, and finally not slouching. Your stomach flips noting how he occupies more than half the seat. He scratches his neck, eyes flicking back at the papers for a moment before meeting yours, then averting again.
“I don’t think…” He leaned over to read the name on the paper, “…Inumaki, T. thinks my detailed corrections, or rather critiques are very nice, nor the rest of section Z26.” he mumbled the last part, adjusting the collar of his pull over.
“critiques?” You inquire, unconsciously leaning to his side of the desk, closer so you could read them too. Choso hopes you can’t feel the warmth on his cheeks radiating right now.
He nods his head a little too quickly, despite not being able to see him from where you were. He’s dizzy with the scent of your floral shampoo under his nose, heady and pulling. “Yes, just to help with,” he falters again, your bare arm brushing against his own, clothed one when you point at a certain part of the paper while reading, knees hitting under the table when you’re closely looking down on the sheet. “With the, the uh, future tests yeah-”
Choso watches your lips move but he doesn’t hear what comes out. Right now, he’s pushing away such un-utterable, uncalled for thoughts when his view is your head over what would be is his lap, only being separated by this rickety table. It only gets worse when you shift your eyes at him, wide and up at his tired onyx ones, only now his are a little wider too, something past friendly reflecting in your before averting back down the white sheet.
You’re still reading the paper, taking in the info for each question. “Oh,”
He snaps out of his daze, immediately taking notice of your blank tone. “What’s wrong?”
You’re processing the words on the essay type test he’s checking and you realize you’ve never seen this kind of test before. “Y’know, now that I’m reading this, I don’t think we’ve answered this activity yet.” A beat, and Choso flips the paper down.
“Right, that’s probably not good,“ He places a spread out hand over the papers, sheets mix on top of each other, disheveled and disorganized, one nearly falling off the narrow table.
You’re already laughing, “You’re so clumsy,” your hand stopping one of them from flying out of place.
“No, you probably shouldn’t look at that too-“
“Relax, I don’t have the photographic memory to copy each answer. As much as I wish I did.” You mumble the last part, tucking the papers into an organized pile, facing outwards. “See? No cheating for me.”
Choso fights the smirk that inches his way under the skin of his cheeks, nodding to you. “I appreciate your integrity.” You return the look on his face except with the stack in your grasp right now, it reflects its white canvas like a soft light on your skin, a sweet warmth overcomes him. “I never told you why I was looking for you.”
You place the sheets separate from his pile of unfinished work. Pursing your lips, you make a noise of acknowledgment. “Oh, I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t know how to approach you ‘cause it was kinda embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing how?”
For a while, you contemplate how to make yourself sound less pathetic, trying to amp up how to sound flirtier without breaching whatever boundary of the title you held to him. You wanted to play safe, for now.
“Like to ask for help, I bet it's as funny as someone asking a stupid question since you probably didn’t have to do any of that when you were in my year.” You don’t have to confirm with him whether or not it’s true, Choso’s going straight to a master’s after graduating this year. You’ve been hyping yourself up to ask him out for a while, knowing that he’ll most likely drift from you as a friend with the work that comes with finishing one.
You truly weren’t looking for any kind of college relationship or even a fling, knowing such places bring unnatural levels of attraction to people who lack self identity, and if you’re being honest, college made you question that part of yourself when you first began.
Ergo, you focused on yourself for your first year to second. Now, you’re in your third year’s second semester and people are thinking about their thesis and fellowships. And here you were only starting to make career moves for your future in your third year.
But you digress, circling back to how all that led you to meet Choso. Someone you’ve made acquaintances with last year during an exhibit at the school’s anthropology museum. Yes, you had an anthropology museum — Jjk technical college was not cheap.
His hair was a tad shorter back then, guiding a bunch of first years through the new exhibit, excitedly discussing some bones and energy. The glint in his eyes was bright and he was wholly unfiltered, charmingly gauche. You had tried to pose a question at the time, wanting to entertain him out of definitely just pure curiosity for Bioarcheology, but second guessed yourself and never approached him again.
Until, it was that same year you found out he had been the TA for the professor you were aiming for next year (as a second year college student), and you found out he was resigning as the teacher’s assistant from a friend of a friend, and how Gojo had been already looking for a new one early on because Choso was that competent.
You want to say that maybe you joined just because professor Gojo was someone you highly look up to in the field of history research and will grant you a killer recommendation for a future career — which you know he will— there’s an underlying feeling where you also can’t deny that the idea of how it brings you closer to Choso made the position all the more appealing.
So this year, when Gojo read your CV and decided to accept you out of the many (3 applicants, one was an irregular student, the other a nepo baby), and encouraged Choso to start training you by now, it was like fate realigned itself to bring you closer to him.
Sort of.
Now he was in front of you- beside you, and casually replying with, “ I don’t mind spending my free time with you—tutoring and stuff.” He offers, completely unaware how he gets your stomachs in knots and your heart feels like it's trying to rip out of your ribcage.
“Really?” You ask too eagerly, he nods for extra reassurance. “It’s just, Historiography just isn’t something I’m good at but I’m also I find it interesting but it’s also really hard but— I also want this.” You size him up, towards his side of the table. “Y’know, this.”
He‘s about to point at himself, before looking at the papers and something clicks in place. “Checking papers on top of your thesis, dropping them off at Gojo’s office at 8 am, and getting death stares when I come across his students?”
You nod, almost even more eager, “Absolutely.”
“You’re perfect then.” He says, no hesitation whatsoever. You were eating it up and he was completely unaware. You giggle, heat rushing to your face.
You almost forgot how talking came easy with Choso. It was refreshing to meet someone you could hold a conversation with without feeling like you had to perform all the time, or wonder what to amp up or tone down. He had his intimidating moments at first, like being overqualified for a TA and the unmistakable height, or when you’re overthinking how to impress him and you don’t truly act yourself — but those impressions crumble effortlessly when you recognize him for his sincerity and obsession with the academe.
Choso can’t help but let a chuckle bubble in his throat, smooth and rich like a creamy cup of strong coffee. He’s analyzing your face, the apples of your cheeks are out with how wide you smile, he made you smile like that. The fact sits comfortably in his chest. He’s staring at your lips, maybe he can get away with it as him just looking down to your height, the few times he feels his own acted as an advantage for him.
“…any reason you use green?… Choso?” He blinks, and he’s back in the classroom and you’re now holding your own head with your palm, waiting for him to answer.
The back of his neck is hot with the thought you could probably notice him zoning out. “I like,” he searches your eyes, hesitating, and then, “I like green, so.” He nods, trying to rationalize his plain answer to himself.
You’re squinting, “Cool,” nothing behind your tone, just the air that still manages to sit awkwardly between you two, suddenly the old scribbles in the storage part of the desk was so interesting—
“And it's good for not like…” He swallows back his nerves, heart pounding in his ears. “I didn’t wanna discourage students.”
The admittance runs like oil down your back and you feel like you’ve hit him dead center in what you wanted to hear. “Right,” You look around, a false pretense of thinking in your expression, “So… why the red?” You ask curiously, pen in your hand scratching off the old paint under the desk in anticipation.
He paused like a deer caught in headlights, licking the dryness of his lips. Staring down the sheet of paper, yes it’s red indeed, he thinks. His lips part, you watch the smooth, glossy sheen of it move against the light. “I guess I have a favorite class.” He coughs, feigning the ease he was currently lacking with each word he carefully chose to speak.
Despite the urge to egg him on, you leave it at that, your bravery for the day already expended. You know if you continued you might say something a little irrational, and you’re also afraid to jump his bones too quickly. Though you’re pretty sure he could still hold you up if you tried.
Class ends anti-climactically, your professor waving your class off with a less than interested parting. You’re out of the classroom, Choso following behind when, “So, when do you wanna start? I’m free after class tomorrow and it’s the weekend. I don’t mind staying longer.”
You’re following his pace as you walk through the hallways of your building, aiming for the exit but you’re thinking about what happens after. You’re not fully sure where you’ll end up once you part. Do you just go? He stayed with you the entire boring class, (obviously the only reason why you want to stay longer and none other in particular) surely there must be something you have to do in return.
You’re nearing the exit and you can’t help but feel like you’re letting something slip if you go past the doors without making your thoughts known, “I have this thing with my best friend tomorrow, this is not a very good look for me— I promised I’d do this qualitative interview and—“
He’s quick to reply, “Oh yeah, I totally understand—“
Shit, okay you were not seizing the moment correctly. “You should come with me.” You turn over to him, unable to stop yourself.
Choso all but freezes, “What?”
Okay, no going back now, smacking your lips together before going for the kill. “—With me. Yeah, we could hang out and,” Could you still back out? No.
“Just, maybe study after? like we could study like… for the,” So much for not wanting to jump his bones, “…whole night.” You can’t look at him any longer, eyes scanning back the outside that now surrounds you. The noises of campus and the lamp posts are bright, projecting a warm white over you. But all this is not enough to comfort you from the trepidation finally shaking your brain.
You watch as Choso’s pale cheeks start to tinge into a flushy pink, eyebrows raising behind his glasses.
“Oh, okay, yes. Okay!” He nods taughtly, though willing.
You pause, “Okay?” trying to check if he’s serious.
“Sure.” You’re both standing opposite his body, shocked with what you’re hearing from the other as much as you were shocked from the words leaving yourselves.
A beat passes, leaves rustle, and amidst that you’re silently hoping it won't matter how you didn’t think this through fully. “Five o’clock sound good?”
***
It was a steady, calm-ish afternoon, your best friend Miwa was sat in front of you, laptops laid out on the table. She’s writing down notes and closing up her recording software and you’ve been fixing up your hair, clothes, and picking lint off it. You find a loose thread on your shirt when, “Hey,” You look up, alert. Miwa’s squinting at you, blue hair cast in a warm yellow from the mid-afternoon sun. “You good?”
You’re finger quits picking at yourself, “What? Yeah,” eyes flitting back to the pesky string sticking out of the hem of your top.
There’s a hum coming from in front of you, “You sure? You’ve been so fidgety this entire time.”
“I am not fidgety.” You say, fidgeting. A sigh comes out of you, and you lean back on your chair, hands coming on top of the arm rests. “You really okay with me bringing Choso?”
At this, Miwa’s lips curl into a smirk. “I knew it.”
Your eyes flick over to the side in thought, then back at her sly expression. “What do you know?”
She’s sitting up from her hunched posture over her laptop, and drinking from her cup of her almost lukewarm coffee, shrugging with her eyes still locked on yours.
Your thumbs come up from the arm rests, “What is it?”
She clears her throat, placing the mug on a coaster. She looks back up, a smirk still planted on her face. “Just that I didn’t know that he was your crush,” she expects you to reply, but you’re still waiting for her to elaborate. “Y’know, Choso.”
“I don’t have a crush on him!”
She squints, “Okay so we’re lying today.”
“It’s merely admiration— and some attraction at most.”
“That’s literally what a crush is based on.”
You’re blinking at her, feeling caught. You bite your tongue, knowing that your best friend out of anyone should be able to catch you in a lie. Or even a truth you lie to yourself about. You speak up, “Well?”
“Y’know I love you.” She starts.
“Oh no.” Dread seeps into your stomach, and you know if she starts somewhere along the lines of sugar coating, the following was about to be some bland truth coated around maybe an even bitter core inside.
“I like Choso! He’s been your friend for a while and I’ve never talked to him but he sounds really devoted to his work, maybe goodlooking, he’s smart, and he’s nice—“
“What would Muta think…?”
She chuckles, softening at the thought of her own boyfriend. “No, I just wanted to keep an eye out for you too when I say this.” She pauses, trying to find a way to word this as pleasantly as possible. “Cause you know how girls talk…”
You latch onto that last part, stomach churning in suspense. “Not really, I don’t.”
She stops herself from cackling at your nervous expression, “I just heard he’s always…nice.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Like too nice? I guess…it’s really hard to explain babe,“ She cuts herself off, sensing your growing apprehension. She observed how your hands are rubbing on the expanse of your cup, and bringing it to your lips to avoid saying something. She quiets down her tone, now kinda shy about mentioning it. She leans a bit towards you, “Like… in bed, y’know?”
You sputter in your mug, feeling unwelcome liquid scratch your throat. Miwa’s eyes widen when she watches you cough, eyes turning watery. “Ooh gag reflex, that’s not coming in handy.“
“Fucking shut up-“ You’re coughing still and she’s laughing uncontrollably now. “—I did not expect that.”
She’s wiping the corner of her corneas with a finger, “I—I’m sorry I just had to bring it up.”
You’re more composed now, eyes looking up at the clock, it’s ten minutes to five, and you’re trying to relax.
You don’t exchange looks with Miwa until a short moment passes for you to think.
“So have you thought about what it would be like?” You’re back to meeting her eyes, a silent exchange between you both. Miwa smiles at you, lowering her voice and putting a finger up to her ear like an agent, “Then I’m glad to relay information.” She’s giggling when you throw a tissue at her.
You’re already standing out of your seat and making your way to sit beside her. She motions her hand for you to come nearer, both turning your heads when the door chime rings and someone enters, calming down when it’s just some delivery person. You relax, side eyeing her.
Miwa inches closer, “Okay so I’m friends with this senior from my org and she had a friend who was seeing Choso, sort of? Anyways I mentioned once that you were replacing him and that you’re a little into him, sorry.” You’re beckoning her to continue, not caring much for the last part and nodding along.
“Anyways, it was like a one night stand thing and — don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to spread rumors or judge,” Another pause, and you’re already on the edge of your seat.
“Well? Go on,” You pull her in, arms tangled and clutching her, knee jittering.
“I heard he was kinda scared in bed? Like maybe he has a phobia or something.” Your knee stops, and you’re now confused, “It’s just kinda odd ‘cause the guys like a unit, right?” a crease forms between your brows. “Maybe he’s like… a power bottom?” she whispered, tone serious.
You’re nodding, taking in the information with actual consideration. “Possibly,” You’re fully facing her now, “Y’know…he is a TA.”
It’s Miwa’s turn to be confused, struggling to find the correlation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You fight the expression trying to pull on your lips, you nibble on the skin then let go, “I’d say he’s good at being told what to do.”
Miwa’s eyes widened, before adding, “Tell me when you find out.” A second where you’re both quiet and then you’re being shook by the shoulders, both of you squealing and chortling in your corner. It would be no surprise if you’ve caught the attention of other customers with your commotion.
She quits with the shaking, now smoothing over the fabric over your shoulders for messing up your top. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
You can’t help but entertain your imagination, “I mean I think I’m too conscious to be playing around too much.” Your friend nods along, supportive. Past these exciting thoughts, it was all a front for the feelings you struggled to word out, “I really like him, Miwa.”
She parts her lips but as if on cue, another chime from the door rings once more. He stood by the entrance for a brief moment, barely scanning the vicinity when he locked eyes on you, a cheeky grin lighting up his face.
***
“—I think they never made any real contact.”
“No, that’s definitely up for debate.”
Miwa watches your back and forth, pen in hand. Choso decided to be part of her research sample as well, given that he’s already here, he should make use of his time. And he didn’t mind, he liked helping out.
If only he could actually speak and answer the questions without you guys debating every time one of you made an opinion on something vaguely related to Miwa’s research topic. At first it was good, your opinions can be added too but now she’s running out of space in her storage with how long this unintentional joint interview was going.
“Okay guys, the interview questions are about historical revisionism. While I do see the correlation, how did we end up in Egypt and…?”
“Ancient Mesopotamia.” Both of you say, completing her sentence.
“I can elaborate.” Choso suggests, clearly unable to read between the lines of Miwa’s inquiry.
She stretches in her seat, her legs feeling cramped up with the lack of movement all this time. “Y’know what, I’ll hold you two to that. But first, let’s take a break!” It’s not even a minute until she’s out of both your and Choso’s sights, on the way to the restroom, pen and recorder left on the table.
“Y’know, I don’t think she likes me that much. I also think she’s too nice to tell me that.” You’re in the middle of cracking your neck until you’re moving your attention to him.
“Don’t worry too much about it, I think she just isn’t up for hearing any more strong opinions on exported textiles.”
“That’s if they were truly exported—“ You shove his arm, and he’s laughing at your face, not even moved from the push. He’s pretending to rubbing his bicep in feigned hurt, lifting his arm in the process, almost flexing. You try to ignore how they felt so hard under your fingertips. You check him out unintentionally, taking notice of how the hem of his layered shirt hangs enough to show the lower part of his stomach. Out of respect, you look the other way.
You swallow thickly, ears hot. “I think I’ll get another snack. Want anything to eat?” You’re already standing up and off the chair, limbs wobbly from the long period of time you spent sitting on the deep arm chair.
There’s a sudden burst of noise coming from the entrance of the café, very loud and boisterous. You can’t help but let your jittery self get distracted, there stood an entire group of men, looking like they just got off practice. You’re wondering why one of them looks vaguely familiar, but there’s a body blocking your view out of nowhere with what you realize is Choso’s chest.
There’s an odd, slightly frantic look in his eyes you haven’t seen on someone as easygoing as him. “Um, how about I go with you?”
You’re looking up at him, a little skeptical on why the sudden change of tone, but agree anyways.
You’re in the short line along the display and point out pastries that you could try when a voice calls out to the person beside you. “Cho!”
It’s easier for you to check where it’s coming from as Choso was in front of said voice. You recognize the pink hair from the group coming in earlier. He’s about 2 inches away from being as tall as Choso, hair damp like he just came from a shower, and a sports bag was strapped across him.
A pat on his shoulder signals your dark haired companion to turn, seeing a sight he’d been trying to avoid earlier. Of course he had to be the one ordering for his group.
“Hey man,” Choso greets, strained, a guard visibly coming up around him.
“What’s up, you don’t say hi to family anymore?” The sentiment, although on paper sounded sweet, in reality was like a taunt. Something you don’t wanna dissect to avoid reading into it too much. “Who’s this?”
You peer over at both of them, their attention now on you. Still unable to read the room, you focus on Choso to see how he wants this to play out. He steps in for you, “You know her, I mentioned the TA thing like a while back. She’s a friend, though she is replacing me.”
He gestures to the pinkette’s side, introducing him.
“My brother by the way. Same year though.”
Sukuna nods at that and smiles, canines showing. He reaches out with his hand, and you meet it halfway. “Ryomen Sukuna.” Huh, he’s not a Kamo.
“Pleasure,” You’re squinting your eyes, there’s something a little unsettling about him that you can’t place, but you’re not trying to jump into that.
“I didn’t know Choso had any siblings — ones on campus, no less.”
You let go of his large, callous hands, moving an inch closer to the cashier when the customer before you has their turn to order. “Have 2 terms to catch up with and I don’t really see this one around either ‘cause I did training camp in Barcelona last semester.”
You nod in acknowledgement. Silently, you’re comparing them, unknowingly looking back and forth between him and Choso a little too obviously.
“We don’t look related do we?”
Before you could defend yourself, a dry chuckle beats you to it. “We get that a lot.” He squeezed where his hand was planted on Choso, who visibly tenses. “Different mom, same dad. He doesn’t take after him though, if you’re worried—“
“Alright, I don’t think she wants to know about that.”
“Speak for yourself,” You laugh nervously, trying to ease the tension you could feel multiplying tenfold. He pats Choso’s shoulder before bringing his hand down to the side, not before looking at the side of his brother's face as he semi-whispered, “At least one of you doesn't have their panties in a twist.”
“I would if I were wearing mine.” A very long, awkward silence overcomes all three of you. That is until a nearly genuine smile breaks out of Sukuna’s angular features.
“Ha, what the fuck,” He mutters in amusement, “You’re both weird, that’s cute.” A dry chuckle eases the anxiousness you were struggling to place the source of. Though at the cost of your own dignity.
The line to the cashier moves, it’s yours and Choso’s turn now. He’s first to leave his brother’s side, not even bidding him a glance as he moves past you. “Nice meeting you,” you voice out, still on edge, Sukuna just nods in acknowledgement.
***
It’s around 6:40pm when Choso walks you to your apartment outside of campus. There’s a slight tension in the air that you’re struggling to bring up, it’s been there for the remainder of your meet up, not having said a word since you’ve left the café. You’ve been trying to make a move and talk to him but he’s had his eyes on the ground this entire time, rarely up, and definitely never on you.
He was about to walk in the pedestrian lane when you tug on his backpack. He’s caught in the pull, looking up to the red walking signal reflecting on the road. He walks back to stand next to you, still not saying a word. “What’re you thinking so hard on?”
For a moment he turned his head to you, a little too quick to not look like he wasn’t anticipating you to bring it up yourself. He looks ahead once more when you’re walking now. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
You start to feel a little guilty for not clarifying sooner, wondering if this entire time he thought he should’ve apologized for something he couldn’t control.
“It’s alright, it wasn’t unpleasant for me.”
He almost laughs at that, “Right, and I was jumping for joy.”
The air shifts, it’s not so tense anymore, just between that and uncertainty directed at something else entirely. “I felt really dumb earlier.” He adds, looking back down on the pavement. “I couldn’t say anything to make him leave us alone.”
You’re a few blocks nearby to your place, walking a little ahead of him so he could follow you now.
“Again, it wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to apologize.” Once more, silence fills the space between you both and it feels like you’re unable to remove this weight you feel affecting your interaction.
Now you’re both looking at your feet as you wait for cars to pass the street you’re crossing and for the timer to finally get to zero. Your foot is stepping over a dry leaf to fill in the lack of communication, the sound crunching in the quiet in a loud, distant manner.
“I just kinda get made fun of for acting like this—weak.” You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, and you’re right to think he’s still looking down. “It’s just annoying how even until now it’s expected of me to bite back on others ‘cause I look like I should.”
There’s a furrow in his brows, and he’s tightly clutching on the strap of his bag. “Like I’ve accepted that, sort of. I’m already conscious of it— but maybe people like to pick on me when it's obvious I’m not gonna do anything.”
You’re making another turn together, he’s leading with the path he’s familiar with and you follow, his words don’t falter. “Maybe ‘cause it makes them feel less small or some shit — I don’t know.”
After processing the words that left him, it brought you back to your conversation with Miwa. How you laughed about his past history with women and how you basically gossiped about his insecurities. Guilt swirls in your stomach, realizing this might just be a little worse than you treated it to be. You keep quiet, deep in your own thoughts, letting him say what he needs to.
“And of course my own brother is like that too.” He rants, tracing back to the behavior he displayed earlier. “He’s my brother and I love him, yes. But frat guys could be such dicks, y’know? I was like his first practice hazing dummy lite…in a way.”
You nod, acknowledging him. “Right, right.” You’re turning to the street ahead of yours, just about a block away now.
“It’s hard to not let those insecurities take over.” He groans, “I spent so much of my life trying to make my best first impressions, and I feel like it backfires on me with the wrong people—I hate that.” He’s scratching the back of his head. “Sometimes I just wish I looked normal. That way I wouldn’t literally feel like the elephant in the room.”
At that, you turn almost as if you’d heard the worst take in your life, brows scrunching. “Normal?”
He shakes his head, “Yes, normal. Like I can wear normal shoes and sit on couches normally.”
“I like that you’re not.” You say, insensitively. “I mean you’re not not normal. But I like…it.” You slow down, trying to backtrack on what you just let slip.
He’s blinking down on you, a look of surprise etched on his slowly flushing face. “…Why?”
Your breath is caught in your throat, not knowing how else to explain it. No going back. Remember?
“I feel safe, even if you don’t…bite back. And on top of that you’re kind. I think that matters a lot.”
Choso stares at you like you just grew a tree on your head, but in truth, he’s just trying to tone down his elation. “Really?” He asks dumbly, already cursing himself in his head for looking like he wants to hear you call him that again. Safe.
You dip your head, agreeing once more. “I’m a girl so I may be a little biased but if I were also a little taller, I wouldn’t have to deal with some idiot guys trying something on me, and I could also defend myself easier.”
“Oh yeah—Yes, that's totally different from my problems.” He clarified, trying to catch himself from sounding ungrateful. You watch the way his expressions shifts from blank to stressed and bite back a smile. “There’s obviously people with worse problems than being bigger than a doorway.” He’s looking down and pushing his glasses up, almost ashamed.
You turn to the road leading up to your street, your apartment just at the end of it. “Is that like 6’3 or…”
“Huh?” He meets your inquisitive eyes, “Uh, just a little more.” He replied, shying away from your stare. You’re thinking about all the objects that could possibly match up to Choso’s figure.
“Those chillers they got in 7’11?”
“Hm, nope. Like 2 inches more, maybe.”
Your stomach does a flip you had to ignore, “You’re lying. Six foot six?”
“Without shoes, yes.” He nodded, met with you side-eyeing him. “Well you’re free to go with me to my annual checkups and see.” He defends, a smile finally appearing on his face at your skepticism.
You squint, stopping yourself from looking too excited with the many, unbecoming thoughts storming your brain. “I’ll hold onto that.”
Shortly after, you find yourself standing in front of the building to your apartment. “I’m sorry about dumping all that on you, It was a lot.” He looks around before letting out a barely there sigh, “I’ll get going now—“
“Are you forgetting?” You look back and Choso’s standing stiffly, feet planted on the ground. “We’re…studying, remember?”
Choso’s throat bobs at your sly tone, convincing himself there is nothing behind it. “You did a lot today I just thought we were tired—“
“We don’t have to study then.” You’re looking around and thinking to yourself before landing back on his face, “I mean you came all the way here, you could come up and have some tea?”
The notion has his chest puffing out to regulate the way his heart started beating like its pounding from behind his sternum. He doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows raise behind his glasses, his usually sleepy eyes now wide. He nodded and let out a strained, “Okay.”
***
The door to your apartment swings open with a loud creak. The lights switch on, a warm white cascades from the ceilings.
Your keys make a clinking noise against the ceramic jewelry tray you leave on the dresser by the entrance. The door is wide open, you feel Choso trailing behind a couple steps away.
He’s standing kinda stiffly, “Do I take my shoes off or—“
You’re shaking your head, stepping aside to let him in. “My neighbors are kinda sticklers for people who leave their shoes outside in the halls.” He walks past the doorway, head craned down. It’s supposed to look like he was trying to avoid getting hit by the frame of it, though he’s only finding a way to hide his face naturally.
He picked his head up when he heard clanking from the kitchen which meant that you were inside. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen? I like to put honey in mine.” You ask, your voice still clear as the space isn’t big at all, but in his head it’s distant. He’s trying to calm himself down, taking in your apartment.
It’s small, kitchen tight and you’ve no space for a table. You use the counter as one, your bed, desk, and sofa all in the same space. However, the lack of furniture made it wide, the “living room” taking the least space with just a little coffee table and the tv on the floor as the only decor.
“You didn’t say anything so I didn’t add any honey.” He finds himself turning on his feet when he’s met by your figure, coming from the kitchen with two— red and yellow —mugs. You hand him the yellow one, he takes it with a ‘thanks’. You make a move to sit on the couch, trying to get cozy. Choso’s still standing, sipping on his cup awkwardly.
“You can sit if you want.” Choso’s eyes flick over to you. You realize he had shed his bag on the entrance, still it looks like something is weighing on him.
“I’m okay, I might launch you out of it—“
“Sit with me.” You pat the spot beside you on the couch, your fawn-like eyes up at him.
It turns his legs into jelly. Thoroughly convinced, he sits beside you, trying to be as careful as he can so the side of the couch doesn’t sink to his weight too much.
He winced at the audible sound of the springs under the cushions, “Sorry.”
Quietly, you assess him. How stiffly he sat, how much of the seat he took up despite keeping himself at the edge of it. If he sat back, would his knee brush against yours? Though you feel a little bad for taking advantage of his reactiveness towards you. However, something deep inside you is undeniably excited with the thought.
On the other hand, Choso feels like he’s watching himself act in third person, deliberating what part of his body he should move next to not look too obnoxious or stiff. He doesn’t know if he should just let the silence pass till he runs out of tea, or maybe till it turns lukewarm. You shift in your seat, he feels your gaze heavy on him. You don’t say anything, you just stare at the side of his face. His throat bobs.
He looks over to you for a split second and meets your eyes, you raise your brows at him, a smirk growing on your sweet face.
An anxious laugh bubbles from his throat, the tips of his ears tinging red. “I think you’re aware of how you’re making me nervous.”
You couldn’t stop the way the smirk spreads into a wide smile. “I was thinking of how to get you to talk, is all.” You tilt your head to the side, checking out how the light from your room lamp makes his jaw seem sharper. His hair nearly fell on his shoulders, built and perched with his elbows on his knees, posture a little hunched, but he still sat taller than you. Nothing short of tempting in your eyes.
He follows your gaze, “What?”
“You’re also thinking of something.”
His brows pinch, he hates how good you are at prodding at him when he clearly doesn’t know what to say. “I’m always thinking.”
You nod, “And still, you haven’t said anything since we went up.”
Choso pauses his already stiff self. You place your mug down, crossing your legs on the couch. He brings his attention back to you but you’re already intently looking at him. He flinches back.
Sighing, “What do you think I’m thinking about?” You purse your lips, shrugging at his question. He shakes his head, a smile fighting its way on his face.
“Then I’m happy you only brought me here to drink some tea.” A roll of his eyes comes out of sarcasm, reaching for his own mug on the table, stretching his arm out.
He’s about to pull his hand back when your smaller one lands on top of his. The contact would have made him drop the glass into little pieces if it weren’t for the coffee table underneath. He lets down the cup, missing the coaster you laid out.
“That’s my mug….” You point at the red cup in his grasp, yours. You let the words linger like the pads of your fingers on the back of his hand, “Hm, you’re really warm.”
He blinks, unable to ground himself back to reality because maybe, maybe you’re trying to make a move on him. He’s unable to look into your eyes,
“Uh,” He falters, the warmth on his cheeks multiply and spread out when you inch closer, the warmth of your own body makes him feel like he’s overheating.
“How else could I get you to go up with me?” You say, goading another reaction out of him.
“I-I mean you could just ask and…I wouldn’t say no,“ You’re closer to his face now—too close. But you’re still not looking at eye level — not close enough.
“I think I’ve done a lot just to be around you, Cho.” He almost melts at how the stupid nickname his brother calls him sounded so good coming from your honeyed lips. Choso gulps, audible and embarrassing in the silence of your apartment.
He started off this conversation on the edge of the couch, somehow it feels like you’ve backed him into it.
“Y’know, the TA stuff, asking to study—do we look like we’re studying now?” Your arm skates over his hand, up his arm, the touch leaving goosebumps in their wake.
You watch how his jaw all but clenches at the feeling, a newfound confidence makes you unbelievably giddy, driving you to push more. “But what I wanna know is,”
He feels like he’s running out of breath before he could utter a word when your palm lands up on his hard chest, feeling for the erratic thumping of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt.
Your head is craned up, lashes bat at him, “What are you willing to do…?”
He’s looking deeply into your eyes, searching for the answer to your question, not realizing how his neck is craning down at your height in return. Several beats pass — he feels a tug on his shirt and then he’s closing the distance between your lips.
He whines on the soft, wet skin, sucking gently, eyes falling shut. His hand finds your cheek, the other reaching for your side when you tangle your arms around his neck. The pace is hungry yet fervent, tugging and melting against the other. You pull away slowly, lips parting from each other wetly. You’re smacking your own lips before smiling up at Choso, giggling.
His eyes are hazy, glasses crooked out of place. His hands are covering your back and smoothing over your clothes, “I can do anything— whatever you want.”
If you weren’t already grinning wide enough, now you’re fully Cheshire-like. Pushing yourself closer towards him, “Anything?” He nods eagerly, you’re pulling him in, hungry.
His hand is on the back of your neck now, holding. There’s something about his touch that feels like it’s keeping you together without feeling too possessive. Caring with a dash of hesitance. One you’re looking to break through tonight.
Your lips travel down his neck, leaving hot, lingering kisses along his throat. “Oh, mmh-“ He bites his lip immediately after nearly letting out the low noise from chest, eyes shutting when you find the particularly sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his fingers dig rougher on your hips, you’re on your knees now, determined to cover every inch of him in your touch. Your weight falls on him when he tugs you, the hands planted on his shoulders squeeze out of instinct.
“You good? I-I didn’t mean to, ah—“ He tried to move his head away from your persistent lips, but a shiver that runs through him stops his actions. You’re sucking on his skin, humming proudly, undettered from your little slip. His hands brush down your sides, they plant themselves lower on your waist.
You plant kisses all the way back to his chin then meet his lips again. You’re eye level, a sinister glint in your eyes. You stick your tongue out, half lidded gaze and staring right at him — brushing the wet, pink muscle along Choso’s bottom lip, teasing. Heat rushes on his face, blood rushes on his crotch. You’re killing him.
You suck on the pink flesh, tugging then letting go, he’s pulling you in closer by the back of your neck. He wants you on him, mind unable to decide how — just everywhere is fine. You drop your palm down between your bodies and on the garter of Choso’s sweats, feeling for the hardness underneath.
He hissed as your fingers brushed what would be his shaft, “Um, sorry, can we make out a little I think…” He holds your head closer to his face, breaths mingling as you catch them. “I’ll get less hard— nervous, I think. Sorry,” You hummed in agreement before landing back on the flushed skin of his mouth, quieting him down with your lips.
You giggle against him, chasing as he squirms, palms settling on his shoulders. You pull off him with a peck, feet planting back on the carpeted floors. Choso now sat far into the couch, slacked with legs spread. His mouth parts as you start undressing, stripping off into your underwear.
He sizes you up and down, taking in your soft, bare skin, your strapless bra and cotton panties under the warm lights of your apartment. It elicits a heavy throb under his pants. Choso’s breathing feels uneven and the air grows thinner when you settle back on the couch, only now between his spread out legs.
You’re steadying yourself, his hands find a place on your warm, now bare skin. You smooth over the wide expanse of his chest, then land on his neck, even warmer than you. “This okay?” You ask, to which he only replies with a nod.
You’re about to lean into him when he reaches for his glasses, but you stop him before he tries to pry the piece of metal off. “They stay on.”
His breath catches in his throat, stomach dipping. A part of him he’s not quite sure whether he wanted to acknowledge, liked when you tell him what to do.
He lets his hand fall, you adjust the rims on the bridge of his nose. “You’re so pretty.” You’re holding his face with both hands, tilting it upwards to you. A lopsided grin appears on his face at the comment, eyes shying away and down from your face and to the body on him.
“Thanks- Thank you,” He replied poorly. His palm skated from your waist and to your back, laying above the clip of your bra. His lips are caught between his teeth as he takes in the feel of your skin against him, he looks up. “You’re awfully pretty as well.”
He was never good at expressing himself,only with what he was sure of. But this was new, you pushing, him taking, it was all new. But he meant every word he said to you. He leaned in to catch your lips against his. Fuck, if only you could tell how much he meant it.
He’s slotting his tongue in between your parted mouth, leaning further in and you’re falling back, but he’s catching you — keeping you to him. You work together smoothly, as smooth as silks rubbing against each other. You clutch on to him tightly as if he’ll slip if you don’t. You taste like jasmine tea and he’s wondering if the sweet taste is from the honey or just you. He’s holding you by the neck and pushing your back into him.
You finally move to settle on his lap, the kiss unwavering so you’re first to pull away, “Choso—“ He catches the sound of his name in your mouth, chasing, taking, and taking. There isn’t any place on your body that isn’t covered by him, your arms, your back, your legs in between his that caged you. You moan at the thought against his greedy tongue, entirely consumed. But you’re impatient and already wet, the fabric of your panties has been riding up for the last 10 minutes. So you squeeze his arms weakly, but it’s enough for him to let air flow between you.
“Shit, Sorry—” He’s frantic and searching your eyes, but he’s met with your hazed out ones and your swollen, drooly lips. He wiped the corner of it, chest heaving. “I need to— you’re driving me insane,” He chuckles, deep and uncertain with how true the fact felt. He’s brushing your hair back gently, “I’m sorry,” he lets go of you as you’re pulling away.
You’re upright now, letting your feet back down. You’re bending over to his lap, palms resting on his spread out limbs, “You need to make it up to me,” You’re once again reaching for his sweats, the imprint of his shaft taking form at the side. He gently lays his hand on your wrist.
“Are you sure?” His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the frames of his glasses are now on the tip of his nose bridge. But there’s a wave of genuine uncertainty blanketing his expression.
You’re blinking up at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
It’s a tangled knot in his chest, one bundled in embarrassing moments and unsuccessful hook-ups. He stuttered over his words,
“Just that before I’ve-“ he pondered if he should risk you laughing at him, but you’re expectantly looking into his eyes, and your hands are already on his lap, a little more and you’d be right where he’s aching for you. “I’m scared of making it…unpleasant?”
His hand rubs up and down your arms, you’re tuning him out and thinking of how you should go about sitting on him. He continued to ramble on, “Um, like I’ve been told it was…“
“Too big?” You ask, attention now on him. Externally you’re collected, stating it like a remark. But internally you know it’s a fact. You feel a little bad thinking about it but now you’re piecing together your earlier conversation on what Miwa’s friend’s friend might’ve been complaining about.
Choso all but nods, eyes scanning your room as if that would keep yours away from him. “I could just help you, y’know. We don’t have to—“
You’re turning over and maneuvering his hand out of his lap, sitting on his thigh. For a moment, you’re a little hesitant, hovering. “I mean I’d like it if we did, but I’m also…” His words trail off, holding your hip and securing you on his lap, unbothered as your weight settles on one thigh. He clears his throat, “I’m okay with, um, anything.”
You’re leaning into him, on your side, hand trailing underneath the hem of his shirt, grazing his clenched abdomen. He jolts, causing you to jump in your seat. Your eyes widen for a moment before relaxing, hand skating lower under the garter of his sweats with a simpering grin on your face. You’re kissing his cheek, gentle and slow as your hand palms over his hard, covered cock.
He’s watching your move under the fabric of his gray sweats, feeling your smaller fingers squeezing and rubbing the base of it. It hurts, he thinks. In a way that something stings and feels good at the same time. You’re squeezing at his tip when he throws his head back on the couch, groaning loudly. You take the opportunity to mouth on his neck again.
“Can you please— Can I please take it off?” He asks politely, but the grip on your hip feels anything but. You hum, still licking at the expanse of his neck.
You’re pulling his pants down with his help—mostly him just taking it off himself, desperate and aching. He’s bare from the waist down now when you settle back on his thigh, sweats and boxers discarded on the floor.
You’re now shamelessly gawking at his erection bouncing against stomach, slapping against it. The warmth of your hand catches him off guard, finally making contact skin to skin. You tug on the shaft, immediately taking notice of how your fingers struggle to close around it and were squeezing on accident.
“F—oh, god. ” He rests his head on your shoulder, sweat building on his forehead. You start moving your hand up and down, already slippery from how he’d been oozing in his boxers the entire time. He’s quiet behind you, save for the heavy breathing on your skin. You go faster. “Your hand’s so tight,” it comes out in a whimper. A wet, mouthing sensation can be felt on your shoulder, he’s biting your skin to muffle himself. But It doesn’t work, his throat lets loose with each reaction.
His eyes roll up from your shoulder when he feels you lean forwards and away from his chest, cock twitching when a wet glob of spit drips on him from your tongue.
You’re both watching your hand work up and down, bringing both onto the shaft, he’s cursing as you go faster.
You’re throwing your other leg over his thigh, straddling him in reverse, before resting back on him. Choso's hands come up to hold you under your knees, keeping your legs apart. He watched as the movement stretched the fabric, pussy still clad in underwear, drenched and barely covering it. But he can’t help but peek lower, your hands exclusively paying attention to his erection.
You joke, “It’s like I'm jerking myself off.”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the vibrations thrum against your back and you turn them into moans as you suddenly go faster. “Sucks though, I can’t feel it.”
You’re unable to see his expression behind you, but you can hear how his moans are muffled between his teeth, “You’re s-so eager.”
You reveled at how shaky he’d sounded. “One of us has to be.”
And then a strange noise akin to the tearing of fibers can be heard from below. You gasp as it happens in front of you, hands slowing its ministrations. You realize you’re watching him rip your underwear, exposing your wet, shiny pussy. “Hey—“
He’s adjusting himself from under you, bringing his other hand under your thigh, your legs tugged higher as he starts rubbing right on your clit.
He’s rough and accurate on where he wants to touch you, deliberate in his movements. He’s quick but he isn’t rushing either, his only motive was to get you to falter in his stead as you were doing just the same.
Your voice shrinks into breathy pants, the slick sound from your poor clit syncing in with each, “Ah, ah, Cho—“
“You’re making me so, so hard, baby—” You’re both an obscene sight to behold, playing with each other, spread out, grunting or whimpering. Both sloppily still trying to let your lips tangle with each other despite the inconvenient position. Both a mess, your tits spilling out of your bra, and his glasses all fogged up.
You grind into him, “Feels so good,” rubbing your juices on the cock you’re jerking with now one hand, coating his chubby length. Your body felt like it was on overdrive, moving your hips up and down as you clenched on nothing, gushing freely.
You’re biting your lip as your hips grow erratic, brows pinching and your abdomen clenches on itself. “I-I’m close.”
Choso lets a groan escape,“Fuck, really?” realizing he’s making you come first. It’s a miracle he’s held off this long, he wonders if he’ll hold up if you let him inside. The thought makes him move your hips on his cock, assisting you as you use him to get yourself off.
He doesn’t know if he’s breathing so hard because he’s getting tired or because he knows getting your clit rubbed nudges you a little closer to the edge when you start to get louder. He breathes against your ear, “Come on me, please.” He’s mumbling now, less at you and more to himself. “I wanna see you cum on me, please, please—”
Your legs begin to shake in his hold, fighting to shut close but the grip under your knees forces you to come with your legs spread wide, pussy making a show of spasming against Choso’s cock, voice breaking as you whimper. “That’s it baby, that’s it,”
Choso is completely enamored, the sounds of your high pitched whines in the air was like music to him, the way you writhe against his body was this entrapping dance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
He notes how you were still in your bra, he whispers something about it, but you’re just nodding your head with your eyes shut, riding it out. Then he’s unclipping the strap with one hand, the fabric falling off and releasing your perfect tits.
You then relax your back to him, twitching still. But then he’s thrusting his erect cock up between your folds, the stimulation starting to make you wetter again, your breath can only catch up so fast. You’re attempting to lift your hips with a squirm.”Gi-give me a sec—”
Choso quickly lets your legs fall to the side and pauses, sitting up and moving your head to face him. “Shit- we can stop here,” he assured, breathy and worried. “I didn’t mean to, I was just looking at you. You looked-” So fucked out, “I’m sorry.“
“Sh-shut up,” You look away and Choso stiffens under you. Was he too rough? Before he could even utter another apology, you spoke, “I’m fine, I just need to— breathe.“
He watches you quiet down from underneath you, he’s rubbing your thighs comfortingly. “I am sorry,” The silence lingers, only getting tenser with each beat that passes.
And then you start chuckling — at nothing in particular. Your breathing slows down, and you look back to check on him. He looked so worried, brows pinched and his lip jutted out. A lazy smile breaks into your features, leaning down to catch him in a chaste kiss so he wouldn't see the expression on your face. “I liked it, okay?”
His breath hitched in his throat when you spoke against his lips, “Yeah?”
You’re nodding, smile now exposed. You kiss him again, powerless against his sweet lips. He relaxes, hand coming up to the back of your head. “I wanna-“ A kiss, “Fuck you now,” A slower kiss, “Please.”
He’s backing up to read your face, reassessing. Within the silence, something passes between you two. Amidst the air that smells of sex and vaguely of tea, there’s this mix of warmth and uncertainty—and whether or not to dive in it — that lingers in between.
He’s nervous under your gaze, once again, looking for a way out of your eyes that traps him so effectively like no other. He’s looking down at his still, very much, erect self. “I don’t have a condom.”
You’re thinking to yourself before you reach for the side table of your couch, scrambling for a box you kept there in case.
Choso’s scrambling to rip the plastic off before fishing for one packet. “I’m not really sure if it would fit so, maybe just try it,” You remark as you’re being maneuvered out of his lap and on the side of the couch. He fumbled with the rubber a couple times, pulling it down before it snapped a little too tightly on his girth. He tugs it down on him until a tear starts spreading on the side of the translucent material.
“I’m sor—“ He hissed as it snapped against his skin, “See I can’t even fucking…I don’t think this is quite right—” He’s cursing to himself, obviously a little sexually frustrated. For someone his size he still managed to look somewhat like a defeated puppy.
You’re tugging the broken thing off, relief blooming in his chest but it’s short lived as he’s reminded of how he might not even have sex with you anymore. “But no, we really don’t have to.” He says, discouraged.
“You can fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.” He internally groaned, pulled back out of his head. You just had a way with your words.
He does a complete 180, eyes widening, shifting from beaten to optimistic. He reminds himself to curb his excitement though, slowing down. “You can be on top—set the pace?” You’re already moving to sit on his lap.
He’s nodding his head at you, and finally rips his shirt off himself, now completely naked. You’re staring down at him, licking your lips at the sight of his milky skin and toned chest. He pulls you out of your thoughts, voice small and distant.
“I’ll pull out, yeah?” He’s swallowed back thickly, more of reminding himself to do that. “Just be slow okay? I didn’t prepare you that wel—um,"
His voice trails off when you’re already lining yourself up with his reddened tip. “A little at a time—Oh,” You’re already sinking down, unrepressed.
The stretch is long and constant, to the point it feels like you’re rethinking how fast you jumped on this, except you remember you’re already lowering yourself very carefully.
Your jaw hangs open in a silent scream when you get past the head, sinking lower, your walls throb against his member. You’re bracing yourself with a palm, Choso’s chest is covered in sweat and heaving. “You’re so—‘s really tight, oh fuck you’re so warm,” He whined out, unable to complete a sentence.
He’s leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and then back on your lips to keep your mewls at bay. You’re kissing back, he’s only half way in when you start moving. Choso’s breaths turn ragged against yours, pulling you closer to him. You catch your breath, “It’s stretching me out so much, Choo-” You whine, slowly rolling your hips.
He’s squeezing your waist before trailing his hands down your ass, “You’re doing good, you’re doing really good.”
He’s looking down at your progress, struggling to tell where you ended and he begun, now nearer to the base of his cock. He throbs inside you. “Fuck, a-are you okay?” He’s looking back up at your face, taking in your lips, bitten and swollen under your teeth.
He lets out a shaky whimper, “You’re taking so much.” His eyes finding their way back to your hole swallowing him. “So good, baby.”
You tuck your feet over his thighs for leverage, pulling off his cock slowly then sinking back down, and back up. You repeat the motions, torturously slow, your slick creating this lewd noise from each rock of your hips as you go deeper. Choso’s hands are on your thighs, weighing you down but he’s really holding back from actively pushing — still you’re sinking, taking more.
You start to bounce, struggling to hold yourself up with your palm on his chest, the slight sting of the stretch dulling out to a deep pressure. It’s a lot easier now, you go even faster with the help of your growing arousal slicking up his cock. Every touch you leave on each other now feels highly sensitive, your tits pressed against Choso’s hard chest, his hands squeezing on your ass for dear life. You’re left unable to keep up conversations or teases to each other now, heads completely in a different space. You're left babbling incoherencies as your tingling nerves derail your focus, the only thing clear was to go after what felt good.
But you falter, your knees slowing as they start to ache but you push yourself further, desperate, taking even more of Choso’s length. You find yourself losing balance and lean over, panting. You lift your hips, then let your ass fall back into his lap, a strained mewl leaving your throat, “I-I need help. I need you, Cho—need you t’a fuck my pussy,”
He groans out at how high your voice got, fresh from its suppressed whines. “Okay I’ll help,” He’s quick with his hands, holding you by the globes of your ass, and pulls you up. He bites back a noise, hearing and feeling your tight pussy gush and clamp on him as he lifts until it’s just the tip. “s’ okay if I thrust a little?” He whispers against your ear, growing desperate as his cock pulses in anticipation. You nod fervently in his neck, arms circled around him. “Okay baby, I’m gonna. I’m gonna help this pussy- fuckkk”
It’s noisier now, from your skin, sticky and slapping against each other, to your gasps turning into moans against each other’s open mouths. Choso’s now taking all the work, lifting your ass and bringing it down to meet his aching cock even faster than you could have. He starts meeting your pussy half way, thrusting up wards and it knocks the wind out of you.
Moans spill out of you with each thrust up, breaking and then bursting out of you. You’re clinging to him, bodies impossibly close, skin rubbed up against skin. “You’re so fucking loud, honey—do you like it?” His groans turn into grunts with how he’s physically exerting his body, on a mission to see you break apart on top of him.
You reply with a noise of acknowledgment, barely audible amongst the slapping and heavy breathing. You’re body feels hot all over, from inside and out. He’s deep enough inside you in places you didn’t even know was possible to go that far in, and the best worst part is you haven’t even reached the base of him yet. A new objective makes itself known in the part of your brain that still functioned, a dimly flickering idea.
“Ch-choso can you, ngh—“ You’re bringing your face out of his neck to face him, but he’s still busying himself with his thrusts, “I want you deeper, c-could you do that f’me?”
He’s letting out a high pitched whine he when lets you down, about to throw his head back when you catch his lips in yours, tugging on his hair and pulling roughly. “You’re stronger than me Cho, c’mon. Make me cum on your big cock—“
He groans, planting his feet on the ground, before you know it you’re up in the air, now standing. You cut yourself off with a moan, both of you do —sighing out when he lifts your ass up before dropping you on his painfully hard cock. “You’re so filthy when you talk, y’know that?”
It feels like he's all the way to your lungs when he finally bottoms out in you, which would make sense since it feels like you aren’t breathing anymore. You cry out once more, wiling your eyes and muffling the noises in his neck, biting down. “Are you crying?” He asks, concern prodding between his excitement, but the thought manages to make it’s way to his cock, fucking you on him rhytmically slow and deep. You let out a choked sob, “Fuck you’re crying—not even going that fast.”
“Then g-go faster,” You managed to voice out between moans, your hips wiggling in his grasp. He groans in response, kneading your ass to stop you from getting ahead of him.
“You tell me if it’s too much- just, you have to tell me a-alright?” You’re clenching on him, still trying to bounce. “Shit, Okay.”
The slower sounds of your skin slapping each other turn into rapid, sharp sounds. Choso grunting from each thrust, now fully unrepressed. In seconds, the image you’ve crafted of him as this shy, hesitant boy, crumbles. You’re fully moaning out now, his cock nudging deeper and repeatedly in that spot that triggers your insides. “I’m so full, fuck-“
He’s hiccuping his moans out, turning into whimpers as he pumps you up and down even faster, his nails digging into the meat of your ass. “You’re taking me so good baby,” He’s thrusting up when he lets you fall on his cock midway, his muscles forgetting to strain. “Fuck, take it, take it—“
He dives in against your lips, tongue invading your whimpering mouth. You try your best to kiss back, eyes nearly closing while he’s drowning you in him. You’re clenching on his cock a lot tighter now, his balls drenched in your arousal, slapping against your other hole from the impact of his motions.
“I think I—I’m gonna cum-“ You pull away from Choso who lets out a breathy moan, licking your lips to chase yours. You’re falling limp against him, hips rendered useless when he’s already fucking you on a pace outside of your own stamina.
Your insides are pulsing around his member, your moans growing even louder. Choso’s deep enough into you when he feels his cock twitch, “I need to pull out—“ You’re immediately protesting, letting out noises of disapproval. “No, no baby I’m gonna cum if you—“
“I don’t care.“ Fuck. Choso holds himself back, his pre-cum oozing out makes your sopping hole even more slippery at the thought of filling you up to the brim. He’s thinking of ways to keep himself from cumming right this very second when you’re already so fucked out and desperate, high up in your own head.
His dick twitches again and he’s biting his lip, slowing his carry on your body til you’re stopping altogether. Before you could say anything else, he’s pulling out and placing you on the couch, lying down. You’re complaining, spreading your legs as much as the cushions on your side could let you.
Choso’s holding his cock, squeezing at the base to calm himself down but he opens his eyes to your gaping, hungry hole, presented to him like an offer, “C-cum inside me, Cho,”
His resolve breaks within a blink of an eye, already laying above you and wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel like crying out of joy when he finally makes his way inside, thrusting slowly and hissing from how tight you still are. “I need to be on top of you, I need to—“ He mumbled, eyes already hazed out and clambering for satiation.
He topples over you as he finds his balance, now setting a newer pace from earlier, caging you with his body while his thrusts grow even faster.
The sensation is much more different now, a stretch added with the forces of his thrusts now fully landing on you.
He’s watching every twist of your face and moan spill out. Scanning your body downwards while he lays a palm on your lower abdomen, “If I cum inside you’re gonna bulge right h-here, d’ ya want that?”
You’re squealing against him when he presses down, his cock nudging where he’s digging his fingers from the outside. Your walls flutter against his member, sucking him in and pulsing wetly. Choso’s grunting against you, hips growing faster as he watches your eyes get even more hazy and your face twisted.
Your eyes are rolling back when he starts rubbing on your clit, already impatient with wanting to feel your pussy tighten impossibly around him.
He’s whispering incoherencies to you, face on your neck when he pulls back his hips and pushes back in deeply as he continues rubbing you.
You cry out, shuddering against Choso as the coil in you snaps, holding onto his wrist as your legs secured against his ribs.
He lets out a shaky moan, pumping faster when he chases his orgasm while you ride yours out on him, bodies grinding up against each other intimately.
A curse lets you know that he’s finally reached his climax, thrusts growing slow and deep while pumping you full of his sticky cum. Your eyes are glossed over, your throat sore from your own voice when he’s riding out his high, panting and leaving kisses all over your face.
Your chests are pumping against each other, both catching your breaths. Your hand finds its way to his face, turning it so he could look back at you. His cheeks are red and his glasses were no longer on him, probably losing them from how much you’d been switching positions.
You’re brushing his hair from his face, tucking a long strand onto his ear. Your body still feels like it’s on fire but it doesn’t compare to how even after all that, his stare on you still makes your heart skip a beat. You let out a breath, gathering yourself.
“What do you think?” His eyes scans over your face, “Better than coming up to study?”
Choso shifts on his elbows as he’s laying on top of you.“Yeah that was…” He takes a moment to think of a better way to describe it, a smile spreading on his face. “Really good.” He settles with honesty instead.
He’s thumbing over your shoulder, a hundred thoughts trying to materialize themselves in his still mushed up brain. “I’ve never done it like that, before I mean.“
He’s looking up to meet your eyes, and you’ve got a glow emitting from you, drawing him in. He hesitates for a moment but then, “And you? How’d you feel?”
You huff out a soft chuckle, realizing how ironic this all was. How you’ve still managed to not destroy the awkwardness that came with affections even when you’ve skipped over to, well sex. Choso waits for your answer, something swirls tight in his chest, uneasy but still patient.
You’re brushing back the hair on his scalp, taking in how much less guarded he looks without glasses. “Yeah, I feel…safe.”
He smiles, that knot in his chest untangling. To no surprise, he finds the thread it’s bundled from may be connected to you. “Yeah?”
vi smoking a joint while you ride her strap… need that. she’d take huge puffs and exhale right into your face, but she wouldn’t offer you a hit - you need to focus, after all. still, though, you get a little contact high, so by the time you finally come and squirt all over the strap, you’re all lightheaded and a little dizzy and perfectly pliant when vi lies you down and eats your pussy like she’s starving <33 that’s all bye
Being Khabib's sister is hard, but falling for his best friend is even harder...
Your family home had always been a place Islam knew well, even before he ever stepped inside it. He had grown up hearing stories about it from Khabib, stories about the chaos of siblings, the noise of cousins, the warmth of your mother’s cooking, the way you used to run through the hallways with your hair in messy braids while Khabib chased after you. He had known you since you were small, since you were the girl who used to hide behind your brother’s legs and peek at him with wide eyes, since you were the teenager who rolled her eyes at everything but still brought snacks for the whole team. He had watched you grow up without ever meaning to, and now he found himself standing in your doorway again, older, quieter, and far more aware of you than he ever should’ve been.
Your mother opened the door with flour on her hands and a smile that reached her eyes. She didn’t look surprised to see him. She never did. Islam had been coming to this house since he was a boy, and she treated him like one of her own.
“Islam, dear, come inside. You’re letting the cold in,” she said, stepping aside.
He obeyed without hesitation, slipping off his shoes the way he always had. The hallway smelled like cardamom and fresh bread, and the familiar warmth of the house wrapped around him in a way that made something in his chest loosen. He placed the small bag he’d brought on the console table and glanced around, taking in the details he always noticed but never commented on.
Your trainers by the door, still dusted with mud from yesterday’s walk.
Your cardigan was draped over the back of the sofa, the one you always forgot to put away.
A half‑finished mug of tea on the coffee table, the one you’d probably abandoned when your mother sent you out for groceries.
A framed photo of you and Khabib as children, both of you grinning with missing teeth.
He felt the familiarity settle into him like a memory.
“Khabib’s not here,” your mother said as she walked back toward the kitchen. “He just left. You just missed him.”
“That’s alright,” Islam replied, following her. “I only came to drop something off.”
“You can leave it here,” she said, waving a hand. “Or you can stay for tea. You always look like you haven’t eaten enough.”
Islam smiled, the kind of small, reluctant smile he only ever gave her. “I’m fine, really.”
She ignored him completely, already pulling out another cup. “Come. You know where everything is.”
He did.
He knew exactly where everything was.
He moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone who had grown up here, passing her the sugar, moving the kettle, clearing a space on the counter without being asked. She watched him with a soft, amused expression, the kind that held years of affection.
“You’ve always been helpful,” she said. “Even when you were little. You used to carry the heavy bags for me when Khabib refused.”
Islam let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. “He still refuses.”
“He does,” she said, shaking her head. “But you don’t. You never have.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he focused on the kettle instead. The house felt too warm suddenly, too full of memories he wasn’t supposed to hold onto.
Your mother glanced at the clock. “She should be back soon. I told her not to carry everything alone, but she never listens.”
Islam’s eyes softened. “She doesn’t.”
Your mother caught the tone immediately. She didn’t comment, but her smile deepened in a way that made him look away.
A few minutes later, the front door opened. He heard the rustle of bags, the familiar sound of your voice drifting through the hallway, complaining under your breath about the weight of the groceries. He didn’t move, but he felt himself straighten slightly, as if preparing for something he couldn’t name.
You walked into the kitchen with two heavy bags in your arms, your hair slightly messy from the wind, your cheeks flushed from the cold. You stopped when you saw him.
“Oh,” you said, surprised. “You’re here.”
Islam nodded, his expression softening in a way he couldn’t hide. “I came to drop something off for Khabib.”
Your mother clucked her tongue. “And now he’s helping me. Unlike you, who insists on carrying everything alone.”
You set the bags down with a sigh. “I’m fine.”
Islam reached for one of the bags automatically. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
You pulled it back. “I can carry a bag, Islam.”
“I know you can,” he said, his voice calm and steady, “but you don’t have to.”
Your mother watched the two of you with a smile that was far too entertained. “You two argue like an old married couple,” she said, shaking her head. “Always bickering, always helping each other. It’s sweet.”
You froze.
Islam froze harder.
Your mother continued stirring her pot as if she hadn’t just said something that made the air shift completely. Before either of you could recover, the front door opened again.
This time, the footsteps were heavier. Familiar. Controlled.
Khabib’s voice carried through the hallway. “I forgot my phone.”
Islam went still.
You went still.
Your mother kept stirring her pot like nothing was wrong.
The house settled into a different kind of quiet after Khabib walked in. He greeted his mother, nodded at Islam, and moved through the kitchen with calm confidence. He picked up his phone from the counter, checked a few messages, and barely glanced at the two of you. It should have eased the tension, but it only made it worse. Islam stood a little straighter, his shoulders more rigid, his eyes fixed on the floor as if he was trying to make himself smaller. You felt your pulse quicken, not because you were doing anything wrong, but because the air between you and Islam had shifted in a way that made everything feel fragile.
“I’ll be back for dinner,” Khabib said, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Islam, are you coming with me?”
Islam opened his mouth to answer, but your mother cut in before he could get a single word out.
“He’s staying for dinner,” she called out from the stove. “It’s been too long since he’s eaten with us.”
Khabib paused, his eyes flicking between the two of you. Something unreadable passed through his expression, but he didn’t argue. He simply nodded once, the movement slow and thoughtful.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
He left again, the door closing behind him with a soft thud that seemed to echo through the house. The moment he was gone, the tension eased just slightly, but not enough to disappear. Islam stood there for a moment, unsure whether he should sit or leave or pretend he hadn’t just been claimed by your mother like a stray she refused to let go of.
Your mother turned to him with a warm smile. “You’re staying for dinner. No arguments.”
Islam let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. “I wasn’t going to argue.”
“You were thinking about it,” she said, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Stay. You’re family.”
He obeyed, but his eyes drifted to you for a moment, and something unspoken passed between you. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t obvious. It was just a small shift, a quiet acknowledgement that something between you had changed, even if neither of you had said it out loud.
Islam stayed where he was, hands resting lightly on the counter, eyes following the steam rising from the kettle as if it were the safest thing to look at.
You moved past him to put the groceries away, and he stepped aside automatically, giving you space even though the kitchen was large enough for both of you. He had always been like that. Careful. Respectful. Aware of you in a way that felt both comforting and dangerous. You reached for a jar on the top shelf, stretching slightly, and he moved without thinking, his hand brushing yours as he took it down for you.
“You don’t have to do that,” you said quietly.
“I know,” he replied, placing the jar in your hand. “But you always pretend you can reach everything.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed you. “I can reach most things.”
“Not that shelf,” he said, and there was a softness in his voice that made your chest tighten.
Your mother glanced over her shoulder, watching the two of you with a look that was far too knowing. She didn’t say anything this time, but the amusement in her eyes was unmistakable. Islam noticed it too, and he cleared his throat, stepping back as if distance would make the moment less obvious.
You finished putting the groceries away, and he helped without being asked, moving around the kitchen with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before. He knew where the spices went. He knew which cupboard held the tea. He knew which drawer your mother kept the spare towels in. It was the kind of familiarity that came from years of being around your family, years of being Khabib’s closest friend, years of being in your orbit without ever stepping too close.
When everything was put away, your mother poured tea for all three of you and sat at the table. Islam hesitated before sitting down, as if unsure whether he should stay now that Khabib was gone, but your mother waved him over with a firmness that left no room for argument.
“Sit, Islam. You’re family.”
He obeyed, but his eyes flicked to you for a moment, and something unspoken passed between you. You sat across from him, your fingers brushing the warm ceramic of your cup, and for a moment the world felt strangely small. The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clink of spoons against porcelain and the distant hum of the refrigerator. It was the kind of quiet that made every small movement feel louder, every glance feel heavier.
Your mother asked him about training, about how the team was doing, about whether he was eating enough. He answered politely, his voice steady, but his eyes kept drifting to you without meaning to. You felt it every time. A small pull. A small shift. A small reminder that something between you had changed, even if neither of you had said it out loud.
When your mother stepped out of the room to check on something in the oven, the silence between you deepened. Islam looked at you properly then, his expression softer than it had been all afternoon.
“You shouldn’t carry everything alone,” he said quietly.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. “You say that like you haven’t known me since I was five.”
“I have,” he said, and there was a warmth in his voice that made your stomach flutter. “That’s why I know you don’t listen.”
You smiled despite yourself. “You didn’t listen either when you were younger.”
He shook his head, a small laugh escaping him. “I listened more than Khabib.”
“That’s not hard,” you said, and he laughed again, the sound low and warm.
The moment stretched between you, soft and fragile, and for a second you wondered if he felt it too. The pull. The familiarity. The danger of it. He looked like he wanted to say something else, something heavier, something that would change the air between you completely, but your mother returned before he could speak.
She placed a plate of pastries on the table and smiled at the two of you as if she hadn’t just interrupted something important.
“You are staying for dinner,” she repeated to Islam. “It’s been a long time since you’ve eaten with us.”
Islam hesitated, his eyes flicking to you again. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“You never intrude,” she said firmly. “You’ve known this family since you were a boy. You’re always welcome.”
He looked at you again, and you felt your heart skip.
Dinner in your house had always been a kind of organised chaos. Your mother moved around the kitchen with the confidence of someone who had cooked the same dishes for decades, humming softly as she placed steaming plates on the table. The smell of roasted spices filled the air, warm and comforting, and the familiar clatter of cutlery echoed through the room. It should have been a normal evening, the kind you had lived through a thousand times, but the moment Islam sat down beside you, the atmosphere shifted into something quieter and heavier.
He sat close enough that your knees brushed under the table, a small accidental touch that neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt. His posture was straight, his hands resting lightly on his lap, and he kept his eyes on his plate as if looking anywhere else would give something away. You could feel the warmth of him beside you, steady and grounding, and it made your heart beat a little faster than it should have.
Khabib sat across from the two of you, his expression calm but unreadable. He watched Islam with a kind of quiet intensity that made the air feel tight. He had always been protective, always been the older brother who saw everything, but tonight his gaze lingered a little too long, his silence stretched a little too far.
Your mother, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering beneath the surface, kept the conversation flowing. She asked about what he's doing now, about his mother, about whether Islam was eating enough again. She placed extra food on his plate even when he insisted he was full, fussing over him the way she always had since he was a boy who used to come over after school with Khabib.
“I remember when you three used to run around the garden,” she said, smiling fondly at you both. “You would chase each other for hours. Islam always let you win.”
Islam let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “She cried when she lost.”
“I did not!” you exclaimed, nudging him lightly with your knee.
“You did!” he replied, his voice soft and warm. “Every time.”
Your mother laughed. “She was dramatic even then.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed you. Islam’s knee brushed yours again, this time more deliberate, and you felt a small spark run through you. He didn’t move away. Neither did you.
Khabib noticed.
He didn’t say anything, but his jaw tightened slightly, and he shifted in his seat as if trying to understand something he didn’t like.
Your mother continued talking, unaware of the storm building across the table. “You know, the two of them were arguing earlier. Like an old married couple. It was very sweet.”
The words dropped into the room like a stone.
Islam froze.
You felt your breath catch.
Khabib’s eyes lifted slowly from his plate.
Your mother kept going, completely oblivious. “They have been like that since they were children. Always bickering, always helping each other. It's nice to see some things do not change.”
Khabib didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink.
He looked at Islam first, then at you, and the silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You felt heat rise in your cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from the weight of his stare. Islam shifted slightly, his posture straightening, his expression carefully neutral.
Your mother noticed the tension and frowned. “What? I am only saying they get along well.”
Khabib finally spoke, his voice calm but edged with something sharp. “Getting along is one thing.”
Your mother raised an eyebrow. “And what is that supposed to mean.”
Khabib didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on Islam. “It means he is not good enough for her.”
The words landed like a blow.
Your mother clicked her tongue in irritation. “Khabib, do not start. Islam is a good boy. Better than most.”
“That isn't the point,” he said, still watching Islam.
Islam lowered his gaze, not out of guilt, but out of respect. He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. He simply sat there, absorbing the weight of Khabib’s words like he had expected them all along.
You felt something twist in your chest. “Khabib, stop.”
He finally looked at you, and the intensity in his eyes made your stomach tighten. “I am not joking.”
Your mother sighed loudly, muttering under her breath about stubborn men and their pride, but she didn’t push further. She knew her son well enough to recognise when he had dug his heels in.
Dinner continued, but the warmth was gone. The conversation faded into awkward silence. Islam barely touched his food. You couldn’t taste yours. Khabib ate quietly, his expression unreadable, but the tension radiated from him like heat.
When the meal ended, Islam stood to help clear the table, but your mother shooed him away. “You are a guest. Go. Sit. Or go home before it gets dark.”
He nodded politely, thanked her for the meal, and stepped into the hallway to put on his shoes. You followed him, unable to let him leave without saying something.
He tied his laces slowly, his movements careful. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I did not mean to cause trouble.”
“You didn't,” you whispered. “He is just being protective.”
Islam looked up at you then, and the softness in his eyes made your breath catch. “He has every right to be.”
Before you could respond, Khabib appeared in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable. “I'll walk you out,” he said to Islam.
Islam nodded, offering you a small, reassuring look before stepping outside with your brother.
The door closed behind them, and you stood there, heart pounding, listening to the muffled sound of their voices. You couldn’t hear the words, but you could hear the tone. Low. Controlled. Tense.
A few minutes later, the door opened again. Islam was gone.
Khabib stepped inside, closing the door with a quiet finality. He didn’t look at you at first. He removed his shoes, hung his jacket, and only then turned toward you.
“There better not be anything happening,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I am serious.”
You felt your throat tighten. “There isn't.”
“There better not be,” he repeated. “Because he is my brother. And you are my sister. And I will not let either of you ruin that.”
He didn’t shout. He didn’t raise his voice.
But the warning was clear.
You stood in the hallway with your hand resting on the console table, your pulse still racing from the tension at the dinner table. Khabib didn’t move at first. He stood near the door, shoulders squared, jaw tight, as if he was trying to hold himself together.
Your mother stepped out of the kitchen with a dish towel in her hand, her expression already annoyed. “What’s going on now?” she asked, her voice sharp. “You two look like you’re about to start a fight in my hallway.”
Khabib didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed locked on you. “There better not be anything between her and Islam,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’m serious.”
You felt your throat tighten. “There isn’t.”
“It didn't look like that,” he said, and this time there was something colder in his tone. “The way he looked at you. The way you looked at him!”
Your mother frowned, stepping closer. “Khabib, what are you talking about?”
He finally turned to her, his jaw clenched. “He’s not good enough for her.”
Your mother let out a loud sigh, the kind she only used when she was truly fed up. “You’ve been saying that since they were children. You said the same thing when he taught her how to ride a bike. You said the same thing when he helped her with her school project. You said the same thing when he carried her home after she sprained her ankle.”
“That was different,” Khabib said, his voice sharper now. “We were children back then.”
“And she’s not a child now,” your mother replied, crossing her arms. “She can decide who’s good enough for her.”
Khabib shook his head, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “You don’t understand. He’s my brother. I know him better than anyone. I know how he thinks. I know what he wants. And I know he shouldn’t be looking at her like that.”
Your mother’s eyes narrowed. “And what makes you think he’s looking at her in any way.”
Khabib hesitated, and that hesitation told you everything. He’d seen it. The glances. The softness. The way Islam’s knee had brushed yours under the table. The way you’d leaned slightly toward him without meaning to. The way Islam had looked at you when he thought no one was watching.
Your mother saw the hesitation too. “You’re imagining things,” she said firmly. “Islam’s always been respectful. He’s never crossed a line.”
“That’s the problem,” Khabib said quietly. “He’s too respectful. He hides things. He keeps things inside. He won’t say anything until it’s too late.”
You felt something twist in your chest. “Khabib, you’re overreacting.”
He turned to you again, his eyes sharp. “I’m not. I know him. And I know you. And I know how these things start.”
Your mother stepped between you, placing a hand on Khabib’s arm. “Enough! You’re making something out of nothing.”
Khabib pulled his arm away gently but firmly. “I’m protecting her.”
“From what?” your mother asked, her voice rising. “From a good man who’s known her since she was a child. From someone who’s never disrespected this family. From someone who’s always been loyal to you.”
Khabib’s jaw tightened. “From making a mistake.”
You felt something inside you snap. “Islam’s not a mistake.”
Khabib’s eyes flashed. “He could be.”
Your mother let out a frustrated breath. “You’re being ridiculous.”
Khabib ignored her. He stepped closer to you, his voice low and controlled. “I’m telling you this once. There can’t be anything between you and Islam. Not now. Not ever.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding. “You can’t decide that for me.”
“I can,” he said quietly. “And I will.”
Your mother shook her head, muttering under her breath. “You’re acting like your father.”
Khabib stiffened at that, but he didn’t respond. He simply looked at you, his expression a mixture of anger, fear, and something else you couldn’t name.
“You’re my sister,” he said softly. “I’m responsible for you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not even him.”
Your mother sighed again, rubbing her forehead. “Enough. Both of you. This isn’t the time.”
But Khabib wasn’t finished. He stepped back, his voice steady but cold. “I’m warning you. Stay away from him. Don’t give him ideas. Don’t let him think he has a chance.”
You felt your throat tighten. “He doesn’t.”
“He better not,” Khabib said. “Because if he does, I’ll end it before it begins.” He turned away then, walking toward the stairs with slow, heavy steps. Your mother watched him go, shaking her head in frustration.
She turned to you, her voice softer. “He’s scared. That’s all. He’s not thinking clearly.”
You nodded, but your chest felt tight. “He thinks I’m still a child.”
“He thinks he’s still responsible for you,” she said gently. “He’s always been like this.”
You looked toward the door where Islam had left, your heart aching with something you couldn’t name.
Your mother placed a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t let him scare you. You know your own heart.”
You nodded again, but the truth was heavier than that.
Your room felt too still after the argument. The air was heavy, the silence thick, and every time you closed your eyes, you could still hear Khabib’s voice echoing in your head. You sat on your bed with your knees pulled up, staring at the faint glow of your phone screen even though there were no new notifications. The house had gone quiet. Your mother’s door was closed. Khabib’s footsteps had faded upstairs. The whole place felt like it was holding its breath.
Then your phone buzzed.
Your heart jumped before you even looked.
Islam: Are you awake
Islam: I’m at the old park
Islam: If you want to talk
You stared at the messages, your breath catching. The old park. The place where the three of you had spent half your childhood. The place where you’d scraped your knees climbing the rusted slide. The place where Islam used to push you on the swings because you were too scared to jump off. The place where Khabib used to race both of you across the grass until you collapsed laughing.
It wasn’t just a park.
It was a memory.
You typed back before you could think.
You: I’m coming
You grabbed your hoodie, slipped it on, and moved quietly through the house. You knew exactly where the floorboards creaked and where they stayed silent. You’d learned that as a child when you used to sneak downstairs for snacks. You eased the back door open and stepped into the cool night air, pulling the hood up as you walked down the familiar path toward the park.
The night was calm. The sky was a deep blue, the kind that looked almost purple around the edges. The streetlamps cast soft pools of light across the pavement, and the air smelled faintly of rain. You walked slowly, your heart beating faster with every step, the weight of the evening pressing against your ribs.
When you reached the park, it looked smaller than you remembered. The swings creaked softly in the wind. The old slide was still there, rusted at the edges. The grass was damp with evening dew. The bench near the swings was the same one the three of you used to sit on when you were too tired to keep playing.
And Islam was standing beside it.
He had his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, his head tilted as he watched you approach. The streetlamp above him cast a soft glow over his face, turning the edges of his hoodie gold. He looked tired. He looked worried. He looked like he’d been standing there longer than he wanted to admit.
He smiled when he saw you. A small, tired smile that made your chest ache. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“I wasn’t sure either,” you said quietly. “But I’m here.”
He nodded, his eyes softening. “I’m glad.”
You walked toward him, your steps slow, the night air cool against your skin. The park felt like a memory. The kind that sits in your chest and refuses to fade. Islam looked around with a small, nostalgic smile.
“We spent half our childhood here,” he said. “You used to make us play hide and seek even when it was dark.”
“You always found me,” you said.
“You hid in the same place every time,” he replied, laughing softly. “Behind the slide.”
You felt your cheeks warm. “I thought it was a good hiding spot.”
“It wasn’t,” he said gently. “But I pretended it was.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, and the emotion in his eyes made your breath catch. He stepped closer, his voice quieter now.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he said. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Your heart tightened. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you either.”
He let out a slow breath, the kind that sounded like he’d been holding it for years. “Khabib’s right to worry. I shouldn’t feel like this.”
“But you do,” you whispered.
He nodded. “I do.”
The silence between you stretched, soft and fragile. The swings creaked in the wind. A dog barked in the distance. The world felt small. Just the two of you. Just the truth hanging between you.
Islam looked down at the ground for a moment, then back at you. “I’ve tried not to feel anything. I’ve tried for years. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself it would go away. I told myself you were just Khabib’s little sister and I had no right to think about you the way I do.”
Your breath caught. “Islam…”
He shook his head gently. “Let me say it. Just once.”
You nodded.
He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him in the cool night air. “I care about you. More than I should. More than I ever meant to. More than I can explain.”
Your heart felt full and aching all at once. “I care about you too.”
He looked at you with something like disbelief, something like hope, something like fear. “I don’t know what happens now.”
You took a small step toward him. “We don’t have to know.”
He let out a quiet breath, his voice trembling just slightly. “If I’m wrong, tell me. If I’m imagining this, tell me. I’ll walk away.”
“You’re not imagining it,” you whispered.
He swallowed, his eyes searching yours. “Then I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”
You didn’t move.
You didn’t breathe.
You just waited.
He lifted a hand slowly, giving you time to pull away, but you didn’t. His fingers brushed your cheek, gentle and careful, as if he was afraid you might disappear. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to step back.
His forehead rested lightly against yours for a moment, his breath warm against your lips, and then he kissed you.
It was soft.
It was careful.
It was the kind of kiss that felt like a secret.
The kind that felt like years of unspoken feelings finally finding a place to land.
He pulled back just slightly, his voice barely steady. “We’re in trouble.”
You smiled, your heart full. “I know.”
He let out a quiet laugh, the sound warm and helpless. “I don’t regret it.”
“Good,” you whispered. “Neither do I.”
You stood there together in the quiet park, the night wrapped around you, the world suddenly meaning different.
The gym was already alive when Islam walked in. The familiar sounds echoed through the space: the thud of gloves hitting pads, the scrape of shoes on the mats, the low hum of voices warming up. The air smelled like sweat and disinfectant, sharp and clean in a way that usually grounded him. Normally he’d feel at home here, slipping into routine without thinking. But today everything felt slightly off, like the world had shifted a few inches to the left while he wasn’t looking.
He dropped his bag by the wall and wrapped his hands slowly, his movements careful, almost too careful. His mind wasn’t here. It was still in the park. It was still with you. He kept seeing the way you’d looked at him under the streetlamp, the way your breath had caught when he stepped closer, the way your lips had felt against his. He’d barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you again.
He tightened the wrap around his wrist, then realised he’d done it wrong. He sighed quietly and started over.
Across the room, Umar was watching him with a raised eyebrow. “You alright?” he asked, walking over.
“I’m fine,” Islam said, even though he wasn’t.
“You don’t look fine,” Umar replied. “You look like you forgot how to wrap your hands.”
Islam didn’t answer. He just kept working, slower than usual, his fingers fumbling slightly. Umar watched him for a moment longer, then shrugged and walked away, but not without glancing back once. Everyone knew Islam was steady. Focused. Controlled. Seeing him like this was strange.
Warm-ups started, and Islam moved through them mechanically. His body knew what to do, but his mind kept drifting. Every time he blinked, he saw the park again. The swings. The old slide. The way you’d stepped closer. The way you’d whispered that you cared about him too. His chest tightened every time he thought about it.
He missed a cue during drills.
He never missed cues.
Coach raised an eyebrow. “Islam. Focus.”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
He tried to shake it off, tried to force himself into the rhythm, but his thoughts kept slipping. His punches were a fraction slower. His footwork wasn’t as sharp. He kept glancing at the door, half expecting Khabib to walk in and somehow know everything.
And then Khabib walked in.
He entered the gym with the same steady stride he always had, but his eyes were sharper today. He scanned the room quickly, then spotted Islam immediately. Islam felt his stomach drop. He straightened his posture, tried to look normal, tried to look like he hadn’t spent the entire night thinking about something he shouldn’t have done.
Khabib walked over slowly, his expression unreadable. “You’re early,” he said.
Islam nodded. “Wanted to get some extra work in.”
Khabib studied him for a moment. “You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep much.”
“Why?”
Islam hesitated. “Just thinking.”
Khabib’s eyes narrowed slightly. “About what?”
Islam looked away, pretending to adjust his gloves. “Training. The fight schedule. Everything.”
Khabib didn’t believe him. Islam could feel it. He could feel the weight of Khabib’s stare pressing into him, searching for cracks. Khabib had always been able to read him too well. He’d grown up with him. He knew every tell, every shift, every hesitation.
“You’re not focused,” Khabib said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Islam swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine.”
Khabib stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Did something happen last night.”
Islam’s heart stopped.
He kept his face still, kept his breathing steady, kept his voice calm. “No.”
Khabib watched him for a long moment, his eyes sharp, his jaw tight. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll know.”
Islam nodded once. “I’m not lying.”
Khabib didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push further. He stepped back, crossing his arms as he watched Islam move into sparring drills.
Islam tried to focus. He really did. But his mind kept slipping back to you. The way you’d looked at him. The way you’d said you cared. The way he’d kissed you. His chest tightened again, and he missed another cue.
Coach called out sharply. “Islam. What’s going on with you today?”
“Nothing,” Islam said, but his voice was too soft.
Khabib’s eyes narrowed again.
Islam threw a combination, but his timing was off. His partner countered faster than he expected, and Islam took a clean shot to the ribs. He winced, stepping back.
Umar called out from across the room. “You’re not here today, brother.”
Islam didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Because he wasn’t here.
Not really.
He was still in the park.
He was still with you.
He was still replaying the moment he’d wanted for years but never allowed himself to imagine.
And he knew, with a sinking feeling, that he couldn’t hide this forever.
Not from himself.
Not from you.
And definitely not from Khabib.
The gym had mostly emptied out by the time Islam and Usman sat down on the edge of the mats. The lights hummed softly above them, casting long shadows across the floor. The air still smelled like sweat and disinfectant, sharp and familiar, but Islam felt like he was breathing through cotton. His wraps were half‑undone, hanging loosely from his wrists, and he stared at the floor as if it could give him answers.
Usman watched him quietly for a moment before speaking. “You were off today,” he said. “Really off.”
Islam didn’t respond.
Usman nudged him lightly. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
Islam rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s a lie,” Usman said. “I’ve known you too long. Something’s wrong.”
Islam hesitated. His chest felt tight. His thoughts were tangled. He hadn’t planned to say anything. He hadn’t planned to tell anyone. But the words were sitting in his throat, heavy and impossible to swallow.
“It’s her,” he said quietly.
Usman frowned. “Khabib’s sister.”
Islam nodded.
Usman let out a low breath. “What happened.”
Islam looked down at his hands. “I told her. Last night. I told her everything.”
Usman stared at him. “Everything.”
“Yes.”
“And she…”
“She feels the same.”
Usman exhaled slowly. “Islam… that’s dangerous.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t have said anything.”
“I know.”
“You kissed her, didn’t you.”
Islam closed his eyes. “Yes.”
Usman ran a hand through his hair. “Brother… Khabib will kill you.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t have done it.”
“I know.”
“But you don’t regret it.”
Islam shook his head. “Not for a second.”
Usman sighed, leaning back on his hands. “So what now?”
“I don’t know,” Islam said. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
A voice cut through the gym like a blade.
“You don’t need to know anything anymore.”
Islam froze.
Usman froze.
Khabib was standing behind them. His expression wasn’t angry. It was worse. It was cold. Controlled. The kind of calm that came right before a storm.
Islam stood slowly. “Khabib—”
Khabib didn’t let him finish.
He stepped forward and punched Islam across the face.
The sound echoed through the gym.
A sharp crack.
A gasp from someone still packing up their gear.
Usman jumped to his feet instantly.
“Khabib! Stop!”
Islam stumbled back, catching himself on the wall. He didn’t raise his hands. He didn’t defend himself. He just stood there, breathing hard, his cheek already reddening.
Khabib’s voice exploded through the room. “You kissed her!”
Islam didn’t deny it.
“You kissed my sister!” Khabib shouted again, louder this time, his voice shaking with fury.
Usman grabbed Khabib’s arm as he lunged again. “Khabib, stop! Not here!”
Khabib fought against him, his voice raw. “You think you can do this behind my back! You think you can sneak around with her! You think I won’t find out!”
Islam’s voice was quiet. “I wasn’t sneaking.”
“You lied to me!” Khabib shouted. “You lied to my face!”
Usman stepped between them, pushing Khabib back slightly. “Enough! Both of you!”
However, his words were deaf to Khabib's ears. His voice was shaking with anger. “You were like family! Do you hear me! Family! I brought you into my home! I trusted you! I let you sit at my table! I let you around my mother! Around my sister!”
“You did!” Khabib yelled. “You betrayed my trust! You betrayed our family! You betrayed everything we built!”
Islam’s voice cracked. “I care about her.”
Khabib’s face twisted with fury. “You don’t get to care about her!”
“I already do,” Islam said quietly.
Khabib lunged again, and this time he almost broke free of Usman’s grip. “I’ll kill you!”
“Khabib!” Usman shouted, holding him back with both arms. “Stop! You’ll regret this!”
Khabib’s voice was raw. “You’re done! Do you hear me! You’re done with her! You’re done with this family! You’re done with me!”
Islam didn’t move. “I’m not walking away from her.”
“You don’t have a choice!” Khabib shouted. “You won’t see her again! You won’t speak to her again! You won’t even look at her again!”
Islam’s voice was barely steady. “You can’t control everything.”
“I can control this!” Khabib said. “And I will!”
Usman tried to calm him. “Khabib, think—”
“I’ve thought enough!” Khabib snapped. “He’s going to America!”
Islam’s breath caught. “What?”
“You heard me!” Khabib shouted. “I’ll send you there myself! You’re gone! You’re out! You’re finished!”
Islam felt something inside him break. “You can’t do that.”
“I can!” Khabib said. “And I will!”
He turned and stormed out of the gym, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.
The room went silent.
Usman let out a long breath, running a hand over his face. “Brother… what have you done?”
Islam didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because everything had just fallen apart.
The day felt painfully slow from the moment you woke up. You kept checking your phone even though you knew nothing would be there. Every hour that passed without a message from Islam made your stomach twist tighter. You tried to distract yourself, but your mind kept drifting back to the park, to the way he’d looked at you, to the softness in his voice when he said he cared. Now the silence felt like a punishment, like maybe he’d woken up and realised it was all a mistake.
You kept replaying the kiss in your head, wondering if he regretted it. Wondering if he’d decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Wondering if you’d misread everything. The longer the silence stretched, the more your thoughts spiralled into something sharp and painful. You tried to tell yourself he was busy, but deep down you knew something was wrong.
By late afternoon, you were sitting at the kitchen table with your mother, trying to help her chop vegetables. Your hands kept shaking, and she noticed immediately. She asked if you were alright, but you just nodded and forced a smile. She didn’t believe you, but she didn’t push. She just kept cooking, humming softly, trying to fill the quiet with something warm.
Then the front door slammed so hard the walls shook. Your mother jumped, and you felt your whole body freeze. Khabib walked in with a fury that filled the entire room. His jaw was clenched, his eyes were dark, and he didn’t even look at your mother. His gaze went straight to you, sharp and unblinking.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. You felt your heart drop, but you stood anyway. When you asked what was wrong, he shouted the words so loudly the sound echoed through the house. Your mother stepped in immediately, telling him not to speak to you like that, but he ignored her completely. He took another step toward you, his voice rising with every word.
“You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know what you did?” he shouted. You tried to deny it, but he cut you off, shouting again that you’d snuck out. Your mother gasped and turned to you, her face pale with shock. You couldn’t speak. You just nodded, and she closed her eyes like she’d been hit.
Khabib’s anger only grew. He shouted that he’d trusted Islam, that he’d treated him like family, that he’d brought him into the house and let him sit at the table and be around everyone he cared about. His voice cracked when he said it, and for a moment you saw the hurt beneath the fury. You tried to speak, but he shouted over you, saying Islam had betrayed him, betrayed all of you.
Your mother grabbed his arm, begging him to stop, but he shook her off. His eyes stayed locked on you, burning with something fierce and protective and terrifying. “You’ll never see him again,” he shouted. “Do you hear me? Never!”
“You can't do that!” You shouted back at him, but he only shouted back.
Then he said the words that made your breath stop. “He’s leaving. He’s going to America.” You stared at him, unable to process it, but he kept going. He said Islam was gone, that he was out of the family, out of your life, that you wouldn’t speak to him or see him ever again. Your mother covered her mouth, tears filling her eyes, but you couldn’t move. You felt frozen, like your heart had cracked open inside your chest.
Khabib stepped back, breathing hard, his voice still shaking with anger. “This ends now,” he said. “Do you understand me? It ends.” Then he turned and stormed down the hallway, slamming his bedroom door so hard the whole house trembled.
Your mother rushed to you immediately, pulling you into her arms. She kept apologising, saying she was sorry, saying she didn’t know what to do. But you couldn’t cry. You couldn’t speak. You just stood there, numb, your heart pounding in your ears.
Islam hadn’t messaged you because he couldn’t. Because Khabib had found out. Because everything had exploded. Because he was leaving. Because you weren’t allowed to see him again.
And you had no idea if you’d ever see him again.
Should I write a part two...????
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“scientists don’t want you know” is a phrase that always cracks me up because if you actually meet a scientist they will be shaking and crying like an overstimulated chihuahua with the need to let you know
