
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6496000.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Haikyuu!!
  Relationship:
      Oikawa_Tooru/Reader, Daishou_Suguru/Reader, Kuroo_Tetsurou/Reader,
      Iwaizumi_Hajime/Reader, Ennoshita_Chikara/Reader, Terushima_Yuuji/Reader,
      Matsukawa_Issei/Reader, Ushijima_Wakatoshi/Reader, Daishou_Suguru/Reader/
      Kuroo_Tetsurou, Ukai_Keishin/Reader, Semi_Eita/Reader, Kuguri/Reader,
      Akaashi_Keiji/Reader, Kozume_Kenma/Reader, Miya_Atsumu/Reader
  Character:
      Oikawa_Tooru, Daishou_Suguru, Kuroo_Tetsurou, Kozume_Kenma, Iwaizumi
      Hajime, Ennoshita_Chikara, Terushima_Yuuji, Original_Male_Character(s),
      Matsukawa_Issei, Hanamaki_Takahiro, Ushijima_Wakatoshi, Ukai_Keishin,
      Semi_Eita, Kuguri, Kinoshita_Hisashi, Konoha_Akinori, Bokuto_Koutarou
  Additional Tags:
      Smut, PWP, Porn_With_Plot, Porn_with_Feelings, Angst, Alternate_Universe
      -_College/University, Other_Additional_Tags_to_Be_Added, Pairings_to_be
      added, unprotected_sex, Underage_Sex, Semi-Public_Sex, Vaginal_Fingering,
      Possessive_Behavior, Jealousy, Love_Confessions, Oral_Sex, Fluff, Dirty
      Talk, mild_violence, Friends_With_Benefits, Daddy_Kink, Choking,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Punk, Love/Hate_Relationship, Sexual_Tension,
      Threesome_-_F/M/M, Facials, Older_Man/Younger_Woman, Smoking, Family
      Issues, Alternate_Universe_-_Delinquents, Domestic_Fluff, Mentions_of
      Pregnancy, Marriage, Orgasm_Delay/Denial, Begging, Supernatural_AU_-
      Freeform, Mentions_of_Violence, Mentions_of_Death, Sometimes_there's_more
      plot_than_porn, Betrayal, Sometimes_there's_more_porn_than_plot, Pining,
      Misunderstandings, Yandere_AU, Blood, Minor/Mentioned_side_relationships,
      Spanking, consensual_non-monogamy, hatefucking, Enemies_to_Lovers,
      Enemies_With_Benefits, Rough_Sex, Outdoor_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-04-08 Updated: 2017-04-11 Chapters: 17/? Words: 127558
****** A Study in Depravity ******
by SabbyWrites
Summary
     A collection of oneshots in which you have sex with volleyball
     players. Additional tags/pairings will be added as each oneshot is
     posted.
Notes
     Hey guys! Since I've had such a hankering to write smut lately I
     decided that I would start a book of oneshots where I could actually
     experiment with my writing and try to get more practice with writing
     a bunch of characters.Let me know in the comments if there's a
     particular character that you're dying to have a oneshot written for,
     because I'm trying to make this collection a mix between popular
     characters and some under- appreciated ones.
     If you want to talk to me on my tumblr and see what characters I'm
     going to write for next, the link is sabbywrites.tumblr.com.
     Hope you guys enjoy it! I tried to vary my writing style with this
     one, and I have to say that I think it worked out alright.
     (MILD SPOILERS FOR RECENT EPISODES OF THE ANIME)
     xoxo sabby
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Oikawa Toru- Firsts *****
The first time he sees you cry is after they've already lost to Karasuno.
Iwaizumi is sniffling and he’s doing his best to comfort but not hover, his
mind already in a thousand pieces after talking to Ushijima. Everyone else is
watching them with wide, red eyes, their own tears held back at the sight of
their ace letting out his frustration.
You come barreling out the doors, face flushed and eyes frantic. He can’t help
the way that his breath hitches in his throat when he sees you skid to a stop.
He’s just lost, damnnit, he should be beyond thought, but the sight of you with
your wind-ruffled hair and panicked expression makes his broken heart flutter
pitifully in his chest.
Your eyes are searching all of them for something that he realizes he doesn’t
posses; slanted, serious eyes, tawny like tree sap. You find them and you
launch forward, latching onto the arms of the ticking time-bomb himself.
“Kyōtani-kun!” You say, voice breathless in a way that is no way related to the
fact that you ran all the way here. “Kyōtani-kun, you did so well, I’m so
proud—”
Oikawa Tōru watches, already a little helpless, as the wing spiker shakes his
arm out of your grip, turning to scowl down at you. It’s a mix of sadness and
anger that causes him to do it, the same feelings that are currently swirling
inside of all of them. It helps, usually, because then they go home and they
practice. But this is something else entirely. Maybe it’s because he’s still
new to all of this, or maybe it’s because he was incensed during the match, but
Kyōtani Kentarō chooses that moment to take all of his sadness and anger, his
devastation and his helplessness, and turn it into something destructive.
“Don’t touch me.” He grunts, and you recoil as if the words have manifested
themselves and slapped you across the face. Oikawa watches, one of a handful of
witnesses, as your heart breaks and Kyōtani gets on the bus.
__
The first time he sees you smile is a much nicer time. He’s already finished
his first year of university and is currently eating in the cafeteria after a
long day of moving back into his dorm when you pass him.
There’s a flicker of recognition on your face, which is replaced by a burn of
embarrassment in your cheeks. Oikawa frowns, a little offended that his face is
somehow related to your memory of being dumped by his kohai, and waves you over
despite the fact that you look like you’d rather die.
“Hi.” He says. “I remember you, from the Spring High playoffs. I’m—”
“Oikawa Tōru.” You finish, and although it shouldn’t come as a surprise that
you know who he is, he’s pleased nonetheless. That flushed expression is still
on your face, but it’s much less frantic than he remembers. You’ve matured.
“I’m [Surname] [Name].”
“Nice to meet you.” He laughs, hoping the sound will ease your expression. It
does, just a little bit. He wonders how bright your face gets when you smile,
then asks himself if his heart would really be able to handle that sort of
beauty.
“Nice to meet you too.” You allow yourself to lapse into silence, shifting a
little bit in the cafeteria chair. Oikawa smiles, determined to keep you here
for as long as he can.
“So, [Surname]-san, what brings you here? Do you go here? Your boyfriend?” He
asks, trying his best to keep you from noticing that he’s hoping you’ll say
you’re single.
He wants to smack himself when you pause again. Did he get too personal? Were
you creeped out? His inherent charm didn’t seem to phase you, did that mean—
You lean back in the chair a little bit and laugh, a slow smile stretching on
your face. He’s awestruck, absolutely winded by how beautiful you are.
“No,” you shrug, “it’s just me.”
__
The first time he sees you angry— actually seething, hands flying and
shattering things— comes almost a year afterwards. You’d gotten back together
with Kyōtani shortly after formally meeting Oikawa, something he learned
because of the secret fact that Iwaizumi has always been a little bit of a
gossip. It pissed him off just a little bit but did nothing to deter your
budding friendship.
After all, that’s what he wanted, right? A friendship with a girl, one who
wouldn’t get in the way of him sampling all the others when he went to school.
Not deeply buried feelings that arose once he learned that your personality was
just as beautiful as your smile. Of course not.
He’s only here to witness your reign of terror because you called him to do so,
and Oikawa Tōru will always, always come when you call. He sits on your bed
between declarations of “He’s such an asshole, can you believe this!?” and
“This is the last time I let him pull this shit. I mean it.”.
And he waits. Waits until the storm has passed from your eyes and you slump
down into your desk chair. Waits for the perfect words to form on his tongue,
ones that won’t excuse what his former teammate did nor incite more aggravated
shrieks. He’s sure your neighbors will love him for it.
“You don’t deserve to be treated like that. You’re too good for him,” is what
he decides on, watching as a little bit of the badly-hidden hurt drains from
your eyes and you look at him— see through him, really— and give him a watery
smile.
“I guess.” You say, punctuating your statement with a forlorn sigh. He has the
urge to scoop you up in his arms and save you from all your troubles, no matter
how impossibly large they are.
His stomach drops, though, when he fully takes in your words. He knows what
they mean; he’s heard you say them so many times after every single fight.
“You’re going to take him back?” His asks, a little more incredulous than he
should be. He thought this was the last time. Had hoped it was the last time.
“I don’t know anymore. I just. Love him. I think.” You stammer out, already
looking like you want to break something again. Oikawa does too, and the image
of kicking his former teammate in the stomach is oddly pleasing.
No, Tōru. How fucking weird is it that he thinks in Iwa-chan’s voice? You can’t
do that. He’s your friend.
Oikawa frowns at the thought. Is he really? Is Kyōtani Kentarō actually his
friend? Past issues aside, the fact still stands that Oikawa would sell his
soul in an instant to be in his place, to be able to call you his and hold your
hand and do all sorts of other things that couples get to do. It makes him
sick, legitimately, and he thinks he might just throw up with how jealous he
is.
Kyōtani Kentarō has an opportunity that Oikawa Tōru would kill for, and he’s
throwing it away. He’s taking pictures with other girls, ignoring your calls,
and brushing you aside. He’s letting one of the most beautiful creatures on
this earth slip right through his fingers, and Oikawa isn’t even comforted by
that. It’s clear that no matter what, you will love your boyfriend for a long
time. Maybe even forever.
Suddenly his mind is filled with thoughts of you walking down an isle in a
dress that was not picked out for him. An image of you holding a black-haired
child that is not his. A blush spreading on your face that he did not cause.
He stands, ignoring your suddenly worried expression, and bolts to the door,
some sort of lame excuse falling from his lips as he does so. You protest, but
you do not chase him out.
__
He calls Iwaizumi on the way back to his dorm. “I’m in love with her.” He says,
the statement caught somewhere between a pant and a wail.
“I know.” Iwaizumi says.
__
He never spends his Saturdays alone. It’s a perk of being on the volleyball
team; they always go to parties together, packed in a cramped house like a
school of fish. The beat of the music is so strong that it feels like it’s
rattling his bones.
He watches, a little bored, as the contents of his cup slosh around. He’s never
been much of a drinker, but he does like to indulge himself.
He watches as a pretty redhead walks by, shooting him a kind smile. Yes.
Indulge yourself.
He wonders what you’re up to. Probably reading a novel or watching some new
show; anything to procrastinate doing homework.
Pushing off from the wall and taking one last sip from his drink before setting
it down, Oikawa steels his nerves for what’s about to happen. He’s going to try
and forget about you, even if it’s only for a few minutes. You can’t continue
to control his life like this. Even though you have no idea that you’re doing
it, it’s still annoying as hell and he wishes he had never met you.
That’s a lie. He thinks it before he can stop himself. He scowls. The only
thing that he’s wishing for is to be back in your dorm with you, laughing about
some inside joke that he’s forgotten the origin of. He wants to be there, under
your covers with you, telling you how perfect and amazing and wonderful you
are, holding you to his chest and making you forget that you ever even loved
someone else.
But he can’t. So he walks over to that redhead, tapping her on the shoulder and
introducing himself. She smiles again, telling him there’s no need, she already
knows who he is. She has nice green eyes. They aren’t as pretty as yours,
though.
He manages to keep it together as they break away from the party, finding a
room where they can be alone. He maintains his composure through the heavy
petting, through the gradual loss of clothing, through grabbing a condom and
putting it on. Through the guttural groans and moaning of names.
At least, he thinks he does. When they’re done he’s a little mortified to see
her hurt expression, doubly so when it morphs into one of understanding.
“My name isn’t [Name].” Is what she says when she’s dressed again. She leaves
him there, alone in that room.
Oikawa Tōru cries.
__
The first time he sees you broken, one hundred percent shattered, is three
weeks later. Your reunion with Kyōtani did not go well, that much is certain.
He finds you curled into a ball on your bed, still wearing your pajamas at five
o’clock in the evening. He’s still feeling a bit guilty for moaning your name
during his last tryst, so he’s kept his Saturday night escapades to a minimum
since then. It’s a good thing, in hindsight, because it allows him to pick up
the pieces of what might be your final breakup with the temperamental
volleyball player.
“I can’t believe he drove all the way out here just to say that he met someone
else.” You sniffle, hands balled into tight fists. “Why would he get back
together with me in the first place if he knew he was just going to break my
heart again?”
“Some people feel safer going back to something they’re familiar with.” Oikawa
tries to soothe you but you just swat his hand away. He smiles, a little
pained.
“Well that’s stupid.” You mutter, pushing yourself up to sit cross-legged. Your
hair is a complete mess. He likes it. “People should do new things. People
should take risks, y’know? Not go back to something just because it’s easy.
Kyōtani is a coward.”
He makes a noise of agreement in his throat, but it’s cut short when he
remembers his promise to Iwaizumi that he’d try to remain neutral. You don’t
seem to notice, too absorbed in reassembling yourself to realize that Oikawa is
right there and he would give anything—
“You’re not a coward.” You say. Your voice has an air of finality to it that’s
a little bit terrifying.
“What do you mean?” He asks, a little afraid that you’re going to go off on a
‘you’re such a good friend. I’m glad I know you’ tangent because he doesn’t
think he can quite handle coming to terms with being rejected by you.
“You and Iwaizumi-kun. You two are best friends, but you didn’t go to the same
university with him. You branched off and did your own thing. You didn’t stay
with him just because you wanted everything to be normal and easy. You took a
risk.” You smile, wiping away tears that hadn’t even fallen yet. “I really look
up to you, Oikawa-san. You’re brave.”
“Tōru.” He blurts. “Please call me Tōru.”
You blink. Then, slowly, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, you smile.
“Tōru. I’ve always thought you had the prettiest name.”
“Thank you.” He says. He pulls you close, your face to his chest and his chin
on your head. You breathe in— you always said he smelled good— and let out a
shaky laugh. He strokes your hair, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your
head.
You don’t complain.
__
By now, there are no more firsts. He’s known you for two years now, through
every up and down that the world has to offer. He’s seen you happy, sad,
jealous, angry, bitter, reserved, even dazed. Each expression is like its own
little secret, a moment that he could slip into his pocket and save for later.
He sees them every time he closes his eyes, every time the sun shines a little
too brightly in the sky, every time the wildflowers on campus bloom. You’re
everywhere, so tangled up in him and the person that he is that he’s not sure
he could ever stand to be apart from you.
He’s making progress. He’s been celibate— you laughed when he told you, saying
‘celibate’ was a word that old men used when women no longer wanted to sleep
with them— and somehow, that seems to erase a lot of the guilt he feels. He
doesn’t feel bad for openly appraising you when you grab lunch with him, or
when you’re biting on the end of your pen while working on homework.
He doesn’t feel bad for overstepping his boundaries. Most people would give him
a look of contempt for trying to woo someone who dated a teammate of his, but
he’s found that he no longer gives two fucks.
“[Name]-chan, I—” He immediately comes to a stop when he hears two voices from
inside your room. It’s odd; usually your door is open so that he can come and
go as he pleases.
“I don’t know why you’re here, Kentarō.”
“[Name]—”
Against his better judgement he presses his ear against the door, hardly
believing his own ears. Kyōtani goes to school on the other side of Japan, why
would he—
“I’m not getting back together with you. You’re the one that said you didn’t
want to see me again, in case you’ve forgotten.” Your voice is dangerously low
and flat, betraying not a single emotion. Oikawa is proud, in a sick way.
He hears shuffling. Something on your desk rattles. A surprised grunt.
“You’re friends with Oikawa?” Kyōtani sounds like he can’t quite believe it.
Almost like he’s offended. He must have seen the framed picture on your desk,
from the night that you and Oikawa had dressed up as Star Trek characters in
order to get half-off on your movie tickets.
“Yes. Tōru is my best friend.” You snap. He can almost picture you yanking the
picture from his grasp, a scowl on your face.
“Tōru? You’re on a first-name basis with that guy?” Oikawa almost sends his
fist through the door. That guy. As if Oikawa hadn’t given Kyōtani everything
that he has.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” You quip. More shuffling.
“I still. You know. Love you.” It must be painful for Kyōtani to say. Oikawa,
never one for religion, suddenly prays that you won’t say it back.
You don’t. “Get out.”
“What?”
“Get out. I don’t want to see you ever again. I’m done with you. I should have
been a long time ago.”
“You’re serious?”
“Get. Out.”
Oikawa pushes away from the door when he hears those thundering footsteps, but
he has no place to hide. Kyōtani comes barreling out like a true mad dog, but
his eyes are a little too glossy to be angry. He stops short when he notices
Oikawa there, giving him a once over. Something in him relaxes; his shoulders
slump a little bit and his forehead loses a wrinkle. Kyōtani stands before him,
a man defeated.
The mad dog grunts at him, then turns on his heel and walks away.
__
He supposes that all of this pain could have been avoided if he had just spoken
up sooner. That he could have gotten an answer if he had just told you when he
first started to recognize that he had feelings for you.
But he also supposes that you’ve been wrong about him. Oikawa Tōru takes risks,
yes, but he is nowhere near brave. He’s a coward, favoring an easy friendship
with you over the risk of asking you to be his girlfriend. He has nobody but
himself to blame for the emotional turmoil he’s feeling, Iwaizumi tells him.
He’s the only one who can determine his fate.
So he does.
You’re surprisingly pliant in his grasp, like a handful of clay that he can
mold to his own liking. Oikawa isn’t tricked by that, though; there’s a
sharpness in your eyes that betrays just how independent you’ve become. He
knows that no matter what way he bends and twists you, you will always go back
to what you were before.
The thought, weirdly, turns him on.
“Tōru.” You whine, pressed up against your door in an almost depraved way. You
wonder what made him finally snap, what made those adoring eyes of his turn
absolutely feral the moment he stepped into your room. Then, you don’t wonder
at all, your brain going up in flames at the way his mouth is moving against
your neck.
He doesn’t respond. In retrospect, you should have seen this all coming ever
since that party he took you to, where you spent the entire night rubbing your
body against the captain of the basketball team. The look in his eyes had been
dark, like two little pinpricks of a void. You didn't know what it meant then.
You do now.
“Tōru, please, I—” He cuts you short with a little nip to the juncture of your
shoulder and neck, teeth scraping around a bruise that will be there for almost
a week. He hums, pleased with his own work, fingers digging into the soft flesh
of your hips.
You want to ask what’s gotten into him, why he’s suddenly all over you. You
want to laugh and say that you thought he was celibate. You want to know why he
chose you, of all people, to do this with, did he not know what this would do
to your friendship, was he just using you for sex—
His mouth seals over yours and fuck it feels so right that you wonder why you
ever wasted time on other men. He’s perfection personified, sending shocks
through your system with every movement of his hips. You may not know his
reasoning, but it’s clear that he wants you, and he wants you bad.
He pulls back. “Let me fuck you.” He whispers, eyes boring into your own with
such ferocity that your knees knock together. You don’t trust yourself to
speak, so you nod.
He picks you up like you weigh nothing, even though you are by no means the
lightest person in the world. Your back hits the bed and you bounce a little,
but you’re immediately anchored by his weight over top of you, his looming
frame caging you in. You feel small compared to him, as you often do when you
remember just how tall and muscular he is.
“Tōru.” You whisper, and he groans as if you’ve wounded him, pressing his hips
into your own. Your eyes widen a bit at just how hard he is, how big he feels
even through his pants. You grab at the front of his shirt and pull him down,
mouths colliding with a fervor that has been building for two years.
He grits out your name when your hands wander south, fingers dancing over the
tops of his pants. He’s absolutely floored by the haziness in your eyes, the
pure want that’s directed at him. It’s an expression that he’s never seen,
despite believing the contrary, and it makes the air in his lungs leave with a
startled woosh.
“Please.” He says. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that it was a
command rather than a question. One of his large hands is already slipping
under your shirt, grabbing your breast firmly, like he has to prove to himself
that he’s actually doing this. You swat him away, ignoring how he pulls back
with a mildly heartbroken look on his face, because it vanishes when he
realizes that you did so just so you could remove your shirt and bra.
“Fuck.” He hisses, once more trapping you within his arms. “You’re goddamn
beautiful, you know that?”
You swallow harshly at his words, trying not to think that he’s only saying
these things so that you’ll sleep with him, trying not to imagine who else he’s
said these words to. Right now it’s just you and him tangled in this moment, so
absorbed with each other that thinking about anything else kind of hurts.
“I could say the same about you.” You say, placing a chaste kiss to the tip of
his nose.
Just like that, the dark look in his eyes becomes something else. It’s no
longer all-consuming. It’s something that is so warm and bright that you almost
shy away from it. You know that look; it’s the look you used to give Kyōtani.
“Hey.” He says, noticing that you’ve stilled for a moment. “Hey, I’m not gonna
make you do this.”
You blink. Then, you laugh, albeit a little bit uncomfortably. “No, it’s not
that, it’s just. I dunno. I don’t want you to do this just because you want to
get laid.”
You’ve hurt him. He recoils a bit, but there’s still a little bit of
understanding in his eyes. “No, that’s not it. I want to do this. I have for a
long time.”
You stare up at him. You’re heartbreakingly gorgeous, your eyes wide and a
little disbelieving. He could have you underneath him every day for the rest of
his life and he would never get tired of it, he thinks.
“You’re…” You trail off, then think fuck it and pull him back down, mouth
meeting his in a harsh kiss that you didn’t know you were even capable of. He
appreciates it, though, if the smooth roll of his hips is anything to go by.
You break apart once again so that he can pull off his own shirt, the rippling
muscles in his arms and chest absolutely drool-worthy. You’d feel self
conscious about your own body if you were with anyone else, but the way he’s
looking at you now makes any thought of the sort vanish into thin air like
smoke.
He pulls at your pants and you let him, sliding them down until you’re left in
just your panties, already clinging to you with how wet you are. He slides his
fingers along you apex, humming in a pleased way as he does so.
“Is this for me?” He coos, looking insufferably cocky. You roll your eyes but
buck up into his touch regardless, especially because he chose that moment to
press two of his fingers against your cloth-covered clit.
You nudge him, raising an eyebrow at the fact that he’s still half clothed. He
laughs, a little breathless, and complies with your nonverbal wishes. His
boxers do nothing to hide the fact that he’s absolutely massive, and you
realize that all this time, his cockiness has been completely warranted.
You reach out and touch him before he’s even asked you to. He’s warm and hard
as steel, feeling absolutely perfect in your hand.
He freezes, stutters out a curse, before kissing you again. It’s slow and a
little sloppy, his tongue darting out to tangle with yours almost obscenely. He
rocks his hips into your grip, letting out a small noise of appreciation when
your hold on him tightens.
He suspends himself over you with one arm, leaving the other free so that his
hand can wander south again. His fingers gently hook underneath the elastic of
your panties, sliding over the warm skin the leads to the apex of your thighs.
Now it’s your turn to freeze in anticipation as he starts to drag the fabric
downwards, exposing more of you to him.
“You sure you want to do this?” He asks against your lips. You know it’s the
final time that he will question it. You nod.
“Of course.” You whisper, squirming a little bit as he sits back and moves your
legs so that he can fully remove your underwear. He tosses them to the ground.
You snort and roll your eyes.
“Don’t even think about kissing me again until you’re naked too.” You warn, and
he laughs, looking a little stupefied that he’s actually doing this with you.
He gives you a mock salute, which makes you roll your eyes again, and pulls his
boxers off with a grace that makes you a little jealous.
Then, he’s back on top of you again.
“A lot of back and forth, isn’t it?” He mutters, pressing a peck to your
collarbone. You circle your arms around him, running your fingers up his back
and down again, featherlight touches that make him shudder.
“I guess.” You muse, returning a peck to the column of his throat. You watch
his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He’s nervous.
“Ready?” His voice has gone a little hoarse. You smile up at him, a full on
beam that makes his heart slam against his ribcage, and grab his cock again. He
understands; you’re not in the mood for foreplay. Not this time.
He lets you guide him to your entrance and enters you slowly, his eyes glued on
your face with rapt attention that would make you feel self-conscious if you
weren’t too busy feeling like your mind was shutting down.
“Finally.” He groans once he’s fully inside of you, “fucking finally.”
The pace he sets is languid at first, like he’s testing the waters to see what
you like. To his absolute delight you’re a moaner, letting out appreciative
sounds every time his hips slap into yours. Your hand goes back to running down
his back, your nails leaving little trails of white-hot pain that coerce him
into putting extra force behind one of his thrusts. You squeal. He grins, the
expression looking a little unhinged, and quickens his pace.
Your hands fall to your sides, one gripping the sheets next to your head while
the other settles next to your thigh. His pace is absolutely punishing,
forceful enough to make you see stars behind your eyelids. You wrap your legs
around his hips and he makes a pleased sound, one of his hands sliding home
into yours.
It’s a gesture that takes you by surprise, and you open your eyes to see him
staring down at you with that soft expression again, his tongue darting out to
lick his lips before he presses them to yours again. There’s a thought
wriggling around in the back of your mind, a discovery that Oikawa Tōru is most
definitely not just using you for sex, and the intensity of it makes you clench
up around him.
“Shit.” He hisses as you come undone, your eyes shutting once more and your
mouth framing a long moan that he soon realizes is his name. His hips slam into
yours again, the smack of skin-on-skin an absolutely perfect accompaniment to
the sound of you reaching your peak. He manages a few more thrusts before he’s
following you, his emission coating your insides and smearing between your
thighs when he pulls out and you collapse together.
“Tōru.” You say once you catch your breath. Theres hundreds, maybe even
thousands, of things that you want to say to him in that moment. You want to
scold him for not pulling out, ask him why he chose now of all times to make a
move. You want to figure out what this means for you and him, if he expects you
to just go back to the way that you were.
He beats you to the punch. “I love you.” He says. It’s the first time he says
it to you, out loud and without hesitation.
Neither of you know it then, but he will never say it to another girl for as
long as he lives.
***** Daisho Suguru- Reconcile *****
Chapter Notes
     Hey guys! I was re-reading some chapters of the manga and I was
     suddenly inspired to write for this snakey little jerk. The plot
     might be a bit confusing for some, especially the onesided Kuroo/
     reader parts. This oneshot kind of became it's own little thing, so I
     know it might be a little all over the place.
     Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy! Let me know in the comments what kind
     of scenarios/characters you want to see next and I might just make it
     happen!
      ALSO: I know Nohebi didn't actually win against Itachiyama! So it's
     a little bit of an AU in this chapter ;)
     Enjoy! xoxo sabby
     (PS- a few lines from this were taken directly from the scene in the
     manga where Kuroo is talking to the team. Just wanted to throw that
     out there in case any of you thought I was trying to pass it off as
     my own writing.)
     TAGS: Semi-Public Sex, Possessive Behavior
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Had you been anyone else, the sound of shoes squeaking against the wooden floor
and volleyballs slamming into the ground would’ve given you a headache. But
you’re [Name] [Surname], manager extraordinaire, and this is the environment
you do best in.
“He’s doing better, at least.”
Kuroo makes a noise in the back of his throat that you take for agreement, his
mouth wrapped around the tip of the water bottle you just gave him. Kenma and
Lev are slaving away in front of you, trying to match their movements up. So
far it’s been pretty bad, but Lev has made contact with the ball more times
than he usually does. It’s the little things.
“We have a long way to go before the preliminaries.” You sigh as you
absentmindedly make a note to buy more of those sports drinks that Inuoka
likes. Kuroo disengages his mouth from the bottle with a wet smack, his dark
eyes peering down at you.
“I’ll say.” He mutters, looking at you like he wants to defend the newest
member of the team but he knows he can’t. You click your tongue at him, eyes
narrowing a bit when you realize that he wants to read what you’ve been writing
down.
“Go back out there, Kuroo, unless you want to eat shit at the Spring High
Tournament.” You sneer, hiding your clipboard against your chest. He rolls his
eyes at you and sulks.
“I thought pretty girls were supposed to be nice.”
“I thought team captains were supposed to work hard.” You shoot back, raising
an eyebrow. He sighs— you’re right, of course— and puts the water bottle down,
jogging back to the court and smacking Kenma on the back.
You continue making a list of things you’ll need at the store— apples for some
apple pie, a bag of rice, some more hair ties (how do you always seem to lose
them?) and toothpaste. You calculate how long it will take you to get to the
store, how much each item will cost, and if you should buy the generic brand of
rice that’s cheaper or if you should bite the bullet and buy the enriched kind.
All of this is done to distract yourself from the fact that you’re going to
have to do much more work when the preliminaries roll around. Just because
you’re only the team manager doesn’t mean that you’re immune to the stress and
exhaustion that comes with playing the other teams.
You shudder when you think of Fukurodani. Of Bokuto, to be precise; the thought
of one of his spikes going wayward and soaring towards your head is absolutely
terrifying.
The practice continues on well into the evening, a blurred mix of “Lev, focus
on what Kenma is telling you!” and a few well-aimed kicks when the half-Russian
boy apparently refused to listen. You have to keep from smiling as you jot down
a few more notes, lest the tall middle blocker think that you were amused by
his misfortune.
You look out the window at the darkened sky and you let your mind wander.
It’s been a while— ten weeks and three days, to be exact, since you’d been on
the floor of this very gymnasium, hiding away after what had to have been one
of the worst nights of your life. The night you’d broken your own heart because
you were tired of dating someone that always gave your grief for deciding to go
to a rival school and made you feel horrible with each of his jealous rants.
Suguru Daishō was a good boyfriend most of the time, but the distance between
you two had done nothing to help the fact that he was always a little bit of a
green-eyed monster in sheep’s clothing. He was always concerned about who you
were with, about the fact that you managed a team full of hormonal teenage
boys. You’d reassure him time after time but it never seemed to be enough.
Sometimes, you didn’t blame him. He knew what kind of person you were—
ambitious to a fault, always seeming to get a little too excited when Nekoma
won a match— but you were not a cheater. Him, on the other hand…
Well, he wasn’t either. But it still felt horrible to know that he was dating
someone else already, after spending two years of his life with you. Kuroo had
been the one to tell you, oddly enough, and he’d also been the one to comfort
you after the initial breakup. You’d been suspicious at the time, wondering if
this was one of the captain’s ploys to get you to sleep with him, but after
logging on to Facebook and seeing the confirmation for yourself, you were
ashamed to admit that you’d spent the night crying.
And now here you were. Fully expecting to catch a few glimpses of your ex while
at the preliminaries, yet pretending that you didn’t care. Trying to decide
between taking the plunge and dating your flirtatious captain or hoping that
your broken heart will just happen to fix itself. Stuck in a crossroads that,
surprisingly enough, will be resolved sooner than you think.
__
You swear your heart is broken and rebuilt every time you watch Nekoma play.
It’s not just the losses; it’s the injuries, the barely-missed receives, the
blocked spikes. It’s the fact that no matter how hard they try, they will never
be the perfectly functioning machine that they hope to be.
But then there’s the laughs. There’s the smacks on the backs, the high fives
and the hugs. There’s the blatant love shared between every member of the team.
There’s the huddle on the bus over what they’ll do next time, even if there
won’t be a next time. There’s an unwavering confidence in themselves and, by
extension, you.
“We are literally ‘one step away’ from nationals.” Kuroo sighs, hands on his
hips as he peers at the rest of the team. They’re stock-still, faces serious in
a way that you haven’t seen for a long time. “We’re gonna play like we always
have, just do our thing…”
“Roger!” They cry in tandem, and you have to fight a smile at how wide-eyed and
excited they look, almost as if they aren’t going against one of the toughest
teams in Japan. Kuroo is such a good leader. A good guy. Why weren’t you lucky
enough to fall for him instead?
“‘Always have’, as in high-level defensive intensity and impeccable teamwork.”
You freeze. You weren’t expecting to see him so soon, nor even hear his voice.
You thought that you’d only see him from afar. “Along with a lack of ability to
consistently put up points and close out matches. That’s Nekoma-chan for you.”
You can feel the intensity of Yaku’s eyes on you. Don’t say
anything.Pleasedon’t say anything, you can practically hear him say. Kuroo and
Yamamoto, ever your saviors, jump to aid and immediately start ripping on your
ex boyfriend for his recent breakup with that other girl.
Recent breakup. Why do those words somehow make you so happy? You clutch the
pen in your hands a little tighter then loosen your grip almost immediately, a
little scared that you’ll snap it in half and get ink all over your hand.
“Tetsurō.” You bark, sending a glare at the captain while Lev lumbers towards
them and chimes in with his own thoughts, “Don’t get so worked up!”
“Tetsurō, huh? First name basis? So you really are fucking around with this
guy, then. I was right all along.” Daishō muses, his sharp eyes boring into
your own with an intensity that you thought he no longer possessed. You have to
fight to keep your lips from sliding into a malicious grin; you know that look
he’s giving you. He’s jealous.
Kuroo, deciding that now is the time to incense their potential opponent,
slings an arm around you. “We’re engaged, actually. The wedding will be held
after we win nationals.”
And then he does something that you later realize will be the catalyst for what
follows. He presses a slow, chaste kiss to the top of your head. The players
beside you are unfazed, already used to the show of affection, but Daishō looks
like Kuroo just murdered and disemboweled his entire family right there outside
the gymnasium. Your heart skips a beat almost painfully.
You recognize that look, too. It’s the same look he had on when you two broke
up.
“Whatever,” he sneers a little too forcefully, then he turns his gaze to you
with a “I always knew you’d downgrade. This is pretty low, though.”
Kuroo has to physically wrap his hand around your wrist as you lunge forward,
eyes blazing dangerously. You stop short in front of the Nohebi captain, the
scowl on your face threatening all of the things you’d do to him to make him
apologize for what he just said.
He just laughs, his bravado back in place. “Nice. Cute. I’ll see you later
then, [Name]-chan.” He diverts his attention back to Kuroo, who looks more than
a little pissed off. But you realize with a start that he isn’t angry at
Daishō; he’s angry at you.
“See ya in the finals, scrub~!” They jeer at each other. Nekoma watches in
silence as Nohebi turns and follows their captain.
The tension between you and Kuroo is almost painful. He lets go of your wrist
when he decides that it’s safe to, and when you turn to face him fully you
realize that he’s beyond pissed off.
“I know you didn’t just try to lunge at our opponent.”
“You heard what he—”
“Yes, I did. Provoking one-oh-one, [Name]. He was trying to piss me off, not
you.” Kuroo sighs, and you feel like crawling into a hole and dying. “I don’t
care what he said at this point. We’ve always been rivals; I was expecting it.”
“But—”
“[Name], if you had laid a finger on him, even just a soft slap, he could have
used that to get us disqualified.”
You freeze, mouth a little ajar, then turn to the rest of the team. A few of
them are nodding solemnly, while the others look like they’d rather be anywhere
but here.
“Guys…” You sigh, any semblance of anger leaving your body. You’re ashamed.
“Guys, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Kuroo smacks you on the back in the way he usually does, but
there’s a little more force behind it. He’s trying not to be pissed off, and
he’s failing. “Just don’t let it happen again. If I catch you even looking at
that snake for more than five seconds, I’ll ask coach to make you sit on the
bus.”
“Tetsurō—”
“I’m serious. We can’t afford to complicate things here. We let one bad thing
happen, and it’ll all be downhill from there. Just listen to me for once,
okay?”
“…Okay.” You simper. Kuroo’s expression falters just a little bit, enough so
that you can see he feels bad about yelling at you, before he steels it again.
“Let’s go.” He commands, turning on his heel to lead the team to the gymnasium.
You follow behind, lagging a little bit so that you’re walking next to Yaku
instead. He shoots you a sympathetic look but does not comment.
You bite your lip to keep from crying.
__
“Now? You need to go now?”
“It’s an emergency! Uh, girl issues…” You tell coach Nekomata who, at your
reasoning, suddenly seems more than willing to let you rush to the bathroom in
the middle of the match.
“Fine. Just hurry back, please.” He says and you nod, even though you have no
intention of doing so. Instead, you plan on having a nice long cry and maybe a
good session of musing about what happened earlier, and if you’re actually
going to go through with what you have planned for today.
You rush out the doors in a way that’s supposed to keep you from garnering too
much attention, but you can still feel Kuroo’s eyes glaring into the back of
your skull. Not good. You’ll have some explaining to do later.
You find one of the single-person unisex bathrooms after you turn a corner, and
you almost cheer with joy. It’s better than one of the larger ones, where
someone might walk in and catch you crying in one of the stalls.
You pull the door shut behind you quietly, as if coach Nekomata and Kuroo are
somehow listening, and walk over to the sink, glaring at your own reflection in
the mirror.
It isn’t as bad as you thought it was. None of your mascara has streaked. Your
face doesn’t look oily. Hell, your eyes don’t even look pink, which is usually
what happens when you’re about to cry. It’s not bad, considering—
“Did you seriously leave a match just to stare at yourself in the mirror?”
You nearly jump into the ceiling, turning suddenly to face the door. Fuck, you
forgot to lock it!
Daishō seems to take a certain sort of pleasure in the way that you slap your
hand over your heart and try to catch your breath after the sudden shock.
Without a word he steps into the bathroom, shutting the door. You hear the lock
click in an almost sinister way.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” You breathe. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”
“We won.” He says. Your heart drops so fast that it could’ve shattered the tile
floor. “How about you guys? You lose?”
“S-still playing.” You stammer, a little unnerved when your former boyfriend
takes a step towards you. He watches your reaction with those sharp eyes of
his, his hair shining in the fluorescent lights.
He lets out a low whistle. “Seriously? Nekoma-chan must be putting up one hell
of a fight then. Almost makes me not want to play you.” He shoves his hands
into his pockets. “Almost.”
“Why… how did you know I was in here?” You try to muster up a glare when he
takes another step forward.
“Saw you walk in. Thought I’d take advantage of the chance.”
“That’s creepy as fuck, Daishō, I could have been taking a piss.”
He laughs, and you’re stunned to find that it isn’t a malicious one. He honest-
to-god still thinks you’re funny. It makes your heart flutter pitifully in your
chest.
“Yeah, but I know you always try to go before games. That way you can sit
through the entire thing.”
“You’re gross.” You scoff, a little creeped out that he still remembers your
bathroom habits. He reads the expression on your face and laughs again.
“We dated for two years, [Name].” He shrugs. “I know you better than anyone.
Especially that weirdo of a captain you’re fucking.”
“He’s not weird!” You hiss, crossing your arms. Leave it to Daishō to make you
sentimental one moment, then pissed off the next.
“So you don’t deny that you’re fucking him.”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business!” You fight to keep your voice
low, afraid that if someone catches you inside a bathroom with a rival team’s
captain, Kuroo will somehow hear about it.
“Because you’re mine.”
You recoil instantly, not even realizing that you’d been taking small steps
towards your ex. “Excuse me? I don’t belong to anyone, Daishō, much less you.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” He sighs. You try to intensify your scowl to keep
from softening at the crestfallen look on his face. “I didn’t want to break up,
[Name]. You did. I wanted to make it work. Still do.”
“You’re trying to piss me off again.” You grind out, the words tasting bitter
on your tongue. You wonder if coach Nekomata is questioning where you are.
“I’m not, but whatever. You never believed me when we were dating, anyways.”
“Daishō, you got a girlfriend right after we broke up. I think you and I can
both agree that that’s reason enough for me not to believe you.”
“Shika-chan? I dated her cause I wanted to get over you. Obviously,” his eyes
sparked dangerously, “it didn’t work.”
“I don’t care why you did it. In fact, I hope you’re over me. This has to end.
I’m loyal to Nekoma now. To Kuroo.”
His face sobers up. You realize immediately that you chose the absolute worst
words to use.
“Loyal?” He spits, “you’re saying you’re loyal now? You weren’t loyal to them
your first two years of high school, or are you just going to conveniently
forget that?”
“Daishō—“
“You know what, [Name]? I think this is all just a game to you. You know I
still fucking love you, and you’re using it to your advantage. Loyal my ass. If
you were loyal to anyone, it should be me. Not that oversized house cat.”
He’s dangerously close now, enough so that he can reach out and grab your
wrists in his hands. You don’t flinch away from his touch; it’s surprisingly
gentle. He’s giving you a choice, despite the harshness of his words. You can
leave him behind here, or you can stay and listen to what he has to say.
A minute passes. You stay rooted to your spot.
“Are you fucking him? Are you dating him?” Daishō says. His voice is low and a
little bit shaky. He’s just as nervous as you are, but he’s always been better
at hiding it than you.
“No.” You admit. “He was just trying to make you angry.”
“Well it fucking worked.” Daishō’s grip on your wrist tightens a fraction, his
light eyes boring holes into your own. Then, he grins in that snakelike way
that he always does. “But not in the way he wanted, y’know. I was so angry that
we destroyed Itachiyama. It was over before it even began.”
“Shit.” You whisper. To anyone else you would looked worried about the fate of
Nekoma, but Suguru Daishō knew you better than just ‘anyone else’.
He knew to look for the instinctive twitch of your thighs and the sharp intake
of breath. He knew to look to see if your pupils dilated, if your fingers
curled.
He knew what most people didn’t; not only did you love victory, but you got off
on it too. The adrenaline, the sweat, the heavy breathing, All of it. That’s
why you were always so concerned about Nekoma winning; you wanted to feel the
rush of beating another team.
He had you now, and he knew it. The snake had finally cornered his kitten, and
he was recoiling to bite.
“I love that look.” He croons, pulling you closer so that he can bend down and
nuzzle his face into your neck. “I bet ol’ Kuroo never got you to look at him
like that. Not for lack of trying.”
You swallow harshly at the feeling of his teeth grazing over your pulse. You
blink, remembering all the times Kuroo pulled you close after they won a
practice match, the moments he would spend staring down at you after they
brought home a victory. You weren’t sure what those eyes were looking for then,
but you are now. A shiver goes down your spine.
Daishō seems to read your mind. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You should see
the way he looks at you, [Name]. It’s the same look I give you.” He pulls back,
looking a little too happy.
“No it isn’t.” You say, even though you know it’s a lie. Kuroo Tetsurō is,
without a doubt, also in lovewith you. You’ve just been choosing to pretend
that the feelings don’t run that deep, that he’s only interested in sleeping
with you, because—
Because…
“You still love me too, right?” Daishō says. His voice is no longer teasing,
and his eyes are searching yours in an almost pleading way. Say yes. Please say
yes.
“I… yes.” You breathe, and that’s all he needs before his pushing you backwards
so that your lower back is pressed against the lip of the sink. Your eyes
widen, your face morphing into an incredulous expression, but his lips seal
over yours before you can even think to protest.
They’re warm and soft, molding against yours in a way that’s so perfect that it
makes you wonder why you ended things in the first place. His hands settle on
your hips, pulling your lower body to his almost painfully, and you notice with
a start that he’s already halfway hard.
“You jackass.” You seethe, pulling away. “You literally followed me in here to
try and fuck me, didn’t you?”
“No.” He’s being honest, you can tell, but you’re still a little ticked off at
how abruptly he’d made a move. “I wanted to reconcile. The fucking is just a
bonus.”
“But—”
“We gotta be quick, [Name].” He says, pressing his mouth over yours once again.
One of his hands slips under your shirt, going upwards towards you bra.
Or, at least where your bra would be.
“You’re fuckin’ kidding me.” He snarls, pulling his mouth away once he realizes
that there isn’t a barrier where there should be. “You’re not wearing a bra?
It’s like you were just asking that guy to fuck you.”
You want to retort, say that you can wear whatever the fuck you want, but his
expression is angry, almost murderous, and it takes you a second to realize
that it’s not aimed at you.
“That fucking guy. Seriously. I swear I’ll cut his hands off the next time I
see him touch you.” Daishō yanks his hand out from under your shirt and uses it
to yank down your shorts, his face going blank when he realizes that you’re not
wearing underwear either.
“You.” You’ve never heard so much jealousy in someone’s voice before. “You were
gonna fuck him, weren’t you?” One hand curls around your waist again and grips
it until you’re sure there will be bruises for at least a week. He’s nearly
shaking with rage. You can hear his teeth grind together.
“No.” You say, and you both know it’s a lie. Seeing how his expression gets
even darker, you decide to throw pride to the wind and confess. “Well, yes. I
was. I thought I’d need to do something after seeing you to help me get over
you.” You don’t mention how spectacularly that idea had failed, and that you’d
decided halfway through their first set that you didn’t have the guts to go
through with your spur-of-the-moment decision that involved you forgoing
undergarments.
“Well you don’t.” Daishō snarls, and before you have the chance to even open
your mouth he’s plunged two fingers inside of you, curling them juuuuuuust the
way that you like, his thumb finding purchase on your clit. “You don’t need
anyone else, [Name]. You’re mine.”
You don't speak. You’re almost physically unable too, still stock-still from
the sudden intrusion of his fingers. If you were any less turned on by his
jealous ranting, it would have hurt. Instead, it sends shocks up your spine,
especially when he begins to gently scissor them.
“I can’t believe you’d fuck that guy. You know how much that pisses me off?” He
snaps, thumb starting to make languid circles that cause sparks to fly behind
your eyelids. It’s too much, and he knows it.
“Daishō, I—”
“No, none of that ‘Daishō’ shit. It’s Suguru, you know that.”
You nod weakly, letting your head fall back and hit the mirror behind you. You
know from plenty of fights before that it’s always best to let him get out all
of his aggression first before you start to try and reason with him.
“I can’t believe you. Honestly.” He laughs. The sound is bitter, a little
unhinged. “You’d fuck anything, wouldn’t you? Goddamn slut.” He adds another
finger and you gasp. His words bounce off of you as if you’re made from
elastic. They don’t hurt you; in fact, they turn you on more than just a
little.
“But this,” he continues, suddenly curling his fingers again in just the right
spot, “this is for me. This tight little pussy, that dazed face, this wetness.
This. Is. All. Mine.”
You can’t help it. You come at his words, tightening around his fingers so much
that he’s almost afraid you’ll break them. He knows you’ve always gotten off on
dirty talk, always loved when he gets a little possessive of you. He grins,
watching you come undone against the bathroom sink like it’s the best thing
he’s ever seen.
You fall down from your high with a stuttered gasp. He’s already removed his
fingers from you, appraising the way that they shine in the bathroom light.
Then, slowly as to make sure that you see, he brings them to his mouth, sucking
them clean with a pained groan.
“You taste good.” He says once he’s done. You’re still absolutely wrecked,
panting with your hands curled around the sides of the sink. He loves it, loves
you. You can see it in his eyes, the way that his anger is falling apart into
something a little more kind.
“Suguru.” You say, fighting to keep your voice from cracking. “Please. I want
you.”
His grin is bright. It isn’t sneaky or cruel. It’s loving, the type of grin
that he saved only for you and behind closed doors. The grin that told you he
wasn’t quite done with you yet.
He pulls his shorts down just enough so that you can see his cock and the tops
of his muscular thighs. A smear of precome is already on the head. You want to
lick it, but you know you don’t have the time.
“Later.” He says in your ear, as if he can hear your thoughts. He leads you
from the sink to the wall, which is a little more stable.
“You sure about this?” He asks. Always the gentleman; sometimes people tended
to forget that his politeness on the court wasn’t always an act.
“Fuck me, Suguru.” You command, gripping his shoulders so that you’re stable
enough for him to wrap your legs around his waist. He pushes your back onto the
wall and starts to enter you, sucking in air between his teeth as he does so.
“You’re so tight.” He groans, almost as if the sensation of you wrapped around
him is sucking the life right out of him.
“I haven’t slept with anyone else.” You admit through pants as he starts to
move inside of you, the kinds of deep thrusts that he knows you like. “Only
you. This is all for you.”
“You’re damn right it is.” He says, his fingers flying back to your clit as he
thrusts. You squirm a little bit, still hypersensitive from your first orgasm,
and he takes the opportunity to smash his lips against yours.
His tongue tastes like you. A little bitter, a little sweet, and a little
salty. You’ve always thought it was unpleasant, but he seemed to enjoy it.
He bites down on your lip and you squirm again. Damn, he’s really not wasting
any time; he knows what you like, and he’s using it all, the snakey little
fucker.
You want to enjoy it longer, you really do. But he’s big and curved in just the
right way that you’re already climbing towards your second orgasm. You grab his
shoulders in a painful grip and he hisses, ironically enough, and it’s enough
to send you over the edge.
You wail, suddenly giving zero fucks about the fact that someone could hear
you, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He grunts, finishing inside
you while you’re still caught in the throes of pleasure, spitting out curses
like they’re the only words that he knows.
You’re both silent. He carefully lets you out of his grip, sliding out of you
slowly. He doesn’t want it to end either. You can see it in the way he tucks a
sweaty, wayward strand of hair behind your ear.
You can barely stand. He helps, letting you use his arm as leverage as you try
to catch your breath. He’s staring at you as if he can’t quite believe what
just happened. Neither can you.
“You’d better not try to fuck Kuroo.” His voice is back to it’s warning tone.
You swallow, still a little winded from the intensity of it all.
“And why not?” You tease once you finally have enough air to speak. He glares
at you, already pulling his shorts and briefs up and fixing his immaculate
hair.
“Because you’re my girlfriend.” He says simply, that hard expression back on
his face.
“Excuse me? Nowhere in whatever the hell it is that just happened did we say we
were getting back together.”
“Well, we are.” He shrugs, daring you to challenge him. When you don’t, he
strides over to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open. Before he leaves,
though, he takes another look at you from over his shoulder. His mouth curls
upwards again.
“You can’t just—”
“I’ll call you later. Love ya.” He shuts the door behind him and you sigh. Your
pants are still on the ground. His cum is smearing around on the inside of your
thighs.
“Love you too.” You mutter, wondering how the hell you’re going to explain all
of this.
Chapter End Notes
     find me on tumblr!
***** Kuroo Tetsuro- Right Here *****
Chapter Notes
     LMAO GUYS. I felt so bad for what I did to Kuroo in the last chapter
     that I decided I would make up for it in nearly 7,000 words of fluff
     and smut. Seriously, this piece might be the most tooth-rottingly
     fluffy thing I've ever written in my life. I can't help it. Kuroo is
     one of my favorite characters of all time, honestly, and what's
     fluffier than two nerds losing their virginity to one another?
     Nothing, I tell you. NOTHING.
     I dedicate this one to all of you guys who have read and given me
     kudos, especially Mslilian, who also felt pretty bad for Kuroo in the
     last chapter, and Chezzu, who was the one that requested I write for
     him in the first place!
     I hope you guys enjoy the newest addition to the collection, and if
     you have any scenarios or characters that you really want to see, let
     me know in the comments or over at my tumblr
     and I might just make it happen! I'm considering writing something
     for Keishin, cause he's another fave of mine, and maybe even a little
     bit of Alpha!Yamaguchi, but honestly I'm open to whatever you guys
     suggest!
     xoxo sabby
     (Also, just a note that the driving age in Japan is 18. I don't
     condone breaking the law like 'ol Kuroo did, but hey, can you blame
     him?)
You remember a time when you were younger, with dirt caked under your
fingernails and your hair in tangles, that Kuroo told you he would marry you.
“Right here.” He said, pointing at the map of Japan that your parents had
carelessly left on the kitchen table the night before. The entire Aichi
prefecture is under his finger, but you get the point; you both agree on a
small wedding on the beach, surrounded by your family, friends, and the fifteen
cats you were going to adopt. At the time, it seemed like a splendid idea.
Now, you’d rather do anything but marry him.
“Tetsu, you’re fucking gross.” You grumble as you carefully walk through his
room, trying to avoid the dirty clothes and half-eaten granola bars strewn onto
the floor. The volleyball captain gives you a nonchalant grunt, craning his
neck to look at you from his seat at his desk.
“When did you get here?” He asks. You can tell he’s fighting back a yawn even
though it’s barely past nine in the evening. You scoff.
“Fifteen minutes ago, which you would have known if you checked your phone.”
You plop down on his bed, which is thankfully clean, and give him a well-
deserved glare. He shrugs and goes back to his chemistry homework.
“Tetsu! I had to climb in through a window!” You scold, crossing your arms and
trying to look intimidating. It doesn’t work; it hasn’t worked even once in the
almost eighteen years you’ve known him.
“Sorry.” Is all he says. You roll your eyes, feigning annoyance, but the both
of you know better. He apologizes again, though, after a few minutes of you
muttering curse words at him.
“It’s fine.” You sigh a little dramatically, shifting so that you’re laying
down on his bed now, trying to discreetly sniff his blankets. He’s always
smelled good, like aftershave and cinnamon, which is oddly a nice combination.
“It’s just, I feel neglected, and being your best friend and all—”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“And being your best friend and all, I think it’s okay for me to tell you that
I’m a little worried about you. I mean, you’re the captain of a voleyball team
and you’re in a college prep class and you have a part time job—”
“Your point being?” He asks, running a hand through his hair.
“You’re a workaholic, Tetsurō! I barely get to see you anymore!”
“Go hang out with Kenma.”
“It’s not the same!” You whine, giving the third-year your most heartbreaking
pout. He doesn’t fall for it, but he does seem to take your words to heart.
“Yeah, yeah. I guess you’re right. I’ll take some time off after graduation,
okay?” He soothes, leaning back in his chair so that he can look at you. You
look just as exhausted as he feels, head poking out of one of his old
volleyball sweatshirts and legs clad in a pair of ratty sweatpants. It doesn’t
take him by surprise, though; everyone always told him that the months before
graduation would be some of the most stressful of his life, and he’s inclined
to agree. He figures you’re in the same boat.
“Good.” You grumble. He slides out of his desk chair and collapses down next to
you, the bed springs protesting the added weight. You curl into his chest out
of habit, snuggling close to your dear friend with the intention of falling
asleep in his arms.
He lets you, despite the fact that he kind of wanted to finish his homework
tonight. He can’t help it, really; he’d do anything to make you happy.
__
“Let’s go on a road trip.”
You’re laying in your backyard between your two best friends, watching the
distant stars twinkle in their varying colors. Kenma, who is surprisingly not
engrossed in one of his games, shakes his head.
“None of us are old enough to legally drive.” He points out. You frown, nudging
him in the side, much to the amusement of Kuroo.
“That’s quitter talk, Kenma. We could probably pass for eighteen. I’m sure we
wouldn’t get pulled over.” You counter. Kenma sighs, as if every word you say
is another burden he has to carry.
“And by ‘we’ you mean Kuro.” Kenma retorts, “you and I both look like we’re
still in junior high.”
“That’s such a lie, Kenma! I’ll have you know that my breasts have grown since
then—”
“Gross.”
“Breasts are not ‘gross’, Kenma!”
“I have to agree with her on this one.” Kuroo says, obviously more than a
little amused at your back and forth. “Breasts are pretty nice. Good pillows,
too.”
“Don’t even think about it.” You warn when you see him feign a yawn. He
chuckles, catlike grin threatening to break his face in two.
“Where were you even thinking of? And how would we pay for it?” Ah, Kenma.
Always the reasonable one. Sometimes it made you sick.
“I dunno, Kenma! It was just an idea!” You huff. The setter gives a
noncommittal grunt, obviously uncaring that you were getting upset with him.
“Would it kill you to be a little more excited about things? I ought to replace
you with Bokuto-san.”
“Then who would get your sorry ass out of trouble when one of your ideas went
horribly wrong?”
“Kenma, you don’t have to be such an asshole!”
Kuroo listens to the two of you bicker, his large grin shrinking until it’s
just a content little smile curling at the corner of his mouth. You really were
a handful, sometimes, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Which is what gave him his next idea. The gears in his head began to turn,
already calculating costs and distances and other sorts of variables. How many
hours he’d have to work in a week, and the amount of overtime he’d have to beg
for. It might be a tight fit, considering his hectic volleyball schedule, but
he figured that he could make it work between now and the time that he
graduated.
He’d have to.
__
He’s always been a little enamored with how bossy you are. To most people it’s
a turn off. Maybe it should be, he thinks, but he can’t help but admire the
fact that your bossiness landed you one of the most prestigious positions in
the school.
“We’ll miss you, president!” One of the girls from the student council says.
She bows to you, sniffling a little bit as she holds out a hand-made card from
the rest of the council.
“Thank you.” You say softly, taking the card from her hands and tucking it into
your bag to read later. Kuroo can’t miss the fact that your eyes are a little
misty and far-away, as if you’re here but not really.
It’s the last day of school, and it feels more like a funeral than a
celebration. All of the third years are exceptionally silent today, as if
they’re just now realizing that adulthood is waiting for them outside the walls
of the high school. It’s a scary thought, and Kuroo figures that it isn’t just
him who sort of wishes this day wouldn’t end.
“I didn’t know everyone liked me so much.” You sniffle once the girl is gone.
Kuroo frowns, always a little upset when you talk down about yourself, and puts
a hand on your shoulder.
“What’s not to like?” He says, and you can tell that he really means it, that
his words aren’t just to try and make you feel better. You shrug, a little
uncomfortable that he’s seeing you in tears this way despite having seen worse
many other times, and turn to him.
“I’m going to miss you.” You say, and the emotion in your eyes suddenly makes
him feel like he’s short of breath.
“Why? I’m not going anywhere.” He states. You frown up at him, sniffling again,
and he can barely hold himself back from scooping you into his arms and running
down the hall and off into some figurative sunset, as if doing so will prevent
you from becoming any more sad.
“You know what I mean.” You say and he sighs, pained to see you so upset even
though he knows that you’ll be over it in a couple more days. He considers for
a moment, wondering if now is the right time to tell you that he’s so, so in
love with you that it hurts, if he should admit that you’re practically his
soulmate and he would do anything under the sun to keep you from frowning ever
again.
Instead, he blurts, “I got us a reservation.”
“…What?” You say, suddenly looking too confused to be sad, and he bites back a
laugh at the expression.
“What I meant to say is that I booked us a hotel room for a night. The night of
graduation, actually.” And then, seeing your confusion mount even more, he
sighs. “We’re going on that road trip you talked about. Even though I only have
enough money for two days.”
You let the information process. You were always a little bit slower than he
was, but by no means were you less bright, just—
“TETSU!” You shriek, garnering the attention of a few people down the hall. He
doesn’t even have time to be embarrassed before you’re flinging yourself into
his arms, your own wrapping around his neck in an embrace that raises a few
eyebrows. He doesn’t care, honestly, because you’re smiling again and that
makes him smile. “Tetsu, you’re the best!”
“I know.” He snickers, and you’re so happy that you don’t even swat him on the
shoulder for being cocky. The students are talking now, a mix of “are they
finally together now?” and “Jeeze, how can they be so happy?” that Kuroo
doesn’t even care to listen to. He focuses on how you feel in his arms, the way
that he can feel the faint thumping of your heart against his own, and how he
really can’t wait much longer to tell you how he feels.
__
It feels weird, being more excited for what’s coming after graduation than the
ceremony itself. You’ve waited three years for this moment and it’s already
been overshadowed by what Kuroo was planning.
Aw, to hell with it though.
It doesn’t last long, maybe an hour and a half. Ends right before two in the
afternoon, which you’re thankful for, because the only thing Kuroo has told you
about your destination is that it will take a long time to get there.
You don’t know how you’re going to get there in the first place, but you’ll
save the questions for later. He told you to pack a swimsuit, so you’re
assuming that your hotel will have a pool, but hasn’t said much else. In fact,
he barely said anything at graduation, but you could tell it was because of his
nerves and not because he was upset, though he doesn’t have anything to be
nervous about, right—
Your head is spinning. It’s been an exciting day and the feeling of finally
graduating high school is beyond compare. Well, almost. The way Kuroo held you
tight after the ceremony when you took pictures together felt pretty fantastic
as well.
You finish packing your bag, making sure you have your phone charger and some
chewing gum and some extra cash just in case, before nearly dropping it on the
floor when a honk from outside startles you. You peer out the window and then
do a double take, because Kuroo is in your driveway with a black convertible
and a shit-eating grin.
You’ve never run down a flight of stairs faster, almost tripping and breaking
every bone in your body. You can practically feel the smugness radiating off of
him as you fly out the door with a brief ‘goodbye’ to your parents, wonder
clouding your expression as you take in the sight.
“We’re driving?” You ask, almost breathless at the sight of him leaning against
the hood of his dad’s sports car.
“Yeah, duh.” He’s fiddling with the keys in his hand, watching you. You beam at
him, absolutely floored and a little bit excited at the prospect of breaking
the law.
“You were the one who said I could pass for eighteen, y’know. I figured you
were right.” And then he slides into the driver’s seat, jamming the keys into
the ignition and you flounce after him, putting your bag in the backseat then
grinning like an idiot at the way he looks. Sexy, with his hair messed up the
way it always is and the first few buttons undone on the shirt he wore to
graduation. You’re gawking and you know it and so does he, but it’s a damn
great feeling to be able to be here with him and you both just kind of bask in
it.
He’s a good driver, despite not being able to legally do so. You always figured
he would be, for some reason. His long fingers drum on the steering wheel at
every red light, thumping out a tune that isn’t familiar but you already love.
“How did you manage to get your dad to part with it?” You ask after ten minutes
of not being able to contain your excitement anymore.
“I asked.” He shrugged, and you roll your eyes because you know that there’s
more to the story, but for right now you’re just content to sit here and listen
to him sing along with songs on the radio, his voice warming you from the top
of your head to the tips of your toes.
It goes on for hours. You ask him more than a dozen times where you’re going,
and if he’s sure that he knows what he’s doing, and every time he laughs and
looks at you like you’re just the greatest thing he’s ever seen.
“You’ll see.” Is all he replies when you leave the borders of Tokyo, the lights
of the skyscrapers a distant memory in the rear-view mirror as the day wears on
into evening. You pass the time with jokes and stories, your favorite memories
of high school and how excited you are for university, and somehow the
discussion doesn’t feel bittersweet. It feels just sweet, like being around
Kuroo has taken all the bitterness out of it. And maybe he has, because he
usually does.
It’s only a matter of time before you fall asleep, really, with your face
pressed against the window and your slow breathing fogging up the glass. Kuroo
has to fight to keep his eyes on the road because, as creepy as it sounds, he
loves looking at you sleep. Loves watching all the stress and discomfort from
the day leave your face. You’re perfect to him even when you start to snore and
he chuckles, fingers still drumming along to that tune as he drives and drives,
wondering with each passing kilometer how it was possible to be so in love with
someone.
__
“Oi, wake up. We’re here.”
You blink a few times, surprised that it’s light outside. Or, at least you
thought it was, but when everything comes in focus you realize that it’s still
evening.
You just happen to be parked near a boardwalk. A beach boardwalk, to be exact,
and the sign over the hotel in front of you confirms that you are indeed in the
Aichi prefecture.
You curse aloud but it’s a happy sound, looking at Kuroo. You’re floored,
absolutely beyond yourself, because you’re at the beach.
“You didn’t!” You screech, and he laughs that stupid laugh of his, ruffling
your hair and unbuckling his seatbelt.
“I did.” He croons, and you have to keep yourself from physically launching
yourself into his seat and planting a kiss on him. The lights of all the shops
reflect in his eyes and you swear it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever
seen in your entire life.
“You… Tetsu…” Your eyes get a little misty again but it’s not in a sad way.
Quite the contrary, actually, and you can tell by the fact that his grin is
getting wider that this is exactly the type of reaction he wanted.
“C’mon. Let’s go check in, okay?” He says and you nod, blubbering a little bit.
He already has both of your bags in his hands by the time you get out of your
seat and, like the perfect gentleman that he is, refuses to let you carry
either of them. Even better is when he actually lets you win when you race him
to your room, which is something that he usually never does.
“You’re the best, Tetsu. Honestly.” You squeal when he swipes the key card and
you barrel into the room. It’s all creams and reds, with a comfortable-looking
bed in the middle. There’s even a balcony facing the beach, the waves and lulls
of the ocean clearly visible.
“If you say that any more, it’s really gonna go to my head.” He snickers,
dropping your bags on the floor by the bed and stretching. To his credit he
doesn’t look tired at all, even though you knew the drive was around four hours
long.
“It’s true. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend.” You say, circling your
arms around his waist and squeezing. He laughs, partially because he loves how
easy it is to get you all sentimental, but mostly to hide the fact that he’s
afraid you won’t want to be anything more than friends.
__
He shouldn’t have worried, honestly.
Somewhere between watching an Austin Powers movie and talking about your plans
for the next day, you hear a loud popping from outside. You both scramble to
your feet in an instant— like two cats, honestly— and rush to open the doors of
the balcony because you know that sound, you hear it every time there’s a
festival—
Fireworks. Kuroo snorts to himself. How cliche, but he knew how much you liked
them.
You gasp and squeal in childlike wonder and he can’t help but grin as you rush
out and lean over the balcony railing as if it’ll somehow get you closer to the
colorful explosions in the sky.
“I can’t belive it!” You say, though Kuroo can. He saw online that this
particular boardwalk had a fireworks show every Friday night. Not that he’d
admit that to you, though.
“Awesome.” He joins you,slouching over so that he can cross his arms on the top
of the railing and peer out to the groups of people below. There’s a few
families and a handful of couples that he can see, all watching the display
with the same look of wonder that you have.
Super cliche, he thinks, but he looks at you out of the corner of his eye
nonetheless, watching as your face is illuminated by the different colors of
light.
“This is too perfect, Tetsu.” You groan, apparently so happy that it’s almost
painful. “I swear to god I could kiss you on the mouth right now.”
“Maybe you should.” He says, his voice a little low to mask how nervous he is
now that he decided to take a risk. You look at him, really look at him, and
the way his teeth glint in the evening light is honestly something out of a
cheap romance novel.
So you do. It’s slow and uncertain but he’s right there his hands on your hips
as he pulls you closer to his body. You forget about the fireworks, the ocean,
and the fact that this is your best friend. You throw away all of your
inhibitions, your questions, and your insecurities for this one moment, the
fact that his lips over yours is the most perfect feeling in the world and if
you didn’t have to breathe, you could kiss him forever.
When you break apart he touches your forehead with his own, his dark eyes
staring into yours with an intensity that you’d been ignoring for years. It’s
plain to see how stupid the both of you were for not doing this sooner because
this is the closest to heaven that you’ve ever been in your life.
He speaks your name with a reverence that is usually reserved for prayer, one
of his large hands curling around the back of your neck so that he can pull you
in again, the fireworks long forgotten as you lose yourselves in each other.
His tongue is tentative, which is odd, because in all of the times you imagined
doing this with him, you thought he’d be more aggressive. Maybe it’s the nerves
or maybe it’s because both of you aren’t quite sure where this is going, but
you don’t hesitate to let him lick into your mouth, tongues swirling languidly
around each other as if you have all the time in the world.
When you pull apart for a second time he grabs your hand and you’re a little
bit dizzy. There’s a question in his eyes that you’re all too ready to answer,
and you pull him towards the room with a bit more confidence than you actually
feel. He shuts the door behind him carefully, as if a loud noise might shatter
the moment beyond repair. He looks like he’s not quite sure if he’s dreaming or
not and you smile up at him, squeezing his much larger hand in your own and
tugging him towards you.
You don’t know when you migrate to the bed. All you know is that one second
he’s holding you against his chest and the next you’re underneath him, his lips
pressing against your jawline as he mutters sweet nothings to you. You feel
like every appendage in your body is about to melt into a puddle on the ground.
“You’re so beautiful.” He says, and your heart clenches up with how honest he’s
being. Your hands curl into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and his
hips shift a little bit. He’s hard, and he can tell that you know because of
the surprised squeak you let out. He laughs, a little awkwardly, and gives you
an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” You whisper, and he’s a little startled that you aren’t making fun
of him for it. Instead you’re looking up at him with hazy eyes, biting your lip
in a way that really isn’t good for his health. He holds back a groan, trying
to keep himself in check because he’s already kissing you like the world is
about to end and he doesn’t want to push his luck.
You seem determined to make him break, though, because you hook a leg around
him and bring his hips to yours, grinding them together slowly. Sensually. His
heart almost tumbles out of his gaping mouth because the noise you make when he
grinds against your clothed clit is something that he wouldn’t mind hearing on
repeat.
“Tetsu.” You say, and it’s almost enough to make him snap, “I want you.”
He stutters out a sigh, pulling away from you. He looks unsure. Conflicted
even, because you know he probably thinks this is moving too fast but the
impressive tent in his pants is begging to differ. “Are you sure?”
“Never been more sure in my life.” You say, and then he’s back over you again,
holding one of your cheeks in his hand as he presses another slow kiss to your
lips.
You try to hide the way your breath hitches when his hand slides under your
sweater, but it’s no use. He smiles down at you, fully aware of what he’s doing
and what he’s capable of, but there’s a gentleness to it that he doesn’t often
display, even off the court. It almost knocks the air right out of your lungs.
“You know…” He starts, “you don’t have to do this just because I drove you
here, you know. We can cuddle or something.”
“Kuroo Tetsurō.” You warn, and he snickers at how serious your face becomes,
“if you don’t make me come at least once tonight, I’m going to drown you in the
ocean.”
“Yeah?” His hand travels further up, cupping one of your bra-clad breasts in
his hand. You try not to look too pleased with the feeling of his warm hands on
your skin, but the way he’s smiling down at you lets you know that you’re not
doing a good job hiding it. His fingers pull your bra down so that they can
circle around your nipple, and he delights in the way your breath stutters for
a moment.
“Yeah.” You retort, pushing him off of you for a moment so that you can pull
your shirt and bra off yourself, mostly just to see his reaction as you do so.
He doesn’t disappoint, the look in his eyes going from playful to a little bit
feral in an instant.
“You wanna take your pants off too?” He asks, though it’s not really a
question. You smirk, pleased with the fact that he seems like he’s itching to
touch you, and comply.
The underwear, though, does not come off. He frowns at you and you shrug
nonchalantly, letting yourself fall back onto the bed.
“That,” you say, pointing to your crotch, “you’ll have to work for.”
His eyes light up again. Kuroo’s always loved a good challenge, maybe more than
one person should. He’s over you again in an instant, cupping the apex of your
thighs in his hand and pressing another fond kiss to your lips.
“Or,” he says, once he’s sure that you’re confident that you have him where you
want him, “I could just pull them aside.”
“That’s not fair!” You gasp as he does just that, pulling the fabric to the
side with his pinky finger and turning his hand so that he can rub tentative
circles on your clit. Your back arches, and while you’re not unfamiliar with
the sensation, having spent quite a few nights alone, it’s something else
entirely to have the calloused pad of Kuroo’s finger applying pressure there.
“Feel nice?” He asks, and if you were anyone else you wouldn’t be able to hear
the slight hint of uncertainness in his tone. It strikes you then that this
could be his first time doing this too, and the notion makes your entire body
feel ten degrees warmer.
“Perfect.” You say, and he takes that as a green light to push a little harder
and move a little faster. Your toes curl instinctively, the sensations flaring
from your sensitive bundle of nerves almost too much. You feel yourself getting
a little bit wetter with every rotation, a fact that’s intensified by the fact
that Kuroo has a look of concentration on his face that you’ve only ever seen
on the court.
He takes initiative, something you’ve always liked about him, but something
that you weren’t quite expecting in bed. If anything you expected him to be a
little bit passive, so when you feel his finger leave your clit and circle
around your opening, you're shocked.
“Tetsu—”
“Can I?” He asks, and it’s another shock to hear how tentative his voice is.
You nod, not trusting your own ability to speak, and he slides the appendage in
slowly.
It feels weird and it kind of burns. Not in a horrific way by any means, it’s
that you’re just not used to it. But the second the sensation is there it
disappears, overwhelmed by the spark of pleasure that comes from him gently
curling his finger inside of you.
“Oh!” You say, blinking a little bit. It feels so much different when someone
else is doing it. Even better if it’s the guy you’ve been in love with for
years.
“Good?” He asks again, and you grin.
“More.”
He snickers, already able to tell that he’s going to become addicted to the way
you look right now, and gently pushes in another finger. He’s thought about
this for a long time, especially during late nights, but his imagination didn’t
quite do justice to the feeling of you squeezing around his fingers.
He leans back and sits on his knees so that he can better focus on the task at
hand (literally). You watch as he uses his other hand to pull your panties
aside, fully freeing the one that’s fingering you currently. Without missing a
beat his thumb is on your clit, rubbing slow circles again while his fingers
alternate between sliding in and out and curving against your sensitive walls.
“Tetsu!” You yelp as his movements start to get rougher. There’s a darkness in
his eyes that you can’t explain, a severe curl in his mouth that’s sexy as
hell. He bends down and before you can even ask him what he’s about to do he
removes his thumb from your clit and seals his mouth over it, giving it gentle
tug with his teeth.
It’s like the world has tilted and everything is rolling sideways, a flash of
pleasure distracting you from the fact that he’s added yet another finger. He’s
not naive; he knows this is the first time someone has ever done something like
this for you, which means that if you let him, he’ll be your first. The thought
terrifies him a little more than arouses him, because this is something new for
him as well and he doesn’t want to hurt you and—
Your fingers grab at his hair and he groans, the sound sending vibrations
through your clit that should be illegal with how good they feel. He can’t
afford to worry now, not when you’re panting and rewarding him with light moans
and the fact that you’ve just locked eyes from between your legs and honestly
it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.
He smiles a smile that looks more like a pleased sneer and you’re gone, back
arching off the bed ever so slightly as he coaxes you through your first orgasm
of the night, careful to slip one of his fingers out from inside of you before
you come down from your high, lest the stretch be uncomfortable for you. Your
bottom lip is caught between your teeth and your eyes are screwed shut and
honestly if you keep making these cute faces Kuroo is just gonna come in his
pants.
He doesn’t remove his fingers until he’s completely sure that you’re down from
your high, a slightly sweaty and panting mess. You work to catch your breath as
he begins to unbutton his shirt, his eyes still on yours.
“Do you want to go further?” He asks, suddenly a little bit unsure of himself
and feeling a little awkward for assuming.
“If you don’t get naked in like, five seconds, I’m going to scream.”
“I think you’ll scream regardless.” He jokes, and you roll your eyes at his
wink, your body still recovering from your orgasm.
But all amusement leaves you as he starts to undress. You’ve seen him naked
before, the result of a few times that you forgot to knock before opening his
bedroom door, but this is something else entirely. Every plane of his body is
sharp in all the right places, the ‘v’ leading down to his crotch so finely
sculpted that you suspect he might just be made out of marble. The boy you’ve
grown up with has slowly but surely become a man, a fact that becomes apparent
when he undoes his belt and slides his pants down his legs.
The tent in his boxers is impressive, to say the least, and you can’t help but
shift over onto all fours and crawl towards him to get a better look. He quirks
a brow at your sudden movement and then he’s swallowing hard, watching as your
hand reaches out to grab his erection over the fabric of his boxers. You pause
for a second, a little unsure where to go from here, and look up into his eyes.
“Tetsu.” You say slowly, “You’re really big.”
He groans, because those words are something ripped right out of one of his
late-night fantasies, and so is the way you’re pulling at the elastic of his
boxers to move them downwards. He’s more than willing to help you in your
endeavor, tossing them to the side once he gets them all the way down his lanky
legs, and before he can even say anything you’ve already pressed a tentative
lick to the underside of his shaft, eyes still looking up into his own.
“Please,” he says, because his dick is so hard that it’s almost painful. You
comply immediately, giving him another experimental lick before opening your
mouth and sucking on the tip. A muscle in his leg twitches and one of his hands
threads through your hair because he needs some sort of leverage, especially
since you’re already working on taking more of him in.
“Fuck.” He hisses, and he wishes he could let his head fall back but he
doesn’t, determined to watch your lips stretch around his cock, the eager-to-
please look still in your eyes as you continue to suck him off. He’s almost
certain this is a dream, because the sight of it all is a little too surreal.
You’re trying your best not to choke. You weren’t lying when you said he was
big; even though you didn’t have much experience, you could still tell that he
was something else. But the way he’s looking down at you, eyes dazed and mouth
open a little bit as he lets out appreciative noises, more than makes up for
the ache in your jaw. You remove him from your mouth with a wet ‘pop’, using
the saliva you slicked over his cock as lubrication as you slowly grip him in
your hand.
He inhales sharply through his teeth, a sound that you will later figure out
means that he’s close, and tugs on your hair to keep you from going down on him
again. You look up at him, frowning and ready to ask what’s wrong, but the
intensity of his gaze keeps the question from leaving your mouth.
“I don’t wanna get too close already. Get on your back.” He orders, and as you
jump to follow his command he stoops down and digs around in his bag, pulling
out a small foil square.
If it were any other time, you would have teased him— Condoms? A little
presumptuous, aren’t we?— but right now you’re thankful for his foresight. He
tears it open with his teeth and rolls it on, careful to make sure that it’s on
properly, before he turns back to you and yanks your underwear down in a fluid
motion.
“I think I earned the right to remove these.” He says, and you can’t really
argue with him. He tosses them on the floor next to his own and crawls back
onto the bed, his eyes staring into yours the entire time.
“You sure?” He breathes once he’s situated on top of you. Time seems to stop
for a second as you consider the pros and cons of losing your virginity to the
person that you love and, upon finding zero cons, wrap an arm around his neck
and bring him down for a kiss.
“Of course.” You say, and he nods solemnly— almost too serious, for your taste—
before guiding himself to your soaked entrance.
It doesn’t feel bad. You heard horror stories at school about how excruciating
the pain is and how it feels like you’re being torn in two, but honestly it’s a
far cry from that. It just feels uncomfortable, mostly because he’s so big, but
you’re turned on and wet enough that the stretch is bearable from the start.
He freezes once he’s fully inside of you, his mouth pressed against your ear.
You cock a brow, wrapping your other arm around his back.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” He wheezes. He sounds the same as he did that one time Lev spiked a
volleyball right into his gut. Your eyes widen and frankly you’re a little
surprised because it sounds to you like he’s—
“Are you a…?”
“Yeah.”
—a virgin.
“Tetsu.” You coo into his ear. “I never would have guessed.”
“Shut up.” He pants, pressing a kiss onto your cheek. His arms are trembling a
little bit. You give him a kiss too, right on the shell of his ear, your hands
shifting so that they’re resting on his shoulders.
He finally decides that he’s had enough of trying to be still and he moves, the
shift causing sparks to dance between your thighs. He holds himself up with one
arm and uses the other to cradle your chin, pressing your lips together and
prying your mouth open with his tongue. You let him, because he’s a damn good
kisser, and because it heightens the sensations even more.
It isn’t long before he’s slamming into you with little semblance of mercy,
biting at your lip as he does so. You squeal into his mouth, already sensitive
from your previous orgasm, absolutely taken with the way he manages to fill you
so perfectly, as if his body was made to do this with yours. His lips burn a
fiery path down your chin and onto your neck, biting down on the juncture where
your neck and shoulder meet. You’re absolutely squirming now, wondering if its
possible to get off so soon after you came barely fifteen minutes ago—
You don’t find out. It’s to be expected, really, seeing as how he managed to
last this long, and you’re thankful for that at least. He stiffens on top of
you with a low groan and you can tell he’s gone even before he can. You stroke
his hair and whisper sweet nothings to him— You’re so good, baby, you fill me
so well— and he falls prey to the bliss that you felt earlier, spilling into
the condom with that same sharp inhale from when you were sucking him off.
It takes him a minute to pull out of you. You suspect it’s because he wants to
savor the moment but also because he’s a little embarrassed at having came
before you did. You give him a warm smile as he ties the condom off and throws
it in the trash, a little pink in the ears.
“Sorry.” He mutters, and you hold your arms out. He gets the hint and crawls
back onto the bed, letting you hold him in the afterglow. You press a kiss to
his forehead and he sighs, the sound filled to the brim with love.
“I came earlier, remember? Nothing to be sorry about.” He grabs one of your
hands in his much larger one, threading your fingers together. His eyes are
peering into yours again, and it makes you a little bashful to see how much
care is in that gaze. “Besides, it was your first time.”
“Yeah.” He props his head up with his free hand, still playing with your
fingers. “I saved it for you.”
“…What?”
“I wanted you to be my first.” He presses a slow kiss to your knuckles and you
can’t quite believe it. You’re floored, actually, that Tetsurō Kuroo, the guy
who’d been saving you from bullies and pulling your hair since you were both
old enough to walk, had been waiting all this time for you. Had put part of his
life on hold, even when he could’ve had any girl at Nekoma, in the hopes that
he could share it with you.
“You’re such a sap!” You cry, and it’s mostly because you’re trying to hide the
fact that you’ve gone a little misty-eyed. He sees this and snickers, pulling
you close so that your bare chest is on his. You fall asleep like that, a
little bit sweaty and a little bit in love.
__
“Right here.”
You’re up early the next morning, walking along the beach before the rest of
the vacationers can get there. You hum, a little surprised sound, as he tugs on
your interlocked hands.
“Right here,” he repeats, “I can feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“I’m gonna marry you right here on this beach.” He says, and even though his
face is dead serious you can’t help but snort. You might have forgotten the
memory from your childhood, when he jabbed a chubby finger onto that map in
your kitchen, but he hasn’t. He never will. “I promise.”
“Weirdo.” You say, and he grins at you in a way that rivals the rising sun
behind you.
You have to hand it to him, though. Nearly six years later to the day, he makes
good on that promise.
***** Iwaizumi Hajime- Devilish *****
Chapter Notes
     Heya guys! I was so inspired by your comments on the last chapter
     that I started working on this one immediately. I really loved all of
     your suggestions and I hope that I can do them justice in the next
     few chapters. I dedicate this one to all of you, though Mslilian
     especially, because she gave me the idea for it! Oikawa wasn't as
     cock-blocky as I intended, but I still think that it turned out okay.
     Also, I seem to have a thing for writing student council!Reader and
     public sex. JUST U TRY AND STOP ME, OKAY?!?!
     (ALSO. Head canon that Iwa-chan loves when his s/o wears frilly
     things. I can totally see it. Can you guys, or am I just crazy?)
     Hope you guys enjoy!
     xoxo Sabby
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The sunshine seems to be extra resplendent today, filtering in the windows of
Aobajōsai with a cheeriness that is only matched by the magnitude of your smile
as you talk to your friends in the hallway.
Iwaizumi passes you with a very practiced ease, the only sign of his
nervousness being the fact that his hands tighten on the strap of his bag and
his mouth shifts into an uncomfortable grimace. This isn’t due to the fact that
you’re an unpleasant person; actually, it’s quite the contrary. You have the
kindest face that he’s has ever seen, one that is always smiling, with a mouth
that is constantly laughing or humming a pleasant tune.
Your kindness isn’t what puts him off. It’s the fact that your kindness draws
so many people in, making you so popular in school that you’re almost
untouchable. Even the thought of having you look his way for more than fifteen
seconds is enough to make Iwaizumi want to vomit.
His nerves also might have to do with that fact that you have a gaggle of
admirers that would kill him in cold blood if they found out how deeply his
feelings for you ran.
So he settles for just passing you every day in the hall, ears listening for
your melodic laugh and his heart clenching in his chest. Oikawa always teases
him, tells him that he should just wave at you or something, but every time he
goes to do so it feels like every boy in school is getting ready to fight him.
So he doesn’t do anything.
He considers asking Mattsun about it. He should, actually, because you’re
childhood friends with the middle blocker and he could probably tell Iwaizumi
anything that he wanted to know about you. He’d feel creepy for asking about
you behind your back, though, and besides there’s no guarantee that Matsukawa
wouldn’t tattle on him to you anyways.
There’s also part of him that wants to find these things out for himself. It’s
one thing to have an arsenal of knowledge on a person, and another to have them
slowly tell you over time, during easy conversations and late-night texting
sessions. He wants that. He wants to be the reason you smile before bed, the
person that gives you a peck on the forehead every morning, the—
“Ah, [Surname]-chan! What a nice surprise!”
Iwaizumi almost jumps out of his skin at the sound of Oikawa’s crooning,
mentally cursing himself for spacing out when he was supposed to be eating
lunch. Oikawa is leaning back in his chair with a shit-eating grin, staring at
you. Iwaizumi knows that you aren’t completely sold on Oikawa’s charm— your
smile is just a tad smaller than it usually is— but you give him a polite bow
regardless, a few slips of paper clutched in your hands.
“Oikawa-san.” You say, handing him one of the slips. Iwaizumi feels his face
turn pink as you turn to him, your smile growing just the smallest bit. It’s
creepy how he notices that, honestly; just a testament to how much time he’s
spent studying your face.
“Iwaizumi-san.” You hand him one of the slips as well, and he swears that the
way you say his name will be the death of him. “The student council would love
to know what events the students would like to see at this year’s festival. I’d
appreciate it if you two could fill out those surveys and get them back to me
within the next few days.”
“Anything for you, miss president!” Oikawa replies before Iwaizumi has the
chance to, and if you weren’t right there he would have shot the setter his
meanest glare. But your presence pacifies him a little bit so he just nods,
digging around in his bag for a pen while you bow again and leave the room.
“She really is cute, Iwa-chan. If you didn’t have a crush on her I’d—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence.” Iwaizumi threatens, uncapping his pen and
looking down at the survey. Dance? He’s a little uncoordinated when it comes to
dancing. Concert? Well, depends on who would be playing. The school’s orchestra
is pretty nice; he wouldn’t mind listening to them for a little while. He
places a check mark in the appropriate box. His eyes scan a little bit further
down the list, nothing really catching his eye, until—
Maid cafe? He pauses, pen still in hand. He pictures you, student council
president and unobtainable crush, dressed in the frilliest skirt and a cute
little headband, and fuck he was always a fan of those knee high socks with
bows on them—
Needless to say, he adds another check mark.
__
Practice that evening is interesting. He gets hit in the face with a
volleyball. Twice.
“Iwaizumi!” Coach Mizoguchi barks, and he winces a little bit. Oikawa, on the
other hand, seems to be having a field day.
“It’s not his fault!” He sighs dramatically when the coach frowns at the ace
for his unusually poor performance, “he’s just all distracted because he’s been
thinking about [Surname]-chan in a maid outfit all da— GAH!”
Oikawa doesn’t even have the chance to finish his sentence before Iwaizumi jams
his fist into his stomach with a particularly vicious ’shut up,
Shittykawa!’.The captain wheezes, a little bit winded from the excessive force,
but Iwaizumi doesn’t care because Hanamaki and Mattsun are exchanging a look
right in front of him.
“I don’t care what it is. You need to focus yourself; our practice match with
Karasuno is coming up soon.” Iwaizumi sighs, knowing he has a point and that
practicing should be the most important thing to him right now, but Matsukawa
is glancing at him with a bit of uncertainty and he knows his cover is blown.
 
“So.” He starts when they’re walking out of the gymnasium and into the crisp
evening air. “You like [Nickname]-chan?”
Iwaizumi goes pink at the question, looking at his friend a little bit guiltily
but also plotting Oikawa’s murder for spilling the beans. Matsukawa seems to
regard him for a long second as they walk, a snickering Hanamaki and Oikawa
trailing behind them, before he shrugs.
“Cool. She’s a really nice girl.”
Iwaizumi is floored, absolutely taken off guard, because this isn’t the teasing
that he was expecting. Hell, he would’ve expected a stern talking-to before
this, seeing as how Matsukawa has mentioned on more than one occasion that
you’re like his sister.
“Are you…Am I—”
“I mean, I would prefer if you didn’t try to bone my childhood friend, but hey,
it’s your life.”
And then they’re all kind of laughing, each one echoing as Hanamaki wiggles his
eyebrows, and for once Iwaizumi feels like his goal of talking to you is
actually attainable.
__
He shouldn’t have gotten ahead of himself, though, because whenever a person is
friends with Oikawa things tend to get infinitely more frustrating.
“[Surname]-chan!” The captain says, easily brushing through the usual crowd of
people that surround you every morning while Iwaizumi trails behind him. He
insisted that he could return the surveys to you himself but Oikawa insisted on
accompanying him for ‘moral support’. He should have just realized that was
code for ‘excessive cock-blocking’.
You look over at the two, having been engaged in conversation with a boy who
looks more than a little irked at being interrupted. Your face lights up once
you recognize who it is, though, and is it just Iwazumi or are you looking
right at him, as if you can’t see Oikawa at all?
“Oh! Iwaizumi-san! Oikawa-san! I imagine you have the surveys for me, right?”
You beam, and again Iwaizumi feels like you’re the only two people in the
hallway. How can someone even posses such a beautiful smile? It’s like you're
some sort of angel; you look so cute and huggable in that cream-colored sweater
you have on over your uniform, and Iwaizumi’s hands twitch with the effort it
takes not to reach out and touch you.
“Sure do! Right here.” Oikawa side-eyes Iwaizumi as he hands you the slips of
paper, as if to say see? She isn’t hard to talk to, but Iwaizumi doesn’t
register it because he doesn’t think he’s ever actually been this close to you
before and he can practically count your eyelashes.
“Thank you so much! I hope you two are looking forward to the festival!” You
gush, stuffing the surveys into your bag, smile still on your face. Oikawa
grins back and Iwaizumi is irked to see that it’s the most winning one he has,
the one reserved for when he knows he’s going to be on television. The most
charming one. When he’s confident that you’re not looking, Iwaizumi stomps on
his toes.
You turn back to them when you hear Oikawa yelp, eyebrows knitting together in
a concerned way that Iwaizumi finds almost too cute.
“Are you okay?”
“F-fine.” Oikawa simpers when he sees Iwaizumi’s cold glare. You blink at them,
as if trying to find out why Oikawa was lying, before shrugging and once more
turning back to the boy you were talking to earlier.
Not before Iwaizumi could see the amused smile on your face, though.
__
“Issei-kun!”
Iwaizumi narrowly misses getting hit square in the chest with a volleyball,
completely taken off guard by the sound of your voice ringing through the
gymnasium. Matsukawa looks over at the doors, water bottle halfway to his
mouth, before a slow smile creeps onto his face. His eyes shift quickly to
Iwaizumi, who has gone a shade of red that isn’t healthy, then back to you
almost imperceptibly.
“[Nickname]-chan.” He lowers the water bottle, “what are you doing here?”
“You said I could come watch your practice after school sometime!” You jog onto
the court and even Coach Mizoguchi seems to be a little taken with you because
he doesn’t yell at you for doing so. You playfully swat the middle blocker on
the shoulder when you reach him. “Or did you forget already?”
“Nah.” Mattsun ruffles your hair and Iwaizumi can’t help but be jealous. It
looks so soft. You smack at his hand but you’re still smiling, looking up at
him the way a kid sister looks at her older brother.
It only takes you a second to notice Iwaizumi standing there. “Oh! Hello,
Iwaizumi-san!”
Suddenly the confidence that he got the other day seems to vanish like smoke
through his fingers, because you’re looking at him expectantly and he wants to
say something normal, wants to actually talk to you—
“How are hey you?” He blurts, and he’s horrified to realize not a split second
later that he can’t even say ’Hey, how are you?’ without royally fucking up,
and Oikawa looks like he’s won the lottery.
You snort, a little bit amused. “I’m fine, and yourself?”
“Good.” It’s best to stick to one word. He can’t fuck that up.
 
It’s probably the worst practice of his entire life. You stay until the very
end, offering to help the coaches clean up and commenting on how well everyone
did. Everybody on the team (except for Mattsun, of course) is looking at you
like they’re all a tiny bit in love, and while it fills Iwaizumi with a slow-
simmering rage, he can’t really blame them.
You fall into step with him while they exit the gym, pleasant smile still on
your face. It’s a little humor-filled though, and he wonders if it’s because of
his previous blunder.
“You did really well, Iwaizumi-san. I’m sure Karasuno doesn’t stand a chance.”
You say.
It’s kind of ridiculous because the second he opens his mouth to thank you for
your kind compliment, Oikawa nudges his way in between you two with a “You
should have seen Iwa-chan last week! He got hit in the face with a volleyball
twice!”
Iwaizumi nudges Oikawa a little harshly. “That’s because you were aiming for my
face, Trashykawa.”
“Was not!”
Iwaizumi scowls as you move on from the banter to whisper something to Mattsun.
His chance to talk to you is long gone now, and he’s suddenly filled with the
urge to kick Oikawa’s ass so hard that he flies into orbit around the Earth.
__
Two days after their practice match with Karasuno, he finds out the results of
the survey.
“Looks like it’s a maid cafe.” You sigh, showing the group of third-years the
tallied votes after practice. Mattsun and Makki share a look with Oikawa, who
snickers, and Iwaizumi wishes that they would stop making it so damn obvious.
“Really? I thought a concert would have been nice.” He lies, mostly to save
face but also because you look like the type of girl to appreciate classical
music.
Instead, you snort. “You’re telling me that you don’t want to see girls dressed
as maids serving you? That’s the most blatant lie I’ve ever heard.”
He’s surprised to see a curious smile form on your face as you speak the words,
your eyes betraying some sort of emotion that looks slightly out of place on
such a gentle student council president.
Mattsun and Maki break into laughter at your jab, and Oikawa seems to find it
slightly hilarious as well. Iwaizumi tries to act nonchalant and shrugs, but
his face is reddening and he can feel it.
“I mean, it would be nice, but I also like the school’s orchestra.” He
stammers, and you seem to take pity on him because your devious expression
softens.
“Me too. I was going to go see them at their recital in a few weeks, actually.
Maybe we could go together?”
Honestly, he doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him, because instead of
agreeing he just blurts, “I’ll probably have practice, but thanks!”
It isn’t until Oikawa lectures him on the way home that he realizes you were
hitting on him.
__
The day of the festival rolls around easily.
Actually, that’s a lie. He barely makes it to the festival, what with his
grueling practices and the fact that Oikawa is constantly getting in the way of
him trying to rectify his mistake from the other night. The only thing that’s
keeping him going is the fact that he’ll get to see you all dressed up and
ready to serve.
He’s never seen the school gymnasium like this before. There are tables set up,
round with nice white tablecloths, and students and their families are either
milling about or ordering from a menu that the cooking club prepared. It’s
warm, given the sheer volume of people there, and Iwaizumi regrets his decision
to wear a button-up and slacks today.
Nevertheless he scans the room for you, finding you standing next to one of the
podiums that people line up at while they wait to be seated. You’re decked out
in a red version of the traditional maid garb, contrasting with the black of
all the other girls. It’s endearing, but it’s not as he imagined it would be.
It’s better.
“H-hey!” He’s taken aback to hear you stutter, your legs pressed together like
you’re trying to protect your modesty. Which isn’t hard to do, considering that
this is a high school and they weren’t exactly forcing you to wear lingerie,
but somehow the innocent vibe you’re giving off is way sexier than he thought
it would be.
“Table for four, please!” Oikawa has that stupid fucking grin on his face,
swooping in before Iwaizumi can compliment you. Every. Time.
“Right this way!” You lead them through the crowded gymnasium, and it’s a
struggle for Iwaizumi to not openly ogle your ass. From the way that Oikawa
shares a glance with Mattsun and Hanamaki, he can tell that he hasn’t been very
successful.
And then he notices. The socks. With the bows. The socks with the bows. Were
you trying to kill him? Because it feels like all the blood in his body is
rushing straight to his crotch.
No no no no no no— he tries his best to will it away but he can’t stop
picturing you with your legs wrapped around his waist with those fucking knee
high socks on and seriously the loss of blood to his head might make him pass
out.
You show them to their table and he immediately sits down, afraid that if he
has to stand in your presence much longer then he’s going to have a boner in a
gymnasium where there are children present and he doesn’t think he’d be able to
handle that shame.
“You did well, Iwa-chan! You didn’t even make a fool of yourself once!” Oikawa
pats him on the back, and if he weren’t so worried that someone would call the
police on him for it, Iwaizumi would have punched the setter in the nose.
Mattsun looks a little uncomfortable and Iwaizumi can feel shame bubbling in
his chest. They all look at the menu— well, the others do, Iwaizumi is still
watching you out of the corner of his eye— and Makki seems pleased to find that
there’s creme puffs on the dessert list.
Unfortunately, it seems like you won’t be the one serving them. At the podium
you remove your headband, running your fingers through your hair in order to
get back to what it usually looks like, and smile at the girl who is going to
take your place. Iwaizumi’s heart drops— partially because he won’t have any
eye candy to look at, but mostly because he was hoping you'd stick around
because that makes him so happy— and Oikawa seems to notice, because he kicks
him under the table.
“Go.” He hisses as your form begins to retreat into the crowd. Iwaizumi panics
a little bit, looks at Mattsun and Makki (who were following Oikawa’s gaze),
and suddenly Matsukawa looks at him with a serious expression that doesn’t suit
his droopy face.
“I give you my blessing.” He says, and even though it’s partially a joke
Iwaizumi’s heart still soars. He stands up without a second thought, weaving
through the throngs of people being led to their tables, eyes on your red
skirt.
(“Look at him go,” Oikawa sighs wistfully, like a proud parent.
“He totally had a boner.” Makki laughs.
Mattsun sighs.)
He manages to catch up to you in the deserted hallway outside the gymnasium,
which was thankfully blocked off to make the flow of festival-goers more
manageable.
“Hey!” He pants, already a tiny bit exhausted from having to skirt around so
many people. You freeze in your tracks, turning with a surprised expression
that makes Iwaizumi’s heart flutter.
“Iwaizumi-san!” You say, “I thought you were with—”
“I wanted to talk to you.” He cuts you off, his words lacking any semblance of
stutter or mix-up. You seem rather pleased at the development, a slight smile
making your eyes squint.
“Me?”
“Yeah, there’s…” He trails off for a moment, wondering if he should go through
with what he’s been planning for years now, then decides that fuck it, it’s now
or never. “There’s something I want to tell you.”
“Is it the fact that you have a boner? Cause I can see that pretty clearly.”
You ask, and time stops. The whole world stops, actually, and Iwaizumi wishes
that the ground would disappear and some figurative void would just swallow him
whole.
“Oh, fuck me.” He groans, realizing a bit too late that his little problem
wasn’t so little anymore. You’re looking at him like you have a million things
that you want to say but no idea how to say them, before you settle on:
“Well, if you insist.”
“Wait, what—” He starts, but he doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence
because you’ve grabbed the sleeve of his shirt in one hand and are currently
leading him towards one of the storage closets outside of the gym. He balks
when you push him inside, closing the door behind you and flipping the lock.
“You asked me to fuck you.” You say, eyes glittering. You must be a sadist,
because there’s no way any normal person would look this pleased in the current
situation. He looks at you for a long moment, your sex appeal somehow magnified
in the dim glow of the single overhead lightbulb. There’s towels and
volleyballs and basketballs and even a field hockey stick in here but somehow
the scene is still kind of sensual.
He’s still frozen. You sigh. “Iwaizumi-san, I know you like me.”
“You do?”
You internally roll your eyes at his obliviousness. “Well, yeah. Did you forget
that I’m friends with Issei-kun?”
He scowls. “He told you?”
“I mean, to be fair, I kind of forced it out of him.” You smirk, and he
suddenly realizes that you aren’t as angelic as you seem. In fact, he wouldn’t
hesitate to say that you’re downright devilish.
You run the tips of your nicely-manicured fingers down his chest, stopping
right above his navel and trailing them back up again. He swallows harshly, the
sound serving to make your smirk widen, when suddenly your fingers go all the
way up to the collar of his shirt and start working on the button there.
“W-what are you doing?”
“Trying to fuck you.” You hum, already starting on the next button. The world
seems to go a little fuzzy around the edges. Is this really happening? Is he
really going to have sex with the girl of his dreams in an old storage closet
outside the gym?
Well. Beggars can’t be choosers.
You yelp when he suddenly grabs your cheeks and brings your face to his own,
pressing your lips together in a kiss that’s basically everything you’ve ever
wanted. It’s hot and frantic and a little bit painful, but it’s so completely
him that you lose yourself in the moment, hands still lingering over his shirt.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long, long time.” He says once you break
apart, and you smile because you know, because you’ve felt the same way all
this time and you’re finally with him, even if it isn’t in the most optimal of
locations.
“Me too.” You whisper, and you lean in to kiss him again while your fingers
resume their work.
His body is something else. It really, truly, is like a bronze statue that’s
supposed to be behind velvet ropes in a museum. You all but tear his shirt off
of him when you finally get it unbuttoned, fingers itching to touch every dip
and curve of his chest. His face is still pink and his eyes are totally glazed
over, like he can’t really believe that this is happening to him.
You smirk.
“Ah!” He breathes in sharply when your kisses on his neck turn into bites. He
wonders if he should stop you now, if this is going too fast and he should ask
you why you’ve decided to come on so strongly, but this is a once in a lifetime
opportunity if he’s ever seen one, so he settles for grabbing your hips and
grinding them into his.
You squeal and it’s the sort of sound that could bring lesser men to their
knees, but this is Iwaizumi Hajime and his determination eventually wins over
everything else. He forgets all the nerves he’s felt around you. Forgets the
times when he was mad at Oikawa for interfering. Forgets the time he’s spent
pining. Because right now it’s just you and him tangled up in each other, and
he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take advantage of the opportunity to have you to
himself.
“I never knew you’d be so forward.” He says, placing a few kisses of his own on
your neck. He can feel the way that you swallow at the rumble of his voice
against your skin. It makes a little bit of masculine pride flare in his chest,
seeing you like this. He wouldn’t mind seeing it over and over again.
“I never knew you were the type of guy to get a boner in public.” You shoot
back, and he’s kind of delighted with how sassy you are.
“Not my fault that dress looks so good on you.” He muses, and you laugh. You’re
having a good time, torturing him like this.
“Know where it would look better?”
He hums as he nips at your earlobe. He likes where this is going. “Where?”
“The floor.” You say, and neither of you can help the way that you laugh, the
sounds mixing together in a cute little harmony. God, he’s so happy right now
that he could die.
You gesture for him to take off his pants and he hurries to comply while you
reach to your side and begin to unzip your dress. He wishes that you would have
let him watch you undress yourself, at least so that he could prepare himself.
Because when he’s finished removing his belt and is stepping out of his pants,
he looks up and nearly drops dead.
Black lace thong. Push-up bra. Your lingerie matches your socks and if he
wasn’t painfully hard before then he is now, like every last drop of blood in
his body is rushing to his groin. He lets out a strangled noise and you raise
an eyebrow, placing a hand on your hip.
“Like it? I figured I might be able to get some use out of them today.” You
say, referring to the undergarments with a smile curling at your mouth. His
mind goes really and truly blank, like the static between television stations.
Then, it dawns on him.
“You planned this.”
“Kind of. I wouldn’t go that far. Just knew I was going to try and see that
pretty cock of yours today.” You lick your lips as you stare at the tent in his
boxers, a bead of precome making a small dark spot on the front. Before he can
even say another word— or even appreciate your body fully, for that matter— you
drop to your knees next to your discarded maid outfit, crawling forward so that
you’re eye level with his painfully hard erection. He gulps, the sound
blatantly clear in the silence of the storage closet, and his hands start to
shake when you start to pull on the elastic of his underwear.
“Aw, Hajime-kun. I would’ve done this sooner if I knew you’d be so willing.”
It’s a lot to process all at once; the fact that his longtime crush is starting
to lick at the tip of his dick, the way you say his name with such reverence,
the thought that if he’d just made a move before he could’ve been doing this
with you a long time ago.
You take him in fully and without warning. Had he been able to think
coherently, Iwaizumi might have gotten a little jealous thinking about where
you learned such a skill. He’s partially down your throat within seconds and
fuck you aren’t even gagging much. Just staring up at him with those beautiful
eyes of yours, lips nearly touching the very base of his cock. He lets out a
noise that doesn’t sound quite human, one of his hands steadying himself on the
wall next to him while the other goes to your hair in an instant.
“Fuck.” He breathes, the soft strands of your hair tangling in his fingers. He
pauses for a second, thanking whatever higher power there may be for the
predicament that he’s currently in, before slowly moving his hips.
You seem more than willing to let him face-fuck you, one of your hands going to
cup his balls while the other trails down your stomach and disappears into your
underwear. He doesn’t notice this little fact until he starts to feel the
vibrations of your moans on his cock while you fuck yourself with your fingers.
It’s like a bad porno, in a way. ‘High School Jock Gets Sucked Off by Student
Council President’; if Iwaizumi wasn’t busy currently living it, then he
certainly would be watching it on repeat. It’s depravity at its finest, the way
a string of drool leaks out of the corner of your mouth and the slight shimmer
of sweat on your breasts in the low light. With every thrust into your mouth he
feels himself slowly losing it, barely holding on to the threads of his sanity.
You’re so warm and you’re sucking him so perfectly, letting out small noises of
enjoyment as the sound of your fingers pumping inside of you joins the wet
sound of your lips around his dick.
It’s over too soon. Right as he thinks he’s about to come you pull off of him
with a wet pop, more saliva leaking onto your chin. He doesn’t even find it
gross, and it’s almost supernatural how you manage to make even something as
weird as drool suddenly seem sexy.
You wipe it off with the back of your hand, peering up at him with those wide
eyes of yours. You’re trying to look innocent on purpose, but there’s no
denying the fact that your mouth is smiling in an almost sinister way. You
remove your fingers from your panties and they’re glistening, evidence of your
arousal. You bring them up to your lips ever so slowly, tongue darting out to
lick at them as your eyes stare straight into his own.
“Wanna fuck me, Hajime?”
Were you trying to give him a heart attack? He nods, the sight of you lapping
away at your own juices robbing him of the ability to speak. Your grin gets
even bigger as you shakily get to your feet, and he can see that you’re
absolutely soaked even through your panties, the inside of your thighs
glistening the same way your fingers did.
You slid the thong down slowly and he fights not to pass out when your bra
comes next, nipples hard from arousal. He takes his time appreciating your body
now, every dimple and curve that he can, because knowing you things will move
fast and he just wants to savor the moment.
You grab his upper arm, marveling slightly at how the boy seems to be nearly
six feet of pure muscle, and pull him close so that you can kiss him again.
It’s slower this time and it tastes like you, a little sweet and bitter all at
once. He has half a mind to just drop to his knees and lick you until his
tongue falls off, but the fact that your hand is grabbing at his cock makes him
decide that it’ll have to wait for next time.
You manage to find a comfortable way to position yourself. Your legs wrap
around his waist and he presses your back against the wall, though you’re
pretty sure that he could still hold you up even without the added support, and
he slowly slides into you with his eyes still locked on yours.
And then he stills, because your cunt feels better than anything he’s ever
experienced, and if he’s not careful he’s afraid that he’s going to come early
and ruin the whole thing.
You wrap your arms around his neck, taking pity on him and pressing your lips
to his. It’s a sweet kiss, somewhat out of place given the magnitude of what
you two are currently doing, but it’s a gesture that he appreciates and accepts
wholeheartedly. His tongue darts out to tangle with your own, his grip on your
thighs tightening. It’s in that moment, that tiny fraction of a second where
your legs shift and he feels the drag of knit along his back, that he realizes
you still have those fucking socks on.
He doesn’t know why he’s so turned on by them. Maybe it’s because you have a
nice pair of legs. Maybe it’s because you look just as slutty and depraved as
he imagined you would be in all of his fantasies. Whatever it is, it makes him
tentatively thrust into you, and the reaction is immediate.
“Hajime!” You croon, and he could get lost in the way his name tumbles from
your lips. He kisses you again while he sets a slow and languid pace, though
moans and mewls still fall from your mouth against his own.
This is hands down the most beautiful thing he’s ever done. He can see why
people kill and fight wars over things like this; it’s like he’s reaching out
to heaven and grabbing fistfuls of it in his hands, wrapping himself in the
warmth of the sun. The feeling of your skin sliding against his is beyond
divine, the gentle tug of his hair making him double his efforts. Your hips
meet with a chorus of absolutely sinful smacks, a few strands of hair sticking
to your sweaty skin. It’s perfect, so perfect—
“Mine.” He grumbles, nipping at your neck. He thinks about all the boys that
crowd around you, all the men that must have been gawking at you in your
costume. “Mine.”
Your open your mouth to respond to his claims, but at that exact moment his
cock hits something in you that makes your thoughts scatter into little
pinpricks of light, like fireflies on a summer night. “Oh! Right there!”
He grins and it’s absolutely feral. You arch your back as he adjusts his hips,
your breasts pressing into his chest as his fingers imprint bruises onto your
thighs. You know you’ll have to wear tights to hide them later but right now
you don’t care, your thoughts absolutely hazy as he mercilessly pounds into
that one spot.
“H-Hajime!” You squeal, body trembling a little bit. It’s almost too much, the
pleasure too blinding, and before you know it you’re tumbling over the edge,
your vision going blurry as you clench around him.
He groans, fucking you through your orgasm like a well-oiled machine, his body
tensed and his hips slapping into yours without any semblance of mercy. He
keeps snarling into your ear— mine mine mine mine— and you inhale sharply, jaw
trembling a little bit as a few broken moans escape your mouth.
“I don’t want any of those other guys to touch you.” He snaps, one of his hands
leaving your leg so that he can jab his thumb onto your clit, moving it in
circles that make a few muscles in your body jump. It’s too much, way too much,
but he seems to get off on the over stimulation, watching you pant and wriggle
in his grasp.
“Look at me.” He says, hips slowing their pace in favor of making deeper
thrusts, his dark eyes misting over ever so slightly as he struggles to keep
his own release at bay. You do just that and he marvels at how your own
expression is glazed over, a testament to how badly you still want him even
after you already came. He presses his thumb a little harder on your clit and
you jolt, before he’s back to brutally fucking you.
It doesn’t take long for you to reach the edge again, between the filthy things
he’s saying into your ears and the way that his thumb and cock are working so
perfectly to bring you to the brink. You claw at his shoulders and try to pull
him even closer, absolutely wrecked as your second orgasm blindsides you.
He crashes his lips onto yours as he follows, a groan starting in his chest and
vibrating against yours. He spills inside of you without a second thought,
curses falling off his tongue as he finally lets go.
The storage closet falls silent. His head drops to your shoulder and he slowly,
slowly slips out of you and allows you to steady yourself on your feet. You’re
both spent and looking at each other like you’re not quite sure what to say,
but he can’t help himself from blurting:
“Please don’t let that be a one-time thing.”
You laugh, breathless, and smile up at him. “With the way you just fucked me?
I’d be stupid to not let that happen again.”
“It’s not just that.” He continues. Surprisingly, he has a look of earnestness
on his face. “I meant what I said. I don’t want you to be with anyone else.”
You smile at him. He’s a little miffed to see how easily you’ve gone back to
being your regular gentle self so soon after getting the fucking of a lifetime.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I should be free tonight around eight, if you wanted to do something.” You
say, and he laughs a little hoarsely, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead.
Neither of you have moved to get dressed again, opting instead to bask in the
afterglow of your mutual orgasms.
“On one condition, though.” You continue, grimacing when you feel some of his
come drip out of you.
“Anything. Anything.” He says, and you have to hold back a snort at how cheesy
he is.
“You bring condoms this time.”
“Fine. I have a stipulation too, though.” He says, grinning as he hooks a
finger around the elastic top of your socks. “Keep the knee-highs.”
Chapter End Notes
     find me on tumblr!
***** Ennoshita Chikara- Muse *****
Chapter Notes
     DAMN, SABBY, BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH THE EXCESSIVE FLUFF.
     Seriously. You guys thought my Kuroo chapter was long? This one right
     here is over 8,000 words and most of it is just the corniest,
     fluffiest fluff that I'm able to write. I've had this idea for a
     while and I even considered making it a series at one point, but I
     think it's a lot better as a oneshot. Also, seriously, who can resist
     a little bit of a celebrity AU?
     The school described in this story is actually very similar to a high
     school that my friend went to. We both happened to live in a city
     where some people with pretty big names had decided to settle down
     and teach their crafts. Unfortunately, I only went to public school
     and DIDN'T get to learn about film or photography or painting from an
     accomplished artist. Sigh.
     But yeah, this story is also based on my headcanon that Ennoshita
     becomes an accomplished director later on in life after starting by
     making some documentaries. Welp.
     Thanks for all the lovely comments! You guys never fail to make me
     smile every day!
     xoxo sabby
Despite all its trials and tribulations, adulthood isn’t that bad.
Sure, there’s the pressure of living by himself in a city that he’s only moved
to within the last three years, and the constant stress of having to make sure
he wakes up early enough to get to work on time, but other than that, Ennoshita
Chikara’s twenties haven’t been so bad. He managed to graduate from his
university with high marks, land a teaching job at a prestigious art school in
Tokyo after releasing a string of über-popular documentaries, and rent a
penthouse with a glass wall that looked out onto the most beautiful parts of
the city. Pretty nice, he had to admit. And while he’s not playing volleyball
professionally like Nishinoya or Kageyama or Hinata, he really wouldn’t trade
his life for anything.
Especially because the teacher in the room next to his is absolute eye candy.
“Thanks for letting me borrow your camera, Chikara. I really appreciate it.”
Ennoshita looks up from the stack of papers he’s grading, his typical sleepy
smile widening just a tad when he recognizes your voice.
“Anytime, [Name].” He watches as you gingerly put down said camera— one that
cost more than his monthly rent— on his desk. Your hands are surprisingly
clean, free of paint and clay, and it makes him happy to know that you must
have taken extra care with his equipment. “How did the session go?”
“Pretty good.” You pull one of the chairs from the student’s desks over towards
him, plopping down in it and running a hand through your hair. He tries not to
focus on the movement, or the way your lips move as you consider your next
sentence. “Couldn’t figure out all the buttons at first. I swear you must be a
wizard or something.”
He laughs, placing his pen down so that he can give the conversation his full
attention. It’s not too often that you two can talk freely after school, seeing
as how he’s usually out roaming the streets, filming tidbits of city life for
his newest documentary or you’re in your studio, painting another masterpiece.
“Nah. Just been using the same camera since high school. The pictures turn out
okay?”
“They were fine. Got some pretty good ones of that sakura tree over by the
school gate; I’ll have to show you later.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” He says, and there’s a genuine earnestness in his
voice that makes you smile as well. While both of you got along well with the
other teachers at the school, you seemed to find a special connection in each
other, one that was only strengthened by your shared passion for your
respective arts. You were always one of the first people to see his newest
projects, and he was always your model of choice when you needed a male figure
for a painting. The other teachers joked, asking when the wedding would be, but
neither of you had actually crossed the line from friends to lovers yet despite
the light flirting here and there.
He wondered if you ever would.
“Heard a few girls in my class today talk about how much they would love if you
were the nude model for one of their paintings.” You say, and he laughs a
little bit, leaning back in his chair with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah? Well, I don’t even want to think about the types of ‘movies’ some of my
students want to make with you.” He says, and although you probably think he’s
joking, he’s not. It’s no secret among the staff or students that you yourself
are a work of art.
“Ew. Gross.” You snort, and then you’re both kind of sitting there, smiling
like idiots at each other.
“So.” He says, after a moment of silence, “you’re thinking of having nude
models in your class?”
You shrug. “Yeah, actually. My kids are pretty mature for high schoolers, so
I’m not worried that they’ll be constantly giggling. Why, you have someone in
mind?” You wiggle your eyebrows.
“Gah, no! Don’t look at me like that. I was thinking more along the lines of
Watanabe-sama.” He replies, laughing a bit when your joking expression turns
into a horrified one at the thought of painting the school principal in the
nude.
“Eek! No, I’d rather paint you, thank you very much!” You huff, which makes him
laugh harder, a little elated that you aren't entirely repulsed by the prospect
of seeing him naked.
__
Being a relatively unknown artist in a school of well-known ones was a little
bit daunting.
That isn’t to say you didn’t like it. In fact, you were beyond thankful that
the principal had seen your potential in the portfolio you submitted instead of
just glossing over it to hire a more accomplished artist. He gave you the
opportunity to prove yourself and you did just that, garnering a place as one
of the student favorites in just over a month and mingling with the bigwigs of
your department as if you were just as high-up as them.
Ennoshita Chikara, though, was another story.
When you first heard that the school was hiring the rising documentarian to
teach in the room next to yours, you didn’t blink. After all, this was a
prestigious academy, and teachers with well-known names weren't uncommon. No,
your problem only arose when he came to introduce himself and you realized that
he wasn’t a balding middle-aged man like the rest of them.
Oh my god. Oh no. He’s hot! You remembered thinking as you shook his hand,
looking into those dark and sleepy eyes as if they were a Monet painting.
Surely he had to be a jerk like those other filmmakers, right? There was no way
he could be hot and nice.
Well, you were wrong again. As time passed and your bond with the teacher next
door grew, you found that he didn’t really care much for the money and slow
rise to fame that his work was getting him. He cared more about the art itself,
about capturing everyday things and turning them into something beautiful. He
cared about teaching his students, who seemed to watch his documentaries
religiously, about how to take risks and find their own way to make unique
pieces. He cared about them all so much that it didn’t surprise you how much
time he spent at his desk, hunched over and grading their scripts or proposals
until his eyes started to droop even more with how tired he was.
It was no wonder that you started to fall for him. That easy smile, those long
nights; you started to stay after school longer too, just so that you could pop
into his room and try to ease the tension building in his shoulders. You liked
to think that it worked, for the most part, and even if it didn’t, the way his
eyes lit up every time he saw you in the doorway was enough for you.
“I was reading a blog today.” You say, absentmindedly scrolling through your
phone as you picked at your lunch, which you had unceremoniously plopped down
onto his desk at the beginning of the period, “a lot of people are really
excited to see what you’re going to put out next.”
“I’ve heard.” Ennoshita grumbles, though you can hear the happiness underneath
the tone. He’s barely touched his lunch today, too busy typing away in his
laptop to eat. You snort.
“You’ve gotta eat, Chikara. You know that you won’t have any energy to teach
for the second half of the day if you don’t.” You point out, and to your
delight he sticks his tongue out at you.
“I’m busy.” He says, but he picks up a carrot and bites into it regardless.
“Oh? Whatcha doing?” You try to crane your neck to see his screen, but he tilts
it away at the last second.
“Writing.”
“Well obviously, but what are you writing?”
“Rough draft of a script.”
“A script?” You clap your hands together, eyes suddenly wide. “Chikara, that’s
awesome! Are you going to be making blockbusters now?”
He laughs. “Maybe. We’ll see. How was class today?”
“Good.” You flop back into your chair, “But I was wrong about my students. They
wouldn’t stop laughing at the model. He looked like he wanted to cry.”
Ennoshita let out a low whistle as he typed a few more words. “That’s rough.
Sounds like me in university; all the girls used to laugh at me when I got
naked.”
You scoff. “As if. I bet they were so impressed that they just couldn’t handle
it.”
“…T-thanks.” Ennoshita says, a little taken aback by your sudden compliment. It
seemed real too, like you weren’t just being playful. You seemed to notice that
as well, because you suddenly became a little bashful.
“Well! Er… you set a release date for your next documentary yet?”
“N-not yet.” Damn it! Why was he stuttering like he was some pre-pubescent boy
who couldn’t take a compliment?
You seemed to want to alleviate the tension a tad, so you went back to your
phone, aimlessly logging into your e-mail to see if the principal had sent you
anything regarding your request for more easels. Instead, the unread message at
the top of your inbox made you nearly drop your phone.
“What’s up?” Ennoshita’s eyebrows knit together at your sudden sound of
surprise, the flush in his face still there. You blink at your screen a couple
of times, stunned, before letting out a rather loud yelp.
“Chikara! It’s from the Moriagi Art Museum!” You nearly screeched, flipping
your phone around so that he could see the opened e-mail.
Miss [Surname]:
On behalf of the Moriagi Art Museum, we would like to thank you for submitting
your impressive collection of works to us. Your willingness to contribute to
the gallery is what helps us to constantly grow and showcase the works of
talented artists such as yourself.
We are pleased to tell you that your pieces have been accepted to the gallery,
and will be showcased alongside the works of other artists starting on May 1st
of this year. We hope you will be able to attend the party that will be held in
honor of this exhibit, the details of which will be e-mailed to you within the
next few days.
Stay in touch,
Yamamoto Kenji
Director
“[Name]!” Ennoshita exclaims after scanning the text, “that’s amazing! I can’t
believe it! You’ve been working so hard—”
But whatever he was about to say next was cut off by you flinging your arms
around him, crushing him to your chest as you laugh a little breathlessly. He
knew better than anyone that you’d been trying hard to get galleries to take
your work, and so far it had been unsuccessful. In fact, he remembers the two-
month period where you would spend your lunches glued to your phone or laptop,
refreshing your emails in the hopes that you would positive feedback.
You hadn’t, until now.
“Oh, this is so great!” You pull back from the hug to rub at your eyes, and he
can see that there’s already tears of joy there. “I have to call my parents, oh
they’ll definitely want to come to the exhibit, even if they’re all the way in
Hokkaido…” You trail off, sniffling a little bit.
“[Name], I’m so proud of you.” Ennoshita takes one of your hands into both of
his, smiling earnestly at you. You smile back, even though it’s a little bit
watery, because you’ve never had someone other than your parents be so proud of
your accomplishments. Not any of your exes, who always told you that being a
painter was useless. Not your friends from high school, who thought that you
were wasting money on art school.
You lean in, then, so happy that it feels like the world around you is
exploding with color, and he sees it because he leans in as well, and your eyes
are just starting to close when—
“Ennoshita-sensei, I— oh!” You both jump apart to see a student standing in the
doorway, a little pale in the face and wide-eyed at what he must have just
witnessed. You share a look with the film teacher, who looks a little caught
off guard as well.
“I-I’m sorry, did you need something?” He says to the student.
“I… Uh. No, I’m okay. I’ll come back later.” And he scurries into the hallway
before either of you can fit in another word. Ennoshita stares at the door
before turning his attention back to you.
“That was. Uh. Close.” He says.
“Yeah. Maybe a sign, I guess.” You sigh, running your fingers through your hair
and grimacing when you realize that there was a few flakes of dried paint in
it. How long were those there?
Ennoshita looks like he’s caught between amusement and concern, eyes trying to
search yours for something you’re not willing to give. The speakers in the
ceiling crackle to life, emitting a few chimes that signal the end of the lunch
period. Before you know it, students will start to filter in.
“I guess I should go back to my own room, then.” You say. You gather your lunch
and he watches you go, inwardly cursing at himself for not asking what just
happened between you two.
__
“I know, mom! I can’t believe it either!” You laugh into the phone as your
mother lets out another excited shriek, talking to both you and your father,
who is in the background muttering other words of praise. “The exhibit opens on
May 1st. I’m sure I can get you on the guest list for the party with no
problem!”
“Dear, that’s so wonderful. Your father and I are beyond proud of you.” Your
mother says, and you don’t have to see her to know that her eyes are probably
full of tears like yours were earlier. “And we wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Have you told anybody else yet?”
“Just the principal and Ennoshita-san.” You say, petting your cat as she
brushes against your leg. She lets out a mewl of appreciation, butting her head
against your palm.
“Ennoshita? That young hotshot filmmaker?” Your father buts in, and you hold
back another laugh.
“Yes! He teaches in the classroom next to mine. He’s really nice.”
“And handsome, too!” Your mother croons. “You should see the pictures she’s
painted of him. No wonder you have a crush on him!”
“Mom! I don’t… well okay, I do, but you can’t blame me!” You consider telling
her that you almost kissed him earlier today, but decide against it. It must
have only been a spur-of-the-moment thing, right? There’s no way he returned
your feelings; you were a rookie in the art world, and he was already carving
out a space for himself at the top. He could do better than you, that much was
certain.
You stood up from your couch with an almost imperceptible sigh, deciding now
that it was probably time to feed your cat some dinner. Well, you didn’t decide
it, really. She did, with a few incessant meows.
“I don’t, honey! So, May 1st? Your father and I should be able to make it out
for the party, too. Just give me a few more details when you have them,
alright?”
“Sounds good to me!” You scooped out some of the dry cat food that your little
Kimiko seemed to go crazy over and put it into her bowl, bidding farewell to
your parents and hanging up the phone. As soon as you did, you let out another
sigh.
You were excited. That much was for certain. You had some of your best work in
the collection that you had sent to the gallery, and you were already getting a
little bit nervous thinking about what some of the critics would say. Add that
to the nerves you were already feeling after one of Ennoshita’s students had
almost seen you kissing and, well… you were more of an anxious wreck than you
would like to admit.
“It’s been a weird day, Kimiko.” You scratch the cat between her ears in the
way that she likes, placing her bowl in front of her. You were rewarded with a
small mewl, making you smile.
Well. ‘Weird’ is just another term for ‘Exciting’, I guess.
—
Word that you were being featured at one of the most unique galleries in Tokyo
spread across the school like wildfire, and by Friday nearly one hundred
different students had all stopped by your room to congratulate you, even if
you weren’t their teacher. It made your heart swell even more at the genuine
excitement and sincerity behind their words. The teachers were much the same
way, most of them complimenting all your hard work and telling you that they
had figured it was only a matter of time before your talents were recognized.
“I told you, [Name], you really deserve this.” Ennoshita says, smiling at you
from behind his computer screen. You smile back at him, mouth closed because
you’re still chewing on a bit of your lunch.
Despite your ‘incident’ earlier in the week, you’d decided that you would try
to act as normal as possible, which meant that you again found yourself eating
in Ennoshita’s classroom during your lunch. Besides, ignoring him would
probably make him ask questions that you weren’t ready to answer, even to
yourself.
“You’re just trying to soften me up so that I’ll invite you to the after-
party.” You say once you’ve swallowed your rice, sending the filmmaker a faux-
accusatory glance. He chortles.
“You caught me. But hey, can you blame me? The afterparties are the best part.”
“You say that because that’s when all of the beautiful women clamor around you,
asking you if they can be in the next film.” You joke, grabbing a piece of meat
with your chopsticks.
“Nah, I’m saying it because there’s always alcohol there.”
You snort. “Of course. Well, this party probably won’t be like the fancy film
premieres you’re always going to. It’s mostly just people close to the artists
that are being featured in the exhibit. Which reminds me…” You feign innocence,
popping the meat into your mouth, “you wanna go with me?”
He balks immediately, and you have to fight from laughing out loud. The man is
accomplished— a ‘master of film’, as some critics have put it— yet he seems
completely intimidated by the fact that you may or may not have asked him to
attend a party as your date. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times,
seemingly trying to search for words, when you suddenly feel a little bit
insecure. Was he going to reject you? Had you gone too far?
“I mean, you don’t have t—”
“No! I’d love to!” He blurts. You blink a couple of times at him.
“You know I’m asking you on a date, right?” You clarify. The last thing you
wanted was to get excited over the fact that he said yes when there was the
possibility that he thought you were asking him to go ask friends.
“Yeah! Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I, uh, just wasn’t expecting it. I thought
you weren't really into me like that.”
“Puh-lease.” You say, more than just a little bit thrilled. “Have you seen
yourself?”
He snorts. “Have you seen yourself? You’re so out of my league it’s like we’re
on different planets.”
You can’t help but let out a peel of laughter, eyes scrunching up in the
corners in the cutest way. “You’re so corny!”
“Whatever.” He mutters, though you both end up spending the rest of the lunch
period smiling at each other like idiots.
__
“Mom! Dad!” You cry, flinging your arms open. Your mother, the more excitable
one, drops her bags on the floor for your father to pick up as she runs towards
you.
It’s a typical airport scene; the people moving around you barely flinch at the
display, instead choosing to go about their own business. You smile, having
missed the warmth of your mother’s hugs ever since you moved to the city. Your
father, shaking his head at her antics, smiles at you nonetheless as he picks
up the other bags.
“We’re so happy for you, sweetheart.” Your mother says when you two break
apart.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” Your father jokes, and you scoff playfully.
“Dad!” We’re not dating!”
“You sure?” He raises an eyebrow.
“…Well…” You say, and your mother looks like she’s about to burst into tears
with how happy she is.
“So you are dating.” Your father tries to clarify. You hold up a hand and
wiggle it in a so-so motion.
“Kind of? I asked him to come to the party tonight with me and he said yes. Not
sure if that counts as dating.”
“Well it’s wonderful news either way.” Your mother says. You grin at her as the
three of you begin to walk out of the airport and to your car, your father
giving you the directions to their hotel that he printed off. You chatter a
little aimlessly as you drive— about the weather here, how your job has been,
how many other artists are being featured in the exhibit, if your cat still has
that ear infection— and your find yourself smiling more and more with each
word, happiness replacing your nerves at the fact that the party is tonight.
“We’ll see you tonight honey. You said eight in the evening, right?” Your
father asks as you park outside their hotel. You smile, shooting him a smile.
“Yep! Do you want me and Chikara—”
“Chikara?”
“Er, Ennoshita-san to pick you up?”
Your mother looks amused at your little slip. “No, we should be fine. We’ll
take a taxi, you should focus on having fun with your date.”
You roll your eyes playfully. “If you insist. I’ll text you when I get back to
my apartment, okay?”
__
Ennoshita is outside of your apartment at 7:30 sharp, already dressed in an
immaculately-pressed black suit and a deep green bowtie, hands in his pockets
as he stares down at his shoes. He told himself hundreds of times not to be
nervous on his way here, that it was just you, but that was his problem; it was
you.
It feels like ages before he gets the courage to knock, but when he does you
answer almost immediately, adjusting the strap on your dress with a small scowl
that immediately vanishes when you see him.
It takes him a minute to process it. An actual 60 seconds. He’s never liked
those cheesy movies where the guy is always blown away by how the female love
interest looks in a dress, because he’s never had a moment like that in his
life and, frankly, he never thought he would. But he’s eating his own words now
as he looks at you, in a black dress that’s doing just the right things in all
the right places. Maybe it’s because he’s never seen you without your signature
paint-stained smock on, or maybe it’s because he’s already a little nervous at
the fact that this is your first official date, but he is literally at a loss
for words so he just settles for openly gaping at you.
Your eyebrows furrow. “Uh, Chikara?”
“Yeah?” He says, finally meeting your eyes.
“Do I have something on my face?”
“No! You just. Uh. Look good. Really good.” He says, and it’s kind of
embarrassing how badly he wants to just skip this whole party and fuck you into
oblivion. You must agree, because there’s nothing innocent about the way you’re
looking at him now.
He doesn’t hesitate. He knows it’s not proper etiquette to attack your date’s
mouth at the beginning of the date and not at the end, but he’s waited so long
and he can’t really help himself. Your lips are soft and you have some sort of
fruity chapstick on that is making his mind go blank, though that doesn’t last
long because you bite down softly on his lip and he lets you slide your tongue
into his mouth with a groan.
Your hands clutch at the lapels of his jacket, bringing him closer and it’s a
wonder that his brain is still functioning at all. You’re a damn good kisser,
and his heart is pounding a rhythm against his ribcage that he’s sure you can
hear.
You break apart and he smiles, the expression a little pained because he knows
he has to control himself. He straightens out his jacket and holds out his hand
for you to take, and you do so with a grace that makes him smile even more.
He doesn’t let go, even when he’s driving. Instead, he laces your fingers
together and intermittently places kisses onto your knuckles. You almost wish
that you could stay in this car with him for the rest of the night, driving
around Tokyo with your hand in his. But the drive unfortunately comes to an
end, and you find yourselves outside of the gallery right before the party is
set to begin.
“Ennoshita-san.” The valet says, apparently recognizing your date without
having to even ask his name. He smiles, handing over the keys to his sports car
while his hand once again searches for yours. You let your fingers thread
together once more as you lead him to the entrance, and he sort of lets himself
lag behind just so he can get a look at your ass.
Nice.
There’s more people than he expected there to be once you two go inside. A few
people immediately recognize him just like the valet had, and they whisper
among themselves with star-struck expressions. His grip on your hand tightens
as you weave through the crowd; you told him in the car that the first people
you wanted to see were your parents.
Your parents.It was only your first date but it felt like you’d been together
since day one. Was it weird of him to be excited at the fact that you would
introduce him to your parents? You seemed to think so, because you let out an
amused snort whenever he insisted that he was more than happy to talk to them
instead of breaking away to socialize with others.
But his excitement soon faded into nerves once you saw them, because you let go
of his hand to wave them over and suddenly he felt a little too insecure. What
if you were going to introduce him as your friend? Of course, you had every
right to— you’d only just had your first kiss with him, and he hadn’t asked you
to be his girlfriend yet— but thinking about it makes his heart clench
painfully in his chest. Maybe that’s why when they come to meet him, he cuts
you off.
“Mom, Dad, this is Ennoshita Chikara, my—”
“Boyfriend. It’s nice to meet the both of you.” He bows, and while they look
completely taken with him immediately, your expression morphs into one of mild
shock.
“I knew it!” Your mother squeals. “She gushes about you all the time, it’s no
wonder—”
“Mom!” You squeak, and Ennoshita is positive that he has the dopiest grin on
his face right now but he can’t find it within himself to care. You gush about
him. You talk about him. You like him just as much as he likes you. His hand
finds yours again, fingers interlocking, and it just feels so right.
__
“She really is fond of you, you know.” Your father says as he sips on his flute
of champagne. You’re across the room, chatting with another one of the artists,
and Ennoshita can already feel pride swelling in his chest. He’s proud of you,
so so proud of you, and not just because he’s now your self-proclaimed
boyfriend.
Well, maybe he is a little bit biased.
“I’m glad. She’s fantastic.” He says, and he can tell that your father knows
that he really means it because he smiles and pats him on the shoulder.
“You don’t know how good that is to hear. It’s been a struggle for her to get
to where she is today, but I’m sure you know that. What matters now, though, is
that she’s happy and that she’s found someone to share that happiness with. “
Ennoshita nods, a little bit pink in the face. Your father looks at him for a
long second, before laughing a little bit under his breath.
“Her mother and I should have known that you two were together ever since we
saw that painting.” He says, taking another sip of his drink.
“What?” Ennoshita asks before he can even process what your father said, and
the man gives him another long look.
“The painting around the corner. You haven’t seen it yet?” He asks, and when
Ennoshita shakes his head your father grabs him by the arm and guides him out
of the main room, toward one of the gallery’s little niches.
His mouth goes dry.
He has seen this painting before. It’s the first one you asked him to model
for; a simple portrait of him sitting cross-legged under that sakura tree you
loved so much, leaning on the trunk with his eyes closed and the corners of his
mouth turned up. He always loved the painting, the way each brush stroke seemed
to breathe life into the scene and the petals around his legs seeming so
delicate that you could blow them away with a small exhale. He was stunned when
you first showed it to him, but that was nowhere near how stunned he is now.
He never noticed how much care and attention had gone into his face. How you
had practically painted on every single eyelash, every freckle and high plane
of his cheeks. He stares at it, transfixed by the accuracy with which you
captured him, half expecting to see the painted version of himself blink his
eyes open with the amount of realism that there is.
But that’s not what makes his mouth go dry. It’s the little card next to it,
bearing a few printed words. Your name. The month and year you painted it. The
medium. And then, in italics, the title.
Muse.
He knows your parents would think that the painting was titled in such a way
because he looks so deep in thought, but he knows better. This is a testament
to your affection for him, a sign that you inspire him just as much as he
inspires you, and he’s pretty embarrassed to find out that his eyes are
stinging a little bit with unshed tears.
“She’s something else, isn’t she?” Your father says.
“Absolutely.” He breathes, “she’s my world.”
__
He’s been stuck to your side ever since your father pulled him aside to talk,
and you have half a mind to ask what’s going on with him. He’s looking down at
you with a startling amount of affection in his eyes too, and you know it’s not
from the alcohol because he told you he wouldn’t be drinking tonight.
“Chikara.” You say when you’re both in his car and he’s tipped the valet almost
double what he usually would. “What’s up with you?”
“What do you mean?” He hums, and it might just be the couple sips of champagne
in your system but the sound makes a few sparks of fondness flare up in your
chest.
“First you told my parents that you were my boyfriend, even though this was our
first date. And then after you talked to my dad you were practically glued to
my side.” You reach down and start to wiggle your heeled shoes off as you talk,
a slight grimace on your face from the way they’d been pinching your toes the
entire night.
“Well.” He sighs, “I don’t think it should come as a shock to you that I like
you. I mean really, really like you. I have for a while.”
“I know, but—”
“And I want to be your boyfriend. I know it’s only our first date but I’ve
never felt like this for anyone before. I want to be with you, if you’ll have
me.” He parks his car outside of your apartment complex, turning to look at you
as he turns the engine off. Even in the dull light of the streetlamp you can
see how intense his expression is.
“Of course.” You breathe, and then he’s leaning towards you and you meet him
halfway, lips slanting against one another almost desperately. He decides to
take the lead this time, one of his hands coming to rest on the back of your
neck while his tongue flicks across your bottom lip. You let him in without
hesitation, allowing the wet muscle to slide against yours.
He groans, just like he did the first time you kissed, and it’s a sound that
makes your thighs clench together. If his kisses alone are doing this to you
then you don’t know what else he’s capable of, but fuck do you want to find
out. The hand on your neck curls itself into your hair, as if to anchor you
there. Then, you start to laugh.
“Huh?” He pulls away, and you can tell that he’s worried about you laughing
about his kissing, so you try to reassure him by grabbing his shoulder as you
giggle.
“Chikara… I’m sorry, I’m just… remember that one time we almost kissed and that
student walked in?”
He snorts. “Duh. How could I forget? I wanted to give him an ‘F’ on his project
for ruining the moment.”
You shake your head at him, still laughing. “I don’t know why, but I just
thought about him. And it’s funny, because I thought that it meant I was never
gonna get a chance to kiss you again.”
He rolls his eyes, shifting so that his back is against his seat again. “Way to
ruin the mood.” He fake-grumbles, and from his position he misses the way that
your smile goes from humored to seductive.
“The mood is ruined? Does that mean you’re gonna say no when I invite you to
stay the night?” You say sweetly.
Never before in your life had you seen someone scramble to get out of a car so
fast.
__
“You’re not good for my health.”
You hum pleasantly, skimming your fingers down Ennoshita’s bare chest only to
wrap your hands around to his back when you reach the top of his trousers. He
sighs reverently, allowing you to pull him closer for another searing kiss.
Half of your clothes are already discarded; your dress is somewhere on the
floor, accompanied by his shirt, bowtie, and jacket. Thankfully your cat is
asleep in the living room, because you would actually be somewhat embarrassed
if she came into your room and found your body intertwined with Ennoshita’s on
the bed.
Even now, when he’s still partially clothed, his body is doing something to you
that almost makes you a little bit bashful. You knew he used to play
volleyball, of course, but you had no idea that it would have made his chest so
defined or the muscles in his arms so strong. You have half a mind to ask him
if he’s still playing, given the shape that he’s in, but you didn’t want to
risk legitimately ruining the mood so you keep your mouth shut while his works
on pressing a searing line of kisses down your neck.
“I mean it. You’re perfect.” He says, one of his hands skimming your thigh. It
stops at the crook behind your knee and wraps around, pulling your leg up so
that he can more easily press his hips into yours, the growing hardness in his
pants grinding into your cloth-covered clit with just the right amount of
pressure.
You let out a squeak and he grins, though it’s not the typically sleepy
expression that he has on. It’s something a little more focused, a little more
primal. Like a predator that finally caught its prey.
“Can I touch you?” He asks, and you want to snort and say you’re already
touching me, dummy but you know what he means and so you just nod at him, not
really trusting your voice. He lets go of your leg, letting it fall back onto
the bed, and hooks a finger around your underwear, shifting himself out from
between your legs so that he can take them off easily. He tosses them over his
shoulder carelessly and you snort, but the look he gives you next takes all
humor out of the situation.
“You’re pretty wet.” He says, and although his tone is frank and not at all
seductive, it still somehow turns you on. You move to close your legs out of
sheer embarrassment from the way he’s leering at your exposed pussy, but his
presence between them stops you from doing so.
He sits back on his knees so that he has a better view, and you swear you’re
going to expire with the way he’s looking at you. You weren’t aware that those
deep brown eyes could even be so heated, and while it looks a little bit out of
place you won’t deny the fact that it’s sexy as all hell.
One of his hands skims up your thigh, fingers reaching your apex and tracing
around your opening. Without warning, he uses his thumb and forefinger to
spread your lips, your arousal evident in the way they glisten.
“Chikara!” You squeal, but he pays you no mind as he appraises you, laid out
for him like an offering to some sort of god. His eyes are tracing you, looking
for something that apparently he finds in the way you bite your lip.
He brings his other hand to his mouth, lips wrapping around his middle and ring
finger for a brief moment to supply them with extra lubrication— not that he
really needed it— before releasing them and bringing them to your opening.
He slowly slides them in.
You inhale sharply and grab at the bedsheets when he does so, teeth biting down
even harder on your lip as your hips squirm a little bit at his touch. His eyes
are glued to your cunt, watching with dilated pupils as his fingers slowly
begin to slide in and out of you, shining in the light with a mixture of saliva
and juices. He has that look in his eyes, the same one he has when he’s looking
at one of your paintings, like he’s seeing one of the few truly beautiful
things in this world.
“So responsive.” He croons, admiring the way that your hips are rocking into
his touch. The hand spreading your lips releases them in favor of gliding along
your clit, pressing down firmly. His grin gets a little wider when your thighs
twitch from the added stimulation.
He does this for a while, alternating between rocking his fingers in an out of
you and scissoring them inside, the pads of his fingers brushing against your
walls in the most delicious way. His other hand moves in slow circles on your
clit. It’s torture, pure torture; he’s not doing it to get you off. He’s doing
it to make you so aroused that you can’t even think straight.
“Chikara.” You moan brokenly after spending way too long at the mercy of his
fingers. “Please. Please.”
“Please what?” His tone kind of thrills you. You never figured that he would be
one to tease, but the greatest thing about Ennoshita Chikara is that he never
ceases to surprise you.
“Please let me come.” You say, and your voice is almost pitiful with the way
that you beg. He loves it, loves everything about you, and so he speeds up his
ministrations with a look in his eyes that tells you he’d give you whatever you
wanted.
It doesn’t take long. His fingers are long and they touch all the right places
inside of you, skimming over one spot in particular that makes you clench your
eyes shut. He sees this and uses it to his advantage, licking his lips before
snarling out a single command.
“Come.”
And you do. It’s mind-blowing, really, like nothing you’ve ever felt with
anyone else. He works you through it like a seasoned pro, as if he knows
exactly what he needs to do to get your body to respond to him, like it’s a
fine-tuned instrument that only he can play.
You come down from your high too soon, in your opinion. The whiteness behind
your eyelids fades as you open them, blinking a few times when you realize that
Ennoshita has removed his fingers from inside of you and is greedily lapping at
them, in a depraved way that borders on being wrecked. He’s wanted this for a
while, you can tell, because the look he gives you next tells you that you’re
far from done.
“Condoms?” He asks, taking advantage of the fact that you’re breathless in your
post-orgasm state to slide off of the bed and start working on his belt. He
smears the buckle with a little bit of his saliva and your juices as he undoes
it, and the sight is somehow sexy.
“Top drawer.” You pant, referring to your nightstand. He nods, yanking it open
and plucking out a silver packet, placing the edge of it between his teeth as
he starts to pull down his pants.
He always did strike you as a boxer-briefs kind of guy. They’re black and
straining against his erection, though you can also appreciate the fact that
they make his ass look amazing. He follows your line of sight and scoffs
playfully.
“Stop ogling me.” He says, and now it’s your turn to roll your eyes and scoff.
“You were the one who was staring at my…” You trail off, because he’s yanked
down his underwear and his cock is probably the most impressive one you’ve ever
seen, flushed and hard with a smear of precome traveling from the tip to the
underside of his shaft.
“Your what?” He muses, one of his hands coming to wrap around his length,
languidly moving up and down as he stares at you. His other hand plucks the
condom out from between his teeth so that he can give you a mock-condescending
look.
“Chikara.” You say slowly. “Fuck me. Now.”
“Your wish is my command.” He says, and although you know he’s being the same
cheeky Ennoshita that you always love, there’s a sort of desperate undercurrent
to his tone. He opens the package and slides the condom on, giving himself
another quick pump with his hand, before he’s back on the bed with you.
He opts to settle on his knees again instead of suspending himself over top of
you, grabbing your hips and tilting them up so he has better access. You let
him, a little unsure as to if this positioning will work, but when he slides
inside of you all of your worries vanish.
“Fuck.” He mutters, leaning down to give you a quick kiss. It’s fleeting but
affectionate, and it’s almost too much given the fact that he’s inside of you
so soon after your first orgasm. He stays like that for a moment, allowing you
to adjust while he pulls down your bra, the cups of it folding underneath your
breasts and pushing them up.
His mouth travels to a pert nipple soon after, his hips starting to thrust
experimentally. You immediately regret ever doubting the way that he positioned
himself, because he’s reaching spots inside of you that you didn’t even know
existed.
“Chikara!” You breathe, clutching at the bedsheets even tighter. You’re worried
that you might just rip them to shreds at this rate, with the way he suddenly
leans back, grips both of your hips, and thrusts.
His usually immaculate hair is a little messy. His eyes are glazed over. He’s
watching you with a little bit of a desperate look on his face, licking his
lips as he does so. You’re completely at his mercy here and he likes it that
way, likes seeing the dazed expression in your eyes as he fucks you as hard as
he possibly can.
But it’s not hard enough. He pulls out, enjoying the way that you suddenly seem
panicked, like he might not enter you again.
“Get on your hands and knees.” He says, and you scramble to comply. He grabs
his cock in one hand as you do so, his smile stretching wide when you’re
finally face down and ass up for him.
“Good.” He sighs, lining himself up with your core again and pushing in, the
sound of your choked moans absolute music to his ears. He can tell that you
feel how deep he can go now, and you almost shout when he picks his brutal pace
back up again. His hands find purchase on your hips once more, aiding in his
quest to fuck you into the mattress.
“You like that?” He says, voice gone a little bit raspy with how aroused he is.
You groan out a distended version of his name and he grins, one hand leaving
your hip to land a stinging spank onto your ass.
“I asked if you liked it.” He sneers, and you’re quick to reward him with a
chant of ‘yes! Yes!’ before going back to your regular moans, some of which are
interrupted by the force in which he’s fucking you. He spanks you again, just
because he likes the way it makes you yelp, and his other hand goes to your
clit once more.
Overstimulation is the last thing on his mind, but he should have taken it into
account because you’re clenching around him almost painfully now, still
sensitive from your previous orgasm. He shudders a little bit at the feeling,
knowing that there isn’t much time left before he’ll be racing towards
euphoria.
“You gonna come again?” He asks, grabbing a fistful of your hair and tilting
your head back a little bit so that he can see your face as he fucks you. You
whine, apparently thinking that was a good enough answer, and if both his hands
weren’t busy then he probably would have spanked you again.
He’s everywhere, and you love it. Love the way that he’s speaking to you, love
the fact that he’s more dominant than you expected. Love the way that he’s
fucking you, as if your bodies were made to do this with each other, and you’re
absolutely sure in that moment that you’re never going to want anyone else
again. You could be like this forever, having his perfect cock sliding in and
out of you while his nimble fingers work on your clit, but you know it isn’t
possible because you’re racing towards your second release at an almost
blinding pace.
You thought your first orgasm was good, but it’s nothing compared to your
second. You feel like all the bones in your body have disintegrated, like the
only thing that’s keeping you stable is the way Ennoshita moves inside of you.
Your head falls back and you nearly wail his name, loud enough so that your
neighbors know exactly who’s fucking you, and his pained groan as he follows
you into bliss is something that you won’t ever forget.
He doesn’t let up until you’re both spent and sweating. Your arms wobble and
then they’re bending, the top half of your body falling forward into the sheets
with all the grace of a newborn fawn. You hear him laugh a little breathlessly
as he pulls out, but you can’t even be bothered to tilt your head and look at
him, you’re so spent. Instead you allow you legs to fall as well, the light
sheen of sweat on your body sticking to the sheets.
“Fuck.” He says after he’s disposed of the condom and flopped down next to you.
He looks just as wrecked as you feel, eyes staring straight up at the ceiling
as he searches for the right words to say. I love you? No, too soon. Don’t ever
leave me? Yikes, a little clingy.
“That was perfect.” He settles for, and he turns his head to look at you as you
shift onto your side. You’re meeting his gaze like you can’t quite figure him
out but also like the prospect excites you, like you’re looking forward to
exploring his capabilities over and over again.
“It was.” You agree. His hand searches for yours in the covers and it finds it,
fingers spreading yours apart so he can grip it like he had earlier in the
night. You let him.
“I saw your painting. Saw the title.” He blurts. You laugh, a little awkwardly,
and he cuts you off before you can voice any insecurity over it. “I feel the
same. I have ever since I met you.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Really?”
“Really. You’re one of a kind. You’re art.” He says, and he doesn’t even mind
when you flick his cheek and tell him that he’s the corniest bastard you’ve
ever met, because he’s your boyfriend and he’s allowed to be corny with you.
The thought makes his signature smile spread on his face, and you must feel it
too because you pull him closer and press a kiss over his lips, telling him
without saying a single word that you’re all his.
***** Terushima Yuji- Just a Kiss *****
Chapter Notes
     This story started out as just a tale of two fuck buddies. And then
     I, being the absolute softie that I am, turned it into a love story.
     I just. GUYS. I LOVE THIS LITTLE FUCKBOY SO MUCH, OKAY.
     I have a few things to say before the start of this chapter:
     Thank you guys so. freaking. much for all your wonderful comments and
     suggestions. You're all my little sinners, and I'm glad so many of
     you are enjoying these stories.
     The next chapter is going to be, most likely, Punk!Mattsun because
     holy shit I cannot get enough of the Punk!Haikyuu AU and I also think
     it's probably going to kinky as fuck because hey I happen to be kinky
     human trash and I wanted to get it all out. I've also gotten many
     requests for Suga, which (if you've seen my tumblr) you know I've
     been hammering away on.
     AND MY LAST ANNOUNCEMENT IS THAT YES, THERE'S GOING TO BE A
     CONTINUATION OF DAISHO'S CHAPTER AND YES IT'S GONNA BE A THREE WAY
     BETWEEN THE READER, KUROO, AND DAISHO BECAUSE YOU GUYS KNOW I'M THE
     QUEEN OF GARBAGE AND I JUST CAN'T HELP MYSELF OKAY.
     Okay. So now that I've gotten that out of the way, I hope you sinners
     enjoy this oneshot!
     xoxo sabby (aka queen of sin and garbage)
Most people have plans on Friday nights.
Drinking. Smoking. Usually with a group of friends and often in someone’s dingy
basement, the smell of weed and other illicit pastimes permeating the air.
You're no stranger to it yourself, having quite a bit of a rebellious streak,
but lately you’ve turned down those offers of getting shitfaced well into the
morning because you’ve found something more worth your time.
“Fuck. You’ve got the tightest cunt, you know that?”
Any reply you may have is stifled by the fact that a pair of your own underwear
is crammed into your mouth, saliva dampening the material as you buck your hips
up to meet Terushima’s. It’s an attempt to keep you quiet, given the fact that
you’re not one to be silent during sex, and while he usually loves hearing all
the noises you make, he would rather not get caught by your parents when you
two are supposed to be ‘studying’.
“Seriously. I’ve fucked you so many times, yet you always feel so good.” He
groans, and you glare up at him, ready to lecture him on how a vagina doesn’t
loosen after a woman has had lots of sex, that’s a myth, but you’re stopped by
a combination of the fact that you’re still gagged and that he just hit your g-
spot.
He can tell, mostly because of the little sound you make in the back of your
throat, but also because your nails start to drag down his back. He has to hold
in his own sounds at the feeling; he always liked when you were rough with him.
He angles his hips just ever so slightly, knowing immediately that you’re close
from the way you clench around him. He grins, loving the way your eyes are
starting to roll back and your legs tighten around his waist, loving how he
knows he’s the only one that sees you like this. He braces himself over you
with one hand and uses the other to lightly pinch your clit, pulling it gently
the way that he knows you like, and to his delight you’re gone, an orgasm
crashing around you like waves on a beach. He’s always adored watching you come
undone because it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen in his life.
He follows you soon after with a groan. He wants to lean down and kiss you but
he knows that you’d slap him if he tried; you were clear from the start of your
little arrangement that it would be no strings attached, that something like
kissing was too intimate for you. He always thought that was stupid, especially
because you always look so damn kissable after sex, but he doesn’t like arguing
with you so he keeps his distance.
“That was amazing.” You say once he’s pulled out of you and you’ve removed the
undergarments from your mouth.
“I know.” His teeth shine in the low light of your room and you roll your eyes.
You almost want to toss your underwear at his head for being so cocky, but you
know from experience that he’ll just catch them and slide them into his pocket
before he leaves.
You both get dressed in silence. He tells you that he’ll text you when he gets
home, even though he always forgets to. You promise that one day you’ll
actually study.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
__
Murata Tatsuya scowls down at you, his blond eyebrows furrowed so hard that it
looks like they’re almost touching.
“Where did you get that?” He snarls, and you blink slowly up at him, a little
irked that he’s interrupted your recording of today’s scrimmage scores.
“Get what, my pen? It was in my bag.”
“That.” He jams his finger onto your neck, and your eyes widen in
understanding.
“Oh. Yeah, Terushima.” You say, remembering the hickey he placed there a few
days ago. You look back down at the scores, writing in a couple more.
The basketball captain crosses his arms, and you have half a mind to tell him
to get his ass back on the court and practice. He’s been irritating you a lot
lately, a little peeved ever since he found out about your trysts with the
captain of the volleyball team, and you’re really not in the mood to talk to
him. Especially because it’s painfully obvious that he wants to fuck you as
well, and he thinks that by trash-talking your current lover you will somehow
find him more appealing.
“Terushima. The douchebag who thinks his team is better than ours?”
“No. The other Terushima.” You deadpan, trying your best not to stab Murata in
the dick with your pen. He blinks at you, trying to decide if you’re fucking
with him or not. He always was a little bit on the slow side.
“Yes, that Terushima. Now are you done being a fuckhead? Because you’ve been
doing pretty awful in games lately and you need all the practice that you can
get.”
“You’re a bitch, you know that?” He seethes, though you can see the flicker of
lust in his eyes as he appraises you. Gross.
“Yeah, but I’m the best fucking manager this team has ever seen. Get your ass
back on the court.” You snap, tone immediately shutting down any retorts that
the captain may have. He looks at you for a long moment, stuck between wanting
to slap you across the face and fuck you until you can’t feel your legs. He
chooses neither, instead turning on his heel and doing as you commanded, and
you watch him go, a spark of dread in your stomach telling you that this guy
might just snap at you if you’re not careful.
__
“Terushima!”
Said boy grins as he bites down on your thigh. Hard. It’s sure to leave a mark,
that much is for certain, but he’s always loved painting your skin with his
affection.
Wait. Did he think affection? He meant lust. Yeah, lust.
“You seem stressed.” He murmurs, noting that you aren’t as relaxed as you
usually are. “Wanna talk about it, babe?”
“Oh, fuck you.” You seethe, but your snarky tone gives way to something more
frantic when Terushima’s tongue darts out to lap at the teeth marks embedded in
your thigh.
“You sure? I’m a good listener.” He coos, one of his hands coming up to spread
your lips apart. You inhale sharply and he grins even wider at the sound.
“I’m s-sure!” You stammer, because at that moment the wet muscle changes
courses to lick at your entrance and you can feel the cold metal of his
piercing sliding against the sensitive skin. Your fingers tighten in the sheets
underneath you, skirt flipped up to expose your dripping pussy as if you’re in
some schoolgirl porno.
It’s the moments like these that he loves. Your parents aren’t home and you’re
free to be as loud as you want. The noises are like music to his ears as he
licks you again, then sinks his tongue inside of you as far as it’ll go because
he knows that gets the most reaction out of you.
He loves this, too. Loves fucking you on his tongue because he can see
firsthand how his ministrations help you. Your thighs relax on his shoulders as
he hoists them up, your face going soft around the edges. All those sharp
expressions and irritation in your eyes fade when he’s servicing you, and he’s
absolutely crazy over it. Adores seeing you squirm under his touch, adores
watching you beg for more. It’s in these moments that he feels like you’re
actually his, and that’s the best part of it all.
Terushima Yūji can’t fool anyone. He’s so in love with you that it hurts, even
without the added pain of you keeping him at an arm’s length. He feels like he
practically lives for the small smiles that settle on your face after he’s
coaxed you to your first orgasm of the night, like he could die happy when you
start to chant his first name. It’s intoxicating, truly, better than any drug
he’s ever had the (mis)fortune of trying.
“Yūji.” You croon, and he grins at the sound, spreading your legs a little bit
further so that he can more easily eat you out. You’ve always tasted a little
bitter— a reflection of your personality, he supposes— but he likes it. Always
liked bitter things, he guesses.
He knows exactly where to lick inside of you, exactly how to position his
hands, exactly what pressure to use on your abused little clit. Your body is
his and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try his hardest to satisfy you, to leave
you wanting more and more from him until he has nothing left to give.
It’s with this thought that he pulls his tongue out from inside of you, almost
purring at the way you whine his name. One of his hands leaves your thigh to
palm his erection, trying to soothe it by allowing himself some friction.
“Can I fuck you?” He asks, even though he knows the answer. He just can’t get
enough of the way your eyes brighten when he pulls down his pants, like you’re
absolutely starved for his cock and you can’t wait for him to be inside of you.
You pull off the rest of your clothes while he works on his own, and it makes
his ego grow even more when he realizes that you’re openly staring at his dick,
eyes following the prominent vein in the underside with barely suppressed
interest. He knows you want to blow him, and he kind of wants you to as well
because you give the best head he’s ever received, but for some reason there’s
an urgency in him today that makes him want to skip any additional foreplay.
He sits on the bed and you climb into his lap without preamble, that same cock-
starved look in your eyes that always makes him shudder. Your arms wrap around
his neck and his hands go to your hips. You might technically be on top but
he’s still in control, evidenced by the way he pulls you down and enters you in
one smooth stroke.
You clench around him and his eyes nearly roll back in his head. He could fuck
you forever, honestly, because this is the single best feeling in the world.
Not winning a game. Not getting a perfect score on a test. Not even getting
high. Those feelings are all useless next to this, just absolute garbage
compared to the feeling of your hips meeting his. You’re panting, head tilted
back and breasts rubbing against his bare chest, and he doesn’t hesitate to
take one nipple into his mouth.
“Yūji.” You breathe, and he can’t help the salacious grin that spreads on his
face at the sound of your voice. He bites down gently, just enough to keep from
hurting you, and adjusts his grip on your hips so that he can thrust up harder.
You squeal, a truly helpless sound, and bite your lip in the absolute cutest
way possible.
You’re close already, he can tell. You’ve always been so sensitive, and he’s
not helping with the fact that his cock always happens to brush your most
sensitive spots. It’s almost too much, really, being at his complete mercy like
this, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Not with anyone else, either, but
that wasn’t something you were quite ready to admit.
You don’t see the way he’s staring at you, because if you did you probably
would have yelped and tried to squirm off of his lap. He’s giving you that
look, the one that guys always give girls in movies, the one that you’ve been
trying to avoid with this whole no-strings-attached arrangement.
He doesn’t know why he does what he does next, honestly. You’ve been adamant
right from the start that you don’t want to kiss him, mostly because you don’t
want either of you to get feelings for the other, but obviously that didn’t
fucking work and he’s already pretty desperate to know what your mouth feels
like over his. Usually he can hold back the urge; after all, he doesn’t want to
upset you, and usually being able to fuck you is good enough for him.
But he wants more. He wants you to tell him why you’re stressed. He wants you
to look him in the eye while you’re fucking, because frankly he doesn’t know if
you’re picturing someone else or not. He wants to be able to hold your hand at
school instead of constantly fighting the urge. He wants you, even though
you’ve told him countless times that anyone would be crazy to want to date you.
And with that thought, one of his hands comes up and grabs the back of your
head. You look startled, as if you know what’s about to happen, but he doesn’t
give you time to voice your concern or trepidation because his mouth is on
yours, lips sealing together as his hand tangles in your hair. You let out a
noise of protest around his mouth but he doesn’t let you go, instead trying in
vain to lick past your lips.
You don’t let him. He tries again but he can tell that you’re pissed, so he
lets you go and tries to act like your rejection didn’t feel like a punch in
the gut. You’re glaring at him now, even while he’s still fucking you, and he
knows that you probably want to slap him across the face.
Thankfully, though, he still gets you to come, though it takes a lot of clit-
pulling and neck biting. Usually he doesn’t want it to end because he likes
doing it so much, but right now he’s wishing it because he’s afraid to see what
you're going to do to him. Hit him? Scream at him? Cut his mouth off?
It’s none of the above.
“I think you should go.” You say, and it’s quiet in a heartbroken way. He opens
his mouth to defend himself but he knows that he can’t, because he can see in
your expression that you know. You know he’s in love with you, know how badly
he wants to be with you, and his heart almost stops in his chest because he
doesn’t see any amount of reciprocation in those bright eyes of yours. You
don’t even care enough to get angry about it or ask why he did it; you just
sigh in a resigned way.
“Okay.” He says, and getting dressed is probably the most awkward thing he’s
ever done in his life. You watch him, expression unchanging, and he kind of
wants to drop to his knees and beg for your forgiveness. But he made his
decision and now you're making yours.
“We’re done.” You say when he’s sliding on his blazer, and he nods as if to
show you that he’s not upset when you can both clearly see that he is. He
doesn’t even trust himself to talk, angry words and confessions of love balling
together in his throat until he’s not sure which ones he would say if he opened
his mouth.
You don’t walk him to the door. It’s another blow to his pride, really, but
it’s to be expected. He shuts it softly behind him and begins his walk home,
wondering why he couldn’t have just controlled himself.
__
Murata seems to know instinctively that you’re no longer fucking around with
Terushima. Maybe it’s because you don’t look up from your clipboard when the
volleyball team passes by the gymnasium doors on their way to practice. Maybe
it’s because the hickeys on your neck have faded and not gotten replaced. Maybe
it’s because there’s a spark missing from your eyes that you hate to admit
Terushima put there.
“Rough week?”
“Piss off.” You glower, pen absentmindedly tracing doodles on the corner of
your page. You don’t have to look up to know Murata is towering there, blue
eyes probably squinted with how widely he’s grinning.
“Aw, come on, [Name]. That guy was a douche anyways.”
“And you’re not?”
“I’m a hell of a lot better than he is. Probably could get you off better,
too.” He says, and his words are so blatantly untrue to you have to keep from
laughing in his face.
“Whatever. I’ll think about it.” You say, more to shut him up than anything.
You wouldn’t touch this guy with a ten-foot pole, never mind your bare hands,
but you had the feeling that he would punch you in the mouth if you said as
much.
“Awesome.” Murata leans forward, probably to kiss you on the forehead or some
dumb shit like that, but your body instinctively moves out of the way and he’s
left standing there, gaping like a fish out of water.
__
Terushima Yūji is close to snapping.
He knows you’re close with the basketball team. You’re their manager, after
all, and while the volleyball team and the basketball team have always kind of
been rivals, he never once thought that your dedication to them was a bad
thing. Sure, it made him a little jealous while the two of you were still an
item, but it also excited him. If you could fully put your all into something
like managing a team, then he was sure that you wouldn’t be half bad in a
relationship like you kept telling him you would be.
But now, the fact that you’re so involved with a group of hormonal teenage boys
is driving him absolutely insane.
Especially with that captain. Murata Tatsuya, one of the biggest shitstains to
ever go to Johzenji. (And that was coming from Terushima himself, who knew that
he was also no model student). The guy was practically the personification of
the term ‘jackass’, especially because he kept shooting Terushima those stupid
shit-eating grins that practically haunted his dreams. It was bad enough that
you rejected him, but from the way that guy was smiling at him, he was
beginning to wonder if you had already moved on.
“Go talk to her or something.” Futamata sighs after nearly three weeks of
watching Terushima glower as they pass the gym where the basketball team is
practicing.
“No.” He snaps, and although he tries hard not to, he sneaks a glance over at
the open door. You’re sitting on the bench, watching the team while scribbling
something down. You look intense. Focused. He stops dead in his tracks when he
sees one of the players approach you— not Murata, thank god— and say something
that makes you laugh. His heart clenches almost pitifully inside his chest at
the sight. You never laughed much around him, always so desperate to contain
your emotions and keep him at a distance, but he ended up falling for the sound
nonetheless. Ended up falling for you nonetheless.
“Stop staring, she’s going to notice.” He feels Bobata tug on his arm and he
sighs, obeying the middle blocker with a scowl. He’s in class seven, for
Christ’s sake, supposed to be a genius, and he still can’t figure out an
intelligent away to articulate how he’s feeling. His two friends share a look,
caught between wanting to berate him for sulking and feeling his pain because
they know how bad he’s got it for you, but they settle for dragging him along.
You noticed him stop. You always do, even if you’re not looking at the door.
You can feel the way his eyes stare at you, like some sort of sixth sense that
exists only for him.
You try not to focus on the fact that it’s making your heart beat almost
painfully. You try not to think about how heartbroken he looked when you told
him to leave. You try to push down the realization that you are just as in love
with him as he is with you.
__
Another week goes by. Terushima feels like he might just drop dead with how
much his heart hurts, even with the fact that he’s gone back to drinking beers
and smoking weed on the weekends. There’s no cure, he realizes, for unrequited
love, and he wonders if he’s always going to carry this ache around with him,
wondering if he could have just done something different.
“Stop trying to touch me!”
“Aw, come on! It’s just us, you don’t have to pretend to be all bitchy
anymore.”
Terushima stops in his tracks on his way past the gym. Even with the doors
closed he can still hear what is obviously your voice, along with another, more
annoying one.
Murata.
He debates what to do. The basketball practice should have ended an hour ago;
he has no idea why the two of you are still in there. He decides to shuffle
closer to the door, his mission to refill his water bottle totally forgotten as
he strains to hear what you’ll say next.
Maybe you will drop the act. Maybe this is a way for him to finally get closure
by knowing that you’ve decided to be with someone else.
Instead, he hears the tell-tale sound of skin smacking against skin. “I told
you to knock it off!”
“Babe,” Terushima winces; Only he got to call you that. “you can’t just stay
hung up on that Terushima guy forever. It’s time for you to move on. You know I
can make you feel good, just give me a chance.”
He waits. There’s a pause. Please don’t agree with Murata please don’t agree
with Murata please—
“Get lost, asshole. I’m tired of you constantly coming on to me. I’m telling
the coach, I’ve had enough.”
“Listen, [Name]—”
Terushima yanks the door open without a second thought. “Hey, bud, sounds like
she wants you to leave her alone.”
He doesn’t know what he’s enjoying more; the expression that Murata’s making,
like Terushima just kicked him in the nuts, or the fact that your entire face
lights up when you see him, a relieved smile curling your mouth. He tries not
to smile back.
“I don’t remember this being any of your business.” Murata glowers as Terushima
steps closer, putting his body in front of yours as a means of protection. You
seem thankful for it, one of your hands gripping the back of his shirt as if to
anchor him there.
“It’s my business when it involves her.” He says, fighting to keep his voice
low. He’s never gotten a good feeling around Murata, even before he started
falling for you, and now he knows why. The captain looks a little bit unwell,
his eyes almost dangerous. Terushima used to see that look all the time in
junior high, in the eyes of the boys who couldn’t stop trying to fight one
another.
“As if!” Murata barks, taking a step towards him. “She’s done with you,
obviously, or are you just blind?”
“Just because she’s done with me doesn’t mean I can ignore it when I hear a
douche like you start to creep her out. Lay off.”
“Whatever.” Murata says, and a few flecks of spit fly from his mouth and land
on Terushima’s shoes. He grimaces, though the expression becomes deadly when he
sees Murata reach for your arm.
“Hey! I said piss off!” Terushima barks. He doesn’t want to think about it but
he already knows how this is going to end. Murata isn’t like a regular guy, one
who would bolt at the first sign of confrontation. Murata is the type of guy
who thrives on it, who wants to control a person who cannot be controlled— you—
and doesn’t seem to care about hurting people in his way. He’s really, truly
unwell, and the thought should make Terushima more cautious, but all of his
rational thinking goes out the window when he sees the basketball captain try
to grab at you again.
He lands a solid right hook right on Murata’s nose, a combination of the fact
that Murata is approximately his height and that he’s gotten close enough for
Terushima to do so. The reaction is immediate, blood spurting out from between
his nostrils and getting all over Terushima’s fist. The captain recoils, eyes
livid, but you’ve grabbed Terushima’s arm before he can retaliate.
“Let’s go.” You plead, and he nods at you, allowing you to steer him out of the
gymnasium while he watches and waits for Murata to come after him.
He doesn’t, and Terushima knows why. He wants to play it off like he’s been
attacked, and the fact that Terushima had obviously broken his nose is probably
going to work in his favor. But in that moment Terushima doesn’t care. It
doesn’t matter to him, not even if he gets expelled or kicked off the
volleyball team, because he was able to protect the person most important to
him and that’s all he cares about.
“You didn’t have to do that.” You’re already halfway to your house when you
speak up, eyes filled with both worry and aggravation. “I can take care of
myself, you know. I’m not totally defenseless.”
“I know.” He says. You look at him out of the corner of your eyes and he can
tell, even in the dark of the evening, that there’s also worry in them. “But
you know how I feel about you. I wasn’t going to let that slide.”
You grow quiet again for a moment. It stretches on into minutes, until you’re
on your porch and can appraise his hand in the light above. It’s covered in
blood and his fingers twitch a little bit when you touch them. Murata’s face
wasn’t exactly the softest surface in the world, and you wouldn’t be surprised
if there was light bruising on Terushima’s knuckles for the next few days.
“Thank you.” You finally say, dropping his hand and looking up at him. He
swallows hard at your expression. You’ve never looked at him with such a soft
gaze before.
“Anytime.” He says, and he means it. He takes your words as a farewell— a
thanks, but you can leave me alone now— so he’s surprised when you speak up
again as he turns to leave.
“Come in. Uh. If you want. You can wash your hand.” You say, and while he knows
it’ll probably hurt to go back into your house under different circumstances
than usual, he can’t help but accept your invitation.
It’s quiet. Eerily so, and he can tell without even asking that your parents
must be away on another business trip. Had this been weeks ago, you two would
already be getting undressed, grinning at the thought of having the house all
to yourselves. Instead you sigh, walking over to the sink and turning the tap
on.
He walks over and puts his hand under the running water, watching as the
slowly-drying blood on his fingers starts to wash off in streaks, turning the
water pink as it runs down the drain. He nearly jumps when your hands cover
his, soap on your fingers as you start to work on the stubborn spots.
“You don’t—” He starts, but the look on your face shuts him up.
“I know.” You say.
The act of having his hand washed is weirdly intimate. Your fingers are gentle
over his own, soft and careful like you’re handling a precious stone. He looks
at you while you do it, notices the fondness in your eyes that you’d been
trying to hide since the first day you met him. It makes his heart flutter
pitifully.
“Why’d you leave me?” He asks when you’re drying his hand in a towel. You pause
almost immediately, then start back up again as if nothing happened.
“I didn’t ‘leave’ you. We were never together.” You say. Satisfied with how
clean his hand is, you toss the damp towel onto the counter. He gives you a
long look, the seriousness in his expression not quite fitting his face.
“We could have been.” He says without hesitation, and you shoot him a look that
is oddly pained. His hand falls down to his side.
“That’s exactly it.” You admit to him. He frowns. “You wanted to be together.
You kissed me, and I told you from the very first time that something like that
was too intimate for me.”
“It was just a kiss!”
“No, it wasn’t.” You say, and he swallows his next argument. You’re right.
There’s no denying it, not at this point, not after what just happened.
“Please.” He says, and it’s almost embarrassing how desperate his voice is.
“Please just give me a chance.”
“No.” You say, though the firmness in your tone is obviously faked. “I told you
I didn’t want a relationship. I’m not good at them. You know how I am; Murata
said it himself. I’m a little too bitchy for something like this.”
“You’re acting like I’m asking you to be any other way.” He says. His hands
twitch with how badly he wants to grab your face and pull his mouth to yours.
“I love you. You know that. I don’t expect things to be perfect. Hell, I don’t
want them to be. I just want to be with you, no matter how poorly you think of
yourself. You don’t see yourself the way I see you.”
“You’re delusional.” You say, but he can tell he’s slowly starting to chip away
at your tough exterior.
“Maybe.” He says. “But that doesn’t stop me from wanting you. Just please,” he
repeats, “give me a chance. I know you love me. I know it.”
You’re silent. He wonders if you’re going to kick him out again, tell him that
you never want to see his face for as long as you live. But you just stand
there, as if you’ve been glued to the spot, and refrain from saying anything
until he’s starts to think that his words have broken you.
“Yūji.” You say slowly. “Kiss me.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice. He pulls you close immediately, lips sealing
over yours softly, like he’s a little afraid that if he applies any more
pressure you’ll change your mind. He shouldn’t have worried, though, because
your hands grab the front of his t-shirt and pull him closer, like you can’t
bear to keep him at a distance anymore. He’s successful this time when his
tongue darts out, because you grant him access immediately and his tongue is
sliding along yours with an odd amount of grace.
He can tell where this is going almost immediately. When you two pull apart for
air he can see it, that telltale gleam in your eyes that makes him go a little
bit weak in the knees. There’s lust and something else in your gaze, something
that makes his heart soar.
He kisses you again. It’s slower, this time, like he’s trying to commit every
inch of your mouth to memory. His body is pressed against yours and his mind is
absolutely spinning, like the entire world around him has ceased to exist.
Nothing matters anymore. Not the trepidation. Not the dull ache in his hand.
Not the fact that he’s going to have hell to pay when he gets back to school on
Monday. Nothing but this right here, this feeling of having you reciprocate his
affections. It’s intoxicating, truly, and you seem to feel the same way because
when you break apart there’s a question in your eyes that he already knows the
answer to.
You can tell without asking, but you do regardless. “Bedroom?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, and then you’re pulling him along, and he sort of wants to
lace his fingers in your own but he knows that it’ll be pointless.
You immediately start to take off your clothes and he can’t help but smile
wolfishly as he closes your bedroom door behind him. He’s missed this, missed
seeing your skin and feeling it underneath his fingers. Missed the way you give
him a smirk over your shoulder as you undress yourself, as if you know exactly
what you’re doing to him. Maybe it’s because of the fact that he’s missed you,
or maybe it’s just because he’s filled with confidence at the fact that you
might just be his by the end of the night, but he comes up behind you after
you’ve shimmied out of your skirt and places a warm kiss on the side of your
neck.
“Gorgeous.” He says, resting his hands right about the waistline of your
panties. “You know you’re absolutely gorgeous, right?”
“You’re so cheesy, Yūji.” You snort, but there’s an underlying tone of
affection that makes him grin. He pulls you back a bit, grinding your ass
against his clothed erection, and delights in the blissful sigh you let out.
He kisses you again. His fingers are moving slightly, migrating towards your
crotch, and you almost want to ask him if he’s seriously going to finger you
while you’re standing up.
He doesn’t. He runs two fingers across your apex, happy to find that the cloth
covering you is a little bit damp to the touch.
“Have you really missed me that much, or did you just get turned on by me
punching someone for you?” He can almost hear you roll your eyes at him, but to
his shock you don’t make another jab.
“Both, actually.” You admit, and he presses his fingers over your clit just to
hear that sharp intake of breath that he loves. You crane your neck to scowl at
him, though it’s a little difficult because he’s resting his chin on your
shoulder. “Are you going to keep doing this or will you let me get undressed?”
“Always so feisty.” He mock sighs, but he lets you go and immediately you miss
the warmth of his body. But you continue to get naked, encouraged by the fact
that he’s also starting to remove his shorts and shirt.
You’ve always loved his body, though you would never admit that out loud and
especially not to his face. He’s built in a lithe way, all the muscles under
his skin rolling into one another perfectly. Volleyball may not seem like the
type of sport to really get someone in shape, but the proof otherwise was
standing right next to you.
He all but tackles you to the bed, mouth over yours again as your back hits the
mattress. You used to squeal in surprise whenever he made such a move, but
you’ve grown to love his unexpected signs of excitement.
Usually this is where he’d be calling you a dirty slut or a filthy whore or
some other variation that would make your toes curl, but he’s so preoccupied
with kissing you that he seems to forget. You can’t say you mind it, either,
not with the way his tongue is passing over your teeth, his piercing clacking
against them, and one of his hands is grabbing one of your breasts and
squeezing.
It’s a little more gentle than usual, though. Almost like he’s trying his best
to take it slow, to savor the moment. His fingers glide over your exposed cunt,
though they hover over your opening as he breaks away once more.
“You sure about this?”
“No. I got naked because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to have sex or not.” You
fire back, and then he’s laughing, absolutely delighted, and you want to laugh
too but he sinks his fingers inside of you and it robs you of the ability to
speak.
He knows how to get you off. He’s done it so many times that you couldn’t even
begin to count, but that’s not what he’s going for. He’s exploring you again,
like this is the first and last time he’ll be able to touch you, and it makes
your heart do funny things in your chest.
He’s working your clit and twisting his fingers with his wrist and it makes you
see stars, makes you wonder why you ever thought it was a good idea to stop
doing this with him. He’s the only one for you, you’re sure, because the way
he’s touching you and looking at you is absolutely ruining any desire you might
have to be with anyone else.
“Feel alright?” He asks. He knows the answer, of course, because you’re
absolutely soaking his hand, but he wants to hear you say it. You know that as
well as he does, because you nod up at him.
“Feels amazing.” Even though it’s so much slower than you’re used to, it’s the
truth. Your eyes go from his face to his cock, flushed and hard and huge and
perfect, and your mouth waters. He follows your gaze and smiles, and although
it’s mostly a kind look, there’s an edge to it that you love.
“You can touch me, if you want.” He says, and he doesn’t have to tell you
twice. Your hand wraps around him as he continues to languidly move his fingers
in and out of you, thumb spreading the trickle of precome leaking from his
slit. He’s smooth and warm in your hand, and that vein you like so much looks a
little bit strained, standing out from his skin.
His movements falter a little bit at your touch and now it’s your turn to grin.
You remove his fingers from you, gently so that he knows it isn’t because he’s
hurt you, and slide off the side of the bed. He watches you, momentarily
frozen, before your reasoning dawns on him when you get on your knees.
“Yūji.” You say in the begging tone that you know he likes. “Let me suck your
cock.”
He doesn’t need you to ask again. He scrambles to the edge of the bed, sitting
with his legs open so that you can situate yourself between them, eye-level
with his erection. You lick your lips; you’ve always loved doing this for him.
It starts with a long lick, right from the base to the tip, and he shudders.
His eyes are glued to your mouth, the way your tongue darts out to lick at him
like he’s some sort of delicacy, and you can tell even without him saying
anything that he’s completely enraptured with the way you look right now. One
of his large hands tangles in your hair as you start to suck on his tip, eyes
locked on his, which are half-lidded.
He’s big, but you’re used to it. You manage to get most of him into your mouth
with ease, and although there’s a minimal amount of discomfort in having him
brush past your uvula, the way he groans when you hollow out your cheeks and
suck more than makes up for it.
You’ve done this in the past with other boyfriends— part of that rebellious
streak, you supposed— but none of them ever reacted as well as Terushima does.
He’s not loud, per say, but he is by no means quiet while you go down on him.
He lets out little pants and groans, especially when one of your hands starts
to stroke his balls. His perfect teeth sink into his bottom lip, eyes moving
like they want to roll back but he’s determined to keep them trained on you.
You alternate between taking him all in and just working on the tip, with the
occasional long lick mixed in between. You know exactly how he likes it, what
you need to do to get his legs to twitch and his hold on your hair to tighten,
and you practically live for it.
He’s conflicted. It only takes a couple of minutes for him to tell that he’s
rushing towards his end, especially when you keep working his cock like that,
and it’s with a face of pained regret that he pulls on your hair, making your
mouth disengage from his tip with a wet pop. You smirk up at him.
“You almost done already?” You ask, and he groans, partially because you’re
teasing him and partially because you look so good that he almost can’t stand
it.
“Yeah. Get on the bed.” He commands, and you actually comply without another
comeback. You’re still staring at his cock and it’s doing funny things to him,
knowing that you want him just as badly as he wants you. He climbs on top of
you without any hesitation, his lean frame suspended above yours.
You expect him to thrust into you like he has so many other times before, but
apparently tonight is a night full of surprises because instead of his usual
rough handling, he kisses you. Gently. You wonder what’s gotten into him, why
he’s being so lax, but then you can’t wonder any more because he’s slowly,
slowly entering you.
You groan against his mouth and his mind goes a little bit fuzzy. He’s never
put much stock in the words ‘making love’, because to him it was just a corny
phrase that people used when they were too innocent to say ‘fucking’. But he
was wrong, so wrong, because this time with you is different than all the rest,
and he knows why. It isn’t just about getting off anymore. It’s about pleasing
each other, exchanging affection and searing touches, erasing all the
nervousness and questioning from your minds. All that matters to him is you,
the way your legs wrap around his hips and fully press him inside of you, the
little gasps and moans that fall from your lips when he starts to thrust with a
gentle rocking movement.
His lips move from yours to your neck, sucking at the exposed skin there until
he’s sure that the collection of bruises will be anything but inconspicuous.
He’s missed this, missed seeing how you fall apart under him or try to hide the
marks of his affection under your makeup. Missed seeing that dazed look in your
eyes when he starts to thrust deeper, missed the way your lips frame his name
like it’s the only word you know.
You grab onto his shoulders in an effort to anchor yourself, but you know it’s
useless. He’s pulling at your clit, sucking on your neck, and it’s like he’s
all around you and inside of you at once, eclipsing everything around you with
the beauty that is his existence. You want to tell him, want to let him know
just how absolutely perfect he is, but he’s moving in and out of you in such a
way that you’re incapable of creating words.
He sees it in your eyes. You know he does.
“I love you.” He groans, resting his forehead on yours while he thrusts. Your
nails dig into his skin and it’s the best kind of pain, the kind that keeps him
rooted to what he’s doing instead of allowing his body to succumb to pleasure
before you do. “I love you so fucking much, babe. You don’t even know.”
But you do know. You do know. And you feel horrible, completely awful, for ever
trying to pretend that you didn’t love him too. That the only reason you two
were apart was your own insecurity, your own stupid bravado. You want to tell
him this too, tell him everything because he deserves to know it, deserves to
hear how wonderful you find him, but—
“I love you too.” You say, voice a hoarse whisper. He grins at you and it’s
like looking into the sun, basking it its warmth as he presses his mouth to
yours and you can’t help it. You squirm against him as you come, legs
tightening their hold on his narrow hips. You feel him moan rather than hear
it, the vibration of the sound buzzing against your lips, and just as you’re
falling down from your high he’s reaching his own, pulling out just fast enough
to coat your stomach with his emission, the heat of it almost searing against
your skin.
He doesn’t collapse on top of you like he usually does, and while you think
it’s partially because he doesn’t want to get his own come on himself, there’s
also a look in his eyes that tells you he just wants to gaze at you for a
minute. So you let him.
“You’re with me now, right?” He asks, as if this was all some sort of elaborate
prank you had planned. You raise an eyebrow up at him.
“Is Terushima Yūji, of all people, unsure?” You scoff, though you give him a
small smile to know that you don’t mean anything by the jest. He rolls his
eyes.
“I don’t know. I feel like this is all a weird dream and I’m going to wake up
with come on my blankets.” He says, and you can’t help it. You laugh, and so
does it, and it’s sweet yet disgusting because he’s still hovering over you
while you’re both glossed with sweat and your stomach is all sticky.
“You’re a weirdo, you know that?”
“Yeah. You’ve told me a few hundred times.” His smile drops a little bit into
something more reserved. He presses a kiss to your forehead and allows you to
slide out from under him, grabbing a tissue from your nightstand and beginning
to wipe away his come.
“Yeah. I guess I have. And to answer your question, yes. We are together.” You
ball up the tissue and toss it across the room. It lands into your wastebasket
and Terushima lets out a whistle.
“Nice shot. They should have you join the basketball team.”
“Maybe they’ll let me. After all, they’re gonna need to have someone replace
Murata after I report him for harassment.” You say. “Though you’re probably
still going to get in trouble for punching him, Yūji.”
“Worth it.” He sighs when you roll over next to him. He slings an arm around
you and pulls you close so that your foreheads are touching again. “Nobody
pisses off my girlfriend and gets away with it.”
***** Matsukawa Issei- Pretty in Punk *****
Chapter Notes
     Please get your holy water out.
     Originally, I wanted this to kind of cheesy like the Kuroo chapter.
     But. Uh. I happen to have a huge daddy kink myself and honestly I
     figured what the hell. So I did a Punk!AU, daddy kink, choking, and a
     little bit of hair-pulling and biting. If that's not your thing, then
     you might wanna skip this chapter, cause I know some people aren't
     super fond of daddy kinks. Ahaha.
     ALSO the 'Honesty Game' is a game my friends and I play every
     weekend. It's pretty fun, we actually have a set of rules and
     everything that I might post to my tumblr. Good thing to play if
     you're getting drunk with a group of friends somewhere. 8)
     Anywho, I hope you guys enjoy what I did with this chapter. I love
     Mattsun, so writing for him was an absolute blast. Punk!Mattsun was
     even more fun to write, because I got to make him a little bit
     snarky.
     (PS- Be sure to find me on my tumblr (sabbywrites.tumblr.com) to see
     what I've been up to lately.)
     xoxo sabby
If anyone were to ask a student on campus who the scariest person they’d ever
met was, they’d all answer with the same name: Matsukawa Issei.
Not because he was menacing in personality; it was the exterior that they based
their answer upon. Nobody could really argue that the mix of piercings,
tattoos, and black nail polish made the volleyball player a rather menacing
sight, not even the boy himself. He knew how he must look to the other
students, a looming figure with hunks of metal in his ears and face, but he
kind of liked it. Liked the way eyebrows would raise at the sight of him
walking across campus, the way that looks of trepidation would form in their
eyes once they realized that a boy who was just over 19 already had two full
sleeves of tattoos.
But there was one student in particular who was an exception.
“Issei, if you don’t give me my pencil back right now I’m going to kick your
ass.”
Said boy raises his eyebrows at you from across the table, trying his best to
look innocent despite the fact that he very clearly has one of your pastel-pink
mechanical pencils clutched in his tattooed knuckles.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He says, and while most people at
this point would shy away because hey, this guy looks like he could send you
flying into space with a solid punch, you don’t because you’re not most people.
“Issei.” You repeat, folding your arms. Your hands disappear into the folds of
your oversized sweater which, ironically enough, is the same color as the
pencil you’re fighting over. “Hand it over, pencil thief. I had to order those
online, they were expensive. ”
He stares at you a moment before shrugging, sliding it across the table.
“That’s pretty dumb, if you ask me. You always spend a shit-ton of money on
things that fit your aesthetic.”
You stare at him for a long, long moment after you snatch the pencil up.
“Issei, you’ve spent over a thousand dollars getting your skin either marked up
or punctured. I don’t want to hear how you feel about my ‘aesthetic’.”
“Valid point.” He says, pulling out another pencil from his bag and continuing
to work. Your eyebrow twitches when you realize that he must have stolen one of
your beloved pastel items for the sole purpose of pissing you off, but you
remain silent and go back to your work as well. It’s why you came to the
library, after all.
You’re an odd pair, you and Issei. While most people were scared of his rough
appearance, the same could not be said of you; you were a fan of all things
light and frilly, with an extensive collection of hair bows and fluttery skirts
that could rival even the most seasoned pastel-aesthetic blogger. Within
moments of meeting your best friend, people usually gave you the same look— a
how is someone like you friends with someone like him? type of expression, one
that never failed to piss you off. Every time, you gave them the same answer.
You and Mattsun went way back. So far back, in fact, that your friendship
probably started before you were even conceived. It was the typical ‘childhood
friends’ scenario; your mothers were close, you practically lived next door to
each other your entire life, and even decided to go to the same university
together once you graduated high school. You gave Oikawa and Iwaizumi a run for
their money back then, with the antics you two were constantly part of.
At this point, most people nodded in understanding. Ah, so you’re like
siblings, right? And you would tell them yeah, pretty much, even though you
were one hundred percent sure that you weren’t supposed to want to fuck the
daylights out of someone that most people saw as your older brother.
__
14.
That was typically the answer Matsukawa gave when people asked how many
piercings he had. four in one ear, five in another, one in his eyebrow, one in
the back of his neck, a bar through his left nipple, and two hoops in his lips.
Spider bites, they were called, and they were his favorite of the bunch. Well,
apart from another one that he happened to have, but that was his own dirty
little secret and he wasn’t keen to let people in on it.
10.
That was how many sessions he went to at the local tattoo parlor in order to
complete his sleeves, plus the gigantic piece on his back that had yet to be
colored in. Though he’d been second-guessing whether or not he even wanted to
finish it in the first place, because the Friday afternoon that you spent
coloring sections of it in with your glittery gel pens had been kind of cute
and he wouldn’t mind if you did it again. Even though it had been a pain in the
ass to clean.
Makki snickers when he sees it. The way that you’d made the kraken purple and
the water lime green reminded him of something that a first-grader would draw,
but he didn’t dare mention that to Mattsun because he knew that the middle
blocker would just glare at him for it.
“Help me wash this off.” He pleads as soon as you’ve left the room to go meet
up with some of your other friends. Makki takes pity on the guy, really,
because he assumes that it would be hard to get laid when you have enough
glitter-filled ink on your back to drown a small child.
“Dude, you’ve got it bad for her.” he whistles, wetting a paper towel and
trying to rub away at your handiwork. It works, for the most part, but there
are still specks of glitter there that probably won’t leave Mattsun’s skin
until the day he dies.
“Shut up.” Mattsun snaps, though Makki can tell it’s more out of embarrassment
at being called out for liking you than from actual anger. “Just clean me up,
okay? I’m not trying to have some girl laugh at my naked body tonight.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’d laugh even if you weren’t covered in gel pen.” Makki says,
laughing when Mattsun smacks him on the side of the head. “I jest, I jest. You
might wanna rethink that whole ‘fucking random girls’ thing, though, ‘cause I
don’t think [Name] is a huge fan.”
“I can do whatever the hell I want.”
“Believe me, I know. You’ve got the body to prove it.”
This time he dodges the hit aimed for his head. “Oi! Watch it, or I won’t clean
you up and you’ll have to explain to some chick why you’re sweating glitter all
over her.”
“Fine.” Matsukawa snaps. His cheeks are a little bit pink, something that
Hanamaki doesn’t miss.
“So.” He continues after grabbing another paper towel. “When are you gonna tell
her? And don’t pull that ‘tell who?’ shit on me, because it’s so obvious that
you wanna fuck [Name] that it’s kind of embarrassing.”
“Never. You know I’d be shitty in a relationship. She deserves better than
that. ‘Sides, we’re in university. I should get my fill of life before I have
to settle down and do some boring-ass job.”
Hanamaki sighs. “See, I know where you’re coming from, but all I heard you say
is ‘I fuck random girls on the weekend because I’m too chickenshit to admit to
another girl that I like her.’”
“Makki?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
__
Friday nights were made for getting shitfaced and laid. Saturday nights,
however, were meant to be shared between you, Makki, and Mattsun on the floor
of the boy’s dorm room, passing around a few bottles of beer and confessing to
weird things.
The ‘Honesty Game’, Mattsun called it. It started back in high school, when
he’d just gotten his first piercings and Makki had discovered that he could
smuggle a few bottles of alcohol from his parent’s collections and they
wouldn’t notice. Back then, you asked each other questions like ‘did you cheat
on that math exam?’ and ‘How much do you wanna bet that Oikawa wants to fuck
Iwaizumi?’. Now, though, the questions were a little bit different.
“Biggest kink.” Hanamaki asks, taking a sip from the bottle and passing it to
you. You could all have your separate drinks, of course, but the three of you
had never been traditional in your antics.
You swallow a mouthful, trying not to cringe at how bad it tasted. You weren’t
a huge fan of alcohol and usually abstained from parties, but you could never
quite say no to getting buzzed around your two closest friends.
“Being called daddy.” Mattsun answers after a moment, and you swear you could
have choked to death right there and then. He gives you a look when you start
to cough, snatching the drink away from you with a frown. “What?”
“N-nothing.” You sputter. Thankfully the the boys had only left their desk
lamps on to illuminate the room, because if the overhead lights were on you
were sure that they’d see the fiery blush creeping up your neck. “Just
unexpected, I guess.”
Mattsun doesn’t look convinced, but his questioning gaze is torn away from you
by the sound of Hanamaki roaring with laughter.
“You little freak!” He teases, laughing even more when Mattsun scowls. “I
always knew you were into some weird stuff!”
“Being called ‘daddy’ isn’t weird.” Mattsun mutters. He takes a sip of beer and
you can’t help but watch the way his throat moves when he swallows. You want to
nip at his neck, feel his pulse under your tongue—
“Whatever you say, dude. How about you, [Name]?”
You tear your eyes away from Matsukawa immediately. “Me? I, uh. Dunno, really.”
“Oh, come on.” Mattsun glowers. “You can’t just get out of it that easily! You
have to like something.”
Hanamaki leans back, supported by the edge of his bed. “I’ll go first if it
makes you feel any better. I like spanking girls.”
“God, Hanamaki. That’s so vanilla.”
“Maybe for you, you sexual deviant, but not for me! I’ll have you know, I—”
Maybe it’s the fact that there’s already a decent amount of alcohol in your
system. Maybe it’s the fact that you kind of want Matsukawa to know, just
because you want to see if it sparks his interest in you. Maybe you just want
to see Hanamaki balk. Either way, your next confession tumbles out of your
mouth before you can think to stop it.
“I like being choked.”
Both boys freeze, mid banter. “What.”
“I said,” you clear your throat, already a little bit embarrassed at having to
repeat yourself, “I like being choked.”
“What the fuck.” Makki laughs, stealing the drink from Mattsun’s hands. He
allows him, because his grip has gone a little bit limp as he stares at you.
His eyes are searching yours, trying to figure out if you’re just fucking with
them or not, and you divert your attention away from the heat of his gaze by
turning your attention to Hanamaki, who has polished off the contents of the
bottle and is reaching for another.
“Figures.” He snorts when he sees you looking at him. “It’s always the soft,
quiet ones. Pray tell, who’s been choking you lately?”
“Yeah.” You don’t miss the way that Mattsun suddenly seems to be a little bit
irked. “Who?”
“Oi, you can’t ask another question. It’s my turn to ask.” You counter,
crossing your arms. The boys share a look, one between discomfort and wonder,
then go back to staring at you.
“Okay. Fine. Ask away.” Mattsun says, though you can tell that he’s going to
try and get the information out of you one way or another.
“Alright. Since I guess we’re on the topic of sex, tell me how many people
you’ve slept with.”
“Seven.” Hanamaki says without hesitation. You let out a low whistle.
“Nice.”
“Six.” Mattsun says. They both look at you expectantly.
You answer truthfully. Hanamaki nods, as if he respects your answer, then
passes the bottle to you. You take the tiniest sip that you can without looking
like a chicken.
“Okay, my turn.” Mattsun looks at you, the piercing in his eyebrow glinting as
they knit together. “Who the fuck—”
“You can’t ask me a personal question, Issei. It’s against the rules.” You
point out, smiling a little bit smugly. “They have to apply to everyone.”
“No, they—”
“She’s right. It’s the golden rule of the game, dude.” Hanamaki moves to take
the bottle back but Mattsun is quicker, stealing a gulp before the pink-haired
wing spiker can.
“Are you guys serious? We invented the game, we can change the rules whenever!”
“Nah.” Makki finally gets his hands on the drink. “It’s sacred, man. We’ve been
doing it like this for years.”
“Exactly.” You agree, a little bit hastily, though the searing gaze Mattsun
shoots you almost makes you want to comply.
“Whatever.” He mutters. “I pass then. You can ask another one, Makki.”
Makki’s eyes light up. “All right then, you freaks, how often do you
masturbate?”
You pretend that Mattsun’s stare isn’t doing weird things to you. Nope. Not at
all.
__
“All I’m saying is that maybe you want to invest in some black.”
“Black clothing is for funerals, Issei.”
Mattsun clicks his tongue at you as you sift through your closet for the
perfect outfit to wear for your interview tonight. Everything is too light and
frilly, certainly giving off a ‘you can’t take me seriously!’ vibe, and it’s
making you feel a little bit frantic. It’s times like these that you wish you
had more female friends, because you sure as hell can’t ask to borrow one of
Mattsun’s button-downs.
Said male is currently sprawled on your bed, flipping through one of his
textbooks. His presence is almost surreal here, because his marked-up and lanky
body certainly looks out of place when contrasted with your sky-blue comforter.
He turns the page of the book as you frantically look for something a little
less girly.
It’s been two weeks since that Saturday, and while he’s been trying to be
discreet, you know that he’s still dying to figure out who introduced you to
the whole choking thing. And while you would honestly tell him if he asked
enough, you’re actually sort of bitter that some girl that isn’t you has been
calling him daddy. So you settle for brushing off the question in an act of
petty defiance while knowing that your jealousy is unfounded because hey,
you’re not actually dating Mattsun or anything.
Still pisses you off, though.
“You still haven’t found anything?” You nearly jump out of your skin when his
voice is right behind you. He’s close, his chest brushing against your back. If
he feels the tension then he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to reach
into your closet and pull out a lilac dress, his arm nearly skimming your ear
as he does so. “Wear this. I always liked the way it looked on you.”
You’re flushed from both his closeness and his compliment, gingerly taking the
dress from his grasp. It’s a nice cotton one. Comfortable. More on the modest
side. If you pair it with a nice set of heels then you’re good to go.
“Ugh. What would I do without you?” You groan. Matsukawa snickers, letting you
brush past him so that you can sit down and start on your makeup.
“I dunno. Probably have a lot less sexual tension in your life.” He jokes, but
he doesn’t miss the way that you fumble with your mascara at his words.
__
You get the job. It’s nice, even though all you do is answer phones and give
people their coffee. Surprisingly stressful, too, because you’re trying to cram
in hours between your classes and homework. You can tell Mattsun and Makki are
getting a little restless without you around as much, and you keep promising
that you’ll treat them to dinner or something whenever you get a day off, which
never seems to happen.
Well, actually, it does happen. You get a free Sunday, void of work or studying
or anything else that could prevent you from napping, and because it’s the only
time this week you’ve gotten to settle down with time to yourself, you decide
that there’s only one thing to do to ease your stress.
At least, that’s your intention. But when you rifle through your underwear
drawer and find, to your dismay, that the battery in your vibrator is dead, all
plans of getting off quickly and efficiently are dashed. You’re not fond of
using your fingers, really, not when a steady buzz to the clit can do the job
just as well, but you haven’t gotten laid in a while and you actually feel kind
of desperate.
You sigh. You’ll make do with what you have, you suppose, and right now that’s
your fingers.
You adjust yourself into a sitting position, back against the wall while your
legs are spread in front of you. They dangle off the end of the bed, leaving
you facing the door. This is your first mistake, in hindsight, because your
legs are open a lewd amount.
Your second mistake is not checking your phone before you decide to start
fingering yourself, because if you had then this whole thing could have been
avoided.
Mattsun (7:41): Hey, I’m going to stop by your room in a bit. Missed you
lately, hopefully you’re free tonight.
You rest your head on the wall and close your eyes, picturing something else.
Someone else to be exact, with longer fingers that bear the marks of rebellion.
“Issei.” You sigh, just loud enough that you can hear. You add another finger
then, your mouth forming another word that you’ve been thinking about for
weeks, “daddy.”
You think about him licking you, fingering you, fucking you. How his body would
feel pressed against yours, hands around your throat and teeth biting at your
lip. Your toes curl, bliss coming towards you faster than expected.
“Issei!”
“Well, talk about a warm welcome.”
You nearly scream. It takes you all of five seconds to pull your fingers out of
yourself and yank your blanket over your lower half, less caring about your
bra-clad breasts.
He’s standing in the doorway, leaning on the frame of it with his arms crossed.
Nonchalant, almost, like you hadn’t been saying his name while getting off.
Your heart is beating so hard that it’s painful and you want to cry, you’re so
fucking embarrassed—
“C’mon then.” He says, walking towards you slowly. “Let’s see it.” You know
what he means immediately.
“W-what?” You shriek, clutching the blanket even tighter. Mattsun frowns,
shaking his head at your bashfulness.
“[Name]. I heard you getting off.”
“Exactly! So get the fuck out!” You cry, even more mortified at the fact he’s
using such a frank tone with you when asking to see your most intimate parts.
“Nah. I’m done pretending.”
“Excuse me?”
He reaches the bed. You can tell he wants to lift your blanket away, but to his
credit he refrains from doing so. “This is a golden opportunity, right? Shit
like this only happens in pornos. I know you wanna fuck me, [Name]. You’re not
very discreet. So just lemme see.”
If possible, your face burns even more. “Mattsun—”
“Let me see you.”
“Mattsun!”
“Please. Please.” He says, and you can tell that he’s just seconds away from
snapping.
You move slowly. So, so slowly. The blanket glides along your thighs as you
pull it to the side, and then it’s gone, leaving you exposed to your best
friend.
He whistles. Drops to his knees so that he’s at eye level with your glistening
pussy, and you squeal, moving to shut your legs. He’s fast, though, and has
both of his hands on your knees within seconds, spreading them apart lewdly so
he can leer at your open cunt.
“Pretty. Looks nice and tight.” He muses, as if he’s just talking about the
weather, and you whimper, especially when he uses his grip on your legs to pull
you closer to the edge of the bed. Your hands prop you up, your quivering lip
caught between your teeth as he continues to appraise you.
“Bet it tastes good too. You gonna let me lick it, baby? Or do you want me to
finger-fuck you first?”
“Issei.” You breathe. “Issei, this isn’t a good—”
“‘Good’ what, exactly? Good idea? ‘Cause I think it is. Been wanting to see
this since high school, y’know. Tired of pretending that I don’t.” His eyes
briefly flick up to meet your own, and you’re absolutely shocked by the amount
of lust you see there. It’s smoldering, fiery, and looks like something that is
barely being contained.
“We’re friends, Issei. I don’t know if you should do this.” You try to muster a
serious voice, one you might use with him if he wasn’t currently spreading your
legs. He shrugs, leather jacket crinkling a little bit.
“What, you think this’ll ruin our friendship? ‘Cause I’ve got some news for
you.” One of his fingers, still donning a black-painted nail, tentatively
pushes on your clit. “Our friendship was officially over when I fell for you.”
“Wait, what?” You yelp, and you would have wiggled out of his grasp had you not
been so enthralled with the way his finger was moving in slow circles over your
clit.
“Mmmmhmm. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. Even Makki did, and he’s dumb as
shit.” Mattsun snorts, and you try not to quiver at the way the action sends a
rush of air across your soaked folds.
“I just…” You trail off, and you’re a little ticked to see that he’s rolling
his eyes at you.
“[Name], you don’t have any more excuses. Now you’ve either gotta let me get
you off or tell me to go away.”
You don’t say anything for a moment. Then, tentatively:
“Make me come, daddy.”
“Shit.” He curses, looking a little humored that you remembered his favorite
kink. “You’re something else, you know that?”
You move to respond but you can’t, because at that moment he decides to spit
crudely on your cunt, and your words morph into a high-pitched keening when he
spreads the saliva over your clit, making it glide more easily under his
fingers. Why was that hot? Could someone tell you why that was hot?
His lips press softly into the flesh of your thigh. At first, you assume that
it’s a reassuring movement, a sign that he’ll be gentle with you, but in
typical Matsukawa fashion he decides to toss gentleness out for a little bit
more of a ‘firm’ approach. He clamps his teeth down on the inside of your thigh
hard, probably enough to bruise, and only lets go when you squeal.
“W-what the fuck, Issei?” You pant, and the middle blocker takes a long look at
you from his spot between your legs, raising his pierced eyebrow at you as he
releases your abused skin.
“Hm?” He asks, kissing the spot in an attempt to soothe it, somewhat. The
gesture is nice, but the pain is still there.
“You’re so rough.” You mean for your words to sound like a complaint, but you
can’t really hide how breathless and excited you are. He picks up on it
immediately and grins, the fingers on your clit pressing down just a little bit
harder.
“Seems to me that you like it.” He says, and you’re absolutely mortified to
admit that you do like it. His mouth moves to your other thigh and he bites
down again. You’re expecting it this time, and without the aspect of being
startled by it, it’s pretty enjoyable.
“Fuck.” You whimper, tilting your head back just a tad. He lets go of the flesh
and starts to lap at it, the feeling of his tongue skimming over the tingling
skin making you squirm just a bit. He does this for a little bit, alternating
between licking at your thighs, nipping at them, and full-on bites, and you
know you won’t be able to wear a skirt for another week, at least. He’s barely
touched you yet, save for the slow fingers on your clit, and you know he’s just
building up the anticipation so that you’ll squirm even more when he does.
And squirm you do when he suddenly jams his entire tongue into your opening.
You nearly shout in surprise, shuddering a tiny bit when the cold metal of his
lip piercings comes to rest on your outer folds. He’s still staring at you,
those dark eyes of his taking in your reaction to his sudden invasion, and it
makes the situation feel more lewd than it already is.
“Daddy!” You squeal, one hand tangling in his hair and yanking. He groans, the
sound making his tongue vibrate ever so slightly, and you’re surprised you
haven’t completely melted with the amount of heat that’s spreading through your
body.
It’s such a contrast, really. The sight of your much softer looking body giving
way to his marked and modified one seemed odd, even a little bit unnatural. But
you loved it, loved the fact that he was eating you out better than any boy had
before, loved the glint of his piercings in the light and the roll of muscles
under his tattoos, loved how he was leering at you, like he was trying to
completely dissolve you with his gaze, loved—
He slides a finger in alongside his tongue. Just barely, not even fully
obscuring the tattoo on his knuckle, but it’s enough so that he can bend it a
little bit, slide it against your sensitive walls. You almost clamp your legs
around his head but they’re stopped by his shoulders. He laughs a little bit,
and usually something like that would humiliate you but it just serves to
further excite you, the fact that you’re completely spread open and at his
mercy.
He knows it, too. He has to. He pulls his tongue out of you with a crude
slurping sound, taking the opportunity to slide two of his fingers all the way
inside of you while he licks his lips and seems to savor the taste of you.
“You taste good as hell.” He murmurs, and if his ministrations weren’t
currently rendering you speechless, you would have berated him for how casual
he was being. But you could also see in his eyes that there was something
brewing, something that he couldn’t quite keep down. It excited you and scared
you at the same time, but you didn’t really get to mull it over because the way
his fingers were working inside of you made coherent thought incredibly
difficult.
He leans back in, fingers still pumping and twisting and curling inside of you,
and seals his mouth over your clit. You’re kind of afraid that he’s going to
bite down there, too, but he just gently sucks on it, humming a little bit so
that there’s a steady thrum of vibrations on the bundle of nerves.
“Oh! Fuck, daddy!” You squeal, and you don’t miss the way his mouth spreads
into a wicked grin. He sucks a bit harder, his teeth just barely skimming over
the flesh, and it’s too much, enough to send you flying over the edge with a
surprised moan.
You’ve had orgasms before, obviously, but this was something different. Almost
an entirely different realm. It was like the entire world had just ceased to be
anything other than the feeling of Mattsun curling his fingers inside of you,
that smile still on his face as he looks you dead in the eyes. He likes
watching you fall apart, you can tell, because there’s a delighted gleam in his
expression that you only ever see after his volleyball team wins a game.
It’s over so soon. Too soon, in your opinion, and it feels like you come
crashing back into reality at a breakneck speed. The muscles in your thighs
relax. Your grip on his hair loosens. You feel like your entire body is made of
jelly.
He yanks his fingers out of you and it makes you jolt just a tiny bit.
“Feel better?”
You can’t even speak. He seems to get the gist of it, though, because a smug
grin curls on his face as he inserts his fingers into his mouth.
“You wanna fuck?” He asks, words muffled by the fact that he’s speaking around
his fingers. His tone is casual, like he’s asking you what your favorite color
is.
You nod. Rather enthusiastically, too, which makes his eyes brighten just a tad
bit. “Yes.”
He doesn’t waste any time. He shrugs off his jacket and yanks his black t-shirt
over his head with ease, and you have to practically clamp your mouth shut to
keep from drooling. He’s built, muscles formed from years of volleyball, and
the sight is actually made better by the artwork spanning from the tips of his
fingers to his lower back. You bit your lip as he runs a hand through his hair,
eyes scanning over the piercing in his nipple with mildly hidden interest.
“Stop gawking.” He snorts, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“Can’t. You’re just that good looking.” You retort, even though it isn’t far
from the truth. You’ve seen him shirtless quite a few times, but those were
back in high school when all he had was an upper-arm tattoo and two studs in
his ears. For some reason it reminds you of seeing a caterpillar and then a
butterfly, and while most people weren’t too fond of Matsukawa’s decision to
embrace the alternative lifestyle, you had a special appreciation for it that
made you rub your thighs together again.
“You’re ready to go again?” He asks, fingers having already finished with his
belt. He yanks his skinny jeans down with more grace than one might expect,
seeing as how removal of skin-tight pants wasn’t exactly an easy thing to do,
but he manages and it’s kind of cute.
Black boxers. They’re cute too, and completely expected. He seems hesitant to
take them off, though, but you don’t mind so much. Right now, you’re focused on
the fact that you’re both practically naked and you haven’t even kissed yet.
You grab at his shoulders when he comes closer, and he doesn’t complain when
you pull him down.
It’s soft, tastes like your come, and is kind of sloppy. You adore it. The cold
metal over his lips lets you know that this is real, that one of your fantasies
hasn’t just turned into a full-blown hallucination. It doesn’t feel weird like
you kind of expected it to. It just feels right, despite your contrasting
exteriors. You let him lick into your mouth, wet muscle swirling around your
own and you swear you could get lost like this.
He’s pushing you down slowly, adjusting your body so that your head hits your
pillows and your hair fans behind you. The look he’s giving you is smoldering,
like he’s trying to absolutely devour you with his eyes.
You break apart. His hand slides under your back and you arch it, giving his
fingers ample room to work at the clasp of your bra. You giggle a little bit
when it takes him a few tries because he’s obviously not the sex god that he’s
been made out to be, but when he finally gets it off of you, you stop. One of
his hands, large and warm, cups your right breast and squeezes. You squeak.
“Cute.” He muses, and you can’t tell if he’s teasing or not, but frankly you
don’t care because he ducks his head and his tongue licks a broad stripe over
your left nipple, then again. And again. The tip of his tongue dances over the
hardening nub. He’s good at this, and it’s making you squirm. That in itself
seems to make him excited— he’s never really gotten such a strong positive
reaction this early on from anyone— and especially because it’s you. He knows
he should be feeling conflicted right now about that fact that you two are
childhood friends and a bunch of people would assume that this was taboo, but
he doesn’t care. He’s liked you for too long, wanted you for too long that he
can’t find it in himself to give a flying fuck what other people will think.
You’re pulling at his boxers. He freezes a little bit, nerves starting to spark
in his system, because he knows what you’re about to see will either turn you
on or make you laugh, and he’s really hoping it’s the former but knowing you it
might be the latter.
You stop. He knows why immediately.
“You’re not serious.”
“Does that look like a joke to you?”
You’re staring at his dick. He swallows.
“You. Uh. Have a piercing.”
“I’m aware, yes.”
“In your dick.”
“…Do you like it?”
“Fuck yes I like it.” And he almost breathes a giant sigh of relief right
there. Thank god, because he wasn’t sure that his ego could take you laughing
at his Prince Albert.
You push him back a little bit, so that you’re both in a sitting position. “Can
I get a closer look?” You ask, and the look on your face is so fucking cute
that he’d practically let you do anything at that point.
You lean down to tentatively lick around the metal ring. He shudders, unused to
the sensation because most girls didn’t care to do use their mouths on him once
they see that he’s got a hoop through the tip of his dick. But you seem utterly
fascinated by it, and while you’ve always been intrigued by the way his body
looked, this was something else entirely. You’d never been good at hiding the
little pinpricks of lust in your eyes around him, but the way your pupils were
dilated and your tongue was working on him actually took him by surprise.
His hand wove into your hair. He wondered if you were into it being pulled,
because you obviously liked it a little rough if you enjoyed being choked, so
he yanks. You squeal, and he’s pleased to find that it’s in a good way.
“I wanna—”
“Lay back down.” He snaps. Usually he would be all about getting head, but
right now he just wants to fuck you until you’re walking funny for the next few
days. You comply, licking your lips when you see one of his hands wrap around
his shaft and languidly pump, eyes openly staring at the way you’re sprawled on
the bed for him. The insides of your thighs are smeared with your come and his
saliva. It’s pretty fucking erotic, if he had to say so.
He suspends himself over you, mouth immediately going to your neck and nipping.
You make a pleased little sound, hands resting on his back with your fingers
splayed over the artwork tattooed there. Satisfied with his work he pulls back,
smirking once he sees the deep purple bruise. He makes another one. And another
one. Trailing down your chest and finally ending right above your breast
because at that point you got too impatient, wrapping a smaller and softer hand
around his cock right above where his is.
“C’mon.” You say, and he knows it’s meant to be a command but it sounds like a
desperate little whine, your tongue darting out to lick at your lips. He grins,
takes his hand off of his cock, and lets you guide him to your entrance.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He groans when he slides into you. You seem to agree
with him because the sound you let out is such a pretty little moan that he’s
convinced you’re trying to drive him crazy.
You’re tight. Unbelievably so, and it’s actually a little bit of work to get
himself the entire way inside of you, piercing included. But you don’t seem to
mind, so he doesn’t mind either. Instead, he just leans down to kiss you,
relishing in the fact that this has been a long time coming. High school
Mattsun would be so stoked, he thinks. Hell, current Mattsun is stoked.
You’re a good kisser, too. He feels like he should be jealous, just like how he
was when he found out some other guy had been doing things to you that he
wanted to do, but he can’t find it in himself to be. He’s reaping all the
benefits of your previous experience now, so he honestly has no room to
complain.
He lets one of his hands roam down your body. Perfect. Your skin is so soft,
soothing under his calloused palm. He almost doesn’t want to be rough with you.
Almost.
“Oh!” You moan when he starts to thrust into you. The metal ring in his cock
provides an unusual sensation against your inner walls, something that you
slowly find yourself liking even more. Sure, you’d heard on Tumblr that
piercings like that were supposed to feel good, but you weren’t expecting it to
feel this good.
“You like that?” He croons, grinning even wider when your nails begin to dig
into his back.
“Yes! Issei!” Your toes are curling and your fingers begin to rake downwards,
your eyes clench shut, he’s so big—
“Don’t call me that.” He sneers, and you open your mouth to reply but you’re
cut short by the feeling of his large hand wrapping around your throat and
pushing. Not hard enough to knock you out, of course, but hard enough that it
nearly cuts off your ability to speak.
“Yes, daddy.” You try to croon, but it comes out more like a wheeze. The blood
in your body is rushing every which way. You open your eyes again and you
nearly come right then and there because the way he’s looking at you is dark.
“Good girl.” He croons. His eyes flick down to your chest and he stares at the
line of purple love bites there, allowing a little bit of pride to rush through
his veins. Even if you only get to do this once, at least he can walk away
knowing that he’s marked you enough to keep other guys away from you for a
while.
“Daddy.” You say again, and he pins his attention back on your face. “Touch me.
Please.”
“Anything for you, babe.” He grins, using two of his fingers to press onto your
clit. Your eyes roll back and he laughs, a breathless little noise, before
pushing down a tiny bit harder on your neck.
The reaction is immediate. You tighten around him like a vice, a garbled moan
leaving your throat. He swears in a voice that makes your body go a little bit
warmer, angling his hips and thrusting into you with the most punishing pace he
can manage. You keep crooning— daddy daddy daddy daddy— and he knows he wont
last much longer.
He pinches your clit and pulls on it in time with another particularly hard
thrust, and you’re done. Maybe it’s the overstimulation. Maybe it’s the way he
was choking you. Maybe it’s because you were actually more than a little turned
on by calling him daddy. Regardless of what it was, your orgasm blindsides you
with a rush of color, tearing an almost inhuman sound out of your throat as
Mattsun’s hips continue to smack into your own. He’s leering down at you,
cooing words of praise at you— how beautiful you look, how you’re such a good
girl for coming on daddy’s cock— and you swear you could float away with how
weightless you feel.
Unlike you, he knows exactly what causes his undoing. It’s the way your face
looks, like you’re so completely wrecked for him; it’s the same face he always
imagined in the shower but better, because it’s not just a fantasy anymore. He
bites down on his lip as he follows you into bliss, spilling inside of you and
coating your walls with his come. The feeling seems to add to your enjoyment,
because you give a small noise of appreciation while he does so.
Interesting. You’re into risky sex too, apparently. He’d have to remember that
for next time.
He gently releases your throat when he’s done, and you take a few shaky breaths
in before beaming up at him.
“Huh.” You say. “You are good in bed.”
He glowers down at you. “Are you saying that you didn’t think I would be?”
“Nah. Just saying that you went above and beyond my expectations.”
“Nice, you gonna give me a gold star for it?”
You smack him on the shoulder, but he can see that you’re laughing. “You’d like
that, wouldn’t you?”
“Nah.” He kisses you. He can tell you weren’t expecting it but you let him do
it all the same. It’s gentle this time, un-rushed and a little bit loving.
You’d ask him why he was kissing you like that, but you already know. He
mentioned it before.
“I’m pretty into you, too.” You say when you break apart. He rolls his eyes but
you can see the poorly-hidden smile spreading across his face. He might dress
like a punk, but you know he’s a huge softie underneath it all.
“I’m glad. Because that means you’re gonna say yes when I tell you that I’m
taking you on a date in a little bit.”
You blink. “Like, tonight?”
“Yeah, that’s part of the reason I stopped by. I wanted to finally see if you
were actually into me or if I was just imagining things.” He grimaces as he
pulls out of you, rolling so that he’s on his back next to you. You snuggle
into his side instinctively, knowing he won’t mind. He doesn’t.
“And instead you walked in on me masturbating.”
“Hey, I’m not complaining.”
“Couldn’t you have just waited for me to finish?”
“That’s no fun.”
You swat him on the arm but you’re both giggling, a mixture of happiness at
finally getting to sleep with one another and the hilarity of how cliche the
situation was.
You two lay there like that for a while, basking in the afterglow. He’s warm
and happy and he’s all yours. You could be like this forever, uninterrupted
with his arm wrapped around you, but fate decides that you need something else
to top off the entire night.
“Hey, [Name], have you seen— Oh my god.”
“Makki!” You shriek, “get the fuck out of my room!” 
“Hey, I was just— I’m going, I’m going!” he says, dodging the pillow that you
toss at his head. He shuts the door behind him but you can still hear him
laughing all the way down the hall. You sigh, the moment ruined.
“He’s never going to let us live this down, is he?”
“Nope. Not for as long as he lives.”
And somehow, you’re okay with that.
***** Ushijima Wakatoshi- Tension *****
Chapter Notes
     Hey guys! Long time no see, huh? (Even though I literally just
     updated my Sugawara series lmao)
     Originally, I was going to publish a Makki chapter next, but some of
     you may know (if you've seen my tumblr) that I had a little bit of a
     setback with that. However, I was also working on this one at the
     time, and I'm pretty okay with how it turned out (even though it
     might feel rushed :/)
     I hope you guys enjoy this one! I love Ushijima and his tsundere
     self, so it was pretty enjoyable to write. Also, if you've never read
     'Polarity' (my Ushijima series), Emiko is an OC- just the manager of
     Shiratorizawa, nothing major. Just letting you know so that there's
     no confusion!
     xoxo sabby
There’s not many things that Ushijima Wakatoshi dislikes. Sure, he’s never been
a fan of baseless self-confidence, nor does he like whenever strangers swarm
around him after matches. He hates seeing his father upset and he’s not fond of
watching Emiko spend all of her money on Shōnen Jump, but these things aren’t
exactly the bane of his existence. Ushijima likes to think of himself as fairly
neutral, and while some people would disagree, he doesn’t see anything wrong
with being the way that he is.
There is one thing, though, that grates on his nerves like no other.
“Wa~ka~to~shi.” He grimaces when he hears the familiar singsong voice behind
him in the gymnasium. He stayed late to practice again, despite Emiko’s
insistence that he needed some rest, and now he was paying for it.
“What do you want.” It’s not really a question. The last thing he wants to do
is humor you; he only ever responds because of the fact that his father raised
him to be polite.
“Can’t I come see my favorite ace without being grilled about it?” He hears
your footsteps advance and it’s kind of pitiful how his instinct is telling him
to run, as if you’re a cheetah and he’s a gazelle. He always feels this way
around you; hunted, and a little bit vulnerable.
“You’re only here because you want to bother me.” The volleyball in his hands
is sturdy. It grounds him, reminds him that he can’t lose focus just because
you’ve come to irk him again. It’s just another trial, one that he needs to
overcome. He tosses the ball in the air and smacks his palm against it, sending
it soaring across the net with a force that would make even Oikawa wince. You
let out a low whistle as you seat yourself on one of the benches, crossing your
legs and peering at him coyly.
He allows himself a single glance at you from the corner of his eye. You’re
still all dressed up, hair styled immaculately and eyeliner winged sharply.
You’re the perfect embodiment of a cheerleading captain, from the pom-poms at
your side to your blindingly white tennis shoes. He hates to admit that he
actually finds it attractive, the way that the cheer uniform clings to you in
all the right places and the fact that your skirt is almost too short. You look
good in maroon, too.
“I’m here because I have nothing better to do.” You say, blinking slowly. He
grunts in response, picking another ball up off the ground so that he can
practice his serve again. He knows your eyes are following his every move,
taking in the way his legs look in his shorts and how his shirt does little to
hide the fact that his body is in peak condition. He wants to pretend that the
way you lick your lips is innocent, because it’s easier than admitting to
himself that he wants someone who also happens to be the most annoying person
on the face of the planet.
“Then go home. I don’t want you here.” His words might have stung were they
directed at anybody else, but you’re [Surname] [Name], the toughest cheerleader
to ever exist, and you take his retorts in stride. He wonders if you’re some
sort of masochist, because no matter how many times he tells you that he wants
nothing to do with you, you keep coming back for more.
“Aw, don’t lie to yourself, Wakkun. You like having me here.”
“You’re delusional.” The impact of his serve rings through the gymnasium. It
seems louder when there’s only two people to watch it.
“Nah. I see the way you look at me. You want me, you’re just too chickenshit to
admit it.”
“Go home.” He repeats. All the balls are on the other side of the net; he ducks
under it to have easier access. Your eyes watch him change sides, the
smoldering gaze amplified by the fact that you’re biting your bottom lip. He
wills away any inappropriate mental images that it conjures, instead focusing
on the fact that they have a practice match with one of the local universities
coming up.
“So harsh~” You coo. Yep, definitely a masochist.
He serves again. Your eyes trail the ball, watching how his brute force sends
it slamming into the ground across the net, and your expression lights up. He’s
so strong. You bite down even harder on your lip to keep from saying something
lewd.
He knows it as well as you do. No matter how much he insists that you’re his
least favorite person at the school, there’s an unholy amount of sexual tension
between the both of you, and it’s stretched like a rubber band to the point of
breaking. You can see it in his eyes, even when he’s trying to keep from
looking at you. Part of him wants you, and it wants you bad.
“I’m serious.” He says after a moment of silence. “Leave.”
“You’re just saying that because you want a chance to gawk at my ass.” You huff
as you pick up your pom-poms. He watches you stride out, head held high, and
doesn’t mention that you’re actually right.
__
“Look, I’ve seen some weird relationships, but you and [Name]-senpai really
take the cake.”
Ushijima grunts, ignoring the way Emiko is prattling on in favor of focusing on
his ice cream cone.
“I’m serious. I know she’s a little quirky, but that whole ‘I hate her blah
blah blah’ thing is a little overdone. I don’t even know how this whole thing
started!”
“I do hate her.”
“No you don’t!” Emiko cries, her own ice-cream forgotten as she gestures
wildly. Ushijima has half a mind to tell her to stop it, because last time she
did her entire cone went flying out of her hand. He doesn’t, though, figuring
that at least this time she would deserve it.
“I do. She’s annoying. She’s arrogant. And she’s always trying to corner me
when I practice alone.”
“But that’s the thing! If it really bothered you that much, you could just
practice in a different gym! You know she can find you, so you—”
“Emiko.”
“I’m just saying.” The manager licks some melted ice cream off of her hands.
Ushijima watches a few people pass them on the street, hoping that nobody they
know walks by the ice cream parlor. The last thing he needed was a rumor that
he had a thing for the Shiratorizawa cheer captain, despite how true said rumor
might be.
“I know, but what you’re saying is wrong.”
“No it isn’t!” Emiko snorts. She has a sticky streak of chocolate on the side
of her mouth now. “You two have been wallowing in your sexual tension for
nearly two years now. It’s time for you to either make a move or just let some
other guy get her.”
“I don’t have time for a girlfriend.” He says, causing his manager to balk.
“Wait. So you’re admitting that you want to date [Name]-senpai?”
“That information does not leave this conversation.”
“Yeah. Sure! Your secret is safe with me.” Emiko says, and Ushijima doesn’t
miss the victorious smile that she shoots him. “But I’m sure you do have time
for a girlfriend, you’re just saying that you don’t because you—”
“Emiko.”
“Sorry, sorry! I’ll shut up now.”
“Thank you.”
__
Ushijima doesn’t really get a chance to decide what he wants by the time the
practice match rolls around. It’s mostly decided for him.
You’re lurking around like you usually do when they’re playing even though both
his coach and yours have scolded you for it. He wonders briefly how you even
have time to be the cheer captain when most of your after-school hours are
spent watching him, but he doesn’t want to ask lest you think he was actually
interested in your life. Even though he is, but that’s beyond the point.
Someone else does the asking for him, anyways.
“So, you’re the head cheerleader?” One of the university guys is leering at you
after the match, sweat matting his hair against his forehead.
“Yep! Got voted captain my second year.” You’re not wearing your uniform today—
thank god, because Ushijima knows that if you were, there would definitely be
more than one guy interested in you— but you still have on your megawatt smile
and your charm has definitely been dialed up. He thinks he even sees you bat
your eyelashes a couple of times, but he hides his jealousy by striking up a
conversation with one of the other university players about energy drinks.
“Bet you’re super flexible then.”
“I sure am~!”
His fists clench at his sides. Emiko shoots him a look, something between
concern and exasperation, but before his irritation boils over he simply
swallows it down and pretends he can’t hear the university boy ask for your
number. He acts like he isn’t bothered when you give it to him, or say that
you’re looking forward to getting dinner with him this weekend.
“Wakatoshi.” Emiko whispers to him once everyone in earshot has left. “She’s
just doing it to make you jealous. You know that, right?”
“It’s working.” He grumbles. He watches you practically skip out the door with
a ‘I better go to my own practice~’, and he sort of wants to run after you and
grab you by the collar. Demand that you tell him why he’s feeling like this,
why he hates you so much yet likes you at the same time. Why he wants to hold
your hand but never talk to you again.
Emiko must see this and more flicker across his face. To the rest of them he
looks impassive, but she’s known him long enough to figure out how he’s
feeling.
“Seriously. Don't let it get to you. I can talk to her for you, if you’d like.”
“No.” He grunts. “I’ll do it myself.”
__
The opportunity to do so arises the following Monday. You hadn’t been to see
him after practice since their match, and while he should be relieved, he
wonders if it’s because you’ve been spending time with that university boy.
You can’t stay away for long, though. He hears the telltale squeal of the
gymnasium door open once the rest of the team has gone home.
“Heya, Wakkun.” You chirp. He doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder at you;
he’s afraid that if he does, his angry veneer will crumble to bits.
When he doesn’t reply, you snort. “You’re that pissed off at me, huh? Guess I
went too far this time.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His serve flies right into the net.
That hasn’t happened to him since middle school. It’s more telling than
anything he could have said.
“Yeah? What’s on your mind, then?”
“Nothing that involves you.”
He can practically hear you shake your head at him. He watches from the corner
of his eye as you take your usual seat. Your uniform is on again today; he
hopes that the university boy didn’t see you in it.
But why? Why does he hope that? You’re annoying. You’ve been bothering him like
this since the start of high school, constantly watching him. He used to think
that it was because he was so expressionless most of the time, and that you
wanted to be the one to get him to show emotion, but he knows that can’t be the
case anymore. You seem to have your own hidden agenda, and while he once
believed that it was an attempt to garner his affections, he isn’t quite so
sure anymore.
You’re unpredictable, and it’s driving him crazy.
He doesn’t bother to pick up another volleyball. He can’t practice anymore, not
with you here, so he storms off in the direction of the locker room, knowing
that you can’t follow him there and cloud his judgement.
At least, that’s what he thought. He hears you get up again, trotting behind
him, and he doesn’t want to see your expression. Are you smug? Happy that
you’ve finally managed to truly piss him off?
You’re concerned, actually, but he doesn’t need to know that. You’re scared
that your obnoxious flirting with another guy pushed him over the edge, afraid
that you’ve ruined everything. You always knew he was a tsundere, but this
irritation seemed out of place. Was he going to tell you once and for all to
leave him alone? Was he going to give you the cold shoulder for the rest of
your high school career?
You follow him into the locker room, uncaring that there could be teachers
around to see you do so. You’re determined to smooth things out, and even
apologize if you have to, because the last thing that you wanted to do was
actually hurt Ushijima.
He spins around and you freeze. “Stop following me.”
“Hey, I just wanted to talk!”
“About what? How you think there’s something between us? The fact that you have
a boyfriend now? Really, [Surname], I’ve had enough.”
It dawns on you. You may not know him as well as that manager of his, but you
certainly weren’t blind. “Ushijima, you’re actually jealous, aren’t you?”
“You’re insane.”
“Oh, Wakkun, you should have just told— oh!” You say, and your voice goes from
teasing to breathless in an instant as he pushes you against the lockers, the
cold metal sending a shiver down your spine.
“Stop doing this to me.” He snarls. He’s pissed, and if you weren’t so turned
on by the whole dominant-masculine thing, it would’ve scared you. You’ve never
seen him react so strongly to something you’ve said, and for a moment you
wonder if you went too far, if this was the breaking point and he was about to
tell you to never talk to him again.
But you can’t help yourself. It’s almost like taunting him is in your blood.
“Why, Wakkun? Did I strike a nerve?” You’re still breathless and it’s arousing
in an almost haunting way. Both of his hands rest on either side of your head,
caging you in a weirdly intimate position. He tries not to focus on that, or
the way he can see your pupils dilate and your tongue dart out to lick your
bottom lip.
“You’re relentless.” He snaps. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I
can guarantee that it isn’t going to work.”
“It won’t?” You coo. One of your hands comes up and grabs the front of his
shirt, pulling him closer. He grunts, displeased, but doesn’t fight it. “You’re
saying you don’t wanna fuck me? That you don’t feel the sexual tension too?”
“You’re disgusting.” He doesn’t move. His eyes are sharp, full of lust and
irritation, and you almost start laughing with glee. You have him right where
you want him, whether or not he knows it. It’s dangerous, and you might get
burned in the process, but you want him so badly that you almost can’t think
straight. All of your concern leaves your body, replaced by the warm desire to
finally settle your differences and just bang already.
“Yeah? Then tell my why you’re still here.”
He doesn’t respond. Just glowers down at you, olive-colored eyes almost
searing. You feel that familiar ache between your legs, the one that always
flares up when you’re around him, and you rub your thighs together. He doesn’t
miss it.
“I’m here because you keep insisting that something is going on between us, and
I want to set you straight.”
“Am I wrong?”
He keeps staring at you. He looks like he’s waiting for something, maybe, like
someone to burst into the locker room and find you, or for his phone to ring.
Almost like he’s giving ample amount of time to a higher power in order for
there to be a distraction, but when one doesn’t come, his gaze falters. He
wants you. You can see it. You can see how he’s slowly forgetting that he’s
supposed to be angry, how you’re supposed to have been going on dates with
another guy.
“No.” He says, slowly. “You’re not wrong.”
And then he’s kissing you. His lips are warm and a little rough but it’s okay
because that’s just what you expected. They’re harsh, too, and you know that if
your lips weren’t in the way then your teeth would probably have clacked
together.
It’s almost bruising, honestly. He’s kissing you like he just can’t stand it
anymore, like it’s impossible for him to keep holding back just how much he
wants you. You feel the same way; your free hand goes to the back of his head
and tangles in the short strands of his hair, pulling him closer even though
there’s barely space between you two as it is. He doesn’t protest it. In fact,
he seems to like the added roughness, the desperation behind the way that your
lips move together.
You didn’t realize that your eyes had closed until they fly open again. There’s
a foreign feeling on your thigh; a rough and calloused palm, sliding slowly up
to the edge of your skirt. The two of you break away, a string of saliva
connecting your mouths. Neither of you move to wipe it away. You’re focused on
the heat of his skin against yours, the feeling of his fingers inching closer
and closer to the apex of your legs.
“Wakatoshi.” You say, and it’s the first time he’s ever heard you say his name
without a teasing tone to it. You sound reverent, almost. Not smug. Not wicked.
Eager. Breathless.
“[Name].” He’s always loved your first name. Loved the way it rolled off his
tongue, how it just seemed to suit you. His palm slides a little bit further
but his fingers stop once they reach the edge of your panties. He leans down a
bit, resting his forehead on yours.
“You drive me crazy, you know that?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say
that his words were almost endearing. He kisses you again, but it’s slow this
time. Unhurried. As if you have all the time in the world, despite the fact
that some of the school staff could find you at any given moment.
“Yeah.” You say when you break apart again. “But you love it.”
“Not really.” His fingers trace along your thigh and you bite your lip. You
want him, bad. You can see he must be feeling the same way, because his
volleyball shorts do little to hide that he’s slowly been getting hard. “But I
have to say, you caught my attention through it. Even if it was the bad kind of
attention.”
“Can’t be all that bad, then.” You muse. He’s staring at you again. You wonder
what he’s thinking, if he’s suddenly regretting what he’s doing, but then you
don’t wonder at all. Your mind is wiped clean, completely blank, because he
suddenly pulls your panties aside and one finger traces around your opening.
“You’re wet already.” He says, tone as frank as ever. You smirk up at him.
“Duh. Look at you. I always get wet when I see you.” And although you’re trying
to make it sound like you’re teasing, you can tell that he knows it’s the
truth.
“Is that so?” You squirm a little bit as his finger continues to skim your
folds, spreading your legs a little bit to give him access. He doesn’t seem
satisfied, though, because he stops and withdraws his fingers. You make a noise
of protest.
“Take off your underwear.” He doesn’t need to ask twice. You yank them down,
stepping out of one leg. When you go to do the other, however, he grabs it,
sliding the cloth down himself and lifting your leg a little higher. Had you
not already been leaning against the lockers, the sudden movement surely would
have knocked you off balance. It makes you balk a little bit, too, because he’s
keeping your leg raised, enough so that your skirt bunches up and he can see
your cunt spread open for him.
“Wha—”
“You said you were flexible.” He murmurs. You feel heat spread across your
cheeks at his words, though he’s right. You were cheer captain for a reason,
after all.
Having tossed your underwear onto the floor, his hand goes back to its previous
spot, middle finger dragging over your clit as it goes. You inhale sharply,
watching as his eyes suddenly shift, displaying a focus that you’ve only ever
seen when he plays in a game.
“You must’ve thought about this a lot.” His thumb mimics what his middle finger
just did, pressing against your clit just enough to make you squirm. The
feelings are magnified by the fact that you’re spread open, unable to clench
your legs together. You’re at his mercy, and Ushijima knows it.
“I did.” There’s no use lying to him. “Thought about you every time I finger-
fucked myself, Wakatoshi~”
There you go again, with that teasing lilt in your voice. Ushijima bites back a
scowl in favor of suddenly inserting one of his fingers into you, watching with
those sharp eyes as your mouth falls open in surprise. It’s adorable, really,
how dazed your expression becomes. It’s only for a moment, though, before
you’re back to grinning coyly at him, eyes locking.
“Thought about how good your cock would feel inside me. Thought about sucking
you off, right here after practice.” You almost purr when he adds another
finger, spurred on by your confessions. You always figured he was into dirty
talk; it was pleasing to see that you were right.
He’s never done this before. His movements are a little bit unsure. But he’s
absolutely enthralled with the way your walls are clenching down on his
fingers, and the way you’re soaking them is making him almost painfully hard.
He’s thought about this too, fantasized about working you open with his
fingers, and you’re just as responsive as he hoped you’d be. Maybe even a
little more so, and the way you squirm is something straight out of a porno.
“Want you to come inside me.” You continue, panting when he begins to scissor
his fingers. “Want you to fill me up. Make me yours.”
He’s so aroused that it feels like his body is burning and your words are ice.
He has to physically bite back a groan, wondering if you’re serious, if he’s
actually going to sleep with you in the middle of a locker room—
“Fuck me, Wakatoshi. Please.” You say, arching your back a little bit. He yanks
his fingers out of you as fast as he can, not even bothering to care at the way
you whine in protest, because in that same moment he uses that hand to pull
down his shorts.
“Oh, fuck.” You breathe when you see him. He’s big, which you fully expected,
but he’s also a little curved and you know it’s going to feel good. You don’t
get to look for long, though, because he’s already guiding himself into your
opening.
You wish he didn’t have your leg still raised. Not because it hurt or anything,
but because it made you that much more sensitive, and the feeling of him
entering you is almost too much. You groan, the room going a little fuzzy, and
he sighs when his hips meet yours. It’s a moment that’s been in the making for
a while, and the both of you sort of relish in it for a moment.
Then he gives a shallow thrust and your toes are curling. His eyes are still
narrowed, watching you as if you’re the only thing left on this planet. Like
everything else has ceased to exist and he likes it that way.
“Oh! You feel so g-good.” You moan. Your hand finds its way into his hair
again, pulling him towards you for another kiss. The movement of his body makes
his thrusts falter for a moment and it strains your leg a tad too much, but you
wouldn’t trade it for anything. His lips slant over your own just right, like
two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together, and he must feel it too because
he picks up his pace. His thrusts are a lot deeper now, hitting you in places
that have never been explored, and you’re already seeing stars. His tongue
pries its way into your mouth without a modicum of hesitation or uncertainty.
He tastes good, like spearmint.
You nearly yelp when he thrusts against a spot inside of you that makes the
whole world go white. You tear your lips away from his, head tilting back as
you pant.
“Again!” You half-sob half-moan. “Please! Again!”
He knows what you want immediately and shifts his hips, re-adjusting his grip
on your leg to get into a better position. You swear you could die right now
with how good your body feels, like every single nerve ending is on fire.
You’re buzzing from your head to your toes, seeing white and rushing towards
bliss—
His tongue licks a stripe onto the side of your neck, followed by the sensation
of his lips closing over the juncture of where your neck and shoulder meet. His
teeth scrape over the sensitive flesh as he sucks on it, and while you should
be telling him that isn’t a good idea, everyone will be able to see it if he
gives you a hickey, you don’t. You’re almost gone, teetering on the precipice
of release, trying desperately to anchor yourself while he continues to pound
into you, that brute strength you’ve always admired aiding in his mission to
throw you over the edge.
He releases the skin of your neck with a wet popping sound and licks over it.
It’s a surprisingly gentle action, given the fact that he’s currently fucking
you so hard that you won’t be able to walk right for a week, and it sends a
jolt of pleasure right through you.
With a strangled cry of his name, you come. Hard. The force of it almost knocks
the wind out of you and you’re so caught up in it that you miss the way his
mouth twitches into a smile. You coming undone is the most beautiful thing he’s
ever seen, and he coaxes you through it by thrusting upwards even harder, but
even Ushijima Wakatoshi doesn’t have unlimited stamina, and so he follows you
with a pained groan.
Just like you asked, he fills you. The warmth of it spreads through your entire
body and it’s like you’ve short-circuited, because it feels like everything in
the world had dropped away and become nothing. Your hand tightens in his hair
and his grip gets almost painful, and you two share your last few seconds of
bliss in total silence.
You blink a few times when it’s over, trying to re-orient yourself. It wasn’t a
daydream or a fantasy. Ushijima Wakatoshi is still inside of you, his forehead
resting on yours as he takes a few ragged breaths. His eyes are shut; he looks
almost like he’s in pain.
“Fuck.” You whisper.
“‘Fuck’ is right.” He murmurs. His tone isn’t harsh, but it isn’t gentle. It’s
just contemplative. “We shouldn’t have done that.”
He misses the way a disgruntled expression forms on your face. Was he seriously
regretting this already? He hadn’t even pulled out of you yet!
“Excuse me?”
“We could have gotten caught.” He cracks one eye open. “And then what would
your new boyfriend have said?”
“Please.” You snort, relieved that he wasn’t trying to deny what just occurred
between the two of you, “I never even texted him back. That guy isn’t my
boyfriend.”
Ushijima slowly pulls out of you, frowning a bit when you whine at the loss of
heat. His eyes rake over your body— messy hair, purple hickey, wrinkled
uniform— and this time, he doesn’t hide the fact that it gives him a rush of
endearment.
“Good.” He says, “because I am.”
***** Daisho/Reader/Kuroo- Three's a Crowd *****
Chapter Notes
     LMAO the title is so unoriginal but whatever. It's not like you guys
     are here for my titling skills.
     This one was so. much. fun. to. write. Seriously, I almost got a
     little carried away with it, but I like to cap these oneshots off at
     around 7,000-8,000 words, so I made it a little shorter. Regardless,
     I think it turned out pretty decent, so there! Also, I went through
     and made it a little fluffier in places, because originally it was a
     complete angst machine. Now it's just a confusingly cute little
     monster. If that makes sense. I dunno, I'm tired... Finals, man.
     Regardless, I hope you guys enjoy this installment. A three-way is
     something I've never written before, so I hope I did alright for my
     first try!
     xoxo Sabby
     PS- I'll be replying to comments soon, but I'm way too tired to do it
     at the moment. Hope you guys understand!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
When someone told you that high school would be over before you knew it, you
hardly believed them. After all, it felt like those three years would drag on
for eternity, yet here you were, holding back tears as you and your friends
hugged for what felt like the last time.
The graduation ceremony had ended only moments prior, and now everybody was
either sobbing in their friend’s arms or looking around for their families. You
tried to keep it together, you really did, but once you all released each other
you could feel the familiar sting behind your eyes.
“I’m so proud of you.” There’s a warm hand on your shoulder. You know
immediately before you turn who it belongs to, and despite your sadness you
manage a smile.
“Suguru.” Your boyfriend is smiling down at you, a genuine curl of the lips
that only you get to see. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“Would’t miss it.” He says, even though you both know that he’s been getting
glares from Kuroo, Yaku, and even Kai. It’s to be expected, really, given the
fact that he’s easily recognizable and he hasn't really been hiding the fact
that the two of you are together again. You couldn’t care less at this point,
though, because he pulls you into a hug and allows you to inhale deeply,
fingers clutching at the weave of his sweater as you try not to stain it with
tears.
“You’re too good to me.” You mutter, and although it’s muffled, you know he
still hears it. He sighs, running a hand through your hair and pressing a kiss
to the top of your head. You could float away at this point, let him guide you
through your mix of emotions, but the moment is short-lived because you feel
him tense up when someone clears their throat behind you.
“Hey. Mind if I talk to her for a minute?” Your blood freezes in your veins.
Kuroo hasn’t spoken much to you since finding out that you resumed dating his
rival, and although you still retained your position as team manager, you got
the feeling that most of the boys— save for Kenma and Lev, who really didn’t
care— wanted nothing to do with you anymore.
“Piss off.” Daishō snaps. You almost smile at the protective tone to his voice,
but you still feel like there’s a lump in your throat. Kuroo wouldn’t have
approached you unless he really needed or wanted to, and you dread finding out
what his reasoning might be.
“It’s fine.” You push away from Daishō gently. “I’ll talk to him for a minute.
Go and tell my parents that I’ll find them in a little bit, alright?”
Your boyfriend looks down at you again, a little irked and confused, but you
give him a small reassuring smile and he sighs. He looks between you and the
former Nekoma captain, resigned but wary.
“Fine. Just for a little bit, and if you even try to touch her I’ll break every
single one of your fingers.” Daishō says. His voice is quiet but it is far from
insincere; you know he means every word he just said.
“Fair enough.” Kuroo shoves his hands into his pockets. You can see Yaku and
Kai through the crowd, watching the two of you with interest, but you pay it no
mind. Your eyes trail after Daishō, watching as his body slips through the
throng of people in order to find your parents, and it isn’t until he’s
completely out of eyeshot that Kuroo decides to speak.
“So.” He says. “You and him. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“I love him.” You say, mustering up as much conviction as you can. Kuroo has a
slight crack in his voice, like he wants to cry, and you aren’t sure that it’s
just because of your graduation. “I’m happy with him.”
“I’m glad to hear it. You deserve to be happy.” He says. “Sorry I’ve been so
shitty about it. You know how I feel, though.”
You want to ask him if he means how he feels about Daishō or about you, but you
bite your tongue. It must’ve been hard enough for him to even approach you,
much less tell you how he feels. He knows that you know he’s in love with you,
and while the realization used to make you feel completely confused, it now
just saddens you.
Kuroo isn’t a bad guy. Not by a long shot. He’s just not the guy for you,
because that guy is currently exchanging laughs and hugs with your parents.
That guy is the one who, when passing you one day on the street, said you were
the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen and he wanted to know if he could have
your number. That guy is the same guy who’s been with you for just over two
years now— break not included— and who came to watch your graduation ceremony,
even though he knew he wasn’t welcome by your classmates.
You don’t have to tell Kuroo this. He already knows. You feel awful, completely
awful, because you’re assuming he came here for closure that he’s never going
to get. Because while Daishō is, undoubtedly, the love of your life, part of
your heart is still beating pitifully for Kuroo. Part of your heart keeps
asking what if. Part of your heart is in love with him too.
You stare at each other. He can see that in your eyes, the fact that a little
sliver of you wants to reach out to him. And then he’s hugging you, and your
face is pressed against his chest and you’re absolutely bawling, arms wrapped
around him, and you can feel something wet land in your hair. He’s crying too.
It makes you love him a little bit more, but that love is still eclipsed by
what you feel for Daishō who, despite his earlier promise, stands by and lets
you get it all out without saying a word.
__
A lot of times, you wish you were still back in high school. University is
beyond stressful, a constant blur of caffeine and late-night cram sessions, and
it makes you long for the simpler days of not having to rush across campus or
buy hundreds of dollars worth of textbooks.
It’s manageable, though. Partially because of the fact that you get the hang of
it after your first year, and partially because of the fact that Daishō has
chosen to go to the same university as you, securing a spot as the volleyball
team captain by his second year. And even though you’re still prone to fights—
he’s not exactly fond of the fact that you stay up late texting Kuroo every
night— you love each other, and that’s more than enough.
“I can’t figure this out.” You grumble, face in your hands to hide your eyes
from the offending textbook in front of you. It was a mistake to take one of
the Advanced English courses here, because both the professor and the material
sucked, but you’d already paid for the class. There was no way in hell you were
going to waste your money.
“Babe, you’ve been at that for hours.” Daishō is busy typing away at his
laptop, trying to finish his paper before the midnight deadline. You know he
wants to take a break, but the minutes are ticking by and he still has an
entire page to go.
You groan, tilting your head back so that it rests on the side of his bed.
You’re currently sitting on the floor next to each other, legs touching in a
small show of support in your individual endeavors. You work best like this,
cooped up in his dorm room and away from the talkative groups in the library,
but you’ve both been so stressed lately that even being near each other takes
effort. You haven’t touched each other for nearly a week, save for the chaste
kisses before class and the hand-holding that he loved so much, and it’s been
taking its toll on your nerves. You have a perfect outlet for stress right in
front of you, yet you can’t take advantage of it.
You look at the clock. Half an hour until midnight. You can wait.
You daydream while he works. About high school, when you were the volleyball
manager. Universities had no such position— you asked their coach, who turned
down your offer— and without the extracurricular, you felt a little lost. It
used to be so much fun, watching after the boys and being able to regularly
attend matches from a court-side seat. You went and saw Daishō play all the
time, of course, but it just wasn’t the same.
Daishō has his eyes focused intently on the screen of his computer. His face
has gotten a little bit more mature since high school. While he was never
chubby by any means, he’s completely shed any baby fat on his cheeks. His eyes
look a bit sharper and his body is more muscular than ever. He’s even gotten a
bit taller, just barely under six feet, though his neatly-parted hair has
always remained the same.
You’ve changed too, you suppose. You wonder if Kuroo has as well. You’ve seen
him only a handful of times since you went off to university, and each time you
can’t take in any subtle differences because you’re too caught up in the way he
looks at you. You expected him to move on after graduation, but it seems like
he’s done the exact opposite. Even Yaku has told you, during your minimal
texting sessions, that the former captain is more hung up on you than ever.
You look back at the clock. Fifteen more minutes, and then Daishō will be free.
He’s typing frantically now, muttering about not being able to proofread before
submitting the paper, and you bit back the urge to tell him that he deserves it
for procrastinating so long. After all, you’ve done your fair share of rushed
work.
Kuroo goes to school an hour away. You know he was always a spectacular
student, so he’s probably never been in the same sort of time crunch as you or
Daishō. He probably would have been a good influence too, if you’d given him
the chance—
No. No, don’t you dare think that. Daishō is your soulmate, [Name], you can’t
be hung up on what could have been with Kuroo.
Ten minutes. You wonder if Daishō will be in the mood at all, or if he’ll be
stressed enough to want to go to sleep immediately. While he does definitely
need his rest— the bags under his eyes are ridiculous— you can’t deny the fact
that you’re horny as hell and you need a release.
Five minutes. His eyes keep flicking between you and the screen. He can tell
you’re getting restless, and he’s known you for so long now that he can see
exactly why. He licks his lips and types out his last few sentences.
With three minutes left until midnight he submits his paper, slamming his
laptop shut and sliding it to the floor beside him. You waste no time in
climbing into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing a kiss
to his forehead.
“Someone’s horny.” He purrs. You beam at him, because you can hear the
exhaustion in his voice yet you know he’s putting your needs first.
“I’ve missed you.” You say, and he knows exactly what you mean. He pulls you in
for a kiss, his arms wrapping around you so that your chest is flush with his.
“Can’t say I don’t feel the same way.” He murmurs against your lips. “It’s been
a while, hasn’t it?”
“Too long.” You agree, and then he’s picking you up, muscles in his arm
twitching, and gently lays you on the bed so that he can crawl over you.
It feels good just to be able to kiss him, to know that the spark that started
your relationship is still burning strong. You love this boy, you really do,
despite all the sarcastic comments and the manipulative volleyball tactics.
He’s like an umbrella on a rainy day, protecting you from gloom. You love him
for it. You love everything about him.
You shed your clothing with practiced ease. He rummages in his drawer for a
condom, rolling it on while you nip at his neck.
He belongs inside of you. It’s a perfect union, something that you’ll never get
tired of. He must feel the same way, because he always lets out a groan of
appreciation whenever he slides home, feeling you take him to the base. You’ve
always fit together so nicely, since the very beginning. It reminds you why you
stay with him, even through the jealous rants and the easy agitation. No
relationship is perfect, yours included.
“Fuck, I love you.” He exhales, sending air ghosting across your cheeks. You
capture his lips with your own, sucking on his bottom one. His thrusts are slow
and a little torturous, but you know that it isn’t because of the fact he’s
tired. He wants to spend his time on you, be able to truly indulge in the
moment, and you aren’t one to complain about it. His fingers skim over your
body— brushing along your nipples, tracing the curve of your hips, palming at
the flesh of your stomach— like he can’t quite believe that you’re here with
him.
“I love you too.” You’re almost blinded by how true the statement is, how much
you mean it when you say it. He smiles down at you, angling his hips, and
thrusts hard.
“Oh!” Your hands scrabble for purchase on his back. It’s a little sticky with
sweat, given the balmy spring air that’s rolling in through the window, but you
love it. You love every single dip and curve of his body, from the rolling
muscles in his arms to the sturdy build of his legs. You wrap your own around
his waist, giving him a bit more leverage to pound into you, and he does.
It’s not long before you’re seeing stars behind your eyelids. He closes his
mouth over yours, teeth tugging at your lip, before releasing it so that he can
rest his mouth beside your ear and whisper words of endearment to you.
“I love you, baby. I love you so much. You’re so perfect, fucking beautiful—”
The rest of his words get lost to you as you reach your peak, blood rushing in
your ears and mouth falling open to let out a long moan. His fingers slide down
to your clit in an effort to heighten your pleasure, and you squeeze your eyes
shut at the assault of sensations. You love this man. You love him so goddamn
much.
He knows. He can see it in the way your mouth fails to form the words as you
coast along in satisfaction. He follows suit, groaning your name like there’s
nobody else in the world, and spills into the condom with a satisfied sound.
You’re both still in the aftermath. He presses a kiss to your nose, which is a
tad sweaty, and peers down at you with those narrow eyes of his.
“[Name].” His tone is serious. It almost scares the hell out of you, because
the last time he looked this way was when you were both reconciling in that
bathroom—
“Yeah?” You ask.
“I’m getting an apartment next year.” Your eyebrows knit together. Was he
seriously trying to start small-talk before even pulling out of you?
“I know.” You say. Your tone is concerned; you’re unclear as to where this is
going.
He sees that and sighs, pulling out of you and peeling the condom off, tying
the end so that he can toss it in the wastebasket. You watch him closely, heart
still racing from your orgasm. It nearly stops, though, once he turns back to
you and you can see the look in his eyes.
“Move in with me.”
“What?” You cry, sitting up. He seems a little amused at your reaction.
“Yeah. There’s more than enough room for two people at the place I’m looking
at. We’ve been dating for over three years now. I think it’s time.”
“You’re serious.” You say after a moment in which neither of you speak.
“Suguru, this is a huge deal—”
“I’m not going to spend my life with anyone else. I wasn’t planning on
proposing until after we left university, though, so this is the next best
thing.”
“Oh. Oh my god.”
“Think about it, alright?” He says, even though you both know what your answer
will be.
__
“Why do I have to do all the heavy lifting?”
“Because you’re a big, strong man.”
“That’s enforcing gender rolls, you know.”
You laugh, flicking Daishō’s ear as he pushes your sofa into place. It’s not
difficult— he is strong as hell, after all— but you know he likes complaining
because that means you’ll reward him afterwards. You probably will, given the
fact that the bed is all nice and made and you need to break in your new
sheets, but your plans to tell him that you’ll do so are interrupted by a knock
on your apartment door.
“I’lll get it.” You sigh, figuring it’s one of your new neighbors or your
landlord, but when you open the door, you see a familiar mop of black hair and
a catlike grin.
“Yo. Heard you got a new place. Thought I’d come check it out.”
“Kuroo!” You grin, launching yourself into his arms. It’s been a few weeks
since you saw him last, given the fact that moving into your new place has
taken up most of your time, and while you can hear Daishō practically hiss in
the background, you don’t care because seeing Kuroo always brings back your
best memories from high school.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Kuroo and Daishō are finally at eye-level
after all these years, and it actually startles you a bit. Kuroo has definitely
matured as well— his conniving smirk isn’t nearly as wide, and his hair is a
tad less mussed-up— but Daishō has slowly caught up to him. You haven’t gotten
the chance to compare their developments side-by-side yet, so you disengage
yourself from the hug and take a few steps to the side.
“Aw, come on. High school is over. You’re really still hung up on that
volleyball rivalry?”
Daishō rolls his eyes at Kuroo. “Actually, I’m still hung up on the fact that
you tried to steal the love of my life out from under me.”
“Really? Because if I remember correctly, she was the one who dumped you back
then—”
“Boys.” You grumble. Your happiness at Kuroo’s surprise was already draining;
of course Daishō wasn’t going to be as thrilled as you were. They both look at
you like two scolded puppies. “Kuroo, it’s nice to see you, but I’d appreciate
if you didn’t antagonize my boyfriend. Suguru, you know Kuroo is my friend.
Don’t be a douchebag.”
Both boys launch into a round of excuses, but you wave them off. “I don’t want
to hear it. Suguru, go start on lunch or something. I’ll give Kuroo a tour.”
“Stay out of the bedroom.” Your boyfriend sniffs, but he complies with your
wishes, going to the kitchen with a scowl on his face. You turn to Kuroo, a
little apologetic, but he simply shrugs and reaches out to ruffle your hair as
he slides his shoes off.
You gesture for him to follow you down the hall and he does, past a few of the
boxes you had stacked up.
“Sorry for the mess.” You say as you open the door to the office— which would
have been your bedroom, had Daishō not insisted that you two share a room. “You
caught us right as we were moving in.”
“‘Us’, huh.” Kuroo shoves his hand into his pockets and looks around. There’s a
desk against the wall, holding yours and Daishō’s laptops. There’s a couple
framed pictures on the wall, of you and him— a family picture that your mother
had insisted he join in on, a candid photo from your first date, the two of you
side-by-side at a festival— and Kuroo drinks it in. “You’re serious with this
guy, aren’t you? Already moved in together.”
“He says he wants to get married after we graduate.” You say, voice dropping a
bit. Kuroo doesn’t seem interested in a tour as much as he is in looking at
you, his grin morphing into a serious frown.
“And you? What do you want?”
You glare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean, Tetsurō?”
He holds up his hands in an amicable way, but you can tell he’s pleased that
you called him by his first name. “I didn’t mean anything by it. If you wanna
marry the guy, then be my guest.”
“Fine.” You say. You pretend to swipe away imaginary dust on the desk. There’s
a few pictures there, too; they’re much smaller, in plain metal frames, and
Kuroo picks one up to inspect it.
“You still have the team photo?” He asks, a tinge of surprise in his voice. You
look up at him.
“Of course.” You know what he’s looking at; it was taken right before
graduation. Nobody on the team but Lev and Kenma wanted to be near you, given
the fact that you had admitted to them that you were back together with Daishō.
Lev has one gangly arm around you— usually how you and Kuroo used to pose in
pictures, but the captain had chosen to stand far away from you— while Kenma
was stone-faced next to you. Despite the fact that you could practically feel
the tension radiating off of the photograph, you kept it. It was a reminder of
all the good times you used to have, before adulthood robbed your life of ease.
“I was such a jackass.” Kuroo snorts, putting the picture back where it was,
next to Daishō’s own team photograph. His was by far happier looking.
“You were pissed because I was dating your rival. That’s fine.” You say. Kuroo
shakes his head.
“No, I was being a crybaby about the fact that I lost you to another guy. I
should have just sucked it up and spent time with you when I had the chance to
do it on a regular basis.”
His words make you a little uncomfortable. You know Kuroo has never been a sore
loser, and there’s a sourness to his words that’s uncharacteristic.
You clear your throat. “How are things at your school?”
“Fine.” He snorts, bitterly amused by your sudden change in subject. “I’ve been
doing a research project with a group in one of my chemistry labs. It’s going
pretty well.”
“That’s good to hear.” Your words are sincere. They make a dagger of pain go
through his heart.
“Hey.” He says after a pause. “At least just tell me why.”
“Why what?” You know exactly what he means.
“Why this couldn’t be us. Why you couldn’t have picked me.”
“Kuroo, come on—”
“I’m serious.” He’s looking at you with those same eyes he used to give you in
high school. You bite your lip, a surge of unfamiliar emotions tangling in your
chest. “You should be with me. You would be so much happier—”
“Get out.” You’re both startled to hear Daishō’s voice join yours, his tone
clipped and clinical.
“Hey, I was talking to her.” Kuroo says, eyes narrowing dangerously.
“I don’t care. Get the fuck out of my apartment.”
“She lives here too, you know.”
Daishō’s eyes narrow even more. He’s staring at the both of you from the
doorway, his arms crossed and a sneer dragging his mouth downwards. “Yeah, but
the lease is in my name, jackass. Leave before I drag you out by your neck.”
You recoil a bit, and both men see it. There’s a heavy pause. The atmosphere is
thick enough to choke you. Kuroo’s hands tighten into fists.
“Fine.” He grinds out. He shoves past Daishō with a little more force than
necessary, though to your boyfriend’s credit he doesn’t retaliate. He just
watches him go, his stern expression in place until you hear the front door
slam.
“So much for being ‘friends’ with the guy.” He snorts at you, though his
expression softens just a bit when he realizes that you’re frozen, absolutely
terrified by the emotions running through you.
“Hey.” He continues, “don’t worry about it. Lunch is ready.”
__
“I swear to god you’re going to kill me one of these days.”
You giggle, fingernails skimming Daishō’s bare chest as you straddle his lap.
He’s not usually one to indulge in a ton of foreplay, so tonight seems to be a
special occasion.
It’s your four-year anniversary. You two decided that it would be a low-key
night, spent in the apartment watching movies and sharing kisses on the couch.
A nice idea, but not one that you really got to go through with. You two
started making out before the opening credits had even finished, which led to
him eventually carrying you to the bedroom.
“Yeah? Then maybe I should stop.” You tease at the waistband of his boxers,
trying your absolute best to look innocent. It doesn’t work, and he uses one
hand to grab the back of your head, pulling you closer.
“Don’t you dare. I fully intend on fucking you through this mattress by the end
of the night.” He murmurs, bringing you into a searing kiss that you accept
fully. His tongue darts between your lips to tangle with your own, and his
other hand reaches up to one of your bare breasts—
There’s a knock on the door. Loud enough that you can hear it all the way in
the bedroom. Daishō pulls back for a moment, glaring in the general direction
of the living room.
“Fuck off.” He mutters. You giggle, pulling him back for another kiss—
Three knocks. Louder, this time.
“It better not be a Jehovah’s Witness again.” Daishō sneers. He moves to get
up, but you press him down with your palm.
“I’ll get it. I can just throw on my robe.” You say, “I don’t want anyone to be
scarred by the sight of you yelling at them in your underwear.”
He rolls his eyes but allows you to go, watching with that keen gaze of his as
you remove your robe from its hook on the back of your door and slide it on,
tying the front of it in a little bow. It’s red and silky, and will hopefully
tell whoever it is on the other side of the door that they’ve interrupted
something.
Another round of knocks. “Hold on!” You call down the hallway, and they
suddenly stop. You share a final shrug with Daishō— who is, unfortunately,
getting a little soft in your absence— before marching to the door, wrenching
it open with a scowl on your face.
“Look, we don’t want to buy anything—”
“Woah. Hey there, didn’t mean to interrupt whatever it is that you’re doing.”
Your entire body freezes. A fierce blush creeps up the back of your neck.
“Oh my god. Fuck. Kuroo?” You ask, and the middle blocker grins down at you.
“Heya, it’s been a while. Mind if I come in?” You don’t even get the chance to
respond before he’s brushing past you into the living room.
“Kuroo!” You snap. You haven’t talked to him since the last time he was here,
and the reunion is anything but sweet. “Get the hell out! I’m in the middle of
something!”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He muses, and you realize with a start that your
nipples are definitely prominent under the material of your robe. You cross
your arms in front of them.
“If that’s the case, then why—”
“Oh hell no.” Daishō, recognizing Kuroo’s voice almost immediately, comes
storming out of the bedroom. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Ah, wow. Looks like I really did interrupt something.” Kuroo’s shit-eating
grin drops into a frown when he sees your boyfriend, clad in his boxers and
sporting a semi-hard erection.
“Why did you let this asshole in?” Daishō seethes at you, and you shrug, eyes
wide with your hand still on the door.
“He just walked in!” You exclaim.
Daishō looks conflicted. On one hand, you can tell that he wants to shield your
body with his own. On the other hand, there’s a glint in his eye that tells you
he wants to hand Kuroo’s ass to him.
“Hey, no need to get upset. I just stopped by for a visit.”
“Yeah? Well, visit’s over. I’d like to go back to screwing my girlfriend, thank
you very much.”
You want to pinch the bridge of your nose in your fingers, but you don’t.
They’re glowering at each other from across the living room, and while the
situation is undoubtedly tense, the fact still remains that your boyfriend is
in his underwear and Kuroo may or may not be… checking him out? You shake your
head.
“Kuroo, get out.” You sigh. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Why? Seems to me like I came at just the right time.”
“You did not just imply what I think you just did.” Daishō snaps.
“Aw, come on.” Kuroo looks between the two of you; Daishō, who looks absolutely
murderous, and you, who looks scandalized. “A little variety never hurt
anybody.”
“What are you trying to get at?” You want to focus on Daishō’s words, how
pissed off he sounds, but you’re also a little confused as to why he hasn’t
gone completely soft yet.
“Well, I came here for a chat, but I wouldn’t mind getting a piece of the
action myself. I mean, a guy’s gotta take what he can get.” Kuroo takes a step
towards you. His eyes are half-lidded, barely concealing the growing lust
there. He’s openly leering at you now, the way your body looks in your flimsy
robe, and you’re absolutely horrified to realize that it makes your skin
tingle.
“No. Absolutely not.” Daishō says. He’s walking around the armchair, headed
straight for Kuroo—
“Wait.” You say. “Maybe—”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Daishō looks between the two of you.
“No.”
“Hey, man, if she wants it…” Kuroo shrugs in a what-can-you-do sort of way.
You feel kind of guilty for saying anything at all. Daishō looks hurt,
unbelievably so, but your mind is racing. This might be your only chance to get
rid of all the ‘what-ifs’ in your mind. You can’t fool yourself any longer into
thinking that part of you doesn’t want Kuroo, despite your most recent falling-
out, and everybody in this room knows it.
You kind of expect Daishō to break up with you right then and there, with the
way his eyes are narrowing. He’s flustered, his expression losing some of its
hard edge and his hands loosening from their fists. Hell, you half expect him
to start crying. You don’t expect him to open his mouth and say his next words:
“Fine.”
__
“She tastes good.”
“Yeah, I know.” Daishō snaps, adjusting his grip. He has your legs pried open,
watching with a scowl as Kuroo drags his tongue over your slit with a grin on
his face. You don’t say anything, allowing your head to fall back onto Daishō’s
shoulder, your chest heaving from the fact that Kuroo is very, very good at
what he’s doing.
You didn’t expect them to play nice. Honestly, you wouldn’t have been shocked
if Daishō had punched Kuroo in the face while he was stripping, especially
because his cock rivaled his own impressive girth. But to his credit he hasn’t
done anything of the sort, instead resigning himself to passive aggressive
comments when Kuroo insisted on eating you out.
You squeal when Daishō clamps his mouth over yours in a kiss that’s fairly
aggressive, even for him. The sight, while intended to make Kuroo jealous,
instead serves to make his assault on your pussy even more hurried. His tongue
plunges inside of you, the rough surface dragging against your walls as his
thumb rubs tight circles into your clit. You’d squirm a bit if Daishō’s grip on
your thighs was a little bit less rigid.
You feel his cock along your back, smearing a little bit of precome over your
spine as he shifts his hips. For as disgruntled as he is, Daishō hadn’t become
any less aroused. In fact, you might even think that he was turned on by the
sight of another man going to town on your cunt.
Your legs start to shake a little bit. You’re slowly closing in on your orgasm,
the anticipation building—
“Don’t you dare get her to come.” Daishō snarls. Kuroo disengages his mouth
from you with a grin on his face, peering up at you two from his kneeling
position on the floor with your juices smeared all over his chin.
“And why not?” He asks. His mouth goes to seal over your clit again, but Daishō
releases one of your legs to smack him on the side of the head.
“Because that’s my job. Don’t get too ahead of yourself.”
Was it just you, or did Daishō actually have a bit of an amused lilt to his
voice?
“Fine, that’s fair.” Kuroo stands, his impressive body coming into view. The
sight of it almost makes up for the fact that you’ve just been robbed of an
orgasm. “How are we gonna do this?”
“Spit roast.” Daishō answers for you, and when Kuroo looks at you for
confirmation, you nod.
“Alright. All fours.” He says, and you scramble out of Daishō’s lap, fingers
digging into the comforter. He moves as well, his hands finding your hips in a
show of dominance; he wants to be the one that actually gets to fuck you.
You don’t see how Kuroo’s shoulders droop a little at the action, but you can’t
miss the way his hand tangles in your hair, bringing your face to his cock. You
reach out to tentatively lick it just as Daishō positions himself, sliding into
you the way he has hundreds of times before. His hands dig into your hips in an
almost bruising way, and you hear him let out a stuttering breath as you wrap
your mouth around Kuroo’s cock.
“Jesus.” He breathes, tightening his grip in your hair. You groan, the sound
sending vibrations down his shaft, because Daishō has started to slowly thrust
in and out of you.
“You like that? You’re a fucking slut, you know that?” Daishō sneers. It’s not
cruel, seeing as how he’s been known to indulge in calling you names during sex
sometimes, and it actually serves to turn you on even more. “You really wanted
this, didn’t you?”
“She’s got a mouth on her.” Kuroo groans, his head lolling back a little bit
when one of your hands cups his balls, your tongue flicking into his slit to
taste his salty precome. He tastes a little bit different than Daishō does, but
you like it all the same.
“I know she does.” Daishō probably meant for his words to come out as a hiss,
but they have an undercurrent to them that betrays how good he’s feeling right
now. “Best goddamn head I’ve ever gotten.” He pulls at your hips a little bit,
thrusts getting deeper as one of his hands migrates to your clit. You squeal,
but the sound comes out a little choked due to the fact that you’ve taken Kuroo
to the base, the length of his shaft sliding down your throat with a little bit
of resistance.
“Is she tight?” Kuroo’s eyes are glued to the way Daishō is fucking you,
watching his cock slide in and out of you as your hips meet and separate.
Surprisingly, you don’t see jealousy in his eyes; just pure, raw lust.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Daishō lets out a breathless laugh, and you don’t
have to see his face to know he’s grinning that snakelike grin in front of
Kuroo, flaunting the fact that Kuroo is second best. You want to scold him a
little bit, but you’re otherwise occupied by the fact that Kuroo is pressing
down on the back of your head, letting out a heavy groan when you hollow your
cheeks and suck.
“Fuck, babe.” He hisses, and while you’re completely lost in the sensation of
being fucked by two rivals, you can’t miss the chill that goes up your spine.
Daishō is probably glaring at him now, but instead of retorting with words, he
grabs your hips and absolutely pummels into you, causing your free hand to
tangle in the comforter as you try to find purchase.
Kuroo’s other hand— the one not grabbing a fistful of your hair— comes to rest
on your shoulder in an attempt to stabilize you, but Daishō won’t have it. He
doesn’t let up, driving into you with enough force to send you forward just a
tad. You squeal, unable to continue bobbing up and down on Kuroo’s cock, and
disengage your mouth with a wet popping sound.
“Suguru!” You wail, “be gentle!”
“Nah.” He tightens his grip even more— you’re going to be bruised for weeks, at
this rate— and resumes slamming into you.
Kuroo fists his length, eyes flicking between staring at Daishō’s cock entering
and leaving you, the way your breasts bounce, and your blissed-out expression.
His gaze lingers on you as he jerks himself off, though when your own eyes meet
his, he feels a familiar sensation start to wash over him.
“Shit, shit.” He hisses when he realizes that your lips are forming something.
He knows what it is but he wants to hear you say it, wants Daishō to have to
listen. “Say it, [Name]. Please.”
“Tetsurō.” You moan, and Daishō’s eyes turn dark. “Tetsurō!”
He can’t help it. Between the way you’re calling his name and the fact that
Daishō looks murderous when pounding into your naked body, he reaches his peak.
You squeal when you realize, because sticky strands of his release start to
coat your face. You open your mouth, grinning a little bit when more of his
come lands on your tongue.
Daishō hears him groan before it fully registers that his high school rival is
letting out his load all over his girlfriend’s face, and goddamn does he wish
that he didn’t find it hot as fuck. But Kuroo is grinning like he just won the
lottery while he strokes his cock, and you’re looking like such a pretty little
come slut, and why the hell is this turning him on so much—
He follows Kuroo with a pained groan, filling you up as he yanks your ass back
to meet his hips. You tilt your head back to look at him, face painted with the
release of another man, and it’s almost too much. He doesn’t think he’s ever
come this hard in his life, and he can tell by the glint in your eye that you
know it. The sensation of being used by two of the most well-endowed men you
knew is a little much, and watching your boyfriend bite his lip as he came
inside you was a catalyst for your own orgasm. You yelp, taken off guard by the
sensation and also by that fact that Kuroo is once again kneeling, grabbing the
back of your head and slamming his lips against yours, uncaring that his come
is on your lips. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, almost distracting
you from the way that Daishō is working your clit to coax you through your
release.
It’s over too soon. Daishō pulls out of you almost immediately after you’ve
finished, flopping onto the bed and throwing an arm over his eyes. Kuroo
releases you and you take a moment to collect yourself, the world turning
straight and sideways and almost flipping upside-down as you get re-oriented.
Kuroo lays down next to Daishō, leaving a space between them that you crawl
into. The magnitude of what you’ve just done is slowly starting to sink in, and
you rub at the emission on your face.
“Here.” Kuroo hands you his shirt to use, and when you balk at the gesture, he
rolls his eyes and does it for you. He’s surprisingly gentle.
“We should have a towel nearby next time.” He says once he’s finished, tossing
the shirt to the floor. Daishō snorts, obviously more than spent, but still
aware enough to wrap an arm around you and pull you closer to his side than
Kuroo’s.
“There won’t be a next time.” He snaps, but you can tell from the undercurrent
in his voice that what he’s saying is far from the truth.
Chapter End Notes
     ALSO my personal headcanon for this story is that D/R/K eventually
     either becomes a polyamorous relationship OR Kuroo becomes a somewhat
     regular fixture in the reader and Daishō's relationship.
***** Ukai Keishin- Forever *****
Chapter Notes
     Hey guys, a few quick things about this update:
     1. it's a double one, meaning there will be a chapter posted
     immediately after this one is. If you follow me on tumblr, this is
     the surprise that I've been talking about!
     2. I know that Keishin is supposed to be on the farm in the morning
     instead of the store, but I CHANGED IT FOR PLOT CONVENIENCE OK
     3. This chapter might be a little bit... controversial. The age gap
     between Ukai and the reader is approximately 8 years, which I know
     may make some of you uncomfortable. Additionally, the reader in this
     oneshot has issues with her home life. What I meant to get across in
     this fic was NOT abuse of any kind- the reader just has a difficult
     time getting along with her parents, especially her dad, and deals
     with the stress by smoking. If either the age gap or the family thing
     bothers you, feel free to skip this chapter.
     4. I know the actual smut in this chapter may seem a little short-
     lived. I got really carried away with the plot (because it was my
     first time trying to write a different sort of character), so I'm
     sorry if you guys don't like it much.
     That being said, look at the beginning notes of the next chapter in
     order to see an announcement!
     xoxo sabby
Rain beats mercilessly against the walls of the foothill store, a soothing
remedy that could almost put Ukai Keishin to sleep if he wasn’t the one working
behind the counter.
“A pack of smokes, please.”
He looks up from his newspaper with a bit of a glare in his eyes. It’s not
often that they get customers with weather like this, and the ones that they do
get tend to be a real pain in his ass. You don’t seem to be very different; he
can tell immediately by your smaller stature and the clip in your hair that
you’re nowhere near old enough to smoke.
“I.D.?” He asks, more to humor himself than anything else. You sigh, pulling
something out of your raincoat that he knows will obviously be a fake. He
doesn’t even bother to look at it.
“What high school do you go to, kid?”
“C’mon. Can’t you cut me a break?” To your credit, you don’t whine. You sound
like an exasperated adult, actually.
He waits a moment. There’s nobody else in the store, and he can’t help but
remember his own high school years. He sighs and shakes his head with a “What
do you want?”
“Whatever you’re smoking. I’m not picky.”
“It’s not good to have low standards.” He says, but he retrieves a pack for you
anyway. You toss the money onto the counter, already removing the plastic film
that’s around the pack and shoving it into your pocket.
“Later.” Is all you say, and he goes back to reading his newspaper.
__
He forgets about you, or at least he thought he did. He forgets about most
customers that aren’t regulars, which is why it comes as a shock to him when he
immediately recognizes you voice one week later.
“Pack of smokes, please.”
He looks up, flicking ash off the end of his own cigarette, and scowls. “I
remember you. I cut you a break last time. Go on and do your homework or
something.”
You frown down at him and it’s creepy how old that expression makes you look.
He almost laughs.
You sigh, squinting at him like you remember him from somewhere but you can’t
exactly place it. It makes him a little bit disgruntled, because a teenage girl
shouldn’t be looking at a full-grown man like that, but the moment passes and
you click your tongue in mild annoyance.
“Please.” Your tone is softer. He glares at you.
“No.”
“I’ll pay you double!”
“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand, kid?”
You huff again.
“What’s your name?” He’s secretly pleased by the fact that you look a little
taken aback by his question.
“[Surname].”
“Well, [Surname]-san, I suggest that you quit smoking while you can.”
“You worried about my health, Ukai?” He’s a little startled when you use his
name, but quickly remembers that he’s wearing a name tag. Of course.
“No.” He turns the page of his newspaper. “It’s an expensive habit. Save up for
university.”
You snort, looking out the window. It looks like another storm is brewing, and
this time you don’t have a jacket or umbrella. Ukai almost feels bad for you.
Almost.
“How d’you even know I’m in high school?” You ask after a moment. A raindrop
lands on one of the windows.
“Call it a gut feeling.” He says, scanning the sports section for anything new.
Besides a picture of Seijō and some blurbs about a local baseball team, there’s
nothing good. He turns the page again.
“Nice. Cool. Well, if you aren’t gonna give me a pack then I’m gonna head out
before the rain fucks me up. Later.”
“Later,” he says, trying to sound as disinterested as he can. He’s slightly
terrified to realize that he’s checking out your ass as you leave, and for the
rest of the night he has to keep telling himself not to be a dirty old man.
You’re in high school, probably. He thinks. But you’re kinda cute, with those
old-soul eyes, and maybe—
Nope. Not even gonna think about it.
__
 
Coaching the volleyball team isn’t such a bad gig, all things considered. It at
least keeps him from being bored to death every evening at the foothill store,
because god knows these kids are anything but boring.
“Hinata, you dumbass!”
“One more, Kageyama!”
“Rollingggggggggg thunderrrrrrr!”
It’s all he can do to keep from sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose.
Takeda seems to be in the same boat, his brown eyes scanning the group of rowdy
teenage boys as if they’re a pack of wild beasts. Ukai is inclined to agree
with that description.
“I’m gonna go get more towels.” He says, partially because they actually need
some with the way Nishinoya is sweating and partially because he just wants to
leave the gym for a few seconds. Just because it’s a good gig doesn’t mean he
can’t get a little bit sick of it.
“Okay!” Takeda is trying to be chipper. What a nice guy.
He goes to one of the storage closets right outside the gym because… well, he
doesn’t need an excuse. He just wants to. He’s a little miffed, though, to see
that there’s a girl already inside, rummaging through the towels. He can’t see
her face, but she has a nice—
God damn it, Keishin, could you stop being a creep for like, five seconds? His
conscience screams at him, and he actually cringes, wondering if he should just
walk away and pretend that he wasn’t gawking at a teenage girl again.
She turns around before he can make that decision. His mouth goes dry, and the
deeper, more creepier part of his brain guffaws, I knew I recognized that ass
from somewhere!
“Yo, Ukai.” You don’t look shocked in the slightest, your words slightly
muffled by the fact that the tip of a water bottle is in your mouth.
“What are you doing here?” He sputters, hoping he isn’t loud enough to catch
the attention of the boys in the gym. You smirk, and it’s really unnerving how
cute the expression is.
“‘Here’ as in Karasuno? I go here.” You say, shrugging a little bit. “Or did
you mean ‘here’ as in the supply closet, cause I left one of my towels from
home in the gym by accident and now I can’t find it.”
He shouldn’t find your deadpan way of speaking to be cute. Hell, he shouldn’t
be finding anything about you cute, because now there’s a guarantee that he’s
at least eight or nine years older than you. But here you are, the poster child
for nonchalance, and he’s wondering what it is about you that’s so endearing,
because he barely even knows you.
“What’re you doing here?” You ask, and it snaps him out of his little trance.
“I’m the boy’s volleyball coach. Temporarily.” He clarifies, brushing past you
to grab a couple of towels like he had meant to.
“Nice. Cool. That mean you aren’t gonna be selling me cigarettes anymore?”
He snorts, despite himself, because you’re just that freaking weird.
“No, [Surname].” He says, and if his back wasn’t towards you he would see the
shock that flicks across your face when you realize that he remembers your
name, “looks like you’ll have to find another foothill store.”
“Fine by me. The customer service was shitty, anyways.” You say. He can hear
you suck on the end of your water bottle. He tries to think of something funny
to say, something that would impress you or make you laugh or something, but
you cut him off before he can.
“Gotta go back to practice. Later.” Your footsteps retreat and he lets out a
breath he didn’t even know he was holding, grabbing even more towels as if
that’ll make up for his long absence.
Thankfully Takeda isn’t one to ask too many questions, and he settles back into
his seat after stacking the towels on the ground. He knows he’s supposed to be
watching these kids practice, but instead he spends the rest of the evening
asking himself how low he had to stoop to have a schoolgirl crush on someone
who was nearly a decade younger than him.
__
“We meet again.”
He nearly pisses himself, honestly, because you’ve been poking around the
corners of his life too much lately that frankly it’s making him a little bit
miserable. If it’s not the glimpses of you he gets when you walk past the gym
during practice it’s the occasions that you come into the store in the morning,
grabbing a snack before school and rewarding him with a bit of small talk.
But this is different.
“Why are you here?” He snaps, that same feeling of disgust creeping over him
that he always gets when he realizes that he’s pleased to see you.
“Came for a jog. Great minds think alike.” You say, referring to the gym shorts
and T-shirt he has on. He scowls down at you; he’d come to the park for some
peace and quiet after a hectic week with the team but you, in your typical
fashion, just had to crop up at the most inconvenient time. “Wanna run with
me?”
He sputters a little bit. The corner of your mouth lifts up in a smile, and he
tries to ignore the fact that it’s making his stomach do funny things.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
And then you’re off, jogging at a leisurely pace that he can easily catch up
to, all his hopes of peace and self-introspection dashed by the way your ass
looks in those shorts.
He sighs when his conscience doesn’t even butt (ha!) in this time. It’s like
every component of his mind that is capable of rational thought has relented to
the fact that yes, Ukai Keishin is indeed a creepy old man with a crush on a
high school student. But as long as he doesn’t make a move, as long as he keeps
his distance—
“So what sport do you play?” He blurts, and then he immediately wants to kick
his own ass. He’s not supposed to be interested in your life, not supposed to
wonder things about you. You snort, and he’s absolutely disgusted by the twinge
of pleasure that the noise brings.
“I do track, actually.”
“And you smoke?”
“Yeah. Weird, isn’t it?” You’re not even breaking a sweat, not even panting
between your words. Just running with your eyes ahead, the contours of your
face softened by the light of the setting sun.
“And—”
“My turn to ask a question. You already got two.” You point out.
“Whatever.” He scoffs, trying to seem nonchalant about the whole thing. He
doesn’t pull it off as well as you do.
“What’s your given name?”
“My what?”
“You look kind of like a Hayato to me. Maybe even a Kaito.” You muse. He scowls
down at you and you shoot him a shit-eating grin. He debates.
“Keishin.”
“Keishin, huh? Nice. Suits you.”
“Yours?” KEISHIN GODDAMN IT STOP ENCOURAGING THIS.
“[Name].”
Honestly he’s fucked, truly fucked, because you have the most beautiful name in
the world.
__
“Pocky isn’t a good choice for breakfast, you know.”
“Okay, mom.”
He shakes his head as you hand him your cash, opening the treat before he even
has the chance to count it. He doesn’t need to, though, because you always give
him exact change and even if you didn’t he’d probably just pay for it himself.
“How’s the volleyball team?”
“Good.”
“Yeah? I used to have a crush on that Daichi guy, back in the day.”
“Don’t say back in the day like you’re some sort of old maid.” Ukai snorts,
taking a jab at you mostly to hide the fact that he’s kind of jealous of a
teenage boy. Like, really, is his life going to be that much of a shitshow now?
“Whatever, Ukai.”
“You still like him? I could try and, you know…” He jokes, and to his delight
you burst out laughing.
“Fuck no! I was like, fifteen! He’s not even my type!” You guffaw, and you both
kind of laugh. At each other, at the sexual tension, at the fact that you’re
eating pocky for breakfast. He doesn’t quite know what it is you’re finding so
funny, but your laugh is really something else and he’s not going to complain.
“What’s your type then? Bodybuilders? Guys with scalp tattoos?”
You chew on your pocky, feigning thoughtfulness. There’s still a smile on the
edge of your lips but its gotten a little bit mischievous, and he can’t help
the way that his stomach churns when he sees it.
“Nah.” You take a look at your watch. You’ll be late for school if you wait
much longer. “I’m into older guys, actually.”
And then you spin on your heel, your uniform skirt twirling about your thighs,
and march out the door. He feels conflicted, honestly, and he has half a mind
to chase you out there and demand to know if you were flirting with him or not.
Instead he just flicks ash off the end of his cigarette, watching as the smoke
from it curls towards the ceiling and thinking that you’re going to be the
death of him.
__
“It’s raining again.”
Ukai clicks his tongue. It always seems to rain on the days that you spend the
most time with him. Not that he minds it, though, because a little bit of
precipitation is totally worth being able to talk to you freely.
A week has passed since your little comment about liking older men, and neither
of you have brought it up. He can’t decide whether or not he’s grateful or
annoyed; obviously, crossing the line from friendship (?) into something else
would be frowned upon, given your age gap, but at the same time he’s been
caring less and less with each passing day. You’re mature for an eighteen-year-
old. Maybe too mature, actually, because you always seem interested in politics
and real estate and other things people your age usually aren’t, but goddamn it
he likes that about you and he doesn’t care if that makes him a creepy old man
anymore.
“So it is.” He replies. The store is pretty vacant for a Saturday, the only
patrons being you and an older lady that seemed to take an hour deciding what
she wanted to purchase. He blames the lack of customers on the foul weather,
which has been brewing all week, and part of him is thankful for it because
that means you and him can chatter to each other without worrying about people
giving him accusatory glances.
Right. As if he’s corrupting you. If anything, you’re the one doing the
corrupting here.
His shift is over in two minutes and you still haven’t left. You blame it on
not wanting to walk home quite yet because hey, the rain might let up, but
there’s a glint in your eye that he can’t quite place and he’s not sure that he
wants to. It’s almost as if you’re taunting him, begging him to ask about what
you said the other day, and he’ll be damned if he gives in to your charms that
easily.
But he does give in, because once his shift is over and he’s locking up he
offers you a ride home and you accept it a little too graciously. Like you were
waiting for him to do it.
You look even smaller in the passenger seat of his car. Your legs are pressed
together, like you’re a little bit nervous and don’t want to move. You promise
to give him directions to your home and thank him for giving you a ride but he
waves you off, choosing instead to light a new cigarette and let the smoke
filter out the small space that he creates when he rolls the window down just a
tad.
“Can I bum one off of you?” You ask, and he considers saying no but honestly he
just can’t. He shrugs and you pull one out from the pack, popping it between
your lips and grabbing his lighter to light the tip.
Despite knowing that you do so, he’s never actually seen you smoke before. It’s
oddly sensual, the way your lips wrap around the filter and the smoke curls
from your mouth. You’ve been doing it for a long time, he can tell, and the
thought makes his heart seize painfully in his chest because he knows that
there’s a reason behind every smoker. Even the ones that do it in order to look
cool have some deep-seated insecurities.
“Left. Right. Go straight at this intersection.” You say, your voice soft and
nearly drowned out by the merciless pounding of rain against the roof of the
car.
He’s surprised by how close you live, but then again you always do seem to walk
there, so it makes sense. But what doesn’t make sense is the somewhat shocked
and worried expression you make when he pulls closer and there’s a green car
parked outside your house. You stare at it for a moment and then, seemingly
unable to stop yourself, you mutter:
“My dad’s home.”
And there’s something about the way you say it that makes the hair on the back
of Ukai’s neck stand up. You don’t sound incredibly fearful, just a little
pensive and resigned, like you were sort of hoping that your father wouldn’t be
home.
He doesn’t stop in front of your house. He keeps going down the street and you
turn to look at him, a little taken aback with your eyebrows knitting together,
and he shrugs, not quite able to meet your gaze.
“Let’s go for a drive.” Is all he says, and you don’t reply but he can sense
the gratitude rolling off of you in waves.
__
 
“So. Older men, huh.” He says when you’re driving by a park and the rain has
let up a little bit. He notices with a start that it’s the same park that he
jogged with you at. There’s a rush of fondness in the discovery that he wasn’t
prepared for. He comes to a stop under a large tree, isolated a little bit from
all the other empty cars parked on the street.
“Yeah. And I have daddy issues too. Go figure.” You pull another cigarette from
the pack and he doesn’t stop you. He watches from the corner of his eyes as you
light it again and it all makes sense now. All of it; the surprising maturity,
the smoking, the way you always seem to be anywhere else but your home. He
wants to reassure you, tell you that things will be better, but he knows that
he can’t and he knows that you won’t believe him, anyway.
You lapse into silence. There’s not much to be said and neither of you are
willing to say it, so you both settle on listening to the rain come down
through the leaves and the scraping noise of his windshield wipers.
“Ukai.” You say, and he jumps a little bit in his seat. He turns to look at you
and you have one eyebrow raised, the cigarette clamped between your fingers and
your head tilted to the side as if you’re contemplating something. He’s not
sure he wants to know what it is.
He finds out regardless, though, because you lean across towards the driver’s
side and give him a firm kiss on the lips. It’s so short and simple and sweet
that some might have seen it as a chaste one, a thankful one, but he knows
better. You retract back into your seat, bringing the cigarette to your lips
again and taking a drag.
“[Name].” He says. You look at him again, exhaling smoke, and he frowns at you.
“You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re confused.”
“But I don’t see you complaining.” You say. The cigarette is burned down to the
filter now; you roll down the window and flick the butt out into the rain
before quickly rolling it back up because it’s absolutely pouring outside.
“That’s beyond the point.” He’s fighting to keep himself from lecturing you
because he knows that’s the last thing you want right now, and maybe he’s gone
a little bit soft but the thought of hurting you even more is heartbreaking. So
he settles for giving you a disapproving glare, which seems to incite some sort
of mirth in you.
“I don’t see how. You think I’m cute. I’m pretty into you. No harm, no foul.”
He gawks, and not just because you’ve called him out on having a thing for you.
It’s because you said it so lightly, as if all he cares about is the way you
look when really it runs much, much deeper than that.
He wants to hear you talk. Wants to hear what you think about the newest makeup
trends or the fact that your running shoes are getting a little bit ratty.
Wants to know what you plan on studying in university, if you have any pets,
how many times you’ve snuck out of your house in the middle of the night. He
wants you to talk his ear off, wants to know every minute detail of your life
until he can recite them all from memory, and it’s so painful because he’s
transitioned from being a creepy old man to a creepy old man who happens to
want to date a girl who’s nearly a decade younger than he is.
Maybe that’s why he does it. Maybe he thinks that by leaning over and kissing
you back he’s somehow conveying all of that in the smooth glide of his lips
over yours, somehow reassuring you of something that you hadn’t even
considered.
It takes you a moment to kiss back. You’re not startled by his decision but you
do contemplate it, wondering if this is the right thing for you to do. But his
lips are pretty warm and he tastes like smoke and honestly you like this guy so
much that you’re really not going to complain.
When you break apart there’s a string of saliva that stretches between you. You
snort, amused, and he kinda laughs too but in this pained way that lets you
know he’s also weighing the pros and cons of this decision.
“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage of you.” He says, one
large hand coming to rest on the side of your neck. It’s a sweet gesture, one
you weren’t expecting.
“It’s okay. I’m fine with being taken advantage of.” You reply and he shakes
his head with a scowl on his face.
“That’s not okay, [Name]. None of this is okay. You’re eight years younger than
me.”
“So?”
“So, this isn’t appropriate. We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“You still want to, though.”
He sighs. “Yeah. I do.”
You’re both pensive for a moment, seemingly unable to decide where to go from
here. His lips are tingling something fierce and he really, really wants to
kiss you again. But you’re suddenly looking at him like you’ve finally figured
out what he’s about, like you know that he doesn’t want to just use you for sex
or to satisfy some weird kink. He likes you. He actually, genuinely likes you,
and he tells you so.
“Oh.” You say. It’s not a happy sound or a sad sound. It’s neutral, like you’re
not really sure if you’re okay with this. He gives you your space and takes the
car out of park, continuing to drive on the deserted streets. One of the
benefits of driving during such awful weather is that nobody else is around to
see him struggle with his morals.
A few minutes pass. “Keishin.”
“Yeah?” He doesn’t comment on the fact that you’ve used his first name. In
fact, he likes it. It sends tingles from his brain into the tips of his
fingers.
“Will you hold me?”
He parks the car again. It’s a deserted enough area, he thinks.
“How?”
“Backseat. I just kind of want to be held.”
“Sure.” He says, because there’s no way he’s going to say no to a request like
that.
You both rush into the backseat, trying hard to avoid the rain as you do so.
When you’re settled in you let out a breathless laugh because it’s a little bit
cramped and he’s closer than he’s ever been and that makes you kind of happy.
He slings and arm around you and you nuzzle on his chest, enough so that you
can hear the beating of his heart.
“You’re too young for me.” He mutters.
“I know what I want.” You reply, and then he’s kissing you again, as if doing
so will fix everything that’s wrong with the situation.
__
 
“I’m not going to university.” You say. You’re painting your toenails on Ukai’s
living room floor, careful not to get any of the red varnish onto his carpet.
He’s sitting on the couch, reading the paper, but he immediately folds it shut
upon hearing your declaration.
“What?” He asks. You almost laugh with how scandalized he sounds.
“No money, Keishin. And before you say ‘but you’re so smart!’, consider the
fact that I’m not smart enough to get a scholarship.”
“But—”
“Believe me, I’ve applied for them.” You screw the cap onto your nail polish,
wiggling your toes a little bit. “I’ve done everything I possibly can to get
out of my house. No dice.”
“[Name], couldn’t you have gotten a scholarship for track?”
“Nah.” You frown; your polish application was a little bit streaky on a few
toes. Oh well, you didn’t really feel like fixing it now.
Ukai gets up from his couch, settling down next to you on the carpet. His has
that contemplative look on his face, the one that you find utterly adorable, so
you press a soft kiss to his jawline. It’s stubbly.
“Keishin, you need to shave.”
“Whatever.” He grumbles. You can tell that he’s not pleased with your decision
to give up on pursuing a higher education. You nudge him in the side, but even
that doesn’t make him crack a smile.
“Keishin, don’t be so upset about it. Are you trying to get rid of me or
something?”
“No!” He balks, and you giggle. It’s a sound he doesn’t get to hear often, yet
it does little to reassure him. “I’m just thinking about your future!”
“This might come as news to you, but people can still be successful in their
lives without attending university.” You blow on your toes in order to busy
yourself.
“Yeah, but—”
“Besides. As long as I get to spend time with you, I think I’ll be fine.”
He clamps his mouth shut and looks at you. You look back, a serene smile on
your face. He seems like he wants to kiss you, then, but he holds back. He
always does, even though the two of you have come to a somewhat silent
agreement that you’re dating. Kind of. He’s hesitant to do anything couple-y,
though, and you can’t say that you blame him.
“Why do you have to be so young?” He asks. You shrug.
“I mean, I’m not that young. I happen to be one of the oldest third years.” You
reason, and while you’re right— you’re one of the few eighteen-year-olds at the
school— that does little to help his moral struggle. No matter how old you are,
you’re still in high school and he’s still eight years older than you, and
sometimes thinking about it for a long time makes his brain hurt. He wants
things to be simple. He wants to be able to hold your hand in public and have
it be socially acceptable. He wants to have you meet his parents and go on
silly dates with him. He wants to get married to you, have a family of his own,
and these are all things that he knows you’re not ready for. He wonders if you
ever will be.
“Hey.” You continue when you see that his serious expression hasn’t eased.
“Stop thinking so much. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Ha.” He snorts. He pokes at the hole in his pants, the one right over his
knee. “You’re so funny. Very original.”
“I try.” Satisfied with how dry your toenails are, you stretch your legs back
out and lean back on your palms. The entire apartment smells of cigarette smoke
but there’s something else there, something musky and masculine that you
absolutely love. You smile at Ukai in the most brilliant way that you can.
“C’mere.” You say, and he complies, leaning over to press a kiss on your lips.
It’s a small peck, but at least he didn’t look around feverishly before he did
it.
“When do you need to be home by?” He asks, ignoring the fact that the question
once again draws attention to how you’re young enough to have a curfew.
“I don’t.” You reply, resting your forehead on his. “I told my mom I was
spending the night at a friend’s. I can leave whenever you want, I already told
one of the girls on the team that I might be over later.”
“You don’t have to go.” He says. “I don’t mind if you spend the night.”
You stare at him. He stares back. You wonder if this will finally be the night
where the both of you can finally shed your inhibitions, but you also don’t
want to assume. You don’t want to push Ukai and make him do something that
he’ll regret, especially because you know that he already thinks he’s been
taking advantage of you and your issues at home, which you still haven’t told
him about.
They stand between the two of you like a wall of glass. You know he wants to
ask about them, wants you to let him in, but he’s also been trying to give you
room.
You get the urge then, to tell him. This is a man who you know won’t shy away
from the stories you tell. This is someone who will take you for better or for
worse.
“My dad and I don’t get along.” You say. He blinks, mouth dropping open and
forming a question, but you cut him off. “We never have. That’s just how it
is.” The weight of your words is massive, and it takes some time for them to
sink in. You’re finally opening up to him.
“How can I help you?” He breathes. You smile at him, trying to make the
expression less heartbroken than it is.
“I don’t know.” You answer truthfully. “But at least you’re willing to try.”
__
You graduate high school on a bright and sunny day, surrounded by your
classmates and smiling widely.
Ukai is there— for Azumane and Sugawara and Daichi, of course, but also for
you— and he can’t tear his eyes away from you. You look so bubbly and happy,
even if it’s a little bit faked, and the way your uniform looks on you is
practically divine.
His eyes scan the crowd. A few people have come up to talk to you, of course,
and he’s kind of shocked at how popular you are. He’d always seen you as
[Name], the bitter teenage girl who always smelled of smoke and soap, but your
fellow classmates must see you differently. They hug you, ruffle your hair
affectionately, and even press chaste kisses to your forehead and cheeks. Your
smile is less rigid now, growing even more when Daichi comes by to say a couple
words to you.
It’s stupid. Ukai knows it. But he’s jealous, even though you’ve told him
hundreds of times that you no longer have a dumb crush on the former captain.
The way your face lights up is so pure that it makes his stomach drop. That is
the type of person you should be with. One that’s your age, one that doesn’t
have to worry about if they’re using you or have to hide your closeness. Ukai
swallows down his bitterness, though, because he knows that you’ve made your
choice and he has to make his.
You don’t talk to him until most of the attendees have already filtered out. It
takes him by surprise, though, when you skip up to him and give him a warm
smile in front of all the people still milling about.
“I’m happy you’re here.” You say, and while your tone is chipper there’s an
underlying thread of bitterness. “Neither of my parents showed up.”
“Looks like I’m driving you home, then.” He says, and you nod. There’s
something different about you today, and while it isn’t unnerving him, it
doesn’t calm him either. Your eyes are like the middle of a hurricane, emotions
twisting and washing away behind them.
“So.” He says, allowing his voice to drop a little bit lower once you two have
left the gates of the school, walking towards that yellow car of his. “You and
Daichi, huh? Getting a little bit buddy-buddy.”
“Keishin.” You snort, “I swear I’m going to kick your ass one of these days.
Are you seriously jealous of a guy that I barely even know?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
He can practically hear you roll your eyes at him. “Don’t be. You know I love
you, dipshit.”
He freezes. Time stops. His thoughts suddenly go fuzzy and cascade through his
mind like a handful of dropped marbles, his eyes frantically searching your
face for any sign of mirth. You’re completely serious. He feels like he could
cry right now, on this sidewalk, with how fucking happy he is.
“You love me.” He repeats, just in case he heard you wrong.
“Uh. Yeah. Thought you knew that.” Your mouth slides up into a crooked grin.
He wants to stare at you forever. Wants to rip this moment out of time and
shove it into a jar so that he can replay it for as long as he lives. You love
him. You love him.
“You okay—”
“I love you too.” He blurts. You laugh.
“Duh, Keishin. You’re not very good at hiding it.” You say. You grab his arm—
not his hand, just in case other people are watching— and tug him along, once
again resuming your journey to the car.
__
If Keishin Ukai could wish for one thing, it would be the ability to live
without needing to breathe. That way, he could kiss you forever and not have to
worry about trivial things like oxygen intake. You seem to want the same thing,
if the disappointed mewl you make when the two of you break apart is anything
to go by.
He still hasn’t slept with you, even though you’re now about to reach twenty
years old. He knows that you want him, due to your lingering touches and heated
stares, but he still can’t shake the feeling that he’d be taking advantage of
you. That he would feel disgusting afterwards.
That doesn’t mean, however, that he’s completely opposed to seeing you in your
underwear. You were the one who suggested that you strip in the first place,
and, when he didn’t complain, you yanked down your shorts and practically tore
off your T-shirt, climbing into his lap with a spark in your eye that could
have burned him. He’s holding you, almost too tightly, close to his body.
“You’re gorgeous.” He says, admiring the way your body looks. Your underwear is
plain, a pale cotton set, but it fits you. You’ve never been one for all the
bells and the whistles, and somehow that makes it all the sexier.
You roll your eyes. “You’re such a freaking sap, Keishin.”
“It’s true.” He presses a kiss to your collarbone and you squirm a little bit
in his lap, your hands resting on his broad shoulders. He’s still fully
clothed, something that you’re openly bitter about, but he’s never rushed you
so you won’t rush him.
“Yeah, right.” You try to sneer, but your voice is breathless as his calloused
fingers skim over your back, tracing the bumps of your spine and pressing
against your hips. It’s like he wants to memorize every detail that he can, out
of fear that you might just fade away right when he’s so close to having you.
“I mean it.” He nibbles at your neck and you inhale sharply through your nose.
His eyes flick up to meet yours. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” You breathe, your fingers carding through his hair. He goes
back to lavishing your neck with attention, smearing it with little love bites
and saliva.
Your hips rock into his and you could nearly cry because he’s so hard. You
don’t think you’ve wanted anything more in your entire life than him, but he
feels like he’s so far out of reach that satisfaction isn’t even possible. You
let our a hum of appreciation, though, because even with the added layers of
clothing you can tell that he’s well-endowed.
“Please.” You say, and you can tell he knows exactly what you’re asking for. It
isn’t like he’s never gotten you off before, but he can tell that this time you
want to actually go all the way. You’re almost twenty, for christ’s sake, have
been putting up with him for nearly two years, and he knows that he needs to
finally shed his inhibitions. You really want him. You’re in it for the long
haul, through all the tears and the laughs that you two have already
experienced, and he knows that he doesn’t want to spend his life with anyone
else. Age gap be damned, you’re the greatest thing that has ever happened to
him.
“Okay.” He says, and you nearly fall out of his lap with how shocked you are.
You look at him expectantly, as if thinking that he can just vaporize his
clothes or something, and he bites back a smile when he sees the glimmer of
eagerness in your eyes.
You slide off his lap when he gestures you to do so, allowing him to stand and
yank his shirt over his head. You’ve always admired his body, which is
incredibly fit for someone who calls himself an ‘old man’, and you feel
privileged to be able to see it in person. Your fingers twitch with the urge to
reach out and touch him, but you don’t because you’re not sure if that would
somehow make him change his mind.
You watch him undress with barely-veiled anticipation. Your eyes scan the
sturdy structure of his thighs and the dips of muscle in his arms. Appreciation
feels like such an insignificant word to describe what you’e feeling in this
moment. Maybe worship is a better one.
“You okay?” He asks. You must be making a funny face while lost in your
thoughts. You nod, smiling brightly at him.
“More than okay. I’ve been waiting a while for this.” You admit, and you
delight in the fiery blush that spreads over his face from your honesty.
“Me too.” He admits. He pulls his boxers down and you inhale sharply, eyes
transfixed on his cock. It’s a work of art in itself, and you’re absolutely
dying to have it inside of you. He must be able to tell, because he’s gotten a
lot better at reading your expressions over the last year and a half.
“Whose fault is that, though?” You point out, and he rolls his eyes at you. You
almost say something else, something a little bit snarkier, but at that moment
he grabs his cock and gives it a languid stroke.
Neither of you speak for a moment. In the faint light coming through the window
you can see a bit of precome leaking from his slit, and you lick your lips with
anticipation. The only thing keeping your thighs from being smeared with your
own arousal was your panties; he always managed to turn you on a ridiculous
amount, and while usually it was a little bit embarrassing, you were thankful
for it now because the last thing you felt like doing was engaging in foreplay.
You’ve waited too long for this moment, and you’ll be damned if you have to
wait any longer.
He seems to be in the same boat as you, because he yanks his nightstand drawer
open and rifles around for a condom. You can’t help the giddy smile that
spreads on your face, and Ukai seems absolutely floored by your enthusiasm. You
unclip your bra and throw it carelessly to the floor, yanking your panties down
next. His eyes immediately go to your exposed cunt and he strokes himself
again, his adam’s apple bobbing.
“Keishin.” You say once you realize that he’s a bit dazed. “Come here.”
He does as you ask. He always does, because he loves you. He loves you enough
to let you be in charge. He loves you enough to try and see past the
differences that could have torn the two of you apart. He loves you enough to
let his home be a safe haven for you, to be there for you when others haven’t
been, to hold you on the bad days and smile with you on the good. You know it
hasn’t been easy, but none of the best things in life are.
This man isn’t just your boyfriend. He’s your best friend in the entire world.
He’s the feeling of a warm blanket on a cold afternoon. He’s the stars on a
dark night.
He’s your soulmate.
He suspends himself over you, leaning down to press his lips over yours. It’s
slow and languid, but the passion behind it burns like the coals of a fire.
He’s wanted you for so long and you know he couldn’t wait much longer, but the
fact that he was willing to do so makes it that much sweeter.
You take the condom from where he’s placed it on the mattress, and you two
break apart so that he can watch you tear open the gold packet and roll the
latex over him. You’re smiling up at him again, the bright one that reminds him
of sunflowers and spring days. God, he could just stare at you forever.
“Do you—” He asks, his fingers stroking the inside of your thighs.
“No.” You say. You’re a tad breathless. “I’m ready.”
He takes a moment to compose himself. You’re not a kid anymore. This is what
you really and truly want.
He allows you to guide him inside of you with a somewhat pained groan. You’re
tight and warm and being joined with you is almost enough to make his thoughts
spin. He hears you breathe in sharply, eyes going a little unfocused, before
your arms are wrapping around him and his lips are pressed against yours once
more.
“You feel so good.” He groans against your mouth, and you almost laugh with how
distressed he sounds.
“Fuck me.” You say instead, and he complies in an instant.
One of his hands goes up to grip the headboard as he thrusts into you. It’s
hard and deep, enough to make you squeal, and now it’s his turn to laugh a
little breathlessly, though his reaction is more from wonder. You look amazing
underneath him, like you truly belong in his bed, and the knowledge is
absolutely driving him wild. He’s been picturing this for a while now, much
longer than he would care to admit, but those images have nothing on the real
thing.
“Keishin!” You breathe, nails digging into his back. They rake down the length
of his spine all the way to his hips and he groans, screwing his eyes shut as
he sets his pace. He intended to go nice and slow but you’re so wet and willing
that it’s a little difficult to do so. You don’t seem to mind at all, though,
if the appreciative noises spilling from your lips are anything to go by.
You lose yourselves in each other. You forget the stress of home, the
exhaustion of working full-time instead of going to university. He forgets his
trepidation, his uncertainty and his concern. There’s nothing else in the world
but the two of you, joined each time he thrusts his hips into yours, and every
breath you take makes you feel like you’re inhaling stars.
Neither of you are particularly vocal, but that isn’t really an issue. It’s
plain to see that you’d rather just take in each other’s expressions, rather
see the way the other feels. Your kisses are a lot more sloppy and tongue-
filled than they usually are, as if the precision and refinement that you
usually have has been melted away by the sheer heat of passion.
He’s done this before, but he had no idea that it could feel so good. He
doesn’t know if it’s because your body is just made to do this with his or if
he just loves you so much that it intensifies everything he’s feeling, but the
act of thrusting into you might just unravel him. His other hand grips your hip
tight enough to bruise, anchoring him here while his mind is in twenty
different places, and he doesn’t even care that his neighbor will probably
complain about how loud the headboard is hitting the wall.
Your legs wrap around his waist and immediately you know you made the right
decision in doing so. He’s going even deeper now, exploring parts of you that
make you feel like your skin is on fire, and after a particularly hard thrust
you feel something like electricity in your veins.
“Oh!” Your legs tighten and he grins that grin you love so much, looking at you
like you’re the only reason he’s alive right now. “Again!”
He complies. Your head tips back and your spine arches, little pants falling
from your lips as a haze of pleasure draws nearer. He seems to know it too,
because the hand on your hip migrates to your clit and his fingers roll over
it.
You don’t stand a chance. You come with a breathless rendition of his name,
staring into his eyes for a brief moment before all of your nerve endings meet
rapture. He gapes at you openly, unaware that something so beautiful and
perfect could happen right in front of him, before he follows you with a
surprised groan.
The room falls to silence. His hand releases the headboard so that it can
cradle your cheek, your eyes opening when his thumb caresses the soft skin of
your face.
“Happy?” He asks. Your lips quirk into a smile.
“Yeah. More than.” You tell him, and he leans down to kiss you once more,
relishing in the rush of endorphins that comes with sex.
Four months. Only four months until you finally turn twenty. Only four months
until you’re old enough to get married. Only four months until the age gap
between the two of you is more socially acceptable.
He can wait for four months. He’d wait forever, if he had to.
***** Semi Eita- Lucky *****
Chapter Notes
     SURPRISE! If you haven't looked at the chapter before this, you might
     want to- because this one is part of a double update! (If you follow
     me on tumblr, then you'll know this was the surprise I've been
     mentioning).
     This oneshot is brought to you guys thanks to a few very lovely
     people on tumblr. Two of which are my babies, Optimus Prime Anon and
     Cobra Commander Anon, who really came through with some awesome
     ideas. Like I've been saying over there, I really want ASID to be
     reader-controlled, and it just goes to show that a few lines of input
     can really get the ball rolling!
     This chapter has to be one of my personal favorites so far, just
     because I love Delinquent!Semi. I had LOADS of fun writing this AU,
     and I hope you guys like reading it as well!
     ***SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT TIME***
     I know quite a few of you were hoping my 'surprise' would be another
     three-way oneshot, and I'm sorry to disappoint! I do hope, though,
     that you'll be excited to learn that there will be plenty more of
     those coming, including a Iwaizumi/Reader/Oikawa chapter that will
     focus on a polyamorous relationship, as well as a Seijo third year
     group sex scenario~
     If you have any questions, comments, concerns, or just wanna tell me
     about your day, be sure to visit me over at sabbywrites.tumblr.com!
     xoxo sabby
     PS- Just a warning to those of you who may be sensitive to the topic-
     in this fic, the reader's father has passed away. If doesn't happen
     DURING the course of events, but it is mentioned a couple of times
     throughout. Just thought I would mention that just in case.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Semi Eita has never been one to start major confrontations.
Don’t get it wrong; he loved joining in on a good brawl, and he could never
turn down the opportunity to back Ushijima up during one of his many conflicts,
but Semi himself did not enjoy starting them. He hated the drama that came with
riling someone else up, hated the effort that went into coaxing them into a
fight. He preferred clean-cut skirmishes, ones with no emotional undercurrent
and minimal chance for heavy bodily injury. Always has, always will.
But there’s something to be said about the power of affection, no matter how
little of it there is. It can prompt people to do things they normally
wouldn’t, which is perhaps why he finds himself standing over a crumpled body
in the shadow of an alleyway, wiping away a river of blood that is leaking from
his left nostril. He doesn’t care about the groans of the boy under him, or the
throbbing pain in his ribcage. There’s adrenaline coursing through his veins,
accelerated by each rasping breath he draws in, but he’s slowly winding down.
He stoops down into a steady crouch so he can look the boy in the face, using
his hand tug at his chin so they lock eyes.
“Did you learn something today?” His voice isn’t teasing, nor is it cruel. It’s
flat and a little bit irritated; one thing that Semi will never do is gloat
after a fight.
“Fuck off.” The guy responds— Semi doesn’t even know his name— and he can see,
in the small puddle of blood on the asphalt, a lone tooth. He debates reaching
over and plucking it up, pocketing it to show to Ushijima or Tendō later, but
he doesn’t. That isn’t what he came here for.
“I asked you a question. I expect you to answer.” He’s certain now that he’s
done his job; if his opponent was lucky, he’ll only be on crutches for a few
weeks. The thought should make Semi smile, but it only serves to remind him of
why he’s doing this in the first place.
When he doesn’t get a response, Semi sighs. He hates sore losers, hates guys
who talk the talk but don’t walk the walk. He wonders if that’s why the boy on
the ground stooped so low as to steal from an innocent girl’s locker; to try
and prove that he was a badass, that he was just as rebellious and Semi and his
friends. He almost clicks his tongue at the thought.
“Okay, let me try again. Which pocket is it in?” He doesn’t want to have to dig
through them all. The sun is already setting, and he promised Ushijima that
he’d stop by after his little detour.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Semi resists the urge to throw
another punch. His hand hurts enough as it is, and any further bruising on it
will surely prompt Tendō to lecture him on how he needs to wrap his fingers
before fights.
“If you don’t answer me, I’m going to have to force it out of you.” He releases
the guy’s chin to wrap his fingers in his hair, bringing his head up with the
intent of slamming it back down into the asphalt, nose-first.
“Shirt pocket! Shirt pocket!” His opponent exclaims, words slightly slurred by
the fact that one of his cheeks is slowly swelling up. “It’s in my shirt
pocket!”
“Good. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, releasing his
hair and rolling the boy over so that he’s no longer on his side. He ignores
the pained groan that comes from the movement, focusing on shoving his hand
into the breast pocket of the guy’s uniform shirt. The feeling of a dainty
metal chain is immediately recognizable against the calloused skin of his
fingertips, and he pulls it out.
It shines in the muted light of the sunset. It’s gold, with a heart-shaped
pendant. He’s seen it hundreds of times out of the corner of his eye, resting
around your neck or hanging on a hook in your locker. He doesn’t have to know
you well to be aware of the fact that it’s one of your most prized possessions,
and the instant he heard that one of the wannabe delinquents from school had
stolen it, he knew he would go to the ends of the earth to get it back.
“Let this be a lesson.” He stands back up, stepping over the body as he pockets
the necklace himself. He steps in a little bit of blood but the fact doesn’t
even phase him as he begins to walk away.
He stops at the end of the alleyway, though, craning his neck so he can see
behind him. The guy is still on the ground.
“Next time you or one of your shitty friends upsets her, I won’t be so kind.”
He says, and then he’s off again, hands in his pockets and nose still leaking
blood.
 
He knows where you live. He figured it out within a week of you catching his
interest. On the days that he skips class (which is almost every day, mind you)
he likes to sit on the sidewalk across the street and make sure that you get
home safely. You live alone in that tiny rental house— unusual for a high
school student, he thinks— and that makes him all the more protective.
You see him every time. You have to, because he’s not trying to be discreet
about it; he plants himself on the curb, chain-smoking and staring straight
ahead until he’s sure that you’ve closed and locked the door behind you. You
never say anything to him. In fact, you never openly acknowledge his presence
at all. But he’s seen the way your curtains shift once you get inside, and he
can practically feel your eyes watching him from the other side of the window.
It makes his whole body tingle in a way that is so not fitting for a guy like
him, but you make him happy and he can’t say that about much these days.
Being on your front porch, though, is almost nerve-wracking. He’s sure his
palms would be sweating right now if not for the fact that he’s been
desensitized to most things. His posture is straight and sure, and he rings
your doorbell without a lick of hesitation.
It takes you a moment to answer. He can hear your footsteps walking closer to
the door, hear your body press up against it as you look through the peephole,
and for a second he’s not sure that you’ll open it. But you do, and he’s
surprised to see that you’re still in your school uniform despite classes
ending hours ago. It looks odd without the addition of a gold pendant around
your neck.
“…Yes?” He can tell you’re unsure as to why he’s here. It isn’t often that a
notorious delinquent shows up on your doorstep, especially one that’s been
standing guard outside your house for weeks now. He can also tell, though, that
you’ve been waiting for him to contact you in some way; there’s barely-hidden
interest in your eyes.
“I think I have something of yours.” He says, pulling the necklace from his
pocket and holding it out. You stare at it for a moment, trying to process what
he’s showing you in the dim light of your porch, before your mouth drops open.
“My necklace!” You exclaim. He gently places it into your now outstretched
palm, his fingers brushing over the surface of your skin. It’s the first time
he’s ever touched you, and while he wants to savor it, he also doesn’t want to
scare you.
“I know.” He says, because he isn’t sure what else to say but he also didn’t
want to remain silent. You’re still staring at it, eyes getting a little bit
misty.
“I thought it was gone forever.” You say. You actually sound a little bit
choked up, and even though it’s because you’re happy, he still feels those
protective urges flare up. “My dad gave this to me when I was younger, before…
Oh god, and then that guy stole it, I know he did—”
You pause then, because you’ve torn your eyes away from the necklace and you
can see in the light from inside your house that his hand is dirty. There’s a
bit of grime on it, and even though it dried to a muted russet color, there’s
no mistaking the fact that there’s blood smeared all over his knuckles. Your
gaze travels to his face, where a bruise is forming on his cheekbone and a line
of blood has dried right above his lip, and it all clicks.
“You…” You say, and he waits for you to recoil, or scream, or run inside and
slam the door behind you. He knows that you know what he did; after all, nobody
hangs out with Ushijima without acquiring a little bit of infamy.
A yankii is on your doorstep. He’s covered in blood. He’s handing you something
that some asshole from your school stole. What transpired is obvious.
“You did that for me?” Your hand curls around the necklace, as if to shield it
from him. He almost regrets his decision to not shower before coming over,
because then there wouldn’t be that sliver of fear in your eyes as you look up
at him, mouth agape. “You took care of that guy?”
“Of course.” He says, partially because he doesn’t want to lie to you, and
partially because his tone says more than his words do: And I’d do it again in
a heartbeat.
You stare at him. He stares back, the harsh thumping of his heart exacerbating
the throbbing pain in his ribcage and the feeling of dried sweat and blood on
his skin making him shift with discomfort. When you don’t reply he takes it as
his cue to leave, his stomach clenching with the knowledge that he’s scared
you. He didn’t want your first official meeting to be like this, but he was
just so angry that someone had upset you, and one thing led to another—
“Wait.” You don’t find your voice until he’s already halfway down your walkway,
moving to shove his hands into his pockets. He pauses, because he’ll do
absolutely anything that you ask, and turns back towards you.
“Yes?” He says, and your face flickers with surprise at how gentle his tone is.
“You can come in, if you’d like.” You say. “You can use my shower. And I was
just starting on dinner, y’know, if you were hungry or anything.” You bite your
lip. You always do that when you’re nervous, and it sends a wave of endearment
crashing over him.
You shouldn’t be offering. You should have raced back into your house and dead
bolted the door behind you. You should be fearful and desperate to be away from
him; it’s no secret that he’s one of the most dangerous people around, but the
knowledge doesn’t phase you.
He should ignore you. He promised Ushijima that he would be over tonight, and
if he takes you up on your offer then he’s sure he won’t leave for a long time.
He should be walking away, cursing himself for making such a bad impression and
letting his distant crush on you getting the best of him. He’s dangerous, and
even though you’re everything he’s ever wanted, he’s resigned himself to
watching you from afar because he doesn’t want the trouble that seems to follow
him to creep up on you as well.
But he’ll protect you. He’ll fight tooth and nail until his last breath if he
has to, just to make you smile that gentle smile he loves so much.
“That sounds good.” He says, voice quiet but still raspy. The nervous look on
your face dissipates slightly, and he’s actually pleased to see that you’re
shooting him a shy grin as you move to the side, gesturing him indoors.
That moment of time, when he’s still bearing the marks of his fight and you’re
pressing down the nerves in the pit of your stomach, is when it all begins.
__
 
“You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.”
Semi winces as you use your tweezers to remove a piece of gravel from the
scrape along his back; your touch is gentle, but it still stings a little bit.
“I don’t even know how you got this in the first place.” You grab another
piece. He flinches again, and this time you pat his uninjured shoulder in a
gesture of apology. “Did one of those guys drag you around on the ground by
your feet?”
“Something like that.” He says, even though that’s exactly what happened. It
wasn’t one of his best moments, but those guys from Karasuno were tough.
However, he can’t really complain that Tendō got him involved in that skirmish
with that Tsukishima guy and his pals. Ever since he returned your necklace,
your home had become sort of a safe haven for him. You always cleaned him up,
offered him food, and didn’t ask many questions. He thinks that you like the
company, and while it might seem insane on the outside for such a gentle and
polite girl to hang out with someone as brutal and bitter as him, he likes to
think that you actually see something in him, something that isn’t cold or dark
or dangerous. Surprisingly, you seem like you enjoy taking care of him, and the
bond that it builds more than makes up for a few cuts and scrapes. He knows
more about you now; your favorite color, your best school subject, how many
pets you’ve had, what kind of soap you use. As mundane as those things may
seem, they make him fall even harder for you. You’re not just a light shining
in the distance anymore. You’re a flesh-and-blood woman, one who shows him
kindness and affection even though you know what kind of person he is, and
although he was afraid his friends would discourage such a thing, they actually
seem happy for him—
“I’m going to put some ointment on it.” You warn. He nods, gripping the sheets
of your bed and trying to pin his focus on something in your room in order to
prepare for the inevitable sting. There’s the textbooks on your desk and those
cute bunny slippers of yours, but he settles on the framed picture of you and
your father on your dresser.
He feels the familiar slide of healing ointment on his back, and he breathes in
sharply through his nose. It burns, but you always insist on applying it so
that his wounds don’t get infected. Besides, the sensation of it is nothing
compared to the feeling of getting knocked down and dragged over crumbling
asphalt.
He bites his slightly swollen lip, eyes tracing the curve of your smile in the
photo. You’re young in it, balanced on your father’s knee while he’s looking
down at you with absolute adoration. It’s a little heartbreaking, because he
knows what happened just months after this picture was taken, but—
“Fuck.” He hisses when the ointment coats a particularly deep part of the
scrape. You mumble an apology and he immediately forgives you, trying to focus
on how good your fingers feel against his bare skin rather than how much pain
he’s in. The cracked rib from his altercation a few weeks ago doesn’t help
matters, and you seem to read his expression without actually seeing his face.
“I’m almost done. Just let me put gauze over it.” You say. He grunts, and you
reach over to your nightstand to rummage through the first aid kid you have
resting there, pulling out a few squares of the white material and a roll of
medical tape.
He’s thankful, not for the first time, that you’re willing to do this for him.
Cleaning up after fights was always such a hassle, especially because Goshiki
was the only one competent enough with first aid to help them. Having three or
more boys to clean up, though, seemed a bit taxing. By the time he got to Semi
he always seemed to want to get it over with, so his touches were usually rough
and hurried.
But you take your time. You lay the gauze over the wound and tape it down with
such a soft touch that he’s convinced you aren’t human. An angel, perhaps.
“Thanks.” He says when you’re finally done. At this point he’s usually reaching
for his shirt and trying to distance himself from you lest he allow his
emotions to control him, but the fabric on the back of his shirt is completely
shredded and your fingers are still lingering over his skin.
He thinks he can feel affection in them, but he pushes down that hope as soon
as it’s born. He’s liked you for a while; he’s assuming that you know, because
you seem to be quite observant, and the fact that you haven’t reacted to it
squashes any hope of reciprocation.
But your fingers are still there. They skim over the surface of his uninjured
skin, tracing tiny scars and lingering over the start of the tattoo on his hip.
He doesn’t say a word, afraid that he’ll ruin the moment if he does.
But then you legitimately rob him of the ability to speak when you press a
gentle kiss behind his ear. His entire body heats up, and he forgets about the
pain. Forgets about the bruises and his split lip and the fact that he’s going
to have to walk home shirtless. His entire body seems to boil down to that one
spot behind his ear, where he can still feel your lips even though you’ve
already pulled back.
“I worry about you.” You say, and your voice lacks the typical humor. It’s soft
and for his ears only, and suddenly hope blooms in his chest like hundreds of
flowers on a summer day, because he knows you’re telling him the truth. You
care about him immensely.
He turns, ignoring the spark of pain that the movement causes, because he’s
waited so long and he cares about you so much that he can’t contain himself any
longer. You open your mouth to speak but his hand is already behind your head,
fingers tangling in your hair as he presses his lips to yours.
It tastes metallic, due to the dried blood on his lip, but he doesn’t mind
because he never thought he would gather the courage to actually kiss you. Your
lips are soft and he finds with a jolt that they’re moving against his. You’re
kissing him back. He pulls away, though, once he realizes exactly what he’s
doing.
“You shouldn’t.” He pants.
“Worry about you?” You look dazed, delightfully so.
“No.” He wants to kiss you again, but he also wants to dart from your room and
never return. This is exactly what he kept telling himself not to do, but for
some reason his emotions always overruled his coherent thinking when it came to
you. “You shouldn’t be doing this with me.”
“What?” Your eyebrows knit together, and he has to admit that you have every
right to be confused with what just happened.
“I’m just…” he sighs, running a finger through his hair. “God, I’m so fucking
stupid.”
“What?” You repeat, “don’t say that, Semi—”
“I don’t know why you’re doing this.” He blurts, “I hurt people, you know that,
I’ve almost killed—”
He doesn’t see you roll your eyes, but it’s impossible to miss the fact that
you’ve leaned forward once more, sealing your mouth over his. He has half a
mind to break away again and ask if you’re insane, but he can’t because the way
you’re kissing him steals his conviction. All the toughness and the anger and
the resentment at life seems to melt away when you rest your hand on his cheek
in a sign of reassurance that he didn’t know he needed.
“Semi.” You say, pulling apart so that your lips still brush against his when
you speak. “I know.”
“We shouldn’t do this.” He tries to force conviction into his voice but it
falls flat. “You deserve better.”
“You’re the best.” You say. Your thumb strokes the top of his cheekbone, and
the movement makes him close his eyes for a moment. He can’t remember the last
time someone has spoken to him with such affection in their voice.
“[Name].”
“Do you want to be with me?” You ask, and his eyes fly open because you sound
so unsure, like you don’t know if he actually likes you. Like you’ve missed the
fact that he practically lives for the hours he spends in your home, eating
dinner with you and gradually opening up. Like you haven’t noticed that he’s
tried to quit smoking just because he doesn’t want the air you breathe to be
toxic. You’re one of the few people in this world that he actually gives a damn
about, and the fact that you don’t know that makes his heart stutter painfully.
“More than anything.” He says.
And then you’re kissing again, and he feels like he isn’t broken as he thought
he was. In fact, he might just be whole.
__
You were never a traditional person.
You got that personality trait from your father. He was always running around,
doing unusual things and trying to make the most out of life. You suppose
that’s what he was doing on the night he died, but nobody has clarified that
for you. All you know is that his car was completely destroyed and he didn’t
have a chance of survival.
It was agreed to by your relatives that you would inherit your old home once
you started high school. You were a mature girl, they reasoned, one that could
probably fend for herself all alone, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them
that the last thing you wanted was to be left by yourself in a house full of
heartbreaking memories, so you braced yourself for years of passing by your
dad’s old room with your eyes screwed shut as if that was enough to shut out
the pain.
But then a delinquent started following you.
The first night, you were unsettled. You knew who he was immediately, and not
only because he hung around Ushijima. He was distinctive in his own right, the
boy who hated everyone but a handful of his friends, with a glare that could
make a full-grown man throw himself on the ground and beg for mercy. You were
afraid, seeing him there and knowing his eyes were on you as he exhaled smoke.
But then you got used to it. You got to know him, got to see the quirk of his
lips when they pulled into a smile, got to hear his rough voice smooth out and
go gentle. You got to run your hands over his skin when he was injured, mending
his scrapes and rubbing his bruises, falling in love ever so slowly with a boy
who was probably too crass for his own good. He kept you company here, filling
the house back up with good memories and providing you comfort in ways that
were slowly starting to mend the crack in your heart.
You didn’t want to think what your relatives would say to you about it, but you
take comfort in knowing that your father would not have minded, because his
untraditional view on life extended to other humans as well, and he had the
same way of seeing the good in people as you did.
You could even see the gentleness in Semi during times like these.
“I’m going to ruin you.” His fingers are pressing bruises into your hips as he
bucks into you mercilessly, his chest rubbing against your back while his lips
brush the shell of your ear. You’re panting, eyes a little bit unfocused as he
pummels into you, hips smacking against your ass with each thrust. “I’m gonna
fuck you until the entire goddamn prefecture knows you’re mine.”
Your arms are a little shaky as they try to hold you steady, a surprised gasp
leaving your mouth as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, sucking at the
skin to create a deep purple mark that you’ll be forced to hide under high
collars. You don’t complain when he does it, though, because it feels fantastic
and the look in his eyes when he’s done is more than worth it. He loves you and
you know it, even when he’s fucking you almost hard enough to break you.
“Especially that guy who was eye-fucking you today.” He sneers once his mouth
is free. Your eyes widen when that warmth of his body over yours is gone,
replaced by the sudden feeling of his fingers knotting in your hair and tipping
your head back so that your eyes meet his.
He has a cut along his cheek and a few bruises dotting his chest, evidence of
what he was doing before he came to pick you up from school and saw one of your
classmates flirting with you. You wish you cold be scared at the sight like any
normal person would be, but there’s something so raw and masculine about the
way he looks, his skin smelling like smoke and leather. You love Semi Eita with
all your heart, even though most people would be quick to judge him, and even
when his grip on your body is brutal and unforgiving, you know he would stop if
you asked him to.
But you don’t want him to stop. You want all of him, even the rough and
unfinished parts, because he wants all of you. And maybe you don’t complete
each other in the traditional sense, but you can’t imagine there being anybody
else in the world that could make you feel this way.
He sees it, and although you know he’s still royally pissed off that someone
else was making a move on you, there’s a glimmer of affection in his eyes. He
licks his lips and you know he wants to kiss you, but the position would make
doing so impossible. So he settles for staring down at you as he continues to
slam into your cunt, watching your eyes slip in and out of focus and breathy
little moans fall past your lips.
“You take my cock so well.” He purrs, the hand that isn’t in your hair slowly
migrating downwards. You inhale sharply when it finds purchase on your clit,
rubbing languid circles that don’t quite match his unforgiving pace. “And
you’re always so wet. God, I could fuck you forever, you know that?”
He laughs a little bit when your mouth tries to form words but no sound comes
out. There’s a little bit of drool leaking past the corner of your lip and it’s
driving him absolutely crazy, seeing how depraved you get while he’s fucking
you. You’ve never once protested his rough treatment, never once had a modicum
of hesitance in your eyes. He knows that he shouldn’t be jealous that other
people see beauty in you as well, but he can’t help himself. You’re the one
thing in this world that he absolutely adores, and he’ll be damned if someone
tries to take that from him.
You’re close. Oh god are you close, and your fingers tighten their hold on your
bedsheets. Your eyes are closing and you’re ready to lose yourself to bliss—
He pulls out of you. You balk, immediately panicking, but you can’t leave your
position because his hand leaves your hair and presses down on your back,
telling you without words that he doesn’t want you to move.
“You didn’t seem to mind when that boy was flirting with you, though.” He
muses. He stops pressing down on your clit, hand going to his cock. You can
hear him start to slowly rub himself, the lewd sound of your juices against his
palm making you want to cry.
“No!” You nearly wail, but if it’s an answer to his statement or just you
mourning the loss of your impending orgasm, you’ll never know. You wiggle your
hips almost pitifully, the promise of white-hot bliss fading away.
“Now imagine how I felt,” he muses, still languidly stroking himself, “when I
saw another guy talking to my girl like that.”
“Eita.” You whimper, “please.”
“Please what, baby?” Oh god, is he trying to kill you?
“Let me come.” Your words are barely more than a breathless whimper, and he
laughs again. You should be bitter about that, but somehow it just serves to
turn you on more.
He hisses a little bit when he feels a familiar spark in the base of his cock.
You know that sound, and you’re almost horrified to think that he might not
finish fucking you and just come all over your back instead.
“Please.” You try again. “Please, fuck me.”
“I dunno.” He purrs. “How badly do you want it?”
“So bad.” You whine. “I want your cock more than anything.”
“Not that other guy’s?”
“No.” You answer immediately. “Nobody else.”
“Are you gonna come all nice and pretty for me, baby?”
“Yes.” You tip your head back to meet his eyes, but you almost wish you hadn’t.
His gaze is feral and it seems to burn a hole right through you. It makes you
clench up a little bit, but without him inside of you the movement is useless.
“I wanna come all over your cock.”
“And you promise that it’s all for me?” He’s practically purring at this point,
dragging the head of his cock over your slit with a lopsided grin. You want to
scoff at him, because the both of you know that his jealousy is unfounded, but
you’re too focused on trying to get him back inside of you to do so.
“Of course.” You try to move back a bit to slide him into you, but he knows you
too well. The hand on your back gently pushes you forward again, preventing you
from any semblance of relief.
“Well,” he lets out a shuddering breath, “I guess I can give you what you
want.” He wants to keep this going longer, but the way you look right now is
making him crazy and he knows he won’t last either way.
“Well if it’s such a chore then—” you don’t even get to finish your sentence
before he’s slipping back into you, buried to the hilt within seconds. He
resumes his previous pace as if the interlude hadn’t happened in the first
place, and you would turn around and kill him if you weren’t so busy letting
out little moans of enjoyment.
“Who’s fucking you?” He asks. His fingers finally go back to your clit— still
coated with your essence— and press down hard when you don’t respond
immediately, too focused on taking in a few shaky breaths.
“Eita.” You pant, and he pinches your clit between his index and middle finger,
rolling it slightly.
“Louder.” He snarls. He’s not going to last much longer, not with the way your
lips are forming his name.
“Eita!” You inhale sharply when he rolls your clit again, eyes rolling back
slightly.
“Who’s gonna make you come?” He slams into you one final time, as if he’s
trying to force his name into you.
“Eita!” You all but sob, and he watches as you come undone below him. The sight
never really fails to render him breathless, because he knows that it’s because
of him. He doesn’t want to be possessive, honestly, because he knows that
you’re not a thing to be bought or sold, but he can’t help the pride that
rushes through him when you wail his name through your orgasm.
He screws his eyes shut and finishes as well, coating your insides with his
emission with a strangled curse. A rush of fondness courses through him—
endorphins or something, but he doesn’t go to class so he’s not really sure—
and he doesn’t let go of you until he’s fallen from his high.
He slips out gently, watching as your arms fold and you collapse onto the
sheets, letting out a breathless noise. He settles down next to you, wrapping a
sweaty arm over your equally sweaty body.
“I need to go on birth control.” You sigh after a moment. “Because I swear
you’re going to get me pregnant one of these days.”
He should be terrified at the notion, but instead he smirks a bit and presses a
kiss to the back of your neck. “And what’s wrong with that? You’d be a great
mom.”
“Besides the fact that we’re still teenagers, I think I would get kicked out of
school.” You roll your eyes at him; you know he wants a family someday, but
this is just ridiculous.
“Nah.” He gives you another kiss. You snort into the pillow. “Besides, then
everyone at school would know you’re with me.”
“You fucking freak.” You laugh. “You’re still upset about that guy earlier?”
“Well, yeah.” He pulls you closer into a very familiar position. You don’t
complain, because Semi is the greatest big spoon that anyone could ask for.
“Either he was making those eyes at you or my motorcycle.”
“Probably the motorcycle.” You say, and he fights the urge to roll his eyes.
“I was joking, [Name].”
“I wasn’t. That thing is sexy as hell.”
Now it’s his turn to snort, but it’s a pleased sound. It always made him happy
that you appreciated his bike, because most people saw it as just another
rebellious choice.
“Yeah, but—”
“Eita.” You groan, and he knows that he needs to drop it. You’re here with him,
after all, and that’s what matters.
“I love you.” He mumbles, and to his absolute delight you say it back.
__
He moves in with you. It’s a natural occurrence, one that takes place in the
years following your high school graduation. One day he’s just your boyfriend
who visits, and the next he just doesn’t go back to his own place. His
toiletries compete for space with yours in the bathroom. His ratty sneakers are
lined up next to yours by the front door. His friends come and go as they
please, filling your house with rounds of laughter and joy that it hasn’t seen
since your father passed.
Things get a little more domestic. He starts forgoing long nights at Ushijima’s
in favor of wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your shoulder
as you make dinner. The scraps and cuts and bruises on his body slowly fade and
aren’t replaced like they used to be. He stops getting random tattoos, instead
using the money to help you pay rent, though he slipped up last month and spent
a good amount of cash on an upper-arm piece. You couldn’t stay angry with him
for long, because when he peeled back the gauze and revealed an arrowed heart
with your name in the center, all you could do was giggle.
You told him it was the corniest thing you’d ever seen, but he saw the
pinpricks of flattery and delight in your eyes.
“I swear you’re the best cook in the entire world.” He groans, pulling you
closer. You peck him on the nose, your stomach pleasantly full and the heat of
his body making you a little giddy. You came in here to make the bed but Semi
had other ideas, tackling you to the sheets and pressing warm kisses over every
inch of skin that he could.
“I doubt that, but thank you.” You laugh, grinning as he threads his fingers
through yours.
He’s smiling at you, that kind grin that nobody else— not even his friends—
gets to see, and it fills you to the brim with affection. You swear you could
burst open right now with how happy you are, how adored you feel and how
completely whole—
“My dad would have liked you.” You blurt, and he goes still. You feel an
embarrassed blush burn your skin once you realize what you’ve said, and how
uncomfortable he must feel, but he takes you by surprise when his smile takes
on a smaller and much sadder form.
“Yeah, I’m sure he would have been crazy about his daughter dating a yankii.”
He says. You gape at him for a moment, taken aback by the bitterness in his
voice.
“Former yankii.” You remind him, and he gives you a forlorn little chuckle. It
isn’t often that he lets down his guard so completely, even around you, and you
wish you hadn’t said anything. The uncertainty in his eyes reminds you of the
night you first kissed, when he said he wasn’t good enough for you and you had
to convince him otherwise.
“That doesn’t change much.” He says. Your hand goes to the back of his head and
pulls it closer, so that his forehead is resting on yours and your eyes are
looking straight into one another’s.
“He would have adored you. I know it.” You say. He gazes at you for a long
moment, a little taken aback by how serious the mood became in the last few
moments, but he sees the determination written all over your face. “You make me
happy, and that’s all he ever wanted.”
You feel one of Semi’s fingers run over the chain around your neck. He always
likes looking at that pendant, seeing that reminder that you carry around with
you. It’s a token of both the men who love you dearly; your father, who gave it
to you, and him, who returned it. There’s words on your tongue, ones of
devotion and adoration, but he steals them from you when he kisses you again.
It’s slow and unhurried. You feel like you could be here forever, wordlessly
exchanging affection, but he has that look in his eyes that you know all too
well. He pulls you even closer, rolling so that he can suspend himself over you
and lick into your mouth, and you accept it immediately.
He’s not always rough, though it’s a rare occasion for him to be passionate
like this. His hand cups your clothed breast, giving a gentle squeeze, and you
arch your back at the touch. He breaks apart for a moment, giving you an
affectionate peck on the tip of your nose.
“Thank you.” He says. You’re not quite sure if he’s thanking you for reassuring
him that your father would have approved, or if he’s thanking you for just
being with him in general, but the affection in his words is overwhelming. You
close your eyes, letting him slide your shirt over your head and unclip your
bra, only opening them once the familiar sensation of a mouth wrapping around
your nipple overtakes your senses.
“Eita.” You breathe, your hand still on the back of his head. His eyes meet
yours, half-lidded and lustful, and you see his mouth pull into a smile while
his teeth gently scrape over the hardened nub. He switches after a moment,
though, and the gleam of saliva on your chest is strangely arousing.
“I could stare at you forever.” He says, suddenly pulling back so that he can
remove his own shirt. He’s already starting to get hard, evidenced by the bulge
beginning to strain the front of his skinny jeans, and your eyes scan over him
with fondness.
There’s scars and ink and even a small birthmark on him, but you don’t think
you’ve ever seen anything more perfect in your entire life. You don’t see the
rough exterior when you look at him; you see the kind soul of the boy who
protected you, who visits the cemetery with you and takes you for long rides on
his motorcycle. You see the boy who likes to stop and talk to dogs on the
street, who lets you call him pet names in front of his friends and always runs
a warm bath for you when you get home from work.
You see the man you love, and you see that he loves you just the same.
You let him tug your skirt down, your panties following suit, and watch as he
makes quick work of his own lower half. He’s always loved the sensation of bare
skin against bare skin, so undressing will always be a hurried affair no matter
how rough or gentle he’s being.
He wastes no time in scooting down the bed, laying on his stomach so that he’s
eye-level with your cunt. You’re already wet, of course, but he still likes to
look. In high school, you used to get embarrassed and clamp your legs shut, but
you’ve since come to appreciate the glint in his eye when he’s about to eat you
out.
He doesn’t lean forward instantly, though. Instead, one of his hands comes up
and his fingers spread your lips apart, his tongue darting out to lick at his
lips as he stares openly at your glistening folds.
“Pretty girl.” He coos, other hand spreading your legs a little bit more. You
rest on your elbows, watching as he licks a stripe up your cunt the same way
one would lick an ice cream cone. “And you taste good, too. I could do this for
hours.” He murmurs, and you don’t doubt what he’s saying because he has.
You don’t say a word, just watching with labored breaths as he slides his
tongue inside of you, flicking it upwards the way he knows that you like. It’s
breathtaking, really, how one person could turn oral into an art form, but Semi
continues to surprise you with each passing year and frankly, he’s just gotten
better and better at it. Both of you know that he could turn you into a
complete mess within seconds, but he’s taking his time tonight. He wants to
savor you, and the thought makes your mind go a tad numb.
“Always so wet for me.” He pulls his tongue out for a moment to tease at the
tip of your clit, but then he shoves it right back inside of you before you can
respond. You nearly shout when his fingers prod at your saliva-covered clit,
rubbing slow circles as he blatantly stares at you.
Your juices and his saliva is smeared across his lips and down his chin,
gleaming in the dim light of your room as he curls his tongue again. The rough
texture of it slides against your inner walls in the best way possible, and if
your arms weren’t needed to support you then you’d have already grabbed a
handful of his hair. He seems to know this, too, and it makes him grin wider as
he eats you out like a starved man.
“Oh!” His tongue is long, but it still can’t reach that one spot inside of you,
so he slides his middle and ring finger in next to his tongue when he’s decided
that you’re sufficiently wet enough. They search for a moment before sliding
along a sensitive patch of tissue, and you almost come right then and there.
“Jesus!”
He chuckles, the sound sending small vibrations into you. You think he’s going
to touch your g-spot again, but you suddenly get worried when he removes both
his tongue and his fingers from you in order to sit back up.
“What—” Your frantic question gets cut short when you see him hold out his
fingers to you, his other hand wrapping around his cock and stroking it
languidly. You know what he wants you to do and you do it without hesitation,
licking at his glistening fingers happily. You really don’t taste that bad, and
he always seems to be pleased when you lick his digits clean.
You want to ask him if you can return the favor, but he seems to want to fuck
you more than anything. It’s not like you’re complaining, either, because his
cock is nothing short of impressive and you’d do just about anything to have it
inside of you right now.
He must know that, because he eases himself inside of you without preamble. You
fall back, using your now-free arms to wrap around his neck and pull him in for
a soft kiss. Your wetness is still on his lips and the slide of it between your
mouths is nothing short of erotic. His tongue finds yours once more and his
hands curl around your hips and he gives his first thrust, scattering shocks of
pleasure throughout your body.
It’s not often that the two of you fuck missionary-style. His penchant for
rough handling is more suitable for doggy-stye or with you on top, so you savor
the unusual feeling of having his chest slide against yours. You’re still
sensitive from being on the edge of release, so your hands migrate to his upper
arms and your fingernails sink into his skin, right above the tattoo that bears
your name.
He groans as he sets his pace, which isn’t insanely fast but is still enough to
pull the air from your lungs. You break apart then, eyes locking and hips
smacking together, and the way he’s looking at you is the same way your father
used to look at your mother. It’s almost too much, and it brings a certain
stinging sensation to your eyes, but the overwhelming pleasure that comes from
him also pulling at your clit is enough to battle the sentimentality for now.
“You’re so perfect.” He mumbles, words low enough so that only you could hear
them. “You’re so, so perfect.”
“Eita!” You tighten your grip on his arm, feeling the roll of sinew and tissue
under your fingers, but instead of speeding up, his thrusts slow down. He
circles them slowly, rolling his hips against yours, and you almost cry out
with impatience, wondering if he’s trying to torture you.
But that look is still in his eyes, as is a sliver of uncertainty. He swallows
hard in an attempt to remedy his labored breathing, though his next words are
incredibly soft.
“Do you love me?”
You stare up at him, thoughts mildly interrupted by how his cock is still
moving inside of you, and you nod. His expression doesn’t ease, though, and you
can tell that he wants to hear you say it.
“Yes.” Your voice cracks with the effort it takes not to cry out. From emotion
or pleasure, you’re not sure. “More than anything.”
“Say it.” He speeds up once more, and now he’s desperate.
“I love you!” You can’t imagine being with anyone else.
“I love you!” He’s always been there to protect you.
“I love you!” He’s the only thing that makes you feel whole, like life might
just be worth living. He’s spurned on by your repeated declarations, pressing
down on your clit and thrusting hard enough to make the entire world go fuzzy
around the edges, and you feel like the air around you is crackling with static
and something else that has no name.
You arch your back as you come, his first name falling from your lips like a
prayer, and he follows you with a hiss, spilling inside of you without abandon.
The warmth from it seems to reach your fingertips, the thought that he’s inside
you and around you and that the happiness of his smile is imprinted behind your
eyelids is almost too much.
He falls to your side with a pleased sound, and your hands skim over his sweaty
skin as you try to pull him closer. He hums and allows you to do so, his arms
wrapping around you and moving you so that your chests are touching.
“Marry me.” He murmurs. You’re so busy trying to catch your breath for a moment
that you don’t fully register his words, but when you do you look up into his
face with awe, mouth agape.
“What?”
“I’m serious.” He says. His voice is so quiet that you could mistake it for the
wind blowing outside. “I know I’m not really a catch, [Name], and I don’t even
have a ring yet, but—”
“Yes.” You breathe. “Yes. Absolutely.”
It takes a minute. He’s looking at you, eyes wide. And then, for the first time
in your life, you see Semi Eita cry.
__
 
“Well I’ll be damned. The first time I see you wearing a decent outfit and it’s
on your fucking wedding day.”
Semi smacks Tendō on the arm, but the look on his face has no hint of malice.
“Don’t be a douche. Be thankful that I picked you as best man.”
“Yeah, yeah. I have to hand it to you, though. You’re really lucky.”
Tendō’s grin is far from sardonic, and it makes Semi all the happier. They
stand there for a moments, sipping their flutes of champagne side-by-side as
Semi watches you talk to a few of the guests. The reception, much like the
ceremony, is very intimate. Everyone knows everyone else, and there isn’t a
person in the building without a smile on their face.
You’re absolutely glowing. Everyone must think it’s because you’re now a
newlywed, but Semi knows better. You lock eyes from across the room, beaming at
each other the way that couples do, and your hand rests over your stomach.
It’s a gesture that looks innocent and nonchalant, but he knows just as well as
you do that you’re cradling the beginning of a bump that will slowly but surely
grow over the next few months.
“Believe me, Tendō, I know.”
Chapter End Notes
     LMAO In case you guys wanted to know- the person who dragged Semi
     around through cracked asphalt was none other than Delinquent!Tanaka.
***** Oikawa Toru - Changes *****
Chapter Notes
     OKAY, SO: I know this took a while, and I'm so, so sorry about that.
     I've been so busy ever since I got home that it's kind of ridiculous.
     Those of you who follow me on tumblr know that I've had quite a rough
     time. I've been busy with work, a car accident, and dealing with some
     serious writer's block. But finally, I managed to finish this update,
     and I hope you all enjoy it, despite the fact that it's kind of...
     ugh, angsty with a little bit of a weird ending. I might post a
     longer explanation of everything that goes on in this chapter if
     anybody is confused by it, but for right now all I have to say is
     that 1) this is a mixture of Supernatural lore and my own sort of
     demon AU lore, and 2) the flashbacks start out as chronological, then
     are out of order towards the end. Ha.
     I won't say much else, because I don't want to spoil the whole thing,
     but just know that this isn't as happy as the other chapters. I
     really wanted to experiment/take risks with this one, so... this is
     the result. It's almost 14,000 words, and most of that is plot. But,
     uh, I hope you guys enjoy it regardless!
     xoxo sabby
The first thing you register when you wake up is that your throat is burning.
It’s a dry burn, like you just swallowed a sheet of sandpaper, and it makes you
blink your eyes open with a gasp.
There’s an odd feeling in the air, like you’ve just been ripped from something
pure and clean and dropped into mud. Your entire body is tingling in the
absolute worst way possible, every single bone feeling like it might just snap
if you aren’t careful. Despite having your eyes wide open, it’s pitch black.
You wonder if you’re blind.
But then a light comes on right in front of you and a loud ringing floods your
ears. You want to slap your hands over them but you can’t move. You’re not sure
if it’s because your body is useless or if you’ve been restrained, but you
don’t spare much thought to it because the ringing is now so loud that it’s
physically paining you, making you clench your eyes shut again and actually
pray that you go back to whatever state you were in before this—
And then it stops.
“Did it work?”
“Does it look like it worked? She’s almost exactly the way that she was when
she died. You can’t get more pristine than that.”
You hear a scoff— why is this voice so familiar?— and a rustle. The light is
still on, making the insides of your eyelids glow a peachy orange color. Your
throat still feels rough despite the painful ache in your body having
dissipated. The thought of water almost makes you want to cry, but you’re not
sure that you’d even be able to create tears. You feel dry and shriveled, like
all moisture in your body has evaporated and just left you with your bare
bones.
The light dims a little bit. You crack an eye open and see someone leaning over
you, his dark eyes searching you. You want to reach out and touch him, but
again your desire is squashed; you know now that you’ve been restrained.
He’s familiar. Dark hair, broad shoulders, catlike gleam in his eyes. You
remember him but you don’t, a name playing around at the tip of your tongue
that your brain refuses to register. The look of concern that he’s giving you
is uncharacteristic— that much you know for certain— and for some reason you
want to reassure him.
“Well I’ll be damned.” His voice is choked up. It sounds a little miserable,
though. “You weren’t just scamming us.”
“Of course I wasn’t.” Your head feels too heavy to move but your eyes still
flicker over to your right. Theres someone standing there with his arms
crossed, not looking at you. You feel like he should be, but his eyes are angry
and directed at the man still leaning over you. You do not know this man’s
name, even in the deepest recesses of your mind. “And for that, you’re going to
really owe me.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“No, I think we’ll talk about it now. Just because I raised her doesn’t mean I
can’t send her back to… wherever it is that she went.”
The boy leaning over you straightens up. The light is bright again. You shut
your eye.
“Alright. Fine. What are your terms?”
“We’ll discuss this outside. Let… whatever your name is handle her.”
“I want to be here!”
“We’re doing this on my terms.”
Footsteps. Door opening. Slamming. You try to swallow and it’s excruciating.
The light dims again. You wait a moment before opening your eyes. There’s a new
boy now, with blond hair. You know him. You know him. The roots of his hair are
black. An image passes over your mind, one of this boy with shorter hair and a
less ratty sweatshirt. He didn’t have those bags under his eyes, either.
His name leaves your mouth before you process it. Your voice is raspy and
cracks, but it still makes his eyes widen.
“[Name].” Your name. That’s what does it; your name triggers something in you
that makes a bunch of gears all turn at once. If you could picture them, they’d
be rusted and coated in cobwebs. But they still get the work done, flooding
your mind with images and feelings and emotions and what’s happening how did
you get here you’re not supposed to be here you’re supposed to be—
“You have dirt on your teeth.” He says. You don’t care. You don’t care that
there’s grime under your fingernails or that you can feel ants crawling on your
skin. You want to burst into tears.
“Kenma.” You rasp. He leans a little bit closer. “Where am I here?”
“We needed you back.” He says simply, though there’s a look of pained wonder in
his eyes that mirrors the man from before. Kuroo. You know his name, and it
sends a flurry of thoughts through your head. You’re eight, coming home to an
oddly silent house. Ten, finding two boys along the side of the road and asking
them why they’re crying. Fifteen, eating at a diner and scanning a map that
Kuroo laid on the table. Seventeen, leaving salt on windowsills. Twenty,
driving a knife into the skull of a creature that no regular human will ever be
damned enough to see. Twenty one, feeling hands sliding against your skin and
looking into red eyes that should be making you feel fear unlike anything else.
Twenty-two and there’s a bright light, scared shouting, a white-hot pain in
your stomach—
“Where was I?” You ask. Kenma stares at you for a moment that feels like an
eternity.
“Dead.” He says. “Oikawa killed you.”
__
”Did it hurt?”
“Did what hurt?”
“When you fell from heaven.”
His mouth pulls into a humorless smile. You wonder if you’ve gone too far, but
he doesn’t look angry. More like resigned.
“It did, actually. It hurt a lot.”
You frown. He doesn’t sound bitter, either. He should be, but then again you
suppose that he’s had thousands of years to think over the whole situation.
That bothers you. The man in front of you is not a man at all. He’s seen
nations rise and fall— some of them his own doing— has seen creatures on this
planet that you could hardly ever dream of. You know he would tell you more
about them if you asked, but that knowledge might serve to remind you of just
how different you are to the crowned king of hell.
“I’m sorry.” You say. His smile gets a bit kinder at your words. He sits next
to you on the bed and you almost want to laugh because the most powerful demon
in the entire universe is having a casual discussion with you. Never in your
wildest dreams did you picture something like this happening when you joined
Kenma and Kuroo on their mission to avenge their parent’s deaths, or when
Oikawa cornered you in your motel room one fateful night.
But here you were, asking questions of a fallen angel-turned-demon in a shitty
motel room. Kuroo is blasting classic rock in the room next door, something
that would typically annoy you but tonight serves to make you feel a bit
better; the noise of it drowns out the sound of your talking. The last thing
you need is for the boys to know that you’re meeting with Oikawa behind their
backs.
He mulls over your apology for a second, those awful red eyes of his trained on
you. Then he has an arm around you, pulling you to his side so that he can
press his lips onto your forehead. They’re colder than ice.
“It’s okay.” He says. “If I hadn’t fallen, I wouldn’t have met you.”
“Do you say that to all of your conquests?” You snort, rolling your eyes in an
attempt to hide the fact that you’re a little bit bitter. You know what kind of
creature he is. You’re an expert in the lore, after all.
“No.” The sincerity of his voice does funny things to you. “Never.”
__
You don’t get the nerve to ask about Oikawa until two weeks after your
resurrection. It makes sense, seeing as how Kuroo is busy dealing with the
moody necromancer that brought you back— you didn’t even know that they could
do that— and Kenma has tirelessly been doing research for a case somewhere in
Kansas.
It goes a bit deeper than that, though. There are still holes in your memory,
gigantic stretches of darkness that make you draw a blank during the most
mundane things. You can’t tie your shoes anymore. You don’t know how to drive.
Beyond that, you’re kind of frightened to know why the king of hell murdered
you in cold blood; by all accounts, you were the only one in your little trio
of hunters that was on good terms with the guy.
“Why did he kill me?” You finally muster up the courage to address the issue
when Kenma and Kuroo are fighting in the front seat over which diner to eat at.
They stop immediately once they hear your question, though, and Kuroo peers
into the back seat through the rear-view mirror with an unsettled look in his
eye.
“I don’t know.” He looks a little pained, and part of your brain screams to you
that he’s lying. You nearly call him on it, too, but at that moment you’re a
little confused as to why your subconscious is telling you not to trust his
words. Isn’t this the guy that had you brought back to life? You should be
taking his words as gospel, but you just can’t. Every time you think about it,
a distant memory of bright red eyes flicks through your mind.
“How do you not know? It seems like I would have had to do something pretty bad
in order to get the king of hell to personally murder me.” You reason. Kenma
turns as well, allowing Kuroo to give his full attention to driving once more.
“You didn’t. That’s why we keep telling you that he did it in cold blood.”
Kenma’s words are a bit more convincing but you can still tell that they’re not
telling you the entire truth. You cross your arms but don’t say anything else.
The car falls to silence. Kenma and Kuroo both seem to agree that they’re no
longer hungry, so Kuroo switches courses to the motel. You’re not looking
forward to it, because being alone means being subject to your thoughts and
fractured memories, but these boys apparently know what’s best for you.
__
”Do you ever get lonely?”
Oikawa cracks an eye open. His air is still immaculate and the sheen of sweat
on his skin from your prior activities has since dried. He looks like a model,
stretched out on the dingy and stained motel sheets, and it makes you a little
nervous for some reason. Maybe it’s because you know other people have seen him
this way.
“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” He murmurs. He doesn’t sound irritated
at all, though.
“I can’t help but be interested. Besides, I have nobody else to ask; I’ve never
had a secret relationship with a demon before.” You muse. You poke him on the
tip of the nose and he sticks his tongue out at you.
After a moment of consideration, he answers you. “I used to. Now I can just
come and talk to you if I get lonely.”
“First of all,” you roll your eyes, “I wouldn’t call what we just did
‘talking’. Second of all, why me? I’m sure you’ve had thousands of other people
in your lifetime.”
He gives you a crooked smile. It’s incredibly pained.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“No offense, Oikawa, but you’re a demon. Lying is sort of your ‘thing’.”
Another pause.
“You’re the love of my life, you know that?”
You roll your eyes for a second time. “Oikawa, I’ll have you know that it sort
of kills me inside when you say that. I know I’m not the only one you’re
fucking around with.”
“There’s nobody else. Believe me.” He grabs your hand in his own and you fight
the urge to yank it away. His skin is so icy that he feels like a corpse.
“I want to.” You sigh, swallowing the lump in your throat. He stares at you for
a second before bringing you close to his chest, laughing just a little bit
when you shiver at the cold contact.
“I can prove it.” He says. You quirk an eyebrow at him and he laughs again.
“I’ll tell you my name.”
Your eyes go wide. He’s staring openly at you, drinking in your reaction with
that same amused smile on his face, and it’s almost enough to make you jump out
of the bed and run into the room next door. Hisname. That’s something that no
other living creature would know. He’s giving you the power to actually kill
him, should you so choose, and that in itself is absolutely unfathomable.
Knowing a demon’s name is the highest power a human being can possibly possess
over them.
He can tell that you’re not going to ask yourself, so he continues. “It’s Tōru.
You can call me that, if you’d like. Or you can kill me, too. I’m sure those
boys of yours would be thrilled beyond belief to know that you could finally do
away with me.”
“No.” You say without a second thought. Oikawa muses over your answer with a
more genuine smile now. “I would never.”
“That’s because you love me too.” The truthfulness of his words actually stings
at your eyes a little bit. You pull back and he lets you, watching you process
the information just given to you.
“I guess I do.” You laugh. It’s incredibly bitter. “Figures, huh? A hunter
falling in love with a demon. There’s no way that’ll end badly or anything.”
He snorts. “It’ll be hard, but I think we can manage. I’m not going to let
anything bad happen to you.”
“Yeah, but even then I’ll eventually die.” You sigh.
“Yes, you will.” He agrees, “but that doesn’t mean you’ll cease to exist. I
don’t care if you go to heaven or purgatory. I’ll come find you if I have to.
I’ll look through every single soul until I find yours.”
“And what’ll you do then?” You ask.
“Drag you down to hell with me, of course.”
__
Here’s what you remember about Oikawa:
He’s not the first demon. He just happens to be a special kind of demon, one
that was born from an angel that fell after Lucifer. Kenma tells you that he’s
the king of Hell— Lucifer’s most prized soldier, one that governs over damned
souls and keeps them locked in the fiery depths while the former archangel is
busy trying to bring about the apocalypse— and that they haven’t been in
contact with him in the two years since you died. They’re suspicious about that
fact, he continues, because it might mean that you were a lot closer with the
guy than you let on. You swear up and down that you have no memory of it, even
though short flashes of long, pale fingers dragging down your bare skin
manifests itself behind your eyelids every time to try to go to sleep.
What you don’t know is where he is. Kuroo made a map of the world, putting red
dots on places that experience traumatic events because he thinks that the
crown king of hell has gone downright destructive since you died. There’s no
connection between the dots, though, and Kenma argues that Oikawa might have
just killed himself and been replaced by a more volatile presence. The idea
shouldn’t make you flinch, seeing as how you can’t even remember what the guy’s
face looks like, but it still does. If they notice, they don’t tell you.
“I see you guys haven’t changed much since I’ve been gone.” You sigh, thumbing
through a book of basic Latin phrases. Ironically enough, the things that you
can’t remember seem to be the most important.
“No need. Things were fine the way they were.” Kuroo takes a sip of his soda as
he types something into his computer. They’re doing some pretty heavy detective
work for this case. You used to be able to do that too, but now you often times
find yourself left alone in their motel room inside a circle of salt. Sometimes
you even have a flask of holy water clutched in one hand. It’s incredibly
boring.
“If that’s the case, then why’d you find someone to bring me back to life?” You
ask. His hands freeze. You even hear Kenma inhale sharply. Your eyebrows furrow
together.
“We missed you.” Kuroo says, a bit of forced nonchalance in his voice. You want
to question it, want to know why they don’t seem to be as excited to have you
back as they say they are, but you don’t. You just acknowledge the fact that
you’ve been lied to and store that information away for later.
__
”So what’s your deal?”
You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear the voice behind you. Damn
demons and their ability to teleport. You swear that’s the worst thing about
them.
Oikawa stands next to you, leaning on the railing of the motel balcony. You
swallow hard, looking around as if you expect Kenma and Kuroo to have hidden
cameras around the premises. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What’s your tragic backstory? Why’re you with Sad and Sadder?” Oikawa asks,
gesturing with his head to the general location of your companions. “I know
their parents got killed by a rogue demon; that’s why I met you in the first
place, after all. How about yours?”
“Hunters.” You say. “Died when I was sixteen, though they weren’t around much
in the first place.”
“So you’re telling me that the daughter of two hunters just happened to stumble
upon two boys who dealt with demons? Nice little coincidence, isn’t it?”
You scoff. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know that there’s no such thing
as a coincidence.”
“You’ve got that right.” Oikawa shoves his hands into his pockets and looks out
onto the horizon. The sight before you isn’t quite majestic— just the scummy
motel pool and a chain-link fence— but somehow it’s absolutely breathtaking
with him next to you. “All part of Father’s plan, or something like that.”
You swallow hard— something you do every time you’re reminded that the man
you’re secretly seeing happens to be as old as time itself. Also of the fact
that his dad isGod.
“You thinkwewere part of that plan?” You joke, nudging him. He doesn’t seem to
be in the mood for humor tonight, though, because his frown deepens and his
eyebrows furrow together.
“Yes, I do.” He says. “I think Father made you to punish me for falling. I’m
doomed to love something so fragile for the rest of my existence.”
You scoff a little out of both disbelief and flattery. “I would’t go that far.
I’m sure you’ll meet someone—”
“There will never be anybody else for me. Not after you.” He turns his gaze
towards you and you almost recoil with how intense his eyes look in the light
of the early morning. It’s uncharacteristic of him to be so serious when
talking to you.
“Tōru.” You say, reaching an arm out. Your hand curls over his shoulder and he
relaxes a bit at the touch. “Why do you always act like we can’t be happy
together?”
“We’re on opposite sides of a war, [Name]. The aide I was giving to you and
your buddies wasn’t supposed to be so frequent. I didn’t know at first that we
were soulmates.”
“We’re—”
“At least, that’s what you things call it.” He sniffs. “Bonded. Star-crossed.
Soulmates. Whatever. All I know is that my soul was tainted by yours. Do you
understand what that means?”
The gravity of his words is almost unbearable, but you know that now is not the
time for questions. He seems like he needs to tell you something.
“No.” You say.
“When two humans are soulmates, that means they’re supposed to be together.
Right?” You nod. “And when they die, their souls go to the same place. Usually
heaven. But our souls are different. Mine will remain in hell. Yours will go to
either Heaven or Purgatory.”
“But—”
“You’ll forget me when you die, I’m sure. My Father will make sure of it. But
I’ll never forget you. That’s the punishment; I’ll have you for just the
tiniest sliver of time, and then you’ll be gone.”
“You said you’d get my soul after I died.” You say. Your voice cracks on the
last word and his frown softens a bit. He fully turns to you, wrapping his icy
hands around your hips and pulling you close so that he can rest his chin on
your head.
“I did.” He admits. “But sometimes I think you would be better suited to a
happy afterlife. Hell isn’t made of onyx pillars and mahogany furniture. It’s
all fire and brimstone. The place reeks of sulphur.”
“I’ll get used to it.” You say, and his laugh rings out into the early morning
like a crisp gush of wind.
__
For two people who say that they missed you terribly, Kuroo and Kenma sure are
absent from your life.
You get it. You really do. You’re still a little weak and unsure, unable to
hunt and kill supernatural creatures with the same rhythm that you used to.
Apparently, you were easily the most skilled of the three, and it came as a
real surprise to the community of hunters that you were friends with when you
were the one that died.
That notion alone should have made you suspicious. It doesn’t, though, and
maybe that’s why you’ve been naive enough to not ask questions when you move
from state to state with the boys. You don’t beg for answers when the two of
them share long looks. You don’t demand to know exactly how you died— they tell
you that the scar above your belly button should tell you enough. You sit down
and listen when they choose to talk, and help them with research when you can.
You can’t stand it, though. You can’t stand knowing that there’s more to the
story. You can’t stand being cooped up in a motel room while they go out and
exterminate whatever monster is out there terrorizing the town. You can’t stand
knowing that some of your memories aren’t fully back.
So you do something about it. It’s a little moment of rebellion that drives you
to sneak out of the motel and to the bar across the street, even though it’s
barely past noon and the only thing you have to arm yourself is the salt in
your purse and the knife that you snuck from Kenma’s bag.
It’s surprisingly crowded inside, though, something that you're thankful for
because then you can at least blend in. You take a seat at the bar next to a
dark-haired man who is already nursing some whiskey, and order yourself a rum
and coke.
The guy shifts in his seat. You glance at him from the corner of your eyes once
the bartender puts your drink down in front of you, then do a double-take
because his face is one that you couldn’t forget easily.
“What are you doing here?” You hiss. He looks at you for a moment with an
eyebrow raised, before holding up his drink.
“Same thing you are, [Name].” He takes a sip. Your entire body feels a bit
funny for reasons that you can’t explain. “You look different without all the
maggots crawling around on you.”
You swallow the lump in your throat. “I never got to thank you. For, uh, you
know—”
“Raising you from the dead? Yeah, don’t mention it.” Wow, his eyes are blue.
Like, sky-on-a-clear-summer-day blue. You’ve never seen that sort of eye color
on another human being before. “It was worth it. Those guys you were with gave
me some pretty important stuff.”
You stare at the man. Neatly-parted hair. Slim, snakelike face. There’s an aura
around him, and it reminds you of something you’ve seen before in the distant
past, but you can’t place what it is.
Silence stretches between you two, broken only by the aimless chatter of the
patrons around you. They don’t seem to pay any mind to the conversation between
you and the very person who brought you back to life.
“So what did they have to do to get you to bring me back?” You ask, almost
dreading the answer. Kuroo and Kenma weren’t exactly known for abiding by the
laws, especially when making deals, and while this man was apparently a
necromancer and nowhere near some sort of demon, you knew they probably paid a
hefty price.
“They kept calling for me. For a year and a half, actually, until I got sick
and tired of hearing their desperate voices. Besides, it was about time I did
some charity work. My brothers sometimes say I’m a little too conniving.” He
downs the rest of his drink. “Hoping that it was worth all the trouble,
y’know.”
“They said they’re really happy to have me back.” You say rather lamely. He
stares at you for a moment, hand still circled around his empty glass as he
regards your words. Then, he leans in, close enough that you can see a few
freckles across his cheeks.
“You think they brought you back because they missed you?” He asks. His voice
isn’t teasing or condescending, it’s genuinely surprised. You get the feeling
that this man doesn’t use that tone very often.
“Why else?” You lean back a bit, a spark of anxiety forming in your chest.
“They’re like my brothers, of course they’d search for someone to bring me
back—”
“Look, kid, I don’t know what bullshit they’ve been feeding you, but I’m not
just someone. Anybody who calls for me has to have some sort of major plan. No
offense, but I’m sure that they didn’t have be bring you back just because they
missed you.”
You bristle a little bit, but your interest is piqued. “Why do you think they
brought me back, then?”
“It’s obvious. You were fucking around with the king of Hell, weren’t you? They
assumed that you knew his name before you died.” You blink, the statement
rattling a loose memory inside of you. “And their desire to finally kill him
apparently outweighs their desire to have you remain dead.”
“Wait, what?” You yelp. The man winces, looking around to see if your outburst
attracted any attention.
“You didn’t think that Oikawa actually did you in, did you? You must be a
special kind of idiot. Those two guys you travel with might be do-gooders, but
that doesn’t mean they aren’t liars.” Your hands start to shake and he notices.
With a bitter sigh he raises one hand and snaps his fingers.
The world stops. Literally. Every person around you in the bar freezes where
they stand, eyes staring blankly ahead. You gape, words forming in your throat
but failing to fall past your lips.
“There. That’s better. Can’t have you freaking out and blowing my cover, you
know?” The man says. He takes the opportunity to switch his empty glass with
the almost-full one of the man sitting on his other side. Your mouth moves but
no words come out.
He seems to get a little more relaxed once he’s sure that nobody can listen to
you, because he continues. “You were sleeping with the king of hell. They found
out right before you died. Neat little coincidence, right?”
“What are you trying to say? Who are you?” You’re horrified to find that your
voice is absolutely trembling at this point.
“Look, kid. What I’m telling you is that those boys aren’t stupid. They put two
and two together. The only reason you’re still standing here is because you’re
their only chance at killing Oikawa once and for all. I don’t blame them,
really. He’s been creating so many disasters these past two years that someone
has to do something.”
You can’t speak. You're feeling a little lightheaded, actually, because the
only people you can call family are only using you. The man you once loved is
the king of Hell— and he’s trying to destroy the world, apparently. Your heart
is telling you not to believe him, but your mind keeps you rooted to the spot.
“You’re very… informed for a necromancer.” You say once you find your voice.
“What else do you know?”
Now it’s the man’s turn to be silent. He takes a sip of his stolen drink,
eyeing you with those unnaturally blue optics, before a slow smile curls his
mouth.
“They told you I was a necromancer?”
“Well, yeah. Aren’t you?” You’re really not liking where this is going.
“Not even close.” He takes another sip. “Necromancers can’t fully raise the
dead, dear. They only talk to them. I’m an angel of the Lord, if you must know.
Call me Daishō, because I’m not stupid enough to give you my real name like my
brother did.”
You keep staring, fighting the urge to laugh out of nervousness and confusion.
This is ridiculous, Kuroo and Kenma would never go as far as to contact an
angel. The ones that talked to humans weren’t exactly known for their charity
work.
He seems to know what you’re thinking— he might be able to read your mind,
actually— because he gestures around the room, to all the people frozen in
time.
“Think, [Name]. How many necromancers can stop time? How many of them can
perfectly restore a body that’s been decomposing for two years? You really need
to stop listening to those guys.”
“But—”
“But nothing. You think they’ve stayed the same these past two years? Don’t be
stupid. You were dead to them the very second they found out about your secret
little trysts. And a whole bunch of other things, but this is neither the time
nor the place to talk about it. You’re nothing but a tool for them now, and I
would even dare to say that they’ll kill you again once they’re done with
Tōru.”
“Wait a second.” You reach out to grab Daishō’s arm out of pure reflex as he
moves to slide off of his bar stool. “You can’t just leave now. They were the
ones that killed me? You have to tell me everything!”
“I don’t have to do anything for you. I prefer to not meddle in the affairs of
humans, you know? Greasy little scumbags. I don’t know why Father loves you all
so much.”
You snort when he shakes out of your grasp. “Nice coincidence, then, that you
happen to be surrounded by them when I find you.”
He rolls his eyes at you. “Really, kid. You’ve been doing this long enough to
know that there’s no such thing as a coincidence. Now go… find your true love,
or whatever the fuck it is that you vermin do. He’s caused enough trouble since
you’ve been gone.”
And with a snap of his fingers he’s gone, the room once again buzzing to life
around you. You gape for a second before turning your attention back to the bar
and realizing, with a short curse, that he’s left you with the bill.
__
Kenma and Kuroo realize that something is off when they return later that
night. You don’t jump up and run to the door as you usually do, demanding to
know how the latest hunt went. In fact, you’re nowhere to be seen.
“Shit.” Kuroo shouts when he realizes that the room is almost in shambles. The
bags that they left behind are completely empty, contents thrown around the
room. He drops his suitcase and moves a few of his shirts and notebooks aside,
cursing again once he realizes that the handgun and ammunition he’d packed are
missing. Kenma swallows hard, scanning the scene with the growing suspicion
that his hand-written notes about Oikawa are similarly absent. There’s more
things gone, too— a ritual knife that they’d gained a few years back, some salt
and dried herbs that they carried for summoning, and their entire remaining
stash of holy water.
“You think he came back for her?” Kuroo asks, a little frantic. Kenma sighs,
defeated. He knew they couldn't keep up the act any longer, and at this point
they only have a couple of options— and none of them end with you getting out
alive.
“No. I think some of her memories must have come back or something. Maybe she
went to go look for him herself.”
“Yeah, right. I think that little shit of an angel we enlisted had something to
do with this.” Kuroo looks absolutely murderous, the same way he did when— no.
No. Kenma can’t think about that night. It’ll make his stomach hurt. He can
still picture the way that you cried, the way that his hands were soaked in
blood.
“I told you that we couldn’t trust him. Angels aren’t known for always having
pure intentions.” Kenma snaps instead. Kuroo scowls, shoving him on the
shoulder. Kenma lets him.
“You think I don’t know that? Daishō was our only option to get Oikawa’s real
name. We didn’t have a choice.”
“We could have just… not killed [Name].” Kenma reasons, but Kuroo is already
tossing his stuff back into his bags and searching for his car keys.
“That wasn’t an option, Kenma. You know that. Especially after that… thing was
created.”
There’s poison in Kuroo’s voice. He’s not the same man that he once was, but
then again neither is Kenma. They’re two bitter vigilantes now, ostracized from
their community of hunters once some of them started to grow suspicious of your
sudden death. They’re desperate, ready to hunt you down again despite owing
their lives to you, and for once Kenma realizes that maybe Oikawa isn’t the bad
guy here after all.
Maybe it’s them.
__
”Are you sure I’m not going to die?”
Oikawa smiles softly at you, running a hand down the expanse of your stomach
slowly. The motel room is silent, thanks to the fact that Kenma and Kuroo went
out to lunch at the nearby diner. You and the king of Hell— god, what a
sentence— take advantage of the peace and quiet. He teleported into the room
the very second the two boys shut the door behind them.
“I’m sure.”
“Are you really? Because I haven’t read anything about a situation like this in
any sort of book. I’m a little concerned.”
“It’s happened before. You’ll be fine. Demon-human hybrids are more common than
you think. Take Donald Trump, for example.”
“Tōru.” You want to scold him but you know that you can’t. You’re laughing a
little too much for him to take you seriously.
“What? Fine, fine. It’s not that common. But it’s happened before, I promise.
The mothers are always fine.”
Mother. The word makes you smile and look down to where Oikawa has rested his
hand. There’s not a bump yet, but he knows. He knew the very second it
happened, actually, which was both an amusing and awkward conversation.
But your smile falters when you hear the telltale sound of Kuroo and Kenma’s
boots in the hallway. Oikawa sighs, a little miffed that his time with you is
being cut short.
“I’ll be back later for the two of you.” He says, gesturing to your stomach.
You give him a peck on the corner of the mouth as a farewell, and then he’s
gone.
Just in time, too, because the motel room door swings open. You turn to the
entrance with a grin, expecting to see the two of them carrying a box full of
diner food for you. Instead you’re greeted by Kuroo scowling at you with his
hands in his pockets and Kenma twirling a knife in his hands.
“Just had to be sure.” Kenma murmurs. Your eyebrows crease together in
confusion.
“What—”
“Hey, [Name].” Kuroo has a stained nonchalance to his voice that makes your
heart drop. Out of instinct, you put your hand to your stomach and back away
from them. There’s a look in their eyes that you’ve never been on the receiving
end of.
“Mind telling us why you let the king of Hell knock you up?”
__
City lights bleed into long stretches of country road. You’re not exactly sure
where you’re going, only that you need to drive as far away from the two of
them as you possibly can.
Your muscle memory still seems to be intact, though, because you remember how
to drive Kenma’s car perfectly. You’re even navigating yourself well, going
down streets that tug at the edges of your memories and passing landmarks that
make you smile to yourself.
At the back of your mind, though, all you can see is red. A pair of red eyes.
Blood leaking through your fingers. Rage boiling over. It’s like there’s
maggots crawling all over you, and you have to pull over a couple of times to
both vomit and reassure yourself that you aren’t a corpse once again.
Your phone rings almost constantly. Sometimes it’s Kuroo. Sometimes it’s Kenma.
Once, it was a telemarketer. You almost picked up on that one, just to hear the
voice of another human, but pure fear makes you keep on driving like the boys
are right behind you.
You only stop once you’re at least two states away, in the back parking lot of
a motel that you somewhat recognize. You check in under a fake name, pay
entirely in cash, and dash up to your room as quickly as possible.
There’s a dirty balcony, one that looks out onto a lonely road. The beige
wallpaper is peeling and stained, the bed lumpy and disheveled, but somehow
this room feels like home.
Your muscle memory kicks in again once you’ve locked the door behind you. You
pull out the supplies that you’d been able to knick from Kenma’s bag, scraping
together the latin phrases that you remember and hoping it’ll be enough.
It doesn’t work the first few times, but you know you’re close. There’s
something like static in the air, making the hair on the back of your neck
stand up and your throat go a bit dry. Sigils. Do you need to draw sigils or
something? Or does the Latin work? You can’t remember even though you should,
and it’s driving you mad—
Your body moves of its own accord. You grab the knife you stole and bring it
across your palm, letting drops of your blood drip onto the bowl you’ve placed
on the floor. Your other hand touches the cut, gathering blood on your
fingertips that you then use to draw some sort of circle. The motel owners will
probably charge you a small fortune for ruining the carpet, but at the moment
you seem to be in a trance.
Another circle. A line. A… zigzag? This means something, you know it does. You
finish the sigil with a bit of a flourish and then scramble to your feet,
yanking open one of the drawers in the nightstand and grabbing a pack of
matches. How did you know this motel had complementary matches?
You strike one and drop it into the bowl. The dried leaves catch fire
immediately, sizzling when the heat encases the wetness of your blood. You
watch it for a second, mouth moving with Latin that you somehow know, and it
strikes you then that this might be the hundredth time you’ve done this ritual.
It has to be.
You finish your sentence and you immediately know that you’ve done it right.
The lightbulb over your head shatters, sending broken glass down to the floor.
None of it hits you but you flinch regardless, a little startled at the sudden
noise. The mirror across the room cracks and falls out of its frame. You hear
the pipes in the wall groan. Then—
“You called?” There’s a man standing before you. He’s tall, with chocolate
brown hair, and his eyes are absolutely piercing.
His eyes.
Immediately he has you by the throat, mouth drawn into a snarl. Blood from your
cut is still dripping onto the floor and your eyes are wide, like saucers,
because his face is bringing back so many memories—
“You think this is funny?” He sneers, grip around your throat tightening. Wow,
you’re losing a lot of oxygen. “Who sent you, huh? At least tell me before I
make you wish you’d never been created.”
You don’t answer. You can’t, actually, because he’s blocking your windpipe, but
he doesn’t seem to realize that.
“What are you, then? A shapeshifter? I’m so fucking tired of your kind trying
to trick me like this. I’ll wipe every single one of you out with my bare
hands, I swear—”
You rest your bleeding hand over his, smearing it onto his skin. Your face must
be purple by now, and with a start he seems to realize something, because he
lets you go.
You take in a rasping breath and rub at the spot where his hand was. You’re a
little frightened, because you know now that he could have easily crushed your
entire throat in a second, but he didn’t. You know a lot of things, actually.
It’s all rushing back to you in the same way oxygen fills your lungs.
He brings the back of his hand to his nose and inhales deeply, pupils dilating
then shrinking as he does so. Glass crunches under his feet as he steps back,
face suddenly softening to the point where he looks like he might cry.
“Oh, fuck.” He whispers. “It’s you.”
“Yeah.” You laugh, still rubbing your neck. Had he ever choked you that hard
before? No, probably not. He was never that rough in bed. “Gimme a second,
okay?”
And then you drop to your knees and start crying. Bawling, actually, because
you remember everything. Every touch, every secret meeting, every sideways
glance and the feeling of something warm and pure budding in your abdomen. You
were pregnant. Oh god, you were pregnant.
You were in love with the king of Hell. He was in love with you too. He was
your soulmate. He still might be, too. He was the father of your child.
Kenma and Kuroo killed you because of it, not Oikawa.
“Oh my god.” You clutch your head in your hands, each memory rolling over you
and adding another layer to what feels like the worst headache in existence.
Something inside of you feels so fragile and exposed that you suddenly wonder
if you’re dying all over again, feeling your soul being torn from your body and
thrown into the giant mouth of some terrible unknown creature.
You don’t realize that Oikawa has stooped down next to you until you’re being
crushed to his chest. Something hot and wet is landing in your hair— are demons
supposed to be able to cry?— and he’s whispering something to you that you
can’t quite hear right.
“I can’t, I can’t—” You’re absolutely sobbing now, though you’re not sure what
is making you do so. You can smell the burning bowl and the metallic blood and
it’s making you sick to your stomach. You want to vomit but you haven’t eaten
in such a long time that you know nothing will come back up.
__
”This better work, or I just sliced my palm open for nothing.”
You shoot Kuroo a mildly irritated look as you rifle around in the dresser
drawers for the complementary matches that this motel carries. “I’m sure it
will, you asshat. Have I ever steered you wrong before?”
“Well, there was that one time you used me as bait for a vampire nest—”
“I don’t count that as a failure. We got the job done.”
“Yeah, after I nearly bleed out on the ground!”
“Guys.” Kenma spins his knife around in his fingers, watching with a wry
expression as Kuroo uses his blood to draw sigils on the cardboard you had laid
out. “Make sure both of you have holy water. And salt, for good measure. We
don’t know what this guy is capable of.”
“Typical demon things.” Kuroo catches the matches when you toss them to him.
“He just has an over-inflated ego, I’m sure. Or maybe he just won an arm-
wrestling competition with the other demons, so they crowned him as king.”
“I swear you get less and less funny the longer I travel with you,” you mutter,
sitting on the edge of the bed and watching as Kuroo lights a match and drops
it into the ceramic bowl. The dried herbs inside of it catch fire immediately,
causing both you and Kenma to jolt a little bit.
“Good thing I’m a hunter and not a comedian.” Kuroo remarks dryly, watching the
flames curl for second before shutting his eyes and beginning the Latin
incantation that he’d been memorizing for the past two weeks.
Kenma joins in, but you don’t. You swallow hard, shifting your position a
little bit as they chant. You have a bad feeling about this, and not just
because the three of you are summoning the strongest demon to currently exist;
this is finally the night where the three of you will get some answers, and
you’re not sure if you’re going to like them. You almost want to stop Kuroo,
actually, because this suddenly seems like the worst idea he’s ever come up
with, but you know that both he and Kenma have been searching for the reason
behind their parent’s deaths for years.
They’re both cut short by the sudden screeching of the old radio sitting on the
wobbly desk in the corner. You look over, mouth agape as you watch the dials
turn on their own, before your attention is stolen by the fact that one of the
lightbulbs in the shoddy bathroom has shattered. A gust of wind tears apart the
room, ripping thumbtacked articles off the walls and sending your belongings
crashing into one another.
“Fuck,” you say dumbly, because there doesn’t seem to be a better word to
articulate how you’re feeling right now. You cast your eyes over to the two of
them and see, much to your horror, that a black mist is solidifying right
before your very eyes.
“Make this quick.” It’s the first time you ever hear the great demon king
Oikawa speak, his voice like velvet against your eardrums. He has his back to
you at the moment, his hands on his hips as he regards your two companions. “I
mean it. I can assure you right now that neither of you is worth my time.”
“We want answers.” Ah, Kuroo. Even with his dirt-encrusted fingernails and
ratty flannel, he still looks the part of intimidating and badass hunter. “And
we know you know everything that goes on down there.”
“I’m going to ignore the opportunity for an innuendo at your choice of words
and just assume that you want to know who killed your parents, right?”
You’re still not moving at this point. Hell, you’re not even sure that you’re
still breathing, because you can tell just by looking at the back of his head
that this man— demon!— is probably the most beautiful thing you’ll ever lay
your eyes on.
He seems to take a great joy in the look of unease that passes over Kenma’s
face. “Oh come on. You two have killed more of my men than I can even count at
this point. Of course I know a little bit about you. You’re Kozume Kenma—
horrible dye job, by the way— and you’re Kuroo Tetsurō. I’d say that it’s a
pleasure to meet the two of you, but just last week you killed one of my best
men and I’m still a little angry over it.”
“He was murdering innocent people.” Kenma snaps. He seems a little hurt over
the hair dye comment; he runs his fingers through his newly-bleached stands
with a bit of self-consciousness.
“Hanamaki was an excellent demon and he didn’t deserve to be exorcised by two
fleas such as yourself.” Oikawa scoffs. The jacket of his suit folds as he
crosses his arms.
“Whatever. Are you going to tell us who killed our parents or not?” Kuroo seems
a little less uneasy than Kenma, but then again he was always good at hiding
such things.
“Not with that attitude, no. Both of you seem to be a little insufferable, in
my opinion.” He suddenly turns on his heel and you jump backwards, even though
you’re fully aware of the fact that his movement is limited by the sigil he’s
trapped in. “You, however, I might talk to. [Name], right? You’re as beautiful
as they say.”
Kenma looks like he wants to murder someone. You gulp.
“Uh. Hi. Your highness.” You say, trying to take the path of least resistance
here. He might tell you what you want to know if you butter him up enough,
though the look on Kuroo’s face when he processes your words makes you want to
crawl under the tattered motel bed and die.
They seem to work, though. He cracks a smile, and you can’t help but note that
you were completely right— he’s devastatingly good-looking, from his perfect
complexion to his blood-colored irises (so different than Hanamaki’s entirely
black ones), his lips full around his grin. The suit is doing him plenty of
favors as well. Not needed, but it’s a nice touch.
“Please, call me Oikawa. I’ll call you [Name].”
“Like hell you will—” Kuroo starts, but Oikawa holds up a hand, silencing your
friend. If it’s because the demon has employed some supernatural ability or
just because Kuroo knows he needs to shut up and listen, you’ll never know.
“So, [Name]. You and your friends have called me here under the pretense of
finding out who killed your loved ones. Am I right?”
“Yes.” You breathe.
“And if I were to tell you, how would you know that I’m even telling the truth
in the first place?”
Kuroo and Kenma share a look, causing you to note with slight bitterness that
even though this was their idea, you’re still more prepared for it than they
are.
“Because angels can’t lie. And that’s what you were, weren’t you?” You reply,
keeping your tone light and airy. The smile falls off his face for a second
before it returns, much wider and faker than it was.
“Someone did her homework. Pray tell, though, what’ll you and your band of
fools do when I tell you who did it?”
“Kill them.” Kuroo cuts in again. Oikawa sends him a withering look.
“I’m afraid to inform you that that’s next to impossible.” Oikawa says, though
there’s not a single shred of regret in his voice. “But because your lady here
seems to be taking this seriously, I’ll tell her.”
You nod, though balk a bit when he waves you closer. You look to Kenma and
Kuroo, who are once again sharing a look, before doing as you’re told. You
almost jump back when a set of cold hands comes to rest on your shoulders, your
breath shuddering in your lungs when Oikawa’s lips ghost against your ear.
“Iwaizumi.” He mutters, voice almost rattling your bones. “He killed them for
sport and dragged their souls down to hell just because he could.”
And then the coldness is gone. Oikawa himself is too, leaving you standing
outside the crudely-drawn sigil with a rather dumbfounded expression. Kuroo and
Kenma immediately jump to their feet, swearing and exclaiming that there’s no
way the king of hell could escape such a safeguard so easily, but you’re more
focused on the fact that there’s still a chill resting in your spine and an odd
tingling between your thighs.
__
You don’t remember blacking out, but you must have at some point; you’re tossed
back into reality with such force that it feels like all the air has been
squeezed from your lungs.
Oikawa has his arms around you, your body pressed into his chest as his chin
rests on top of your head. One of his hands is combing through your hair while
the other keeps you close to him. If he were human, you’d be able to feel his
heart thundering behind his ribs. You’re on the floor, surrounded by broken
glass and burnt herbs, a slight whiff of sulfur stinging your nose.
“Who brought you back?” His voice is cracking and hoarse. It’s nothing like the
smooth sound you’re used to.
“Daishō.” You say. Oikawa sniffles, and it makes you incredibly unsettled to
know that the king of hell is still crying.
“Those boys, did they—”
“They didn’t hurt me.” You cut him off, pushing on his chest a little bit.
Oikawa takes the hint and lets you go, allowing you to push back so you can
take a good look at him.
Theres horrible circles under his eyes, dark enough that you might think they
were twin bruises at first glance. His skin is pulled taught over the shape of
his skull, his hair waving and curling in no particular style. He’s not wearing
his signature suit; instead, it’s a stained shirt and torn slacks. You almost
want to laugh, seeing a powerful creature in such disarray, but the knowing
thought in the back of your mind takes over.
“They told me, though. They said you’ve been hurting people while I’ve been
gone.” You search his face for any sign of denial, but all he does is stare
blankly back at you. You suck in air through your teeth, fighting to keep your
voice level.
“Please tell me it wasn’t because of me.”
“Even if I could lie to you, I wouldn’t.” Oikawa reaches out for your hand but
you snatch it away, disbelief written across your face.
“Innocent people, Tōru!” You snap. “You thought that just because I was dead
you could go back to the way that you were before you met me?”
“[Name].” His voice still sounds choked, and you almost feel bad for him. “
[Name], I had just lost you. I had just lost everything.”
“That doesn’t excuse going on killing sprees!” You scoot backwards and the
movement seems to actually wound him, because the corners of his mouth wobble.
“I know.” He says, looking very much like he wants to reach out and touch you.
“I know. But you were gone. Our daughter was gone. They left you in that motel
room for me to find, [Name]. Like you were garbage that they were just throwing
away.”
“I know that.” You sneer, swallowing hard to try and fight back the tears
stinging at the corners of your eyes. “But you’ve just become exactly what
Kuroo and Kenma thought you were.”
There’s silence. You’ve struck some sort of nerve, you know, but at this moment
you don’t care. You’re caught between wanting to bolt from the room and take
him into your arms, and the worst part is that you can’t decide which one to
pick.
He must see it in your eyes, because his expression suddenly softens and his
mouth turns into an uneasy grimace.
“We can be together.” He says. “I’ll keep you safe this time. I promise.”
“Kuroo and Kenma.” You say, and you don’t have to elaborate because you know
that he knows. His expression gets even more uneasy, but that doesn’t hinder
him when he replies.
“I know how to end this.” He says.
__
The boys summon him often. Sometimes it’s to grill him about what happened to
their parents or what Iwaizumi’s whereabouts are— as if he’d willingly give
those up— but other times it’s when they need help. A cluster of rogue demons
might be giving the three of you more trouble than it’s worth. A shapeshifter
might be a little too clever to be trapped. Hybrid werewolves might be immune
to your typical silver bullet routine. Whatever the situation may be, Oikawa
seemed to take great pleasure in helping you eliminate all opposition to his
regime, enough so that Kuroo and Kenma stopped reaching for their holy water on
instinct every time he moved.
It’s not friendship, the three of them tell you. It’s business. Their focus
still remains on Iwaizumi, Oikawa’s second-in-command, but in the meantime
they’d be stupid to turn down the aid of one of the most powerful creatures in
existence. He’s not fond of humans, you know, but the three of you often lead
him rouge creatures that would love nothing more than to see him fall.
(“There’s a lot of politics in Hell.” He tells you once.)
He has no qualms with admitting that Kuroo and Kenma are nothing but pawns to
him. The two of them are well aware of this, too. What makes them the most
wary, however, is that Oikawa never says the same thing about you.
You don’t know what that means until he appears behind you in another motel
room one night, nearly giving you a heart attack when you see his reflection in
the mirror as you’re getting ready for a night out at the bar.
“Jesus fuck.” You snap, lowering your knife once you recognize who’s behind
you. “You can’t just sneak up on me like that, Oikawa.”
This isn’t the first time that he’s done such a thing— he loves taking you off
guard, apparently— but it is the first time that he doesn’t have a witty retort
at the ready. Instead he just stares, making you turn around and regard him
with a raised eyebrow.
“Are you here looking for Kuroo and Kenma? Because they’re in the room next
door, your teleportation magic might be getting a little wonky—”
“You’re really playing with fire, here.” He says, and to your sudden horror his
voice sounds more like a snarl. You couldn’t see it in his reflection, but you
can see it now; there’s a raw and primal look in his eyes that you’ve never
seen before, and it makes your heart nearly drop onto the floor.
“Excuse me?” You try to keep your voice level.
“This is getting old.” He takes a step closer to you and if you didn’t already
have your back pressed against the edge of the dirty motel vanity, you would
have moved backwards. “I want to know what you think you’re doing.”
You wish you had a nice comeback, but in all honesty you’re scared to death.
Despite knowing of him as a volatile creature, you’ve never once had his anger
directed at you. It’s always at the runaway demons or Kuroo and Kenma. Never at
you, not even once.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You finally say, and it’s the truth.
He seems to know this, but frowns at you nonetheless, those horrible eyes of
his still locked onto yours. He takes another step closer, his hands coming out
to rest on either side of your hips as he looks down at you, his face only
inches from yours. He’s close enough that he can probably see your pulse strain
against your neck.
“I’m talking about the looks.” He starts, fingers twitching over the chipped
wood of the vanity. “I’m talking about the ‘accidental’ touches. The small
smiles.”
Immediately you freeze, hyper-aware of the fact that your subtle gestures
weren’t so subtle after all. To your surprise, he doesn’t seem to take glee in
your reaction; instead, he seems to get even more frustrated.
“You’re a human being.” He says. “With an incredible allure to them. Tell me,
[Name], what were you hoping to accomplish here?”
“I don’t—”
“You know exactly what I mean.” He cuts you off. “You know what you’re doing to
me.”
“I’m not trying to do anything to you.” You say, and he must know it’s the
truth because he frowns.
“But you are.” He says, and his voice is so light that it’s almost like a
feather being dragged across your skin. One of his hands comes up to trace
along your jaw, thumb resting on your chin as his eyes glare into your own.
Then, they soften.
You don’t know what he’s about to do until it’s too late, his mouth slanting
over yours with a softness that catches you more off guard than his sudden
appearance did. Your first instinct is to push back against him, grab your holy
water and douse him in it, but you find that when your hands rest on his chest,
they only curl into the lapels of his suit and pull him closer.
He isn’t smug about it either, which is sending a funny emotion through you.
His hand goes from under your chin to your side, forcing your hips to press
against his. You almost contemplate the fact that you can feel him starting to
become aroused already, but then his teeth sink into your bottom lip and your
mind goes fuzzy in ways that aren’t directly related to his supernatural
abilities.
The only reason that you break apart from him is because you desperately need
air, but even then he doesn’t let your lips stray far from his own. They’re
gleaming with saliva and his eyes and looking into your own with a fierceness
that you’re ashamed to admit turns you on.
“What are we doing?” You blurt suddenly, and to your mild annoyance his lips
twitch into a small smirk.
“Kissing.” He says, and you roll your eyes when his lips come down to rest on
the side of your neck. You bite your lip when he presses a soft line of kisses
there, because you want answers more than anything right now.
“That’s not what I meant, Oikawa.” You retort, knowing full well that if he
slips back into his normal composure, you’ll be putty in his hands. It’s at
this moment, where he’s still a tad vulnerable, that you need to ask. “What’re
you getting at, here?”
“I thought that was obvious.” He coos, and before you can lace your voice with
even more bitterness, his other hand suddenly comes to rest on the apex of your
thighs, your cunt cupped in his nimble-fingered hand.
You swear the blush on your face could rival the color of his eyes right now,
your planned reply falling apart before it ever gets to reach your tongue. He
seems to know this, because you can feel his smug expression grow even more
against the sensitive skin of your neck. The hand between your thighs squeezes
a little, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit even through the
material of both your dress and your panties.
You don’t even realize you’re arching slightly into his touch until his laugh
vibrates against the column of your throat, and it makes you even more
humiliated that the sound dampens your panties. His hand leaves you for a
moment just so it can dip under the hem of your dress and resume its previous
position, and to his absolute delight you allow it. Your eyes, though, are
telling another story.
“We can’t do this.” You say, already panting. He pulls his head away from your
neck for a moment to appraise you, hand once again applying a slight pressure
to your clit that almost has you squirming. The sharp edge of the vanity is
digging into your lower back, reminding you what you’re doing and who you’re
doing it with.
“And why not?” There’s still an amused lilt to his voice, but you could say
that you almost hear a tinge of hurt laced into his words. You frown, narrowing
your eyes as his mockingly innocent question.
“If you haven’t noticed, we’re on the opposite sides of a spectrum. Hunter.
Demon. I don’t think I have to say anything more than that.” You try to reason,
but your stern words are robbed of their seriousness when you sharply inhale:
he’s pulled his hand back a bit to let the blunt edge of his fingernail gently
drag across your slit. Even with the layer of fabric still between the two, it
feels divine.
“You’re acting like demons and humans have never fucked before.” He says. He
ducks down again to lick at the shell of your ear and you nearly squeal, the
feeling a tad uncomfortable. His teeth close around your earlobe for a moment
and tug before his mouth migrates back to your own, his tongue forcing its way
past your lips to slide against your teeth and tangle with your own. You want
to protest again, reprimand him for tossing aside your concerns so carelessly,
but you can feel the tent in the front of his slacks against your thigh and
once more your mind goes completely blank.
He takes advantage of this and uses his hand to pull the fabric of your dress
up until it’s bunched just above your underwear, then goes back to where it
was. You’re a little ashamed of the fact that your legs spread a tad of their
own accord, but surprisingly he doesn’t make a comment about it. He’s too
focused on kissing you, on pressing himself a little closer until the pain in
your back is nearly unbearable.
Then he breaks away again to continue. “And it’d be stupid of you to say you
don’t want me. I can read minds, you know.”
You feel like your mortified expression is enough to give him secondhand
embarrassment, but instead he just grins like a cat that finally caught the
canary. Hell, you can practically see feathers sticking out from between his
teeth. “What, you didn’t know?”
“N-No.” You say, and it finally all makes sense. The small chuckles when nobody
was talking, the pained glances while Kenma and Kuroo were grilling him for
more information, the uncomfortable shifts when he positioned himself to aid in
your attacks; he’s known this entire time, and it’s been aggravating him.
Fuck.
“Well I can. And I know everything, [Name]. Like how you wanted me to bend you
over that table at the diner and fuck you into oblivion. Or how you wanted to
suck my cock at the library when Kenma and Kuroo insisted I help with
research,” he clicks his tongue in mild annoyance at the memory, and if you
weren’t embarrassed enough to die right now, you might have laughed at the
memory of him grumbling about how stupid books were.
“I—”
“And I know that you’re about to tell me that this isn’t a good idea.” He
continues, and you swear your heart stops for a moment when you feel him use a
finger to slowly move your panties aside. You don’t protest, though, and the
feral gleam in his eyes gets even worse. “But tell me, [Name], what’s so bad
about getting fucked so hard that you can’t walk right?”
You bite back a groan, trying to will away the mental images that his words
conjure, but it’s useless. You want him. He knows it, and the two of you have
been deprived of each other for too long. You almost want to hiss in
frustration when two of his fingers trace lazy circles around your opening,
gentle and not giving you anything that you crave.
“What’s so bad,” he muses, “about giving in to your desires? You can wax poetic
about the difference in species all you want, but you’re no saint.”
“Bite me.” Your words are meant to sound strong but they almost border on a
plea. He chuckles, though the sound is a little strained. You suppose that it
has something to do with how painfully hard he is, but you aren’t the mind
reader here.
“I can, if you’d like.” He says, and as if to demonstrate that he’s willing to
make this the best lay you’ve ever had, his lips go back to your throat and his
teeth nip gently at the skin there. “I can do a lot of things for you. You just
have to ask.”
You open your mouth to speak again, but his laugh cuts you off. “And by that, I
mean sexually. Don’t ask me to kill Iwaizumi for your friends.”
You close your mouth.
He shakes his head a tad, almost as if he’s in awe. “You really are a spunky
one, aren’t you?”
“It’s sort of my thing.” You say, fighting to keep your voice level.
“Huh. I guess that’s why I like you so much.” He says, and you don’t get a
chance to ask him to elaborate because the two fingers that had been teasing
you are now sinking into your entrance. You bite your lip, almost glaring as
Oikawa straightens back up in order to drink in your expression.
“Cute.” He says, and it’s a little embarrassing to know that he isn’t making
fun of you. He curls his fingers inside of you just a tad, giving you a crooked
smile when you squirm, before starting a leisurely pace that already has the
edges of your thoughts going fuzzy. Your bottom lip falls from the confines of
your teeth and you know you must look kind of odd, propped against the motel
vanity with your mouth slightly ajar, but his fingers are long and his
expression is beyond smoldering right now. The coldness of his digits feels
good as well, though you’d never admit that out loud.
“Feel good?” He asks, and you’d kick him if your thoughts were just a tad more
coherent. Instead, you just nod dumbly, inhaling sharply once he begins to
scissor his fingers. He’s so unaffected looking, even with that gleam in his
eyes, so you lift one hand and let it gently slide across the front of his
slacks, where his prominent bulge strains against the zipper. His reaction is
immediate; a small groan passes his lips, the sharp look in his eyes going
slightly hazy.
You want to actually grab him, to draw even more of a reaction out of him, but
then he twists his fingers and suddenly they’re brushing against something
inside of you that makes you almost jump. His eyes focus again, zeroed in on
your expression as your breathing becomes slightly more labored.
“There?” He says, as if he doesn’t already know. You nod, muscles in your legs
tightening as he does it again. It doesn’t strike you that he’s only just
started and already he’s making you feel this good; instead, you’re more
focused on the fact that he’s leaning in again, kissing you once more while his
fingers pick up their pace.
It’s a little softer this time. The implications of that are, for now, absent
from your mind, but you do register the fact that this is a little out of
character for such a snarky being. He’s working tirelessly, apparently wanting
nothing more than to bring you to your peak, and you allow him. His fingers
keep working at you until you’re biting your lip once more, containing the
noise of satisfaction that’s ripped from your throat when the entire world
around you goes white.
And then it’s over. You don’t register this until he yanks his fingers from
inside of you with a rather harsh movement, bringing them up to your lips with
an oddly stern expression on his face.
“Open.” He commands, and you do without hesitation. He slides his fingers into
your mouth, tainting your tongue with your own taste and watching with open
interest as you lick your own come away. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows
harshly, apparently not expecting you to be so eager to clean up.
“Still think this is a bad idea?” He says hoarsely. You feel spent already, a
little unusual from just a little fingering, but you’ve come this far and
you’ll be damned if you don’t experience everything he has to offer, even
though you know you’ll be overstimulated.
You yank your panties down, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. His eyes
immediately flick to your exposed cunt, gaze sharp enough to almost cut, but he
can’t look for long because you’re already turning, pulling your dress up
around your waist even more before propping your elbows on the surface of the
vanity, eyes meeting his in the mirror. You’re presenting yourself to him at
this point, and you can tell by the awestruck expression on his face that he
didn’t expect you to do so.
His hands immediately go to your ass, squeezing and roaming the surface like
he’s never touched a human being before and he can’t quite get over how your
skin feels against his palm. You’re almost afraid he’s going to spank you, but
instead he just swallows again and shakes his head.
“You’re really something else.” He says. His voice isn’t teasing. It’s dead
serious, and the sentence is punctuated by the fact that one of his hands has
left your body to pull down his zipper and undo the button of his slacks. You
nearly wiggle your hips in anticipation because even in the mirror you can tell
he’s well-endowed, the red of his underwear doing nothing to conceal how
substantial his bulge is.
“Oikawa, fuck me.” You say, watching in the mirror as he lifts a brow at you.
“Don’t think just because I’m being nice to you that you’re the one in control
here.” He says, and if his tone weren’t so strained than you might have taken
him completely seriously. But in that moment he tugs his pants and underwear
down just enough so that he can free his erection, a smear of precome at the
tip that nearly makes your mouth water. You almost regret turning around now,
because you’d like nothing more than to be on your knees for him. He groans.
You blink, then it dawns on you.
Oh, yeah. The mind reading thing.
You conjure up another image— him forcing himself down your throat, pulling out
only to paint your face with his release— and he looks like he’s both amused
and annoyed at how you’ve turned the tables on him for the moment. All coherent
thought in your mind ceases, however, when he grabs your waist in both hands,
positioning himself for a moment before shooting you a serious look in the
mirror. His mouth has barely formed the words ‘be quiet’ before he’s burying
himself to the hilt inside of you, biting his lip as you let out a surprised
yelp.
Immediately, he stops. You think it’s because he’s upset with you, but then you
hear shuffling from the room next door and a knock on the wall. “[Name]? You
okay in there?”
Kuroo. You cast a panicked look to Oikawa in the mirror, but he just shrugs as
if to sayhey, I told you to be quiet.
Your initial silence must bother Kuroo— you don’t blame the guy, though,
because silence is never a good response in your profession— because he knocks
again. “[Name]?”
“F-Fine!” You say. God, you can feel Oikawa throbbing inside of you as he
adjusts his grip on your hips, his gaze contemplative. It’s a little too out of
place for what the two of you are currently doing. “Just dropped something on
my foot!”
A pause. “Ah. Well, be careful, alright? And get some sleep, we’re heading out
to Maine tomorrow morning.”
“W-will do!” You reply, voice a little wobbly because Oikawa has started to
thrust into you with shallow movements. One of his hands leaves your hip, a
fact you don’t register immediately until you see it moving towards his neck to
slide his tie off.
“Youreallyneed to be quiet.” He says, pulling the loop of fabric over his head.
You want to question him, but he moves before you can do so, balling it up in
his hand and cramming it into your slightly ajar mouth. Your first instinct is
to push it out with your tongue, but he holds it there until he’s certain you
wont do so.
With a glare, you bite down on the patterned silk, though your harsh expression
drops once he grabs your hips again and starts to mercilessly thrust into you,
his pelvis meeting your ass with a slightly muted smack each time. Your hands
scrabble for purchase on the wooden vanity before giving up once you find
nothing, instead laying your palms flat on the surface while Oikawa pounds into
you. You’re thankful the structure is at least attached to the wall, because if
it wasn’t you’re certain that the noise of it moving would alert your
companions. Oikawa leans forward a bit so that his mouth is closer to your ear,
the slightly new angle making you cry out against the fabric of his tie.
“Look at yourself.” He sneers, eyes flicking from your face to his own in the
mirror. “You like this, don’t you? Getting fucked by a demon with your friends
in the other room.”
You don’t reply. You can’t. He doesn’t expect you to be able to.
“You could pretend all you wanted, but I knew.” He continues. “You wanted me
since day one. I bet you even touched yourself thinking about me. Didn’t you?”
You nod vigorously, and that’s more than enough for him because he slides a
hand underneath you to roll your clit with his fingers. Your eyes roll back for
a moment, both from the overstimulation and the fact that he’s already taking
you towards your second orgasm in less that ten minutes— perhaps his
supernatural abilities have a hand in that— and he seems thrilled with himself
over it. His eyes find yours in the mirror, that terrifying scarlet hue almost
beautiful, before he blinks and you nearly balk.
They’re completely black, just like the standard demon eyes that you’ve come to
recognize over your lifetime. A little bit of fear courses through your veins
at the sight just out of pure instinct, and you tighten around him like a vice
as he continues to completely wreck you.
“I’m going to ruin you.” His voice is almost a growl now, his eyes like two
black holes that might just swallow you up if you aren’t careful.
“You’renevergoing to want anybody else after me.”
You want to cry out. You want to tell him that you’ll belong to him forever,
because he’s fucking you so well that you’re almost certain you’re going to
pass out. You want him inside of you forever, want to feel this way for the
rest of your life.
He knows this. He can see it all. His hand presses down even harder on your
clit, his face becoming more serious than you’ve ever seen it. He leans in just
a tad more.
“Come.” He snarls, and although his voice is quiet, it still makes you feel
like the entire world is falling away around you. Your entire body nearly
freezes at his command, immediately complying. You cry out against the silk,
squeezing even tighter around Oikawa until you’re nearly worried that you could
hurt him. The almost strangled noise he lets out, however, assures you that
it’s quite the opposite, and with a particularly brutal thrust he’s following
you into bliss, his all-black eyes never once leaving yours. You hate to admit
it, but that just makes the pleasure all the stronger, your muscles jumping and
twitching as you almost lose all sense of coherency.
He was right. You’re never going to want anybody else.
__
“You can’t kill them.” You say. He looks at you for a long moment, before
shaking his head slowly.
“I won’t.” He says. “But Iwaizumi will, if I ask him to.”
His fingers thread through yours and you allow it, too busy thinking to really
comprehend what he’s doing. You think of Kenma and Kuroo, always so solemn on
the anniversary of their parent’s deaths. You think of those late-night diner
conversations, of Kenma rolling his eyes as you and Kuroo blow straw wrappers
at one another. You remember Kuroo tucking you into bed after you wake up from
another nightmare, Kenma jumping in front of you to save you from a werewolf,
Kuroo stitching your wounds—
Kenma stabbing you in the stomach without a hint of hesitation. Kuroo watching
you bleed out on the floor as he rifles though your things to see if you’ve
made any note of Oikawa’s first name. The two of them deciding that leaving you
there for Oikawa to find would make more of a statement than burying you. The
sound of receding footsteps as they leave, as casual as one might be when going
out to buy groceries.
Your eyes find Oikawa’s. And then, ever so slowly, you nod.
“Tell him.” You say. Your voice is flat. Your hand runs across the jagged scar
over your stomach. “They deserve it.”
***** Kuguri - Wonderful *****
Chapter Notes
     HEY GUYS! I have a few things I wanna say, so this A/N is gonna be a
     little on the longer side. Feel free to skip it if you would like.
     First of all- I did a shit job proofreading this, so please forgive
     me for any mistakes. Also, this is the first oneshot that has very
     minimal plot, so if it feels rushed then I'm very, very sorry.
     Secondly, I'd like to address something that a lovely commenter made
     me aware of recently. This is the ONLY place I post my work, so if
     you see it ANYWHERE else, please report it. Someone plagiarized the
     Mattsun oneshot and posted it on wattpad. Thankfully, it's been taken
     down, but it was still incredibly angering and hurtful to see. I'd
     like to think that the person who did it is just a kid and had no
     idea how rude their actions were, and I hope it doesn't happen again.
     There's a few people I'd like to thank. First of all, I want to thank
     everyone who comments, even if I don't respond: i see them, and they
     ALWAYS make my day. You guys are the reason that I keep on writing.
     You all mean the world to me.
     I'd like to thank Tessisbest as well for mentioning me in her work
     'Miscellaneous'. Tess is hands down one of my favorite authors on
     this website so of course I was a little starstruck by the mention
     (and her wonderful comments on here), so please go check out her
     work. You won't regret it, I promise!
     I'd also like to thank my dear friend Peachy, who this oneshot is
     written for. I really hope you enjoy it and that I did his character
     justice.
     Without further ado, here's the latest update! I hope you all enjoy!
     xoxo Sabby
     (P.S.- CC eats ass. Please don't ask.)
For most of the boys on the team, there’s no feeling comparable to losing a
match.
It’s the knowledge of putting your all into a game that doesn’t end in your
favor. It’s being aware that every single person in the room has seen you fail.
It’s letting down the people that put their faith in you, who counted on you to
pull through and score. And although Kuguri is very much aware that the feeling
of losing is a sting that doesn’t go away, there’s something even more painful
on his mind.
Unrequited love.
And while yes, loss can be like a prick to the skin, the feeling of loving
someone who doesn’t even know you exist is like a knife to the heart. It’s the
gazes he’s seen you share with someone who isn’t him, the flash of your smile
that he caught when he saw the picture of you hanging in Numai’s locker, the
fact that you’ve always been so close but so far away, an unobtainable work of
art that he’s been resigned to watch from behind a wall of glass.
None of this is helped by the fact that you’ve been his neighbor for years now.
The privilege of seeing you almost every day doesn’t make up for the tight hugs
you and Numai shared after games, the way he can sometimes hear the former
ace’s voice through the walls of his apartment followed by your laughter, how
the two of you have graduated and he feels left behind. So he’s left to do what
he does best; he remains silent, watching you from the corner of his eye as he
exits and leaves his apartment, living for the brief seconds he can hear your
voice in the hallway or smell your perfume as you pass by him, offering a curt
nod in response to your sunny smiles.
He does this for so long that he can’t even remember when it all began. He does
it while you attend Uni and he practices hard after school. He becomes the ace,
as predicted, and faces off against schools from prefectures hours away. He
plays every game as if you’re there in the crowd, cheering for him even when he
knows that if he looks he’ll just see an empty seat. Usually it’s enough to get
him into the right mindset, but not today.
They lost at nationals. Of course they did. And they were so close, too, just a
few points behind. His hands shake as he goes to enter his apartment that
night, the key glinting in the overhead light of the hallway, and he swallows
harshly as he tries not to remember the faces of his teammates on the bus ride
home, the way he wasn’t able to take you into his arms after their loss like
Numai used to, how he couldn’t—
Your door creaks open and he stills, hoping that it’s just your father leaving
for a night out with his friends. When he doesn’t hear the telltale sign of his
boots on the carpeted floor of the main hallway, a lump forms in his throat.
“Uh, hey.” It takes him a minute to realize that you’re talking to him. When he
does, he slowly lowers his hand, resigned to the fact that it isn’t steady
enough to get the key into the lock without fumbling. He turns his head just a
fraction, looking at you from the corners of his eyes; he’s afraid that if he
fully turns to face you, you’ll see just how sad he is. The very thought makes
him uncomfortable.
“I… heard. Y’know, about nationals. Uh,” you seem unsure where to go with your
sentence for a moment, but you finish nonetheless with a very uncomfortable,
“Kazuma-kun said you played really well. He saw it on television.”
If he had the energy to do so, Kuguri might’ve snorted. Of course Numai was the
person you were talking to about the game. Not him, who’d been your neighbor
for the past five years. The thought sends a hot flash of jealousy through him
that he knows is completely unfounded— you’re not obligated to talk to him,
after all— and for some reason it makes him square his shoulders and turn to
you, bowing slightly.
“I tried my best.” He says, and he’s actually pretty relieved when his voice
doesn’t crack or falter. When he straightens back up he sees you looking at him
with a funny expression, like there’s something that you want to say but you’re
afraid to say it.
Instead, you settle on something else. “Would you like to come in and talk
about it, maybe?”
Had he been a more expressive person, Kuguri might have balked at your offer.
Instead, his surge of emotions is contained to inside his head; his face
remains impassive as he considers his reply. On one hand, he’s not quite sure
he’ll be able to control himself once he’s alone in the same room as you, but
on the other he really doesn’t want to deal with the pitying looks his parents
are bound to give him when he walks through his front door.
He nods. He tries to battle down the surge of curious excitement that he feels
when your eyes suddenly brighten and the corners of your mouth curl into a
small smile. You duck back into your apartment for a moment, opening the door
wider. Your head pops back out after a moment when he hasn’t followed you, a
brow raised as if to beckon him inside.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and allows his feet to carry him past your
door, shutting it quietly behind himself and immediately going to remove his
shoes like his mother taught him. You’re watching him, looking up into his eyes
with a little bit of amusement that seems more warm than it does condescending.
He knows his expression is still stony, but you’re still looking at him like he
isn’t the most frigid person you’ve ever met. For some reason, that makes him
happy beyond belief.
You lead him to your kitchen and gesture for him to sit at the small table
there. The layout of your apartment is the exact same as his, but you and your
father have obviously done more with the place than he and his family have.
There’s colorful pots and pans stacked next to the sink, cheery yellow curtains
framing the window, and some sort of patterned paper covering your
refrigerator. There’s a picture of you and Numai taped there; Kuguri averts his
gaze as soon as the fact registers in his mind, but he can’t help but cast a
few glances at it as you go about filling a kettle with water and picking out
tea leaves, as if to remind himself that he’s trespassing on something.
“So.” You finally say once everything is in place. “Kazuma-kun tells me that
you’re the ace of the team now.”
Kuguri nods, not quite trusting himself to speak at the moment, out of fear
that he might express his distaste for your relationship with the former
player. You don’t seem to find this response acceptable, though, and raise an
eyebrow at him in a way that implores him to speak. When he doesn’t, you look
defeated for a brief moment.
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
He shakes his head and you laugh, relieving him because he doesn’t sense any
bitterness in it. You shake your own head as well, as if in disbelief.
“You’re something else.” You turn back to the kettle and he lets his eyes roam
over your back. You’re wearing an old Nohebi sweatshirt that almost obscures
your gym shorts, he realizes with a start, and his hands twitch involuntarily
as the mental image of him pulling it off of you flashes by. He realizes a
little too late that he’s going down that path again, the one that leads to
more inappropriate thoughts, and it’s especially dangerous because you’re right
here, but for some reason he can’t help himself. He thinks about going up
behind you, pressing his body against your back and letting his lips linger
over the shell of your ear. He imagines getting to run his hands down your
sides, fingers skimming over soft skin and cotton undergarments. He wants to
hear you giggle, wants you to scold him for distracting you, wants to press a
soft kiss over your lips in response, grab your hand and tug you towards the
nearest bed—
“—Kuguri?”
He blinks in surprise, almost startled by the fact that he let his mind wander
so much. If the faint excitement in his groin is anything to go by, he’s
already in trouble. He shouldn’t be thinking things like that about you,
especially when you’re right here in front of him. It isn’t just wrong, it’s
also sort of embarrassing.
“Yes?” He says, almost wincing at how husky his voice sounds. You stare at him
for a moment, seemingly forgetting what you were about to say, before turning
back to the kettle. Curiously enough, the tips of your ears are starting to
redden. He pockets this information away for later.
“I asked if you wanted sugar in your tea.” You say, clearing your throat. You
suddenly sound a little self-conscious. He’d ask why, but at this point he’d
rather die than unintentionally pry into what may be a private matter. He
settles for watching you reach for a little jar and spoon.
“Oh. No, thank you.” He says, and then for no reason other than the fact that
he feels the need to know more about you, he asks, “do you take sugar in your
tea?”
“Just a little bit.” You reply, opening the small jar and scooping out some of
the sweet crystals, adding them to your teacup. He watches, almost as if in a
trance, because the movement of your fingers is doing something to him that it
really shouldn’t be. He doesn’t know at what point he became so enamored with
you that even such minor things could affect him, and the realization that he
has it this bad for you would be frightening had he not already known it in the
back of his mind.
He hums in reply because he’s not exactly sure what to say to that. He’s not
good with words— that much is certain, at least. His eyes follow you as you set
his teacup in front of him, then take your own seat across the small table from
him. You look so… domestic right now, in your too-big sweatshirt and with that
gentle smile across your face. He’s sure that if he put enough thought into it,
he could actually picture this as his life; coming home to you after a long
day, watching you put sugar in your tea, looking at you across the table from
him. It’s almost heartbreaking on its own.
And then he remembers. You’re his neighbor and he doesn’t know you as well as
he tells himself he does. There’s still a picture of Numai taped to the
refrigerator, the image of the former ace’s arms wrapped around you. You’ve
always been just out of his reach and it’s ridiculous of him to think that
simply having tea with you will change any of that. While it’s never been
specifically addressed, he’s sure that you belong to someone, and that person
will never, ever be him.
He stares down at his own cup as you take a sip from yours. The movement of you
putting your elbows on the table causes little rings to radiate from the center
of his drink, and he almost wishes that he could dive head first into it,
drowning himself in the warm liquid so that he didn’t have to address the
intrusive thoughts swirling around in his mind.
He can tell you’re shooting him an inquisitive glance even before he looks back
up, so when his eyes meet yours he’s mentally prepared for it. You look ready
to ask him about it, so he figures that he can beat you to the punch.
“I’ve been thinking.” He says. You tilt your head, gaze expectant, and that’s
what takes him by surprise. He can’t really contain himself, because honestly
he’s still a little on edge both from losing and having you so close by, so he
blurts “about life. Some things are really hard to deal with, aren’t they?”
You blink at him. He’s almost afraid that you’re going to start laughing, but
instead you reach across the table. He tenses up when he feels your smaller
hand over his, unprepared for the sensation of feeling your skin against his
even in such a chaste way.
His first name falls past your lips and he has to fight the urge to clench his
fist at the sound of it. It’s filled with such kindness, such warmth, that it’s
like he truly is a snake that has just shed his skin. Even the pain from losing
today, of being resigned to watching you from afar, feels dulled in the wake of
this new feeling. He’s actually almost frightened of it, because he’s not sure
if the warmth spreading to his fingers is affection or a sign of some sort of
heart attack.
“They are.” You agree. “Some things in life can be difficult to go through. But
I think that’s what makes the good moments so good, right?”
He looks at you for a little bit, still a little numb from hearing you say his
name. Your response is something off of a get-well-soon card, but for some
reason it sounds… actually motivating when coming from you.
“You know,” you continue, “The past few years were hard for me. My parents got
divorced, my mom got remarried… and for a while I acted like a child about it.
I made things a lot harder for myself than I should have.” You say. He feels
bad about it, but his attention is still split; your fingers are unconsciously
drumming over his, and he’s so pleased by the feeling that he almost can’t
focus on what you’re telling him.
“I kind of didn’t care about anything. But then I met my step-brother. And
he’s… well, you know how he is. He was a good influence on me. He made me
realize that things in life will always be shitty, and I just need to look
forward to the good things to get myself through.”
Kuguri pauses. His mind kicks into the next gear, memories flashing past. You
and Numai talking at lunch. How Numai always seemed to know every minute detail
about your life. You coming to walk home with Numai after practice. You calling
Numai by his first name, the fact that Kuguri never saw you actually doing
anything couple-like with the former ace, despite being so sure that you were
dating—
“Your stepbrother.” He repeats. You nod.
“Yeah. I don’t know what I would have done without Kazuma.” You sigh, and you
lean back in your chair. Your hand goes with you, resting at your side. He
realizes with a jolt that you’ve finished your tea; in an attempt to not seem
rude, he takes a sip of his own. It’s lukewarm.
You watch him as he drinks, that same curious smile curling at your lips. He
tries not to let his happiness and— dare he say it— excitement show, because
you not dating Numai doesn’t mean that you’d want to date him, but he honestly
can’t help it. He almost wants to smile at you, because it’s like he’s seeing
you in a more radiant and attainable light.
You seem to sense that there’s a change in him, because you send him another
soft smile as he places the cup down.
“Did you even taste that?” You ask, and he realizes with a little bashfulness
that he downed the entire thing in under half a minute.
“Yes. It was delicious.” He replies, and then because he wants to get a little
bit farther in his discussion with you, he adds a “you’re very good at it.
Brewing tea, I mean.”
“Well, I’d sure hope so. It’s hard to mess something like that up.” He swears
your gaze gets a little bit mischievous as you pluck the cup out from in front
of him, grabbing your own as well and standing to put them in the sink. He
might’ve been embarrassed had he not been so busy processing the fact that he’d
misread the situation between you and Numai all this time.
“So. The game.” You say as you start the tap, rinsing out the cups with your
back towards him. He hears a little bit of unease in your voice, as if you’re
not sure if asking about their loss is acceptable. He’s more wounded by that
than the mention of losing once again to Nekoma; the fact that you can go from
joking around to being hesitant around him is another example of the fact that
beyond what you can take at face value, neither of you know much about the
other.
“Nekoma was brilliant this year. Their ace was leagues better than me.” He
answers you truthfully, contemplating the gangly limbs and catlike eyes of Lev
Haiba. He’d grown since the first year they faced off, and while Kuguri did as
well, he was still of a lesser caliber than the silver-haired ace.
“I doubt that’s true.” You say, and it kind of breaks his heart because he
knows that you believe what you’re saying.
“We lost, didn’t we?” He says. You freeze for a second, and he’s almost afraid
that you’re going to turn around and yell at him or something, but instead you
resume cleaning.
“You lost two years ago, too.” You say. “I remember. I was there. It was
Kazuma’s last game.”
You sound a little bit lost in your thoughts all of a sudden. Kuguri isn’t
quite sure how to respond.
“And I remember that you cried.” You pick up a rag from the counter and start
drying the cups. “And you know what Numai told me? He said you were going to be
the best damn ace that school had ever seen. So yeah, maybe you guys did lose
today, but I don’t think he was wrong, either. You’ve changed so much these
past years.”
For a second, Kuguri doesn’t think straight. He just takes in your words and
what they mean. You’ve been watching him over the last few years. You paid
attention to him at nationals two years ago. You might not feel the same way
about him that he feels about you, but god damnnit it’s something. He’s been
pining after you for so long that it’s embarrassing to think about, and maybe
that’s what compels him into action.
He pushes his chair back and stands. You’re alerted by the sound and turn, but
the words your mouth is forming are lost because in two large strides he’s
crossed the small kitchen, one hand wrapping around your waist and the other
tangling in the hair at the back of your head, yanking you close so that he can
seal his mouth over yours.
It doesn’t immediately occur to him that you’ve responded to the touch. Only
the facts that your lips are soft and you taste a little sugary register with
him, followed by how you’re pressing yourself against him and your hands are
curling into the front of his shirt.
At this point, his common sense rushes back to him. He should be breaking away
from you and apologizing profusely, but he just can’t bring himself to do it.
Not when you let out an appreciative moan at the way he slides his tongue into
your mouth or press yourself against him so tightly that he thinks he can feel
your heartbeat against his.
The taste of tea overwhelms the sugary tinge of your lips, but he doesn’t mind
at all as his tongue glides against yours. Once again you respond in an
instant, the two wet muscles fighting for dominance inside your mouth. He
considers letting you win for a brief moment before deciding that he doesn’t
need to lose twice in one day.
He’s barely even aware of the fact that he needs air until his lungs are
practically screaming at him to disengage from you. When he does, he’s pleased
to find that your eyes are hazy and you’re looking up at him with an expression
that he’s only thought about when he’s alone in his room at night. Again, you
speak his name with a reverence that should be saved for something a little
more holy, and he shuts his eyes for a brief moment to let the warm flow of
happiness wash over his body.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” He admits, his mouth slightly
grazing yours as he speaks. You smile up at him like you're a little awestruck
and a little bit enamored, and he can’t help but try to swallow down the
excited lump forming in his throat.
“Me too.” You reply. You give him a chaste peck that quickly morphs back into
something slower and sensual. One of the hands in the front of his shirt
releases the fabric in favor of tangling into the hair on the back of his head,
threading through the auburn strands as if he’s an anchor and you’re afraid of
being swept away in a current.
He’s so focused on the feeling of your mouth over his that he doesn’t realize
you’ve been leading him out of the kitchen until your back hits the doorframe.
You break away and look like you’re about to apologize for the slight
interruption, but your words die in your throat when he presses an open-mouthed
kiss to the crook of your neck.
“Were we going somewhere?” He asks against your warm skin. He feels you swallow
and he has to fight back a grin when you inhale sharply as his teeth graze your
skin.
“B-bedroom.” You say, voice breathy. He almost freezes for a second, because he
knows exactly what you’re insinuating, and pulls back from his assault on your
neck.
“Already?” He says, in a tone that really asks are you sure? Your eyes meet him
and you nod without hesitation, and all of a sudden he feels like he’s in his
first year again, longing after something that’s just out of reach, unsure what
he can and can’t take from you. He’s never done anything like this before—
hell, he’s only ever kissed a few people in his lifetime— and for some reason,
he suddenly feels like he’s taking advantage of you in some way. However, he
knows—
“Kuguri.”
“Yes?”
“Please.” Your hand travels from his hair to his cheek, cupping it in your
palm. “I want you.”
—that he’s ready for this.
He nods in response and then you’re kissing him again, pushing away from the
doorframe and walking backwards through your living room, down the hall, until
your back is once again pressed up against something.
He takes full advantage of it this time, his hips trapping your own as he
resumes what he was doing earlier and nips at the delicate skin of your neck,
delighting in the fact that you’re trying to squirm but can’t because of the
pressure of his body against yours.You’re panting, taking in ragged breaths
right next to his ear and he suddenly feels like he’s on top of the world with
you here.
The thought has him fumbling for the doorknob, finding it within seconds and
turning it fast enough that you would have fallen into the room had his other
arm not circled around your waist at the last second. You’re beaming at him,
with messed-up hair and unfocused eyes, and you speak with an amused lilt to
your voice when you say “eager?”
“You don’t even know that half of it.” He mutters, not stopping as he leads you
to the bed. Later on, he’ll appreciate the decor— a few pictures of you and
your family (Numai included) arranged on your dresser, some textbooks stacked
onto your desk, a lone goldfish in a glass bowl that you probably won at a
festival— but for right now he only has eyes for you and the way you let
yourself fall gracefully onto the bed, resting on your elbows and giving him
what must be the most seductive gaze that you can muster.
It works, and he’s dropping to his knees without a second thought, shooting you
an amused half-smile as he reaches up and starts to tug at your shorts. You
balk for a moment, eyebrows raising as he yanks the elastic-waisted garment
halfway down your legs.
“You don’t wait, do you?” You say, a little amused and a little taken aback.
“I’ve been waiting long enough.” He says, pulling them down the rest of the way
and pressing a kiss to your ankle. You shake your head, half in disbelief and
half in astounded affection. He tosses the shorts over his shoulder, eyes
meeting yours from between your legs as he moves up to better situate himself
near the apex of your thighs.
You watch him move, your legs still resting on his shoulders as he presses his
chest into the edge of the bed, his face now just inches from your skin. You
can’t battle down the anticipation that races through you at the look he’s
giving you, eyes half lidded while his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip.
You’ve only ever seen a look like that a few times during his first year, when
he’s on the court and his opponent is rather formidable; there’s absolute fire
in his eyes, burning bright enough that you actually have to blink rapidly.
“How long?” You ask. He quirks an eyebrow at you and you inhale sharply when
one of his hands comes over your leg, his middle and ring fingers pressing down
gently over your clothed clit.
“Years.” He admits, slowly starting to move those two fingers in a tight
circle, eyes sharp in order to take in your reaction. You inhale deeply once
more, already fighting the urge to let your head roll back and allow your legs
to squirm. There’s some unknown force keeping your eyes locked onto Kuguri’s.
“You should have said something.” You reply softly. Your legs shift as he
shrugs, though his fingers don't stop. In fact, they traverse downward, where
your opening is, and he seems pleased to find that the fabric covering you is
slowly dampening.
“I thought you were dating Numai.” He says truthfully, and you would roll your
eyes at him if he wasn’t currently making the hairs on your arm stand up with
his almost torturous touches. He must know this, because his mouth quirks up
into a crooked rendition of a smile.
“Gross.” You say, and then you’re both laughing a little bit, equally amazed at
the fact that you’re here with the other. His fingers skim the edge of your
panties and your breath hitches in anticipation, you’re sure he’s going to pull
them aside and—
He removes his fingers. You nearly balk when he slides your legs off of his
shoulders as well, your mind racing with the thought that maybe he’s changed
his mind, maybe this was all a huge joke, maybe he isn’t attracted to you. You
open your mouth to apologize but he cuts you off.
“I want you to do something for me.” He says, voice much huskier than you
expected. You blink at him, nodding dumbly for a moment before you find your
voice.
“Of course.” You say, trying not to sound too frantic to get him back on his
knees.
He contemplates you for a moment and you swear your entire body is going to be
covered in a nervous sweat at any second. He searches for words before deciding
on a command that makes you swallow harshly.
“Touch yourself.”
“W-what?” You sputter, all at once relieved and appalled at his wish. “Why?”
“I don’t know what you like.” He says, tilting his head to the side a bit. His
eyes go from looking into yours to looking at your still-covered crotch. One of
your hands twitches, instinctively wanting to obey his command. “And I want you
to show me.”
“Really?”
“I wouldn’t be asking you if I didn’t want to see.” God, you can tell he’s a
little bit amused with how flustered you are, but your thoughts are swirling
around in your head too fast for you to be properly indignant over it.
You pause for a moment, deciding what the next course of action should be,
before deciding fuck it, the guy just wants to see me masturbate, not an entire
staged production, and scooting up on the bed a bit until your back is
supported by your pillows and you can use both of your hands freely without
laying flat. His eyes brighten almost immediately, the telltale excitement of a
teenage boy bleeding through his usually apathetic expression.
You start with your underwear, hooking your fingers through the elastic waist
and dragging them slowly down your legs. He watches with rapt attention, his
adam’s apple bobbing as he sees you slide the fabric down your thighs and
calves, until you finally pull them over your feet and toss them to the side of
the bed. He watches them fall for a split second before his eyes fly back to
your crotch, lingering on your exposed cunt like he’s trying to devour it with
his eyes.
You wait for a moment, willing your hands to not be so shaky. Already he seems
like he’s completely taken with you, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s
ever seen. You don’t want to disappoint him; you’re sure now that this is the
first time he’s ever seen a girl partially naked before, much less been in a
situation like this one, and you don’t want to half-ass it.
So you spread your legs open, enough so that the stretch of it just barely
starts to register. Immediately his eyes widen, his mouth parting just slightly
as he looks at your now open cunt with impossible-to-cover reverence. You
swallow thickly, debating if he wants to just stare at it longer or if you
should get started.
He answers for you; his eyes flick upwards to yours, and he nods almost
imperceptibly. You bite your lip to keep it from wobbling as one of your hands
begins to move, index and middle finger slowly spreading your folds so that he
has an even better view. You break your concentration for a brief second, then
nearly balk because he looks like he’s just about to pass out already.
“Are you alright?” You ask, half concerned and half amused. Instead of
responding immediately, he drops back to his knees once more. You wonder if
he’s already impatient enough to touch you himself, but it seems like the
movement was solely for the purpose of bringing him closer to your glistening
opening because he settles on his elbows not far from the apex of your thighs.
His eyes meet yours and he nods for a second time, as if to say well?
You take a deep breath at that, lifting your other hand to your mouth and
taking your middle and ring finger past your lips, licking them for extra
lubrication just in case. He watches the motion with fascinated eyes, the
interest in them spiking even more when you bring those two fingers downwards
and slowly, slowly push them inside of yourself.
He’s torn already. This is something he thought he was never going to be able
to see, so his instinct is telling him to immediately dive in, to take
advantage of the situation in front of him. But the more rational part of
himself wants him to take his time, to admire how cute you look in just your
sweatshirt while you bite your lip. He wants this burned into his memory for as
long as he lives, because not only is it erotic; he’s seeing you at your most
vulnerable right now, and the power that fills him with is almost frighteningly
exhilarating.
You let go of your outer lips— satisfied that the sight of you now fingering
yourself is more than sufficient for him— in favor of using that hand to skim
over your clit, circling around it for show before pressing down firmly. He
watches for a second before his focus goes back to the sight of your two
fingers slowly sliding in and out of your cunt, covered to the knuckles in a
sheen that makes him unconsciously lick his lips.
He was right in one aspect; he has no idea what you like. You do, however,
having spent many nights thinking of the redhead in front of you (many, many
more times than you’d like to admit), so finding a satisfying pace and set of
movements isn’t hard at all. You curl your fingers inside of you with every
pump, pinching your clit as you search your inner walls for the one spot that
makes you feel the best.
You pass over it and shudder, a movement that he doesn’t miss. You watch his
pupils contract and dilate at the breathy little moan you let out, watch as his
hands twitch a little bit with the restrained urge to touch you as your hips
gently buck upwards. You try not to close your eyes at every pass over your g-
spot, but you’ve worked yourself up to the point that you know you’re going to
come soon. Surprisingly, you aren’t embarrassed of that fact; you know your
body well enough to bring yourself to the brink within minutes, so it isn’t
unusual for you. What is unusual, however, is the feeling of Kuguri’s hand
sliding around your wrist just as your eyes start to close.
“Wait.” He says. Your eyes immediately fly open, curiosity apparent in them.
Whether or not Kuguri knew you were getting close or if he just grew impatient,
you’re not sure. All you know is that he’s looking up into your eyes with a
smoldering gaze that is enough to make your skin feel like it’s on fire.
“You don’t—” you start, but your words die out as he presses a gentle kiss to
the inside of your thigh.
“I think I get it now.” He murmurs, causing you to swallow harshly. He uses the
hand circled around your wrist to slowly pull your fingers from inside of you,
openly marveling at the slick wetness that coats them. You watch him, almost
afraid to breathe at his point, as he finally releases your wrist and moves to
push two of his own fingers inside of you.
They’re larger than yours. That much is very, very apparent as he slides them
into you as far as he can. You’re already squirming and he hasn’t even done
anything beyond that, but the stretch of having him touch you is almost beyond
compare.
“You’re tight.” He murmurs, and you know it’s just an observation but it still
makes your body tingle immediately. You wonder if he’s able to tell that,
because he looks right into your eyes as he continues. “You’re going to feel so
good around me.”
Could someone tell you why that was hot? Because his face is still nearly
blank, his tone is flat and almost analytical, but—
“I’ve wanted to fuck you for so, so long.” His voice is a little bit hoarse as
he curls his fingers inside of you, planting his thumb on your clit in a way
that makes a muscle in your leg twitch. “I thought about it all the time.”
You shudder, then, because you know what he means by that. The thought of him
touching himself sends an almost supernatural feeling through your body. You’re
about to respond in kind, about to tell him that you’ve spent enough nights
with your hands between your legs and the image of one of his half-smiles
burned into your mind, but he seems completely wrapped up in the moment and
continues.
“You’re so beautiful.” His expression lifts for a moment as his fingers
continue to explore, searching for something that seems to escape him for a
moment. You’re almost stunned, seeing so much softness in the contours of his
face, and a tingling flush sweeps over your skin at his words. You see a rare
sort of awe in his eyes, one that only seems to bloom during times of intimacy,
and you almost want to squeeze your own eyes shut and take yourself away from
the overwhelming amount of emotions that crash over you.
He isn’t quite sure why, but he knows all of this. He knows you’re at your most
vulnerable and yet here you are, allowing him to have a privilege that other
people would probably kill for. He falters in his movements for a split second,
enough so that he sees a question form behind your lips, but then he’s resuming
them almost frantically, like his life depends on you coming undone around his
fingers, like he’s never been more determined to see something trough in his
life.
His name stutters past your lips and it’s so raw, like every useless emotion
has been scraped from it, that he almost chokes on thin air. It’s like he’s
rushing towards something that he’s wanted all his life, like everything he’s
ever done has lead to this moment. Your back arches and you’re saying something
to him, something that he should be proud of and savoring, but he feels like
time itself is unraveling here with you underneath him, and he can’t afford to
let another second go by without properly worshipping you.
He leans forward and presses his mouth over yours, slanting your lips together
with surprising ease, and with a particularly hard press onto your clit you’re
gone, crying out against his mouth as if the force of your orgasm physically
ripped sound from your throat.
He doesn’t stop, not until your muscles are twitching and you have to place a
hand on his arm in order to tell him that you’ve had enough. Even then, though,
he’s hesitant to remove his fingers from inside of you, sacred that if he does
then everything will be over. The worry must be evident on his face because you
give him a slow kiss on the lips, your end goal of reassuring him becoming
apparent as you do so.
Slowly, slowly he removes his fingers from inside of you, and immediately he’s
enthralled with the way they shine in the dim light filtering through your
window. You take in a few ragged breaths as he examines his fingers, an
embarrassed wave of heat sinking into your cheeks.
“You can just… wipe it on the sheets—” you begin, but the mere idea of letting
the wetness on his fingers go to waste seems to offend him, because he slides
his fingers into his mouth without a second thought.
“Or you could do that, I guess…” You murmur, watching as he leans back onto his
heels and runs his tongue through his parted fingers. The display isn’t
supposed to be lewd— you know he’s legitimately curious— but it still does
something to you that takes you a little by surprise. You just came moments ago
but already you want more of him, want to see what else this boy can offer you.
He seems all too eager to comply with those wishes. When he finally removes his
fingers from his mouth and passes his tongue over his bottom lip, his gaze
flies to the hem of your sweatshirt and then back up to your face as if to say
well?
You give him the sweetest, most excited grin that you can muster as you pull
the article of clothing over your head, almost laughing in delight at the way
his eyes immediately zero in on your chest. It spurs you to remove you bra as
well, being past the point of teasing him, and as the discarded cups fall to
the bed you swear his eyes are going to burn a hole into your skin.
You’re about to ask him if he’d like to do more than just look, but it seems
that all trepidation has left your partner. One of his hands goes to cup a
breast and you’re a little amused to find that his saliva still coats his
fingers. It’s a little chilly, and the way he drags them over your nipple sends
a shiver through your body that you can’t quite contain. He might note this. He
might not. You’re not exactly sure what he’s taking in right now, because his
gaze seems to flicker from your exposed chest to your cunt and back to your
face, but you know for sure that he must really likes what he sees. There’s
nothing else but raw adoration and lust in his eyes, and it instills a sort of
fearlessness in you that makes you speak up.
“Your turn.” You say. You remove the hand on your chest and he looks a little
disgruntled, but complies with your wishes nonetheless. He pulls his shirt over
his head with a nonchalance that tells you he isn’t quite aware of how
incredible his body is; the smooth roll of muscles, the sharp angles of his
chest, the narrow lines of his hips. You want to reach out and touch him,
simply to reassure yourself that he isn’t made out of marble. He’s real, his
chest moving with each excited breath he takes, and you almost slap yourself to
prove that this isn’t a dream.
He pauses after his shirt lands on the floor, looking at you with an
inquisitive expression that might even be laced with a bit of insecurity. You
know his question before he even gets to vocalize it, and you nod.
“Pants too.” You clarify, and he nods back, his eyes still burning bright as he
moves to stand and yank down his training pants.
Frankly, you wish he had given you some sort of warning, because his legs are
of the same caliber as his chest. You think it would be a great way to die,
having your head crushed between the defined muscles of his thighs, and the
thought causes a giggle to slip past your lips before you can quite stop it.
“What?” He asks, and although he tries on an amused expression, you can still
hear the threads of insecurity and doubt laced into his voice. You crawl over
to him and he watches, with those sharp eyes of his, as you slide off of the
bed and onto your knees in front of him.
“Just happy to be here.” You say, and it’s not a lie. He raises a brow at you
and you laugh again, gesturing for him to sit on the bed. He complies with your
wishes, though there’s a slight confusion in his gaze that reminds you that you
are, in fact, working with a virgin here.
You grab at the waistband of his boxers and his eyes widen almost comically. He
looks like, for a split second, he wants to ask you to stop pulling his
underwear down, but he swallows harshly before his lips get a chance to part
and just watches you do it. You want to ask him what he thought you were going
to do, because obviously he’s taken a bit by surprise, but the sight of his
cock in front of you forces you to focus your attention elsewhere. It’s large
and flushed and there’s already a bead of wetness forming at the tip that you
don’t hesitate to lick away when his underwear is safely discarded over your
shoulder. He shudders almost immediately, inhaling sharply through his teeth.
“You don’t—” He starts, but trails off when you settle between his open legs
and lick a long strip from his base to his tip, flicking your eyes up to make
contact with his.
You don’t reply to his objection, mostly because your actions do all the
talking for you. You swirl your head around his tip once before deciding that
you may as well get started, opening your mouth and taking him fully into your
mouth with a smooth motion of your head.
You haven’t even taken half of his shaft before he lets out a small strangled
noise, hand instinctively going to rest on your head and thread through your
hair, fingers brushing against your scalp with a shaky gentleness that makes
your heart clench. One of your hands comes up to grip what you can’t fit into
your mouth, the other gently cupping his balls, and you can tell by the twitch
of his thigh that he’s already enjoying himself very much.
You think you hear your name in the way his breath hitches when you begin to
bob your head, hallowing out your cheeks in a way that draws out another thigh
twitch. You move your hand in tandem with your head in a way that you’re nearly
certain he’ll love, and once again you’re treated to the sound of him failing
to find words, nothing falling past his lips except for an extremely content
sigh. His grip in your hair tightens just a bit, his eyes finding your own and
staring, almost in bewilderment, at the sight of you with saliva coating your
lips and his cock jammed into your mouth. You look freakishly good like this,
and he wishes he could have you on your knees like this every day for the rest
of your life. It’s better than any porno or picture or even imagined image that
he’s thought up. He adjusts his fingers just to make sure that this is real,
and he’s rewarded with a small moan from you as he tugs at the roots of your
hair.
“F-fuck.” He murmurs when you release his dick from your mouth with a
satisfying pop, and although he’s scared for a moment that you’re going to stop
now, all you do is give him a few licks from his balls back to the tip of his
shaft, not once breaking eye contact with him. He resists the urge to squirm
uselessly at your ministrations, choosing instead to watch you as keenly as
possible in the hopes of memorizing this moment until he can replay it again
and again in his mind. He’s almost tempted to say something, to praise you for
making him feel better than he’s ever felt in his life, but words are useless
now because you’ve removed your hand from his shaft and seem to be preparing
yourself for something.
He doesn’t get a chance to ask what that is. Rather, he witnesses you take a
deep breath before opening wide and descending back down on his cock again. He
expects you to stop halfway like you did before but you keep going, grimacing
only a tad as the tight feeling of your mouth on his tip gives way to the even
more constricting feeling of your throat.
“Jesus.” He hisses, his other hand clenching your bedsheets with almost enough
force to tear right through them. You still for a second, just to get used to
the feeling, before once again bobbing your head up and down on his shaft, your
eyes flicking back up to meet his.
He’s sure they’re absolutely hazy, filled with open adoration and lust for you.
The way you’re looking at him is driving him absolutely crazy, like you’re
determined to please him, and it’s something that he thought he would never see
even in his wildest dreams. His tongue darts out to lick at his lips and he’s
surprised at how dry they are, at how he seems not to notice anything other
than the way you’re bringing him closer and closer to the edge. A tornado could
tear through the room at this moment and he doubts he would even notice it was
there.
He closes his eyes just for a second, only to remind himself that you have to
breathe and no, he can’t just cram his entire cock down your throat. But you
seem determined to do just that, taking a majority of his shaft into your mouth
before deciding that any more would be a little risky. Not that it matters much
to him; he’s already feeling so good that he’s surprised he’s even lasted this
long.
But the promise of release is so close that he practically feels it passing
through his fingertips, and with a sudden jerk of his hand he removes your head
from his painfully hard shaft, trying not to focus on how a string of saliva
connects your parted lips to the tip of his dick. You look at him with furrowed
brows for a moment before a slow and wicked grin spreads across your face.
“You close, Kuguri?” You ask, and he swallows thickly before nodding. You bite
your lip, effectively breaking the line of saliva, before speaking again. “You
wanna cum in my mouth?”
“No.” Had his mind not been so clouded, he might’ve been embarrassed at how
raspy his voice sounded. “Inside you.”
Your pleased expression only grows at the slight tinge of desperation in his
voice, the kind that only comes from moments of depravity such as these, and
with a gentle grip on his wrist you remove his fingers from your hair. You rise
to your feet again and he appraises your body once more, toes curling as he
realizes that he finally has you. Years of waiting, of wondering, have led up
to this moment, and so he doesn’t hesitate to grasp your hips in both hands as
you crawl into his lap.
You might have intended to push him onto his back, but his patience wears thin
and he decides that enough is enough. He’s been waiting so long, pining so
hard, that he guides himself to your entrance with no preamble and pulls your
hips down towards his own. You let him with an excited expression on your face,
one that melts almost instantly into bliss when he finishes sinking the
entirety of his cock inside of you.
“God,” He grinds out, afraid for a moment that he’s already done for, “you feel
so good.”
You, on the other hand, seem incapable of words at this point. Your hands find
purchase on his shoulders and your nails bite at his skin, as if you’re trying
to anchor yourself here in this moment. He takes advantage of the lack of
movement on your part to move a slightly shaking hand to your chest, palm
skimming over a nipple as he places a light kiss to your collarbone. The
corners of your lips turn into an adoring smile and although he feels
undeserving of such an expression, he returns it. Because he’s here with you,
sharing a moment that he’ll remember for the rest of his life, and that
knowledge is something that sends a wave of tingles down the staircase of his
spine.
He palms your breast gently, his lust-hazed eyes taking a second to clear as he
does so. Regrettably, he doesn’t get to touch them for long because you seem to
come to a silent decision that you’ve been waiting long enough as well. You
lean forward and capture his lips with your own, tongue finding his after a
brief moment as you shift your position in his lap. Just the slight movement
alone makes him groan softly into your mouth, and perhaps that empowers you
because you use your knees to push yourself up once and then sink back down
onto him.
His wandering hand immediately goes back to your hip but then skims over to
your clit as he tries to awkwardly figure out what to do while his mind is
already clouding up. He uses his middle finger to push down on the bundle of
nerves with a small amount of uncertainty that clears once he hears your sharp
inhale. Maybe if he was as experienced as Daishō or suave as Hiroo he would
make some comment or give you a sultry smirk; but he’s Kuguri, and all he can
do is break away from your lips and let a plea fall softly against your skin.
“Please.” He says, and he doesn’t have to elaborate for you to know that he
wants you to do that again. So you do, holding yourself steady with the hands
on his shoulders as you try to keep a pace that allows him to keep his hand on
your clit. He realizes after a moment that it’s futile, though, so his hand
moves once more. You don’t seem to mind the repositioning of his hand back at
your hip, though, because it allows him to grip you more steadily as he
suddenly bucks his hips up into yours. Your sounds go from breathy whispers to
pleased moans immediately, his name falling from your lips in a chant.
His fingers press into your hips with enough force that they might leave
bruises in their wake, but you can’t bring yourself to care as he pulls you
back down on his shaft again, nearly stealing all the air in your lungs as he
does so. You can tell he’s getting more comfortable with this already, if the
way he plants his feet on the ground for more leverage and his eyes scan your
bouncing tits is anything to go by. There’s a look in his eyes that you can’t
quite decipher but at the moment you’re not particularly concerned with doing
so; your entire world has become the feeling of him thrusting up into you,
filling you so completely that you can’t imagine how you lived without him for
so long.
He fucks you with the precision and force that you would expect from an ace;
he’s hitting spots inside of you that make you feel like your entire body is
jelly, though one in particular draws a startled noise from you. He smiles up
at you, as if to say found it, before his fingers are re-adjusting for what
feels like the hundredth time and he’s putting all of his force into pounding
into you. You’re almost certain your fingernails are cutting into his skin by
now, maybe even drawing a fleck of blood, but you can’t bring yourself to care
because release is suddenly rushing towards you as if you’re in a tunnel of
white light, heat washing over your skin like the waves of a molten sea. You
try to tell him but you absolutely cannot form words. Maybe he knows this
instinctively, because then there’s a sudden pressure on your clit again and
you’re falling over the edge, bliss stealing all of your senses.
He watches you come undone with a sense of satisfaction that he so rarely
feels, and in that moment he feels like king of the world. You’re here with
him, grinding in his lap and stealing another desperate kiss from his lips, and
the moment is only intensified by the warm, exciting realization that he loves
you. He loves you. And you’ve chosen to be here with him, chosen to let him
make you feel this way, and he suddenly understands why people have always held
lovemaking in such high regard. Nothing else compares.
He lasts for a few more thrusts before he’s spilling himself inside of you,
toes curling against the floor as his groan vibrates against your lips. You
tighten your hold on his shoulders as he does, skin sliding against his own,
and he marvels at how the touch only furthers the sensation of it all.
He comes back to reality easily, and it only takes him a second to realize that
his legs are trembling. You must realize too, because you’re giving him a smile
that’s soft but holds a tinge of amusement. He wants to comment on it, wants to
tell you he loves you, wants to say that was the best experience of his entire
life, but all that comes out of his mouth is two words.
“You’re wonderful.”
And you smile wider at him, eyes crinkling at the edges as you press a small
kiss to the tip of his nose.
“So are you.” You say, and for the first time in long time, Kuguri absolutely
beams.
***** Akaashi Keiji - Perfect Match *****
Chapter Notes
     Hey guys! I know, I know- it’s been forever since I updated this
     anthology, and for that I really do apologize. It’s been hard for me
     to really sit down and write anything of substantial length lately,
     but today I just woke up and decided to finish this chapter. It’s
     still pretty short, by my standards, but I hope you enjoy it
     nonetheless.
     However, before we go on, I’d like to address some potential triggers
     in this story. This is a Yandere AU, meaning that Akaashi is NOT like
     his typical self in this, and with that comes a few additional
     things; extremely possessive behavior, stalking, and a pretty decent
     amount of violence (though I did try to make it not as graphic in
     this installment). Additionally, the reader is bullied pretty badly
     in this chapter (called names, taunted, people do shitty things to
     her). Additionally, the relationship between the reader and Akaashi
     is pretty far removed from any sort of conventionally healthy
     relationship, though all contact between them is 100% consensual. If
     any of the above things will get to you, please do not read this
     chapter. I in no way intend to make my readers uncomfortable, but I
     did want to write this AU. You have been warned.
     On a lighter note, this chapter is dedicated to Luna, who has been
     waiting so patiently for the Nishinoya chapter of this anthology (and
     it’s coming, believe me), and CC, who took the time to beta read this
     for me (and for whom this is an early Hanukkah present). You guys,
     and ALL of my readers, rock, and I’m so happy that I got to update
     this story again. Hopefully, more will follow.
     xoxo Sabby
     UPDATE: check out the amazing fanart inspired by this chapter!
There’s something wrong with Akaashi Keiji.
 
Now, if you were to say that sentence aloud— and you’ve tried, though the words
never seem to make it past your lips— you’d be met with a round of disbelieving
and irritated expressions.
 
“Are you delusional?” They’d ask, which, while better than what the people
usually said to you at your school, would still carry the same tone of disdain
and disgust that people usually had when addressing you. You could see it now,
the way the whispers and laughs that followed you in the hall would just
increase in volume, how the amount of malicious notes left in your locker and
on your desk would double. And while you knew for certain that there was
something off about one of the most popular boys in school, given your current
situation it would be much wiser to stay silent than raise any sort of alarm.
 
“God, do you even try anymore?” Fujiwara Ame— whose name you only knew because
of how relentlessly she pursued your misery— asks, splaying a beautifully
manicured hand on your desk in a show of dominance. You swallow thickly before
looking up at her, into the green eyes that you’d mistaken as kind on your
first day of school.
 
“Fujiwara-san.” You say, almost wincing at how thinly-veiled your plea is.
“Please leave me alone.”
 
“Aw, is the little piggy upset with me?” She coos, letting out a little snort
to punctuate her sentence. You keep looking up at her blankly, hands balling
into fists underneath your desk, but the shrill bell that warns everyone to
take their place in homeroom interrupts you. You say interrupts rather than
saves because you know that it’ll just resume in the downtime between your next
class.
 
Ame settles into the desk in front of you, shooting a smug smirk at you over
her shoulder, but you barely register it. There’s heat spreading along the
right side of your face, a familiar feeling that makes the rest of your body
stiffen. You want to look over but you can’t, already aware of who’s looking at
you, how they’re looking at you.
 
Which brings you back to your original statement: there’s something wrong with
Akaashi Keiji. He might be one of the most well-liked people in school, but
there’s something about him that only you seem to notice.
 
It’s his eyes, mostly. They’re dead. Flat, like motionless pools of blue water,
and they only ever seem to come alive when they’re looking at you. Sort of like
how they are now; you know that if you cast a glance to your side you’ll see
him out of the corner of your eye, watching you with that expression that he
always has when it comes to you, which is unusually reverent given the fact
that you’ve barely spoken to the boy in your life. He does this every day now—
watching you as the group of tormentors take turns trying in vain to make you
cry before the school day begins. He never says anything. Never moves to stop
them. But he watches like an owl watches a mouse, perhaps waiting for the
correct moment to swoop down and crush them between his claws.
 
No high school student should have a gaze like that. It’s not right. It’s too
predatory, too aged beyond his years, too cunning, that you know it must only
be the tip of the iceberg. There’s something underneath the surface of the
mild-mannered and polite boy, something itching beneath the mask he displays;
trying to get out and escape the most whenever he lays his eyes on you.
 
And that’s why, even though you’re miserable, even though you’re dreading every
morning you have to go to school, you’re almost relieved for the bullies that
abuse you on a daily basis. They keep the unknown side of Akaashi at bay. They
add a layer of protection between you and him. And though you may be the most
tormented person attending Fukurodani, you wouldn’t change that for anything,
especially not when you’re aware of much more dangerous things lurking around
you.
 
__
 
The locker rooms always smells like mildew and desperation— old towels and
scent of the perfumes that girls sprayed on themselves after class in order to
mask the foul odors of sweat and dirty gym clothes. It makes your stomach churn
and your eyes water just a bit, but you powered through the class just like you
did with everything else. You ignored the snickers and the backhanded comments
that followed you as you jogged past your fellow students. You tried not to
look at yourself in the mirror, in the tiny gym uniform. You tried so, so hard
to stay away from the boy’s class, where you knew Akaashi would be watching.
Waiting.
 
You’re one of the few girls that takes a shower after class. The rest would
rather not ruin the makeup they applied that morning and the hair they styled,
and you don’t really blame them. You used to do that, too. But because nobody
takes a shower after class anymore, you have the stalls all to yourself. It’s
one of the few places in this school that you have any sort of reprieve from
the constant insults tossed your way.
 
You pass through the lines of girls, who have already changed back into their
school uniforms, using the remainder of the period to shoot the breeze. You
ignore their laughs. You ignore their malignant banter. You pull your towel
closer to your body and keep your gaze on the floor, knowing that’s the most
effective thing you can do. They’re laughing a little more than usual today at
you; you figure they must be in an especially cruel mood or perhaps have
something special in store for you.
 
And you’re absolutely right. You get to your gym locker and find that it’s wide
open. Your gym uniform is gone. Your school uniform is gone. Your underwear is
gone. You made sure you
locked your locker; even checked twice. You know you did. How did they—
 
The laughter seems to grow louder around you, like a wave about to crash to
shore. This is too much. You haven’t done anything to these girls. You haven’t
done anything to deserve this. Nothing. They pick on you, they belittle you—
for what? A sense of satisfaction? Putting you down to cover up their own
insecurities? You’ve done nothing but be polite to them, allowed them to walk
all over you, and yet they still seem to have the capacity for cruelness beyond
what you can comprehend.
 
It doesn’t even register in your mind when the bell rings and they filter out
around you.. You’re staring at the blank void that is the inside of your
locker, knowing that one of the girls passing you by has your clothes in her
bag. You sit on the bench in the middle of the aisle, still staring at it. You
can’t go to class and you most certainly can’t leave this locker room. On top
of that, you’re going to get a detention for skipping.
 
You sit in silence for what feels like hours. Thinking, mostly, about how this
has escalated past what you thought it would. You think about how, just earlier
on in the day, you’d felt solace in the way they taunted you, how they put you
down to the point where you could never build yourself up again. You thought,
in your own way, that it was protecting you from something much, much worse.
 
You think of dead, flat eyes. You think of your face heating up, of long looks
in your direction. You think of curly black hair and an impassive face.
 
You finally stand after you mull over your decisions. You walk to the locker
room door and peek out, checking to make sure nobody will catch you, before
walking across the narrow hall to the trash can. Your clothes are stuffed in
it. You pull them out, go back in the locker room, and put them on.
 
You walk home that day smelling like garbage. You barely even notice; you spend
the whole time planning, mulling over your options.
 
It’s funny, really, how one day changes everything.
 
__
 
The next morning you arrive in homeroom later than usual. Before the first
bell, at least, but you’ve severely cut into Ame’s time with you, and she takes
offense to that. She makes sure you know that when you enter the room, scoffing
and glaring at you as if to will you back to your seat so she can launch into a
round of verbal assault.
 
But you don’t sit down. At least, not at first. You pause on the way to your
desk, knuckles gripping the strap of your bag so tightly that you’re sure
they’re bone-white, and steel yourself for the next couple of moments.
 
You turn, facing the desk to your side. The boy looks up at you, his dark blue
eyes undoubtedly interested but his mouth still firm in a fine line. Nobody
takes note of this interaction at this moment, though you know they will in
just a few seconds. You take a deep breath.
 
“Akaashi-san.” You say, and the people in the immediate vicinity whip around to
look at you. His lips twitch, like he wants to smile. “Would you like to eat
lunch with me today?”
 
The room goes silent. Ame looks like she’s about to pass out laughing, like
she’s about to witness the greatest moment of her life— you being turned down
by one of the most popular boys in school. But you’re not afraid.
 
You see a little bit of a thrill pass over his eyes, manifesting in a tiny,
tiny smile. He continues to look up at you for a moment, through his
beautifully curled eyelashes, before he nods.
 
“I would love to.” He says, and it feels like the tension in the room has
snapped, like you’ve fallen into an alternate dimension where time stands
still. This is it.
 
You nod back at him, then you take your seat.
 
Ame says nothing to you.
 
__
 
He finds you under the stairwell of the art wing, where you always eat lunch.
You’d ask how he knows but you already have the inkling that he’s known for a
very, very long time. Perhaps since the day he first looked at you with that
lively expression. He sits down next to you, his own lunch in hand.
 
“Hello.” He says. You nod in reply, chewing on your food. He watches you, not
touching his own.
 
“Hello yourself.” You say once you’ve swallowed. He looks amused at your reply.
 
“I’ve been meaning to ask you to eat with me, though I suppose you being the
one to ask doesn’t make much of a difference.” He says. He unwraps his bento.
You study him.
 
“Why?” You say, and he knows you aren’t just asking about lunch. You’re asking
about everything. About the long looks and the pressing interest, the knowledge
of your life that you’re sure he hasn’t gained by just asking around about you.
 
“I can’t explain it.” He says. He’s studying you right back.
 
“Why me?”
 
“Because you’re you.”
 
You tilt your head at him and take another bite of your lunch. This feels much
more casual than it should, given the fact that he’s practically admitted to
stalking you. You chew thoughtfully but you don’t taste it.
 
“Would you do something for me?”
 
“Anything.”
 
“Make it stop.”
 
And instead of a small smile, you’re rewarded with a full-blown grin. It’s
dazzling and it belongs on the cover of a magazine rather than behind a
stairwell, but it’s directed at you and it makes your heart do something funny
that catches you off guard.
 
There’s something wrong with Akaashi Keiji. And instead of being scared, you’re
thrilled about it.
 
__
 
You haven’t given in fully to him. Not yet. You don’t let him walk you to
class. You don’t let him kiss you. You barely even look at him. But you know
something has changed, a dynamic has shifted, and now the two of you are
working in tandem. You’re together, in a way, no matter how much you put down
his advances behind the stairwell or when he pins you against the lockers in a
back corridor between classes. Your red strings of fate have become tangled and
knotted and there’s no hope of ever straightening them out again. You marvel,
occasionally, at how it only took one day for this shift to occur, one day for
your opinion of the man to completely change.
 
He stalks you. He watches you at night, from the sidewalk across the street.
The flowers in the bed beneath your living room window have been trampled,
crushed under his feet as he takes in your daily life. He’s been doing this for
so long. You know he has. And ever since he admitted it, he’s been doing it
even more.
 
Maybe he looks at your acceptance of him, at your knowledge of what he really
is, and uses it to put you on this impossible pedestal. You know you’re the
only one who knows what goes on in that head of his— not Bokuto, not Konoha,
not anyone else— and sometimes you wonder if that’s a privilege or a curse.
Either way, you don’t have the chance to regret your decision to let him into
your life, not with him or with anyone else.
 
The girls have become especially unforgiving since it got around that you eat
lunch with someone they believe to be out of your league. You find yourself
looking more and more at Ame’s hand when she slams it on your desk, at her
mauve nail polish and the dainty silver ring on her index finger. It’s a pretty
hand, but it belongs to an awful person.
 
You barely even hear what she says to you anymore. It’s all blocked out by the
rushing of blood in your ears, the tingling of your skin that always happens
when Akaashi looks at you. He does it a lot more openly now, like he wants
everyone around you to know that you and him are connected in some way. It
works, to an extent, but you can tell that he wasn’t expecting your torment to
increase because of him. You know he wants to protect you, in his own way, and
the fact that he has failed to do so gives you a peek at the sort of
restlessness that resides under his calm demeanor.
 
“I don’t know who you think you are.” Ame seethes at you, her red hair falling
like a curtain around her face as she leans closer to you. She really is
beautiful. It’s a shame you’ve allowed darkness to creep up into your life and
sink into your veins. “Or how much you paid him, or blackmailed him to go along
with your little stunt—”
 
“Leave her alone.” Akaashi’s voice cuts through the room like a razor blade
through cloth, leaving a very obvious tear in its wake. “She hasn’t done
anything to you.”
 
His eyes are smoldering, and not in a good way. He’s getting upset. He wants to
protect you openly, wants to make it known that he’s not faking his connection
to you, but with a sharp shake of your head, he closes his mouth again.
 
“Are you serious?” Ame snorts. It seems to be the only thing she can say. She
looks at you for a long moment, at your blank face, devoid of sadness or
offense or anything else she might deem fun, and sinks into her seat. It takes
her a moment to turn around, because you can tell she’s dying to say something
else to you, to see your face crumple or your eyes water, but you remain
impassive.
 
And then, when she’s not looking, your eyes meet Akaashi’s.
 
You nod. He smiles.
 
__
 
Fujikawa Ame lives fifteen minutes away from your house. Approximate thirty-
five on foot, if Akaashi keeps his pace consistent. He takes a couple shortcuts
on the way, cutting through backyards with his eyes narrowed the entire time,
like a predator closing in on its prey. He supposes that’s what he is. Top of
the food chain. Relentless. Cold-blooded. This isn’t the first time he’s come
close to directly taking your situation into his own hands, but he always held
off. He wasn’t sure if he could risk his life, his freedom, for something like
this. He may be unhinged but he’s also always been a careful planner, weighing
the outcomes of his decisions in a logical way. Being in jail would mean never
seeing you again. He couldn’t risk that, not when you were the only thing that
kept him going.
 
But this was what you wanted. You wanted this to end, and even though you may
only be using him as a means to that end, he still can’t turn you down. You’re
connected now. He knows you know it. You’ll never be able to distance yourself
from him, not after this, You’re in this together.
 
Together. It’s the first time he’s been able to apply that word to you and him.
He likes the way it sounds.
 
Ame’s house is settled between two others on the street. It’s small and was
probably once unassuming, but it’s been painted and the garden laid out in such
a way that it reminds him of the girl herself. Always needing to be seen,
craving the knowledge of being noticed.
 
Not for much longer.
 
He stalks her almost as much as he stalks you, though the reasons could not be
more opposite. He knows she’s home alone for another hour, that one of her
neighbors is a senile old man who can barely hear and the other is a mother who
spends the day catching up on sleep while her toddler is at daycare. He also
knows where the spare key is, how to push open the gate to the backyard without
making the rusty hinge screech, and which windows are the best ones to go
through if he wants to catch her off guard.
 
He picks the one to her living room. It only takes one try to hoist himself up
(despite his gloves making it a little difficult to grasp the ledge) and slide
through it— she’d stupidly let it open to allow the spring air to roll in— and
he lands on the couch with a barely perceptible noise. Ame is in her bedroom,
singing along to a song on the radio as she does her homework. Perfect. He
walks past her open door, smiling wryly at her back as he does, and enters the
kitchen as if it’s his own.
 
Her father is a chef. This used to not matter to Akaashi, because he could not
possibly care less about Ame or her life story, but today it comes in handy.
There are plenty of instruments in here for him. Would he use a meat tenderizer
to shatter her skull? A frying pan to render her unconscious? He notices a
rolling pin made of stone, and the thought crosses his mind to use that, but he
decides not to at the last second. He needs to make this quick. He has no room
for error.
 
He pulls a knife from the block next to the sink. It’s a good eight inches,
non-serrated, and it gleams in the light from the kitchen window. It has a
glimmer to it that reminds him of your eyes. He turns the handle in his hands,
memorizing the weight of it as he curls it in his fingers, before he turns on
his heel and sets out of the kitchen, back into the hall and into her doorway.
She’s still singing.
 
He only pauses for a second to think about what he’ll do, before he decides
that he doesn’t need theatrics. He doesn’t need a monologue of how she had this
coming, doesn’t need to see the fear in her eyes as he takes her life. She
doesn’t get the privilege of being regarded with any extra amount of his time.
She is an insect. She is dirt. She is an inconvenience, and that’s the end of
it.
 
The first time Akaashi Keiji kills, it is anticlimactic. He slaps his hand over
her mouth and, before she even has the chance to scream, to showcase her vocals
in a way different than singing, he digs the side of the knife into her throat
and pulls, slitting it. She falls back into her chair, blood gushing down her
front that matches the color of her hair, and he steps back. It’s over. It’s
done.
 
The ring on her hand, which hangs by her side, off the arm of her desk chair,
gleams in the light much like the knife did. He pauses, rethinking his
statement.
 
It’s over, but not quite done.
 
__
 
It’s completely dark when he rings your doorbell. You don’t bother looking
through the peephole, not wanting to waste any more time. You have no doubt
that there’s guilt written all over him, and not in his expression. You’re glad
that your parents are both out of town, because when you open the door, your
suspicions are proven correct.
 
He’s covered in blood. It’s on him from head to toe, from speckles to full-on
drenched parts. It almost doesn’t look real, the vivid redness of it, and you
blink a few times before allowing him in.
 
“You did it.” You say. The words sound foreign on your tongue.
 
“I did.” He looks exceptionally pleased with himself, searching your face for
something to validate himself with. He finds it in the way your lips twitch
into a slight smile as he pulls out the knife, still coated with blood, but
it’s much drier and it flakes a little bit onto the hardwood floor.
 
“She’s—”
 
“Dead.” He speaks the word with a finality that makes everything seem alright,
like it was just another chore he crossed off his list. “She won’t be bothering
you any more. I made sure of it.”
 
“You did that for me?” You step closer to him.
 
“I would do anything for you.” He says, and you don’t stop him when he bends
down just a tad to press his lips over yours. They’re a little dry. They’re the
lips of a killer. But they’re warm and accepting and eager to meet yours, and
you can’t deny that they send a wave of comfort through you that feels better
than what you imagined.
 
“I got you something.” He says when you pull apart, his words causing his lips
to drag against your own. You step back, looking at him expectantly as he
reaches into his pocket, the one that has a ring of blood radiating out from
under it, and carefully pulls out your gift.
 
A severed finger. Fujikawa Ame’s ring is still attached to the bloody stump of
what was once delicate and beautiful. You hold out your hand and he gives it to
you, an expectant look on his face.
 
“Thank you.” You breathe. “It’s lovely.”
 
Your fingers close around hers. It’s cold. His grin is almost blinding.
 
__
 
You place the finger on your bathroom counter, on top of a tissue just in case.
Akaashi watches you do it, expression still bright like a praised child, before
you turn to him.
 
“We’re going to have to burn your clothing.” You say, watching as he places the
knife next to the finger. He smiles at you again, stepping a little closer.
 
“I don’t mind.” He says, an arm resting on either side of you, his hips
pressing you into the counter.
 
You look at him for a long moment. “You need to get cleaned up.”
 
His grin dies down into a sly smirk as he bends to nip at your earlobe. His
hand— blood-covered and powerful— comes to rest on your hip as he licks the
shell of your ear.
 
“Only if you help me.”
 
You know the implications of his words. Weeks ago, you would have been
repulsed. Disgusted. Now, you find that a shock of arousal courses through you,
trembling through your legs and running through your heart. You push him back
so you can look him in the eyes.
 
“I will.” It’s a simple sentence but he looks infinitely more excited; he steps
back so that you can turn the shower on, pulling the curtain closed to trap
just a bit of the steam in there. He watches with those sharp eyes of his as
you take a deep breath and turn back to him, your posture hesitant but not
scared.
 
He pulls his shirt over his head, letting it fall to the ground with a soft
flutter of fabric, before he looks at you expectantly. You swallow, following
suit, your own joining his on the ground. He already has a reverent expression
on as he looks over your top half, from your collarbone to your breasts to your
navel and back up again. He unbuttons his pants, yanking them down with barely
contained excitement, never taking his eyes from your body as if he’s afraid
that doing so will make you disappear. He even takes off his underwear and you
try your hardest not to look at his naked body, at how impressive his length is
even though he’s not even close to being fully hard.
 
When you pause in removing your own bottoms, he takes a step towards you and
does it himself, pressing a kiss to the top of your thighs once you step out of
them. He looks up at you from his kneeling position, an unholy amount of love
and adoration in his eyes, and you swallow hard, He pulls at the elastic of
your underwear, leaving kisses down your entire leg as you nod for him to
proceed, the cold air of the bathroom making you shiver.
 
“Bra, too.” He murmurs. He stands, his hand cupping your cunt with no warning,
and you might have squirmed away had his middle finger not pressed on your
clit. You breathe in sharply, looking at him with a bewildered expression that
he meets with a smug one, pulling you closer so that your bodies are nearly
flush. You gape a little when you realize that he’s getting hard, his hips
canting a little bit as if in search for some friction.
 
You allow him to touch your clit in small little circles for a moment, then
shake yourself out of your trance to remove your last garment. His eyes
immediately go from your face to your breasts, at your hardened nipples and the
way they tremble with each ragged breath you take.
 
He finally stops tormenting your clit in favor of sliding his fingers further,
to your damp slit. The pad of his middle finger dips inside of you and his
chest rumbles with satisfaction when he realizes how wet you are already. He
slides his finger in further, bending it a little to brush against your walls,
and the little whimper you let out is almost enough to drive him crazy.
 
His blood-covered arm holds you up as he inserts another finger, afraid that
your legs might buckle a little bit. They do, but he keeps you upright, his
eyes once more meeting yours and his expression growing more feral and clouded
with lust by the moment.
 
“You like that I did that for you, don’t you?” He murmurs, his erection almost
painful at this point. You look so helpless in his arms, so beautiful as you
slip into pleasure, that he almost can’t help himself. “You like that I’ll do
anything for you. That I’ll kill for you.”
 
“Y-yes.” Your voice is barely above a whisper but that’s all he needs to hear,
his thumb resuming where his middle finger left off and pressing on your clit.
 
“I’d do it again, you know. I’d kill anyone who makes you unhappy.” It’s the
raw truth. You squirm. “Nothing can come between us being together. Not
anymore.”
 
You nod at him, using a trembling arm to pull him into a kiss, and he
reciprocates tenfold, his tongue forcing your lips open to tangle with your
own. It’s almost too much for him, the way you respond so enthusiastically, the
way you pant when you pull apart. The steam from the still-running shower is
dampening the rest of your skin so he pulls back.
 
“Shall we?” He murmurs. You blink the haze out of your eyes and whine a little
when he pulls his fingers out of you.
 
“Oh. Yeah.” You say when you orient yourself again, as if you’d forgotten why
you came in here in the first place. He smiles down at you as he pulls back the
shower curtain, allowing you to step in before he does.
 
The first thing you notice is that there’s streaks of red running down his
chest as the blood is washed away. They’re like little rivers disrupting the
map of his body, carrying his devotion to you down the drain, and a weird part
of you almost regrets seeing them go. He slicks his wet hair back from his head
and you realize that you’re here, enclosed in a small space with a killer, and
you’re about to have sex with him.
 
The thought does not scare you. You grab the bar of soap from its dish hanging
from the wall, looking at him pointedly. He seems to know what you want him to
do because he sticks his arms out, allowing you to run the soap over them and
wipe away the dried flakes of blood that remain there. His feral lust has
subsided to adoration again, though it looms under the surface of his skin,
awaiting your permission to come out again.
 
That part of him waits until you’ve eliminated all traces of blood from his
body, leaving him looking like the innocent boy that he is in school. He lowers
his arms a little bit just to pull you closer, to kiss you like he had outside
the shower. Your arms wind around his neck and he smiles into the kiss, moving
you backwards just a bit until you’re out of the direct path of the water and
pressed against the cold tile wall of the shower.
 
“Are you ready?” He asks, his voice barely audible over the sound of the
running water.
 
“Fuck me.” You say, and it thrills you how much power sits behind those words,
the extent of influence you have over such a man. Now it’s his turn to take in
a deep breath, not daring to look away from you as he grabs his cock and guides
it to your opening, his exhale hissing out past his teeth as he slowly, slowly
slides inside of you.
 
He lets out a low groan once he’s fully sheathed inside of you, his arms once
more finding a position on either side of you. You keep yours around his neck,
letting out a pitiful sound at the way he fills you to the brim, stretching you
almost to the point that you can’t think coherently. He buries his face in the
crook of your neck as he pauses, though with a sharp snap of his hips, he once
again robs you of any tangible thoughts.
 
“You feel so good.” He coos against your skin, his voice husky. “So tight. I
thought about this so much, thought about fucking you until you can’t stand
anymore.” His hips press against yours almost painfully.
 
You don’t reply— you can’t, honestly, because he’s setting a pace, languidly
thrusting into you with barely silenced groans. He pulls his head back and it
takes you by surprise, how far gone he looks already. His expression is lax,
his eyes glassy as his body seems to move on its own. His thrusts seem to build
more power as he goes, hips meeting yours with little semblance of mercy, his
breathing ragged. You almost balk when you see a line of drool escape past the
corner of his mouth, proof of how unhinged he’s becoming in his pleasure.
 
“I love you.” He groans, punctuating the statement with a sharp thrust. “I’m
going to keep you forever. You’re mine.”
 
You gasp as he keeps pummeling into you, adjusting his position just so his
movements can become a tad more brutal. You love it. You love the feral glint
of his eyes, the way that he almost can’t seem to control himself.
 
“No one can ever take you away from me. Not now, not ever. I’ll kill anyone who
tries.” He times another thrust in tandem with his lips closing over the
juncture between your neck and shoulder, sucking your skin into his mouth to
leave a purple bruise there. You yelp, squirming against him, but his body is
leagues more powerful and lithe than yours, so he keeps you pinned in your spot
as he fucks you hard, every muscle in his body working to bring you to the
edge, his fingers brushing against your clit in order to aid with that fact.
 
You let out another loud sound, this one more drawn out, and it’s absolute
music to his ears, the way you call out for him to fuck you harder, tell him
that he’s the only one for you. It motivates him to go harder, to give you
everything that he has in him, to prove to you that he’s the only one that can
make you feel this way. He’s the only one allowed to.
 
You come suddenly, body arching against his as a moan is ripped from your
throat. He nearly snarls at the feeling of you wrapped tightly around him, the
sight of your eyes going hazy and the desperation laced in your voice. He
stutters out another broken confession of love as he follows you to his own
peak, spilling inside of you with his fingers almost crushing your hip.
 
He stays inside of you for a while after that, savoring the feeling of you in
his arms and his cock still inside of you. You’re still panting, looking up at
him with a mixture of adoration and wonder, and he bends down to kiss you
again.
His embrace could be considered almost suffocating, on a bad day. He still has
you caged in, and although you might be the one in control emotionally, there’s
no question as to who comes out on top physically. His lips skim across the
sensitive flesh of your neck, above your breasts, nibbling at your collarbone,
as he whispers praise and adoration to you. You’re all he’s ever wanted and all
that he will ever want, the only one who gets to see him as he is, who he will
fight tooth and nail to protect forever. You’re perfect, you’re beautiful, and
he will make sure that anyone who disagrees doesn’t live to see another day. He
loves you, He loves you.
 
“I think I love you too.” You whisper to him.
 
“You don’t have a choice.” He reminds you.
 
__
 
There’s something wrong with Akaashi Keiji. But there’s also something wrong
with you, too.
 
That’s why you’re such a perfect match, after all.
***** Kozume Kenma - System Upgrade *****
Chapter Notes
     Hey guys! I told myself that my first update of the new year would be
     to this anthology— so I’ve been writing for a couple different
     characters until finally, I finished this chapter. I was pretty
     surprised with myself, seeing as how I thought I would never write
     for Kenma, yet here I am, a couple thousand words later.
     I don’t have much to say for this chapter— it’s pretty tame except
     for some angst, but we all know I’m a bitch that can’t resist a happy
     ending. Anyways.
     Special thanks to a few people today: To Zen/CC, for being my beta
     reader (who I put through the damn wringer with how demanding I am
     with that stupid temperamental personality of mine), to Luna who is
     STILL waiting for her chapter (your day will come, I promise), and to
     all of my perfect readers out there who put up with the fact that I’m
     the slowest writer on the face of the Earth. I may not be able to
     respond to all of them anymore, but I absolutely do read and love
     everyone’s comments on my works. You guys really kept me going
     through 2016, and I have no doubt you’ll help me through this year as
     well.
     xoxo Sabby
There’s something undoubtedly special about your first friend. It’s your first
non-familial connection, your first foray into life outside what you know to be
safe, and it opens the door for all sorts of things to follow. More friends,
better social skills, and a heightened understanding of relationships between
two people. Even if you can’t remember their name, their impact will last a
lifetime.
This rings especially true for Kozume Kenma, who, as a principle, doesn’t exert
much effort into making friends. He’s always preferred to sink into his own
little world and carry on conversations with his own thoughts than try to
please someone whose opinion won’t matter to him anyway. Keeping others happy
is too much work, he thinks; everyone should just focus on their own problems
and needs and wants instead of making him go along with them. It’s just too
much effort. Too much of a hassle.
You, however, are in a different realm entirely. Of all the things that Kenma
can never, ever forget about you, it’s how effortless friendship with you was.
Even in first grade you had the patience of an absolute saint, always smiling
at him despite the amount of times he would shut down your attempts at
conversation, never minding when he didn’t want to play with you on the jungle
gym or eat the half of your lunch that you so graciously offered him when his
mom had (again) forgotten his on the kitchen counter at home. You didn’t latch
onto him, either, nor did you start to fuss when he would blatantly turn away
from you. Instead, you’d always watch him with an easygoing smile on your lips,
a small curl that betrayed no weariness on your part.
That smile has been carved into his memory for years; a sunny spot that he can
recede into on bad days. It’s beautiful, perfect, so inherently you that
there’s no mistaking it when it catches his eyes during his first year of high
school, years and years after you had supposedly moved to the Fukushima
prefecture.
“What’re you looking at?” Kuroo bumps him with his shoulder as he takes a sip
from his water bottle. The gym around them is full of life, of shoes squeaking
against the waxed floors and chatter between teams as they scrimmage. Training
camps usually left Kenma with something akin to a headache, but that barely
registers with him as he stares, a little slack-jawed and wide-eyed across the
room.
It’s you. It has to be. There’s no mistaking the glimmer in your eyes, the
iconic laugh that seems to be bubbling in your throat as you throw your head
back at something a sandy-haired kid said to you. Kenma feels like everything
is moving in reverse, like he’s suddenly the little black-haired boy sitting
behind a plastic desk, looking at the back of your head and wondering why you
smell so good. There’s a flash of anxiety that ripples through him, too,
mirroring the one that he felt when you pulled him aside during recess on your
first day of second grade and told him (tears in your eyes and snot in your
nose, of course) that you were moving far, far away and you couldn’t play with
him anymore.
He was robbed of comfort for months until Kuroo moved to his neighborhood. And
now it’s all rushing back to him, the dull ache of losing his first friend, of
having to start over on something that he was bad at to begin with, and
suddenly he’s seized by the urge to run outside and puke up his lunch.
Kuroo, nonplussed, follows his gaze. Then, his mouth slides into that sly grin
that so suits his scheming nature.
“Her?” He says, and if Kenma weren’t so shocked he might have berated Kuroo for
being too loud. “That’s Fukurodani’s manager, I think. She’s a first year like
you. Cute, isn’t she?”
Yes, Kenma thinks, his throat dry. Something like that.
__
That training camp is the first time that Kenma meets Bokuto. For as loud and
obnoxious as the ace is, Kenma barely remembers their introduction; the entire
time his eyes had been trained on you, still across the gym and still talking
to that light-haired boy. He fights the urge to run his hands over his own jet-
black strands, which hang over his forehead and brush the shell of his ear in
the way that an overgrown head of hair usually does. He hasn’t gotten a haircut
since last year, when he was about to finish middle school.
The guy you’re talking to has hair a bit on the longer side. Suddenly, the idea
of growing out his own locks doesn’t seem to bad to Kenma.
Who am I kidding? He thinks to himself. You haven’t even cast a single glance
in his direction, too busy talking to a guy that appears to be your senpai.
Kenma doesn’t know what’s worse-- the fact that you might recognize him but
don’t think he’s worth a second glance, or the chance that you don’t even
remember who he is in the first place. Both options leave him equally
disheartened as he runs laps with the teams after a scrimmage, so caught up in
his thoughts that he has half a mind to keep running down the streets of Tokyo
and not look back. Kuroo is too busy to notice, too busy chatting up the
second-year captain of the other team with a vivid flush on his cheeks that
Kenma knows isn’t from exercise.
To keep himself sane, he turns his attention to the older guy that you’d been
talking to earlier. Konoha, he thinks his name is; he’s handsome in a very
traditional way, with a pearly smile and high cheekbones. Kenma can’t even
resent him for getting your attention, not with how much charm and humor he
exudes. Maybe your taste in people had matured just like you had, and you
prefered the outgoing boys over the ones that spent their time in a dark room
playing video games.
Konoha says something to a fellow second year— Kai— and they both burst out
laughing. Kenma finds himself wishing that he could be a part of it, that he
could know what Konoha said and did that made him so magnetic, but Konoha seems
to have challenged Kai to a race because they take off without warning, leaving
the two teams in the dust.
Not for the first time that day, Kenma is left behind.
__
Kuroo and Bokuto seemed to have hit it off, enough so that the entire team
packs themselves up and takes a train over to the school every weekend in order
to practice with him and his team. Kenma has the inkling that it’s due in part
to the lingering looks between Kuroo and Bokuto but he doesn’t vocalize his
opinion. Instead he spends the rides over to the private school tapping away at
one of his games, trying in vain to hide the fact that his hands are shaking
just the tiniest bit at the thought of seeing you again.
You’ve locked eyes a couple times with him during the scrimmages your two teams
take part in, but he can never decipher the smile that you give him. He can’t
tell if there’s a glint of familiarity in your eyes or if he’s just imagining
it, just superimposing his own desire to be acknowledged by you onto your
being. He thinks he’s been making baby steps, though, exchanging a couple words
with you as you hand him a towel after practices or making an effort to gently
brush his fingers against yours when he takes a water bottle from you. You seem
unaffected but it’s things like that that get him through the week until he
sees you again, the hope that your next meeting will be the one that changes
things.
Which is why he can’t help but feel the threads of distraught take root in him
when he enters the Fukurodani gym behind Kuroo and you’re not there. Your
absence is like a gaping hole that he can’t ignore, spikes of anxiety filling
him and making him swallow hard.
Kuroo seems just as confused. “Where’s [Name]?”
“Hm?” Bokuto, who met them at the doors, looks around as if he hadn’t noticed.
With how scatterbrained he is, Kenma wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t. “Oh.
She must still be in the hall talking to Konoha.”
Kuroo shrugs, as if that’s a good enough answer— it isn’t— and proceeds to drop
his bag on the floor, pulling out his kneepads and starting to put them on. The
rest of his team follows suit, though Kenma feels strangely empty as he does
so. He can’t put his finger on it but he feels like there’s something wrong.
“Hey.” Kuroo says, right before they’re set to do warm-up stretches. Kenma is
afraid for a moment that he’s going to call him on his strange behavior in
front of the other guys, but when he pulls his bottle out of his bag, Kenma
nearly breathes a sigh of relief. “Would you mind filling this up for me? I
forgot to before we left.”
Kenma nods and takes the bottle, turning towards the gym doors that lead to the
hall. He’s aware that you and Konoha are out there, most likely bantering or
doing something else that will make Kenma’s heart feel like it’s dissolving in
his chest, but he wants to act normal. Maybe seeing him will prompt you and the
wing spiker to come back on the court, where the scrimmage will separate the
two of you for the time being, and he can—
He’s not prepared for what he sees when the gym door clicks shut behind him.
The sound is like a nail in a coffin to him but he barely registers it at all.
You’re out here and so is Konoha, a few dozen feet away from the door in a
somewhat shadowed section of hallway. But you’re not giggling at each other or
sharing little glances and smiles across the court. In fact, he can barely see
your expressions at all; your lips are pressed together so hard that he can’t
tell where Konoha ends and you begin, the older boy’s hips slowly sliding
against yours as you arch against the wall you’re leaning against. You’re
clothed, obviously, but there’s something so unmistakably sensual about the way
your bodies move against each other as you kiss that Kenma knows in his heart
this can’t be the first time you’ve done this with Konoha. Your hand tangles in
his sandy hair and you let out a small noise of appreciation that sounds like
absolute music. Konoha’s hand dips beneath the waistband of your cotton shorts
and you pull apart to look at him with a hazy grin on your face, a string of
saliva connecting your lips.
You may be out in the open, blatantly grinding against your senpai, but there’s
a softness to your expression that lets Kenma know he was absolutely not
supposed to see this. The two of you are tangled up in each other in the way
only young lovers could be— after all, you didn’t even notice the gym door open
and shut-- and Kenma is once again stuck by the fact that you haven’t noticed
him, you won’t notice him, even when he’s making no effort to hide himself,
because as long as Konoha is around, you can’t see anyone else.
He feels sick.
He turns on his heel and strides right back through the door from which he
came. Kuroo notices him immediately and jogs over to take his bottle back,
though once he does he seems to notice that there’s something very, very wrong
with Kenma.
“Oi…” He says slowly, his dark eyes widening a bit as he looks down at him.
Kenma’s expression doesn’t change. “The bottle is still empty. Kenma…?”
Kenma keeps walking, brushing past him and looking down at the waxed gym floor.
He hardly looks up, even when he hears the gym doors open again a few moments
later and your hurried apologies to Bokuto— perhaps you and Konoha had been
startled by the sound of Kenma leaving— and even without looking at you Kenma
can tell there’s no mistaking the breathless quality of your voice.
They lose the practice scrimmage that night.
__
He gets the idea on the train ride home from Fukurodani.
There’s a woman sitting across from him, flipping through some glamor magazine,
the pages glossy in the overhead lights. On the cover is some member of a
boyband that Kenma can’t name (they all sound and look the same to him),
donning a brown leather jacket and a plain T-shirt that probably cost ten times
more than it should have, hair bleached to platinum perfection.
He looks kind of like Konoha, in a strange way. Same easygoing expression, same
lively eyes… Kenma resists the urge to reach out and grab the magazine from the
woman’s hands and stare at it even closer, as if doing so will reveal some sort
of secret to gaining your attention, will somehow allow him to be equally as
intimate with you.
It doesn’t. But something in his mind clicks and he keeps looking at the
magazine while he slips his jacket on, the familiar thrum of the tracks under
the wheels of the subway seeming to count down to the next stop.
He exits the train a few miles from where he’s supposed to, fully aware of the
24/7 convenience store that will greet him across the street from this
particular station. He walks in with his hands in his pockets, the only patron
at this late hour, eyes scanning back and forth until he finds the aisle marked
“beauty”.
There’s a woman regarding the shampoos lined up on one side, eyes scanning the
bottles with little cartoon fruits and promises of shine and volume printed on
their labels; she doesn’t look away as Kenma sidles past, aware of his inky
black fringe brushing against his eyelashes. Beyond her are the hair dyes,
ranging from ashy brunette to daring reds with a few boxes of purple and green
sticking out like sore thumbs. The selection isn’t huge, but that doesn’t
matter much to Kenma. They’re not what he’s looking for.
He finds them at the very end of the aisle. A few plain-looking bottles lined
up next to a box of powder-filled packets. He rakes a hand through his hair as
if to judge how much he’ll need, before grabbing one of each, plus a little
bowl and brush that they sell next to them, and turning on his heel.
To the counter he goes, the hair bleach clenched in his hands with a grip
that’s almost too tight. The cashier at the front-- a homely-looking woman
who’s probably on the tail end of her shift, if her bored expression is
anything to go by-- rings him up and accepts exact change from him, handing him
his bag with a lackluster “have a nice evening”. He doesn’t say it back.
He boards the next available train, thankful that it seems to be sparsely
occupied. He sits his purchases on the seat next to him, trying his hardest not
to look at them every five seconds. He fails. He can’t seem to decide if the
glossy gleam of the bottle is menacing or inviting; maybe both.
He gets off at the correct stop this time, just a couple blocks from his
neighborhood. The walk to his home is uneventful, as is his entrance. It’s
silent and dark inside his house, which he supposes is good. His parents aren’t
home to ask him questions. He makes a beeline for the bathroom, turning on
lights as he goes, before unceremoniously dumping his purchases out of the bag
once he gets there. He pauses once to look at his own face in the mirror, then
looks down.
He stares at the bottle on his counter with a blank expression, as if he has no
idea what to make of it despite being the one who bought it. 40 Volume, it
says. The purple plastic of it matches the packet that lays next to it. He
wonders for the hundredth time if this is something he should do, if he really
needs to go this far in order to try and grab your attention. Then he thinks
about you in the gym, talking to Konoha with that wonderfully humored
expression on your face, and without actually paying attention to his actions,
he opens the bottle of activator and dumps some into the little plastic bowl he
also purchased.
The powder comes next, the smell stinging his nose and making his eyes prick
just a tad. He mixes them together, briefly wishing that there was better
ventilation in his apartment, until they’re a thick paste. Then, he stares at
it again, at his mother’s hair clips that he’d snagged for the purpose of
sectioning off his hair and the little foil sheets that were supposed to make
the process a bit easier and even. He sighs, looks at his all-black hair one
last time in the mirror, and gets to work.
__
The next day goes about as well as Kenma expected.
Kuroo, who has bragged numerous times about being able to recover well in bad
situations, immediately drops his coffee onto the sidewalk when Kenma comes to
meet him outside before school. He doesn’t even seem to process the bags under
Kenma’s eyes-- a side effect of not being able to sleep, on account of seeing
you and Konoha every time he closed his eyes— and Kenma knows exactly why.
“W-what the hell?” He stammers. His eyes don’t leave Kenma’s newly-golden
strands, not even to acknowledge that his morning beverage is currently
spilling out into a giant puddle on the pavement. He looks equal parts
horrified and intrigued by the change, and one of his hands lifts as if he
wants to touch it. It stops halfway, however, when Kuroo thinks better of it.
Kenma adjusts his grip on his bag straps, not quite meeting his best friend’s
gaze. It’s hard to be nonchalant when Kuroo looks like that. “I wanted to try
something different.”
“What?” Kuroo nearly hollers, suddenly able to find words. “You? Wanted
something different?”
“Yeah.” Kenma self-consciously cards his hand through his hair. It feels a lot
dryer than he expected. The color isn’t as blonde, either. Instead of a nice
sandy shade like Konoha’s, it came out as more of a shocking yellow. It doesn’t
look bad, per say, but he’ll admit that he grossly underestimated how hard it
would be to lighten his hair.
Kuroo seems to recover after a moment, following after Kenma as he walks. His
coffee is still on the ground.
“What were you trying to do? Look like that guy you like from Final Fantasy?”
“Tidus?”
“Yeah, whatever his name is.”
“No.” Kenma fights the tiny smile that threatens to crack on his face at
Kuroo’s comment. He does look a little like Tidus, especially with the way his
hair is getting longer. It makes him feel a tiny bit better about the
situation.
Kuroo continues to pester him the entire way to school— he seems to have a
hundred different questions pertaining to the process of one bleaching their
hair, and if Kenma hadn’t been so used to Kuroo’s inquisitive nature then he
might have just remained silent— and Kenma is only granted reprieve when he and
the upperclassman go their separate ways to their shoe lockers.
Despite it being a complete one-eighty from his standard look, Kenma’s new hair
doesn’t seem to grab much attention from his own classmates, save for a shocked
look from his homeroom teacher. He doesn’t mind, really, because they’re not
the ones he needs attention from. He can feel his anxiety mount throughout the
day, however, every time he catches a glimpse of his own reflection. He looks
different, almost abnormally so. He doesn’t think it’s that bad, but the looks
that the rest of the team gives him when he joins them for lunch makes the
small shreds of confidence that he was clinging to dry up and crumble in his
fingers.
“What’s up with your hair?”
“I’ll tell you what’s up with it.” One of the third years says. “He totally did
it to impress a girl.”
“Kozume likes a girl? No way, he’s totally married to his games!”
Kenma doesn’t even care that they’re talking about him like he isn’t there. He
picks at his food as per usual, trying once more to act nonchalant about the
situation. It’s hard to, though, when Kuroo is now looking at him suspiciously
and he can see the gears working in his head as he slowly starts to put two and
two together.
__
Kenma sees you again that weekend. If you notice his new hair, you don’t say
anything about it. You do, however, seem courageous enough to kiss Konoha in
front of everyone once the joint practice is over; Bokuto makes a loud joke
about it.
Kenma is the only one who doesn’t laugh.
__
The years seem to drag on in one giant blur. There’s only a few memorable
things that really made it all worthwhile, in Kenma’s opinion; meeting Hinata
(and Lev, though he’d never say that out loud), a few new installments of his
favorite games, and Kuroo finally coming out of the closet (apparently, thanks
to Bokuto’s irresistible ass).
But he’s somewhat glad to leave his high school life behind in favor of
university; he tested into the same one that both Kuroo and Bokuto attend, and
it hardly took any convincing on their part to convince him to enroll. There’s
even the added bonus of having the two help him move into his dorm; Kenma’s
thankful that the couple seems to like competing over who can carry more stuff
into the room, because it means he’s free to arrange it all while they do the
heavy lifting. And for a while, Kenma is filled with an excitement for the
future that he hadn’t been before.
His last year of high school had been almost hell without Kuroo; he’d spent it
all locked away in his room or pining after you. While Konoha had graduated the
year before the two of you, there was still an untouchable air about you that
prevented him from going beyond giving you a nod of the head in passing. And
while his heart still shuddered pitifully in his chest every time he thought of
your face, the feeling was more manageable now.
“That’s the last of it.” Kuroo’s voice snaps Kenma out of his musing, and he
gives the middle blocker a half-smile.
“Thanks. Any chance you’ll help me unpack everything?”
“Ah, we would…” Bokuto slings an arm around Kuroo, “but I promised a friend of
mine that we’d help her move all of her things in today too. We’ll see you
tonight, though, right?”
“Tonight?” Kenma looks at Kuroo for confirmation.
“Yeah. Kōtarō’s frat is having a party tonight, and you’re coming.” Kuroo
raises a brow in a way that challenges Kenma to deny him. He considers it for a
moment, but then remembers what he kept telling himself the day he accepted
enrollment at university:
I need to try new things.
So he nods, figuring that this can’t possibly be worse than the parties Kuroo
made him attend with the team back in high school. Kuroo grins, then escorts
his boyfriend out of the room, swatting at his ass as he does.
“See you later!” Bokuto exclaims, though it’s muffled only a tad when Kenma
shuts the door behind them. He waits for a few moments, until he’s sure that
the two have taken off down the stairs, before sighing and turning back to the
boxes that litter his currently-bare room.
He’ll have to carve out some time to hang up all his movie and gaming posters,
plus reassemble his PC on the desk. But for right now, all he wants to do is
find a pair of scissors.
There’s a mirror hanging above the sink in his dorm’s cramped bathroom. He
flicks the light on and stares into it, at his own flat expression. His hair
hangs like curtains around his face, the bleached ends brushing at his
shoulders. He hadn’t bleached his hair since high school, and the contrast
between yellow and black has certainly turned a few heads. He almost laughs to
himself, remembering how he had expected you to notice the change; he might not
be much older than he was when he had done it, but the desperate attempt to get
you to look his way seems so stupid when he looks back. He shouldn’t have
changed himself for your sake. That’s not who he is.
He grabs the ends of his hair and, in a fluid motion that prevents him from
overthinking it, snips off the ends. Golden strands flutter into the sink,
catching the fluorescent light in an oddly pretty way. He does the same to the
other side, careful not to cut it too short. It’s a little lopsided; he’ll have
to even it out.
He spends a good half an hour trimming his hair until it, admittedly, looks
pretty damn nice. Satisfied with his work, Kenma puts the scissors on the
counter and sweeps the trimmed ends into his hands, tossing them into the waste
bin. He runs his hands over his scalp a few times to get any stray bits,
smiling a little to himself at how much lighter he feels. His hair is entirely
jet-black again. It’s soft, lacking the brittle bleached ends he was so used
to.
He likes it. He likes it a lot. And apparently so does Kuroo, because he nearly
shouts when he sees Kenma again later that night.
“Holy shit.” He exclaims, and Kenma is almost instantly transported back to
high school, when he’d met Kuroo outside after bleaching his hair. But this
time, Kuroo looks a lot more pleasantly surprised. So does Bokuto, who asks him
when he had time to go out and get a haircut.
“I did it myself.” He says, running his hand through it. The ends are a little
damp from the shower he took an hour before. His clothes smell nice. He feels
crisp. Clean. New. Bokuto grins at him.
“Really?! It looks awesome!”
“You think so?” Kenma bites back a grin. He’s almost weightless.
“Yeah, and you’re even dressed nice. Are you sure you’re Kenma and not, like,
some weird clone from another dimension?”
“Alright, first of all, I’m flagging you on sci-fi movies if that’s the first
thing you think of when I get a haircut.” Kenma snorts at Kuroo. Kuroo shrugs.
“What? This isn’t the first time you’ve nearly given me a heart attack with
your hair, don’t be surprised when I freak out!”
“I’m sure he just wanted to do something new!” Bokuto, the surprising voice of
reason in this moment, slings his arms around the both of them as they start to
walk. Bokuto’s frat house is thankfully not far from the dorms; Kenma can
almost immediately hear the music blaring from it the second they get outside.
Trap music. Not really his taste, but he figures he’ll only be there for an
hour or so before Kuroo allows him to leave and go back to the games waiting
for him in his dorm.
Bokuto only takes his arm off of him once they’re inside. It’s exactly how the
media portrayed college parties— bodies meshing together and loud music and the
sickly-sweet scent of alcohol— and although Kenma’s immediate reaction is to
turn around and leave, he stays rooted to the spot. He promised Bokuto and
Kuroo that he would come, after all, and it seems rude to blow them off when
they helped him move earlier in the day. Besides, he needs to learn how to live
a little, he supposes, and not freak out during every social situation thrown
his way—
He freezes immediately, thoughts pausing when he hears a familiar laugh.
And as if there’s some sort of holy light shining from above, Kenma sees you.
You’re clutching a red cup in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other as you
talk to another girl over the thrumming of the bass from the speakers.
You look happy and carefree and— oh god, the dress you’re wearing is definitely
working for you. Kenma doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone wear the color
black so well in his life.
And suddenly, he feels self conscious in his skinny jeans and flannel, not to
mention the ratty shoes he’d pulled on last minute. He can’t hide behind his
hair anymore so he turns, hoping that you didn’t catch him gaping. He almost
can’t believe it; it seems that his three years of pining after you will be
extended even longer.
Bokuto and Kuroo are busy chatting up guys who also appear to be members of the
frat, and a quick scan around the packed house tells Kenma that he doesn’t know
anyone in the immediate vicinity. There’s a plastic keg to his right that’s
dripping something that looks sticky and orange, so he grabs a cup and fills it
up just a tiny bit. He takes a sip. It tastes like garbage, but he knows the
protocol at these sorts of events is to at least look like you’re having fun,
so he fills it up a little bit more to at least have a prop to carry around.
He regrets it immediately when someone bumps into his elbow. The contents of
the cup slosh around dangerously, threatening to spill over the lip of the
plastic. Kenma looks up out of habit rather than indignation and nearly has
another heart attack because there’s a familiar face right in front of him,
sandy hair falling into dark eyes—
“Hey, sorry!” The guy exclaims. Kenma takes a moment to calm himself down once
he realizes that it isn’t, in fact, Konoha Akinori. The guy still squints and
looks down at him, though, as if trying to place his face to a memory. Kenma
waits.
“Kozume Kenma.” He says, once he realizes that the boy in front of him won’t
make the realization on his own. He watches recognition blossom in those dark
eyes.
“Dude, I knew I recognized you from somewhere! Hinata never stopped talking
about you.” His new companion sticks out a hand. “Kinoshita Hisashi. Nice to
see you again, man. I’m digging the haircut.”
“Thanks.” Kenma shakes his hand. It’s clammy, but he suddenly doesn’t feel as
strong of an urge to leave now. “Nice to see you again, too. Did you move in
today?”
“Sure did. My RA has a stick up his ass, though; I’m surprised he didn’t yell
at me and Ennoshita when we left our dorm to come here.”
“I haven’t met my RA yet.” Kenma says. Unconsciously, he looks over at you
again. You’re alone, sipping your drink with a look of mild disgust on your
face. Your eyes flick upwards the same moment he turns; immediately, he looks
back over at Kinoshita. The taller boy is grinning.
“Do you know her? Or are you trying to know her?” He wiggles his eyebrows at
Kenma, who swallows.
“I actually know her.”
“Then call her over!” Kinoshita says.
“I’d rather not.” Kenma takes another sip of his drink without thinking about
it, then swallows with a grimace.
“Why not? She’s cute, and she keeps looking over here.”
Kenma keeps his expression neutral, hating the fact that his heart immediately
lurches. “She does?”
“Yeah.” Kinoshita gives him a small grin. “I know that look. She’s probably
digging the haircut too.”
“Or maybe she’s just trying to figure out why I look familiar.” Kenma reasons,
his hands unconsciously tightening on his cup when Kinoshita looks over in your
direction and gives you a large smile.
“Maybe. Either way, I think you should—”
“So are you on the volleyball team here?” Kenma cuts him off. Kinoshita
immediately lights up, previous statement forgotten.
“No, but I’m gonna try out! How about you? Their previous setter just graduated
last year, I think you have a good shot!”
“Really?” Kenma entertains the idea. Playing on the same team as Kuroo again
won’t be so hard, but his patience is barely at the level that Akaashi’s was
when he dealt with Bokuto. Maybe he’d have to call the other setter for a few
tips.
“Yeah! And besides, I’m pretty sure that girl over there is going to be the
manager. I saw her talking to the coach about applications.”
“…Nice.” Kenma hates how much his heart flutters at the idea of having a reason
to see you every day. He needs to accept that you’re not interested, that
you’ll never be interested.
“Yeah. Might draw some people to the games, too. She’s super cute.”
Kenma can’t deny that.
The song changes into something even more bass-riddled and headache-inducing,
causing Kinoshita to toss back his head and down the remaining contents of his
cup. He looks back at Kenma when he’s done, a little bit of the orange drink
remaining on his lips. He licks it away.
“I love this song, so I’m gonna…” He gestures with his head to the mass of
bodies grinding against each other. “Dance, and stuff. You wanna join?”
Dance. As if that’s what it could be called. Kenma thinks with a little bit of
disdain. He does consider it for about half a second though, before his eyes
seek you out for a third time and his throat goes dry.
You’re still in the same place, but instead of looking mildly curious, you’re
wearing an expression of obvious disgust, looking between two guys on either
side of you— and although Kenma can’t hear a word they’re saying, he can tell
that it’s not something you want to hear.
“Oh, I see.” Kinoshita slaps Kenma on the back in the most encouraging way that
a buzzed freshman can. “Go save your girl, Kozume.”
Kenma nods absentmindedly, his feet already starting to carry him towards you.
He doesn’t apologize to the people he brushes past, too focused on your
expression. One of the guys reaches out to touch your shoulder and you visibly
grimace, looking very much like you want to smack his hand away.
Once he’s a few feet away, he can practically feel his heart lurch in your
general direction. Your eyes meet and your relief fills him with a sense of
stupid accomplishment.
“Babe!” You squeal, and even though it’s been a while since you and Kenma have
had any prolonged conversation, he can still tell when you’re putting on a
performance. He tries not to falter when you curl an arm around him and pull
him close to you. “Guys, this is the boyfriend I was telling you about.”
“Yeah?” One of the guys looks Kenma up and down with poorly hidden disdain.
“Kinda small, isn’t he?” The other boy nods in agreement.
“Kinda plain.” The other boy adds. Kenma swallows.
“You say that, but he fucks better than the two of you ever could.” You’re
still speaking in that sickly-sweet voice but there’s an edge now that makes
all three of the boys around you freeze. Kenma is certain his face is slowly
turning red, if the heat creeping up his neck is anything to go by.
He musters the rest of his courage in order to look up at one of the guys.
“Piss off,” he says, because it seems appropriately tough but also because he
knows he’s probably not capable of more than two words.
The two boys share a look then, seemingly deciding that you’re not worth the
trouble, before they turn and take off in search of another girl to pester. You
wait until they’re gone in the crowd before letting go of Kenma with a sigh and
an expression that begs his forgiveness.
“Sorry I did that, Kozume-san.” You say, “but I saw an opportunity to get out
of that situation and I took it. Thanks for playing along.”
He’s almost stunned into silence by the fact that you actually remember who he
is. “… it’s fine. I’m glad I could help.”
“Talk about a way to reconnect.” You snort, taking a sip from your drink then
regarding him again with a lopsided smile. “You got a haircut. I like it.”
“Thanks.” He says, looking down at the ground with a little bit of his
trademark bashfulness written in his expression. When you see it, your smile
gets wider.
“You look more like the old Kozume-san now.” You muse. “It’s cute. I always
liked how dark your hair was. It suits you.”
Kenma doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
__
When Kuroo and Bokuto finally get around to finding the two of you, you’re two
cups of jungle juice (as he learned it was called) in, and he’s actually
chuckling openly at your anecdotes. Kuroo and Bokuto share a look, one with
plenty of raised eyebrows, before turning back to him.
“I see you guys have caught up.” Kuroo remarks.
“Yeah!” You hiccup, much more inebriated that you were an hour ago. “He saved
me from these two guys, it was awesome—”
“I just told them to go away.” Kenma elaborates. Kuroo raises an eyebrow at
him, able to see his blush even in the darkness of the room. “It wasn’t a big
deal.”
“That’s Kozume-san for you!” You giggle. “He’s always so modest! You were like
that in second grade the time you told those two bullies off, remember? You
told me it was no sweat, but I was so happy!”
Bokuto and Kuroo share an incredulous look with Kenma this time, who suddenly
looks beside himself.
“You… remember that?”
“How could I forget?” You say, taking another sip from your cup. “I thought I
was going to marry you back then! I even had it all planned out in my diary!”
You smile at the memory, swirling the contents of your drink around absently.
“I wish my parents had sent me to Nekoma. Then maybe we’d have gotten close
again, Kozume-san.”
“Never say never.” Kuroo says. Kenma frowns at him; Kuroo shrugs. You, however,
nod. Bokuto looks mildly offended.
“That’s t-true! Kozume, we should hang out!” You say, looking at him with a
grin. He blinks at you for a moment, at a brief loss for words. Taking his
silence as an invitation for further coercion, you add, “I just got the new
Final Fantasy game, too!”
“Well, there you go!” Kuroo says, as if that’s the best idea he’s ever heard.
Bokuto nods in agreement. “You two should head out and play!”
“You think?” You ask. God, it should be illegal for someone to be so cute when
they’re tipsy, Kenma thinks.
“Yeah! This party is boring as all hell, anyway.” Kuroo snorts, and Kenma
narrows his eyes at him. He’s an awful liar. You seem to believe him, though,
because you tug on Kenma’s arm.
“Let’s go! It’ll be nice to get into pajamas anyway.” You say. Kenma wants to
say no, because god forbid you change in front of him and he gets a boner, but
it’s practically impossible to say no to you so he allows you to tug him along,
weaving through the crowd and leaving a chuckling Kuroo and grinning Bokuto
behind.
The air outside is pleasantly chilly against Kenma’s overheated skin. You seem
to think the opposite, however; the second you leave the house you press into
Kenma’s side, shivering a little for emphasis. He tentatively puts an arm
around you and tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want you to stumble and
fall. You smile over at him again.
“You’re such a sweetheart.” You coo at him. He sighs, suddenly remembering the
most important thing about you that he had shoved into the back of his mind
when he’d been catching up with you.
“I’m sure your boyfriend wouldn’t think so.” He says. You immediately pause,
almost losing your balance as you erupt into giggles at his serious expression.
“My what?”
“Konoha.” The name tastes funny to him. He’s seized by the sudden desire to
step away from you, but you won’t allow it. Your hand comes to rest on top of
the one slung around your shoulder.
“Kozume-san, Konoha and I broke up over a year ago.”
“What?” Now it’s his turn to falter. You shake your head, smiling even though
you sigh.
“We broke up at his graduation. It was amicable. No drama or anything; I just
figured when he got to university that he’d want to be single to, uh… explore
the campus, if you catch my drift.”
“I do.” Kenma says. The both of you continue walking to the dorms. “I didn’t
hear about it, though.”
“I don’t think anyone really cared. They all expected us to break up, anyway. I
was just the team manager, and they all kind of knew Konoha was bound for
someone a little more… exciting, I guess.”
“That’s stupid.” Kenma says it without thinking. You snort out a laugh, and it
spurs him on. “You’re exciting. You’re beautiful. You’re a great person. If
Konoha couldn’t see that, then you shouldn’t have dated him.”
“Oh, Kozume-san.” You tut. “Why can’t more men be like you?”
“I’m like me.” He reasons, unsure as to what you mean. You smile at him.
“That’s true. I might just have to come after you next.”
You stop again, this time in front of the staircase leading up to your dorm
building. Despite the later hour people are still coming and going. Kenma
hardly sees them at all. He just sees you, with your lips gently parted and
your hair a little messy and—
“I wouldn’t mind that.” He says, feeling exceptionally brave in the moment.
You’re facing him now and one of your hands is curling around the back of his
neck, against his soft hair.
“Good.” You say. He’s not quite sure what you’re about to do until it’s already
happening; you use your hand to pull him close and then you’re kissing him,
lips soft against his own and your eyes fluttering shut while his remain wide.
He’s frozen, unable to comprehend if this is a dream or he’s just been
teleported to a weird alternate universe. After a few moments, you pull back.
“That’s for helping me out tonight.” You breathe. There’s a playful glimmer in
your eyes, though. “But there’s more where that came from.”
“You’re drunk.” He blurts. You laugh.
“No, just courageous, Kozume-san.”
“Kenma.” He corrects. “Call me Kenma.”
“Well, Kenma. Shall we?” You gesture to the doors of your dorm building. He
thinks for a moment, then nods.
 
It takes much longer than needed to get up to your room, on account of the fact
that you keep pulling him in for kisses every so often. He obliges happily,
wondering if it’s possible to be drunk on happiness alone, savoring the feeling
of your body against his and your cold hands against his warm skin as you smile
against his lips.
You don’t play Final Fantasy that night. You don’t have sex, either. Instead,
you pull Kenma into your bed and promptly start to drift off into slumber
despite still being in your dress. Kenma pulls your heels off for you and you
mumble something about how cute he is before he’s laying next to you, gathering
you in his arms and pressing a small kiss to the top of your head.
You fall asleep like that, in your own little bubble of affection and wonder
for the future.
__
He wakes up to you smiling at him in the early morning light. He notices that
you’re dressed differently, in some sweatpants and a T-shirt. You still look
perfect.
“Let’s go get breakfast.” You say, and before he can answer you, the growling
of his stomach says everything for him. You giggle.
You also hold his hand the entire way to the cafeteria. Somehow, it’s less
embarrassing to him than the grumbles inside his stomach.
__
You’re lying on your bed— something that’s become routine since the two of you
started dating a month ago— your body pressed into his side as he taps away at
a video game. One of your legs is practically wrapped around his own and your
chin rests on his shoulder as your fingers absentmindedly drum on his stomach.
It’s casual and easy, but he can’t shake the feeling that something is off,
that there’s some sort of tension within you that’s very close to snapping.
There’s something different about you tonight that Kenma can’t quite put his
finger on. It sets him a little bit on edge, which is why he immediately
stiffens when your fingers stop beating a pattern on the fabric of his
sweatshirt and instead migrate downwards, skimming over a sliver of skin
exposed by his shirt riding up when he first laid down. His eyes immediately
search for yours. If you noticed his reaction, you’ve chosen to ignore it.
Tentatively, he goes back to his game. He’s losing against the final boss
pretty badly, caught between wanting to use all the healing items he stockpiled
throughout the game or continuing to hoard them for no reason other than his
own trepidation; he opens his mouth to ask you what you think he should do when
he feels the pad of your index finger swipe below the waistband of his pants.
He freezes. His eyes go back to you again and this time he can see that slow
smile that he loves so much spreading on your face, accompanied by a familiar
spark of mischief in your eyes. His brow furrows in curiosity.
“What are you doing?”
“Hm?” You ask, continuing to run your finger along the skin of his hip, dipping
into the ‘v’ muscle at the top of his leg. “Nothing, really. You can keep
playing.”
He heeds your suggestion but his mind is already going a little fuzzy at the
edges. The touch itself is far from being overtly sexual, but the promise
behind it is what startles him. Kenma isn’t an idiot, and the fact that you may
start to initiate something with him makes his mouth immediately go dry.
Satisfied with the fact that he’s gone back to playing, you sneak the rest of
your hand into his pants. His skin is warm under your fingers and you delight
at the little shudder you feel once you move even more downwards until your
palm is halfway over the elastic of his boxers.
His fingers freeze and his eyes stay glued to the black and red “GAME OVER”
that flashes onto his screen. He’s not upset with your meddling; in fact, he’d
be borderline elated if he could just get over the question of whether or not
he’s imagining this.
“Nothing?” He repeats your earlier statement, turning his head so he can look
at you. He doesn’t dare move the rest of his body out of fear that you’ll stop.
“Well, not really nothing.” You say, as if he’s finally caught you. That
teasing lilt is back in your voice and that alone is enough to drive him a
little crazy, never mind the fact that you’ve started to palm him over his
underwear. He swallows, slowly setting his game onto your nightstand.
“What are you trying to do?” He says, and it’s almost embarrassing how low his
voice gets. Arousal laces through his body like fine, silk threads.
“Anything I can get away with.” The low lighting of your room paints you in an
almost angelic light, and for a second Kenma is seized by the desire to reach
out and touch you, to feel your skin under his fingers in some way. He gently
runs his fingers over your cheek, a signal that he wants you to kiss him. You
do.
And all at once, he’s hit by the sensation of you around him. The heat of your
fingers as they work him into a state of arousal, the scent of your skin and
your clothes and your hair and god, you’re just so beautiful--
“Kenma.” You say once you break apart. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t
want to.”
He rests his forehead against your own, holding back another shudder. Your hand
hasn’t stopped; he’s already half hard, and that might have been embarrassing
had you not looked so pleased with yourself.
“I want to.” He says, fighting to keep his hips steady so that they don’t arch
into your touch. Instead, he repositions himself slowly so that he’s on his
side and it’s easier to pull you close to him. His nerves are practically on
fire under his skin but he keeps himself calm by kissing you again, thinking
with a little bit of mirth that there’s no way he’ll ever be able to get enough
of you.
Your hand leaves his pants only for a moment so that both of them can snake
under his sweatshirt, bunching it up until he has to pull away to yank it off.
His undershirt is much thinner and doesn’t protect him from the slight chill of
the room, so he immediately presses his body against yours again. The tent in
his pants grinds against your thigh and you smirk up at him, eyes half-lidded.
“You are like a giant cat.” You say, noting the way he seems to curl into your
body with his own. He lets out a little huff of indignation but doesn’t say
anything to contradict your statement, instead tentatively sliding his hand up
the back of your shirt and resting it on the small of your back.
You let out a little hum of contentment and he takes the moment to nuzzle his
face into your neck. His short black hair, still so starkly different to his
hair in high school, tickles the bottom of your jaw and you giggle. His lips
curl into a smile against the skin of your neck.
A gasp escapes your lips when he nips at the delicate skin. He lets out a noise
of appreciation at the sound you make, already committing it to memory for
moments that he’s alone without you. Your body moves on its own when the hand
at your back slides to your front, moving upwards to bunch up your shirt the
same way you had with his. You take it off with an eagerness that doesn’t make
his ego any more humble, and he presses a soft kiss to your collarbone.
This is, surprisingly, not the first time Kenma has seen you getting undressed.
But this is the first time it’s been because the two of you are about to get
intimate; you’re well aware of the fact that your boyfriend is perfectly
content to take in your body without touching it in the same way one would look
at a work of art in a museum, so you haven’t been shy changing around him.
“You’re beautiful.” He says. It may be the hundredth time he’s told you but you
smile just like you do every time. His lips move downwards towards the top of
your breasts and you immediately arch into his touch. He’s feeling your body
with apparent ease, but you can feel the way his fingers are trembling against
your skin. You smile at him as he pulls himself up to kiss you again, the tent
in his pants rubbing against your thigh as he does so. You groan against his
mouth, hips moving upward of their own accord. He does it again just for a
repeat of your reaction, drinking it in like he’s absolutely starved for it.
You want him, and the knowledge is intoxicating.
“Touch me.” You say, and he knows what you mean immediately. His hand still
stalls though, and you take it into your own to slide it down your stomach and
to the waistband of your pants. Then, you give him a pointed look.
Now it’s his turn to touch you over your underwear. You unbutton and unzip your
pants in order to help him and he tentatively slides his fingers down to cup
your crotch in his hand. His breath hitches when he feels a slight dampness to
the cloth and you smirk up at him, as if you know exactly how he’s feeling.
His fingers are still hesitant to touch you immediately, but he starts a slow
rhythm that goes from your clit to your dampened slit and back up again. Your
head tilts back as you arch into his touch, the methodical friction almost
torturous. He’s unaware of that fact, too busy being mesmerized by the glazed-
over expression in your eyes and the way your thighs unconsciously rub together
around his hand.
You’re beautiful. You’re perfect. He’s so, so lucky.
You seem frustrated with his slowness, though, because you push him back so
that you can sit up and remove your pants, as if to invite him to touch you
even more. He doesn’t complain, having found that your pants limited his
movement anyway.
He can see the damp spot in your panties now and it does things to him that
make him wish he was in just his underwear as well. The skin of your legs is
smooth against him and he debates taking his shirt off just so he can feel more
of it against his own. You seem to be on the same page, because before he can
even move you start yanking it up, smirk still curling your mouth upwards. He
allows you to remove the garment, taking your decision as permission for him to
do the same to you.
He hooks two long fingers around the sides of your underwear, waiting until you
nod at him to start sliding them down your legs.
The sight of your bare cunt is something that will be imprinted on Kenma’s mind
for as long as he lives. Your folds glisten in the light from your windows, and
when you spread your legs for him he’s almost certain that he’s fallen into
some sort of trance. He’s never been an especially sexual person but in this
moment, he wants nothing more than to be inside of you, to taste you and commit
everything about you to memory until he’s absolutely bursting at the seams with
how spectacular you make him feel.
“Kenma.” You breathe when he hasn’t moved. “Please.”
He nods once, mouth dry and eyes still glued to your cunt, before he decides on
his next move. Slowly, he grabs both of your ankles and lifts them, not
registering the little noise of surprise that you make when he rests them on
his shoulders. You look bashful, suddenly, and your eyes meet his from between
your legs.
“You don’t have to—” You start, but your voice falters when one of his fingers
skims over your clit. He relishes in the shudder of your legs.
“I want to try.” He says, slowly moving in tight little circles over your clit.
You nod, apparently unable to form words as he works. He pauses after a moment
so that he can run his fingers down the expanse of your slit, dipping the pads
of his index and middle finger into your opening so that they shine with
lubrication when he removes them. He laps at them with his tongue and, finding
your taste pleasant, lets out a low groan of satisfaction. His eyes briefly
meet yours before they focus again on your cunt; he uses his saliva-coated
fingers to spread you as he leans closer. The exhale of air on your exposed
slit makes you squeal. He grins, a little stupidly in his opinion, and then
licks one long strip over your cunt.
“O-oh!” You exclaim, hands immediately fisting the sheets beneath you. He
repeats the motion, drinking in your soft mewls, then starts to push the wet
muscle into you on his third pass. Your reaction is immediate, a breathy sigh
of his name that coaxes him to curl his tongue upwards and against your walls.
His other hand comes around to touch at your clit again, rolling it in tandem
with another curl of his tongue. He pulls the wet muscle back only to slide it
forward again, enjoying the lewd sounds it makes almost as much as he enjoys
seeing your reaction to the way he’s working you. Your muscles twitch of their
own accord and your eyes screw shut as he starts going faster, pulling his
tongue out fully just so he can suck at the skin around your opening lightly,
before inserting it again and starting all over.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thanks his hours spent with a game
controller in his hand for giving him absolute precision while he plays with
your clit, rolling it and tugging it and even gently twisting it in order to
pull more beautiful sounds from your mouth.
You’re getting even wetter now, your sweet emission coating his lips and
smearing onto his chin, but he pays that absolutely no mind. He’s completely
enamored with how you chant his name, how your legs wrap around his head in an
effort to pull him as close as humanly possible. Pleasing you fills him with a
sort of animalistic purpose to claim you as his own, to make you feel so good
that you can’t possibly want to be with anyone else. He’s waited so long for
the opportunity to do this with you that he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to
do it over and over again for the rest of his life.
He’s not quite sure for how long he’s lost in you; only when you let out an
elongated moan of his name does he finally snap out of his trance.
“Please.” You take in a ragged breath. “Please, fuck me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He allows you to slide your shaky legs off of
his shoulders as he wipes his chin with the back of his hand. Then, at your
urging he removes his pants and his boxers, stroking himself gently as you
rummage frantically in your side table for a condom.
You practically tear the latex itself in half with how fast you rip the package
open, scrambling to roll it onto him. He watches you, a little winded by how
eager you are to be with him, and once you’ve finished he tugs you upwards to
share a slow kiss. His shaky hands skim along your back, taking a full minute
to actually unhook your bra— you tell him that he’ll have to practice that more
later— and then you’re wrapping your arms around his neck and falling back onto
the bed, pulling him so that he’s on top of you.
“You’re sure?” He knows you are but he just wants to be sure, wants to hear you
say it.
“I want you.” You say, and that’s enough for him. He takes his cock into his
hand and runs it down your slit the same way he had with his tongue, before
slowly sliding it into you.
He freezes, almost paralyzed with pleasure, the second he’s fully inside of
you. You feel so good; no amount of locker room talk or conversations with
Kuroo could have prepared him for the sensation, magnified tenfold by the fact
that he gets to share it with you.
He slants his lips over yours, one hand resting next to your head as the other
goes to grip your hip. He thrusts experimentally, transfixed by your
expression.
“Yes!” You say, voice shrill with pleasure. Your hands slide from the back of
his neck to the flesh at the back of his shoulders. He groans as your nails
sink into his skin in tandem with another thrust of his hips, your fingers
leaving tracks of white-hot pain as you rake them down his back.
Your parted lips and dilated pupils do nothing to keep him from losing control
over his movements. If anything, they prompt him to let his instinct take over
his carefully calculating mind, to slide his chest against your own and relish
in the sensation of skin on skin. His nerve endings feel like they’re on fire
and his mind is clouding up more and more every moment, thoughts swimming with
how amazing you are and how much he adores you. He wants to make you feel good,
wants to be the reason you see stars.
You seem to return the sentiment, crying out his name in a broken mantra as he
moves, increasing in pitch once he resumes touching your clit with the hand
previously on your hip. You pull him almost impossibly close, his mouth against
the column of your throat as he rests his face in your neck. He bites down to
muffle his own groan of appreciation as you briefly tighten around him, your
breasts pushing into his chest as your body arches. Your legs wrap around his
waist and he barely registers what that means until you’re cooing into his ear,
telling him he’s already the best you’ve ever had, how he feels so good inside
of you, how you never want him to stop.
And he doesn’t intend to, at least not until you’re a gasping mess underneath
him. His hips are separating from and meeting yours with a brutality that he
didn’t even know he possessed, his groans overlapping with yours as you both
seek out your finishes. He glances down just to see that place where the two of
you are joined and it makes heat creep up his spine, knowing that he’s inside
of you, that you’re a complete mess for him.
“I’m close.” You pant, and he swallows hard before nodding at you, doubling his
efforts. His back must be nearly scratched raw at this point he couldn’t
possibly care less. His attention is taken up by the fact that you suddenly
tighten up like a vice around him, your moans turning into outright cries of
his name as you come, pulling his body flush against yours so that you can kiss
him with a fervor unmatched by anything he’s felt in his life. The intimacy of
the act is what pulls him over the edge after you, his chest rumbling with a
suppressed groan as he he comes into the condom, his hands grabbing at your
skin as your limbs tangle together as if you’re his lifeline.
The afterglow is almost as good as the sex itself. He stays inside of you for a
few moments before, regretfully, pulling out so that he can dispose of the
condom in your wastebin. When he lays back down next to you, you still haven’t
moved. You’re breathing hard and looking at him like he’s just changed your
entire life.
The thought makes his cheeks heat up.
“That was… holy fuck.” You breathe, pulling him close as soon as he lets you.
He allows it, smiling softly when you start to play with the short black
strands of his hair.
“...I can’t believe I got to do that with you.” He replies. You laugh, though
the sound is a little hoarse.
“I can’t believe you’re so naturally good at fucking.” You say. He doesn’t
respond immediately, too busy trying to process what just happened to him. You
take that as a cue to continue.
“Who would’ve thought that I’d actually get to be with my first crush.” You
muse. He turns to look at you, remembering how much attention you gave him in
second grade. It makes a little more sense now.
“You’ve… always been…my only crush.” He admits. It feels childlike and he
almost immediately wishes he hadn’t said it, but you grin at him.
“I wish I would have known. I wouldn’t have fucked around with Konoha then.”
You say. He sighs.
“Don’t remind me.” He exhales, but to you in sounds like a little huff.
“Ah, sorry.” You pause again. “Did it really bother you that much?”
“Only every day of my life.” His tone is flat but you still find a little bit
of humor in it.
“Well, then. Consider this a system upgrade for the both of us.”
“You’ve been waiting to make a nerd related joke, haven’t you?” The edge of his
mouth curls into the start of a small smile.
You kiss his cheek softly. The room smells like sex, but you still smell
fantastic. “Maybe.”
“You’re lucky I like you so much.” He sighs, contently.
“Yeah,” you say, “I really am.”
***** Matsukawa Issei - Saturday *****
Chapter Notes
     Heya, guys! I finally cobbled together a sequel to the first Mattsun
     chapter— which, if you guys want, may turn into a trilogy that’s uh…
     inspired by the last line of this chapter, you could say. Let me know
     if that’s something you’re interested in!
     This chapter is pretty much the definition of porn without plot,
     which was somewhat difficult for me to do seeing as how I LOVE plot;
     I couldn’t really think of anything plot-wise other than sexual
     shenanigans, though, so here we are. I hope you guys enjoy it
     nonetheless!
     As always, a big thank-you to Zen, who beta reads endlessly for me.
     This chapter is dedicated to you and the beautiful momothesweet,
     whose piece “Nothing Comes As Easy As You” easily blows my entire
     porn writing career out of the water (as do like, all of her works
     TBH). Go check her out if you haven't already!
     xoxo Sabby
     (fun fact when u stir mac n cheese it sounds like someone gettin
     fucked)
There’s not much that you enjoy more than a lazy Saturday.
Everything feels so at ease; the soft sunlight that streams through your tiny
apartment, the gentle hum of the open flame as you cook on your stove, the
softness of the bathrobe that you’d pulled on because you were too lazy to get
dressed— you make a content sound as you stir the contents of your pot, stomach
grumbling a bit at the thought of eating for the first time that day.
You look up when you hear heavy footsteps on the kitchen floor. A pair of lips
meet your cheek as Matsukawa slides behind you on his way to start a pot of
coffee. The dark circles under his eyes almost perfectly match the color of his
boxers.
“Morning.” He says, voice still thick with sleep. You’re not surprised; the two
of you were up all night.
“It’s the middle of the afternoon. Long night, Issei?” You joke. Your boyfriend
raises one of his pierced eyebrows at you, an amused grin on his face.
“Something like that. Feels like I need to replenish all the liquids in my
body.” He pulls his favorite mug out from the cabinet— one Makki painted for
him at one of those ceramics places, with a surprisingly beautiful penis
painted on it in red— and you shoot him a withering look. He looks at your
face, then at your still-damp hair.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about the whole coming in your hair thing.”
“You know, I’d believe your apology if this wasn’t the fifth or so time it
happened.” You say, sighing dramatically as you stir your food again. Matsukawa
leans over to peer into your pot as the coffee maker sputters to life.
“Mac and cheese. Nice.” He says. You smack at his hand with your wooden spoon
when he makes to reach in and grab some.
“Issei, keep your filthy hands out of my food.” You quip. He looks at you with
mock offense.
“The only reason my hands are so dirty is because my fingers have been—”
“I know where your fingers have been!” You look away when a heat completely
unrelated to the warm food in front of you crawls up your neck. Mattsun
snickers.
“Besides, you can’t blame me for wanting some,” he reaches for your spoon now,
stirring it slowly. The wet sound of noodles and cheese together fills the
kitchen, “because it sounds just like your—”
“You got up ten minutes ago, could you maybe cool it with the vulgar thoughts?”
You snatch the spoon back and take the pot off of the heat.
“Nope.” Matsukawa laughs, wrapping his arms around your torso and pulling you
flush to his chest. He smells like deodorant and toothpaste, a smell that only
intensifies when he bends down to nibble at your earlobe. You snort out a
laugh, food momentarily forgotten in favor of you turning your head so your
lips can meet his. He grins into the kiss, his pleased hum almost lost in the
sound of coffee beginning to trickle into the pot.
“We’re gonna have sex again, aren’t we?” You ask when he pulls back. He
snickers, one hand sliding low to the apex of your thighs, lazily palming you
over the fabric of the robe. The collar slips as he does so, the tops of faded
and vivid splotches of maroon dancing over the top of it. He looks pleased when
he sees them, but you’re well aware that you’ll have to wear a turtleneck to
work for the next week.
“That depends,” he regards your question, “did you make any food for me?”
You snort. “Of course I did; you can’t even make cereal for yourself without
there being some sort of fire hazard.”
He laughs into your ear, the sound a few pitches lower than normal.
Instinctively, you want to pull your thighs together, but his hand keeps them
apart. He rests his chin on your shoulder.
“You’re so good to me, you know that?”
You roll your eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Issei, we already fuck
every single day.”
“I’m hurt.” He coos, “that you would think I only compliment you to get in your
pants.”
“I-is sex not your endgame here?” You breathe, your accusatory tone dashed by
the way his hand parts the front of your robe. The kitchen air is cold, and the
rush of it against the exposed sliver of your thigh makes goosebumps erupt all
over your skin. He notices, because one of his long fingers drags against the
soft skin before pressing against your bare clit. You bite your lip, trapping a
pathetic sound behind your teeth.
“It might be, but what’s the fun in fucking someone that you don’t love
unconditionally?” He nips at the cuff of your ear while you let out a huff of
indignation.
“You did back in university.” You remind him as his spare hand unties the sash
holding together your robe. He laughs a little at your matter-of-fact tone.
“I was just biding time until I got to be with you. You know that.” One of his
tattooed fingers— the middle one, with the black heart on the first knuckle—
slides against your slit, collecting the beginning of the wetness there. He
smears it back over your clit and you make an embarrassingly needy sound.
“And now look at us.” He continues, as if the two of you are calmly discussing
property values. “We have our own place, our own jobs, and I get to fuck your
tight cunt every night.”
You all but groan as he slides his finger into you, leaving your clit
unattended as he motions for you to slide your robe off. You do without a
second thought, uncaring that you’re on the ground floor and it’s very possible
that one of your neighbors could see you while walking outside. It’s not like
they haven’t heard the two of you, anyway.
“Issei.” You whine, head falling back onto his shoulder as he lazily moves his
appendage around inside of you. He makes a disapproving noise and you almost
want to roll your eyes at him.
“Daddy.” You whimper instead. You can practically feel his grin grow.
“Yes?” He purrs. You open your mouth to answer as he slides another finger
inside of you, though it takes you a moment to catch your train of thoughts.
He’s semi-hard already, grinding against your back lazily as you squirm in his
hold.
“Please.” He knows what you want. He shakes his head.
“Not yet.” He soothes. You shoot him a scowl that quickly melts as he scissors
his fingers inside of you, chills settling in your spine from the cold of his
nipple and lip rings pressing into your skin. You hardly notice when he sucks
yet another deep purple mark into the collection on your neck, smoothing over
the irritated skin with his tongue once he’s finished. “You have to be a good
girl for daddy and come first.”
You nod, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers work you open. Had you thought the
situation through a bit more, you might have complained about the fact that
you’re going to have to take another shower; but this is Issei, who came in
your hair “on accident” last night, and you’re pretty sure that he gives zero
fucks about your water bill as long as he gets laid.
He moves you forward, slowly pushing you down so that your chest is pressed
against the cold countertop. You feel his unoccupied hand slide downward on
your leg as he crouches, using the two fingers inside of you to spread your
folds open. You hardly even consider the indecency of it, your feet also
sliding apart to give him easier access.
He takes his time, pressing a few light kisses to the backs of your thighs,
peppering a couple nibbles in between that make you squeal. You can feel his
grin against your skin, a promise that he’s never once broken, and that’s all
the warning you get before he crams his entire tongue inside of you, curling it
against your walls so that the texture of it stimulates your nerves. Your eyes
immediately roll back and your hands curl against a surface that offers you no
anchor against the smooth roll of his wet muscle. You cry out when two of his
fingers pinch lightly at your clit, gently rolling it in time with the
movements of his tongue.
He eats you out like a man starved (and maybe he is, because he hasn’t eaten
all day), practically cramming his entire face into your crotch so that he can
get as much of his tongue inside of you as possible, pulling your hips away
from the drawers under the counter just a tad so that he has more room to work.
One of the fingers holding you open slips inside of you to tangle with his
tongue, the pad of his finger reaching slightly farther than his tongue can so
that he can slide it against the small expanse of tissue that he knows garners
the most reaction. It almost isn’t fair, given how well he knows your body by
now, but it’s not like he particularly cares about fairness in your current
situation.
“Daddy!” You squeal as he curls his tongue inside of you again, almost to the
point where he pulls it out of you. It’s a futile attempt at stimulating your
g-spot with his tongue as well, and he lets out a small frustrated noise that
translates into a pleasant vibration inside of you. You make an incoherent
sound, wondering if it’s possible for someone to actually fuck someone into
insanity using just their tongue and fingers.
You seem to be on the right track to find out. He slips another finger inside
of you, his pace on your clit increasing as he digs his tongue in again, the
cold press of his lip rings on your outer folds making your squirm just a
little in his hold. You groan as his two fingers incessantly slide against your
g-spot, his tongue tirelessly working to stimulate the rest, and it isn’t long
before you’re crying out against the countertop, a repeated chant of Issei’s
favorite nickname falling from your mouth until you’re absolutely sure that
you’ve mentally scarred your neighbors. Your vision goes absolutely white and
Mattsun doesn’t waste a moment of your peak, pulling his tongue out and licking
flat stripes against your slit as his fingers work inside of you so that he
doesn’t miss a single drop of your orgasm. When he finally, finally pulls back,
you feel like your entire body has been turned to liquid.
The sound of Matsukawa’s boxers falling to the ground is hardly audible over
your labored panting, a thin sheen of sweat sticking your skin to the counter.
You shoot a glance over your shoulder at him, at the shine of you on his lips
and his chin, at the crazed look he has in his deep brown eyes that would
almost strike fear into your heart if you didn’t know what was coming next. He
doesn’t look tired anymore; if you were a little more clear-minded, you might
have made a joke about him not needing the coffee he’d been making. However,
your attention is otherwise occupied by his cock, veiny and beautiful and
leaking slightly at the tip. He swipes his thumb over it, smearing it onto the
metal hoop that you’ve thanked god for countless times, before guiding it to
your entrance without any exchange of words.
When the two of you started dating, he’d always asked. Always needed to know if
you were too stimulated, if you needed a couple minutes before he fucked you,
but now the both of you had come to appreciate the discomfort in your own
sadistic and masochistic ways— however slight they may be— so he doesn’t bother
preparing you for the small sting that accompanies him sliding straight into
you so soon after you finished, nor does he announce the sort of pace he’ll
pick up. Five years has given the two of you ample time to test your limits,
with varying results, and the removal of awkward during-sex discussions has
made the experience that much better for the both of you.
“Please.” You repeat your request from much earlier and he readily obliges, an
arm curling around you so that his hand can rest on your throat. He slides in
and out of you slowly, experimentally, pulling your body back so that your back
nearly rests against his chest.
Like this, your weight is held by the hand on your throat and the hand at your
hip. The familiar start of pressure around your windpipe already has you
shaking just a bit, a broken whimper of ‘daddy’ falling from your throat as you
wait for him to give up his leisurely pace and just fuck you already. He
doesn’t seem so keen, though, if the merciless grin that curls against your
skin is anything to go by.
“What do you want?” He purrs. You bite your lip at a particularly sharp snap of
his hips, the feeling of the piercing inside of you sending a firm shiver down
your spine.
“Fuck me.” You say. He laughs.
“You’ll have to do better than that.” His last word comes out a little breathy
as he again buries himself completely inside of you. You’re so full and spent
at the same time that you feel like you’re about to fall apart, melt out of his
hands and into a puddle on the floor.
He seems displeased with your silence. The hand on your throat twitches as a
warning, and you immediately balk at the thought of him taking it away.
“I want you to make me come, daddy,” you wheeze out, “make me yours. Fuck me
until I can’t move.”
“Yeah?” He snickers, though it’s a low sound. “You gonna let me fill you up,
princess?”
“Yes!” You say, at a loss of anything else to say to him without embarrassing
yourself. “Please! Anything you want!”
He pauses for a second. You can almost hear him formulate an idea, then push it
to the back of his mind. Your eyebrows furrow but you can’t speak once he
decides to start pushing into you with vigor, his palm pressing down slightly
on the front of your throat while his fingers press at the sides. Your reaction
is immediate, warm tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you let out an
involuntary shout, the hand at your hip wrapping around to hold you in place
with his forearm as he slides his middle and ring finger against your clit.
“Anything?” He pants into your ear. “You’ll let me do anything I want?”
You nod as best as you can, your ability to speak hindered by both the hand
around your neck and the bruising pace he’s set. The slide of his chest, sweaty
and warm against your back, feels too good against your sensitive nerves.
“I might have to take you up on that.” He muses, and had you been in a better
state of mind, an alarm would have rang inside your skull; even with as long as
the two of you had been together, Mattsun was still prone to surprising you
every once in awhile. You should have easily been able to see the events of
this evening coming from around the corner.
But your mind couldn’t connect the dots. Instead, it spent those telling
moments in a flurry of color as your boyfriend practically fucks you into
another dimension. You squeeze your eyes shut and the warm tears of
satisfaction seep out from under them, sliding down your cheeks to your neck,
where they pool in the crevice where his fingers meet your skin. He grips your
throat just a little bit tighter, enough to make you wheeze but not enough to
cut off air completely. You tighten like a vice around him and he chokes out
something that sounds like ‘good girl’ before you’re gone, your light moans
tapering off into something even more desperate as he continues to fuck you,
only letting his tight grip on you loosen once he’s completely emptied himself
inside of you.
The second he pulls out and releases your throat, you sputter for air, falling
forward and catching yourself on the edge of the counter as you try and take in
as much air as humanly possible.
“God…” You mutter, wincing when some of his emission starts to leak out of you,
falling in slow rivulets down your inner thighs. A couple drops land on the
floor. You scowl.
“We need to start using condoms.” You say. It feels like the hundredth time
you’ve said it; both of you know you don’t mean it.
“You said that five years ago.” Mattsun answers you, but his voice doesn’t
sound as teasing as it normally does. You look over your shoulder at him as he
pulls on his boxers. He has a pensive expression on, his shoulders moving back
and forth slightly the way that they usually do when he’s deep in thought. The
tattoos there— two sparrows on his collarbones, one of them dangerously close
to the tip of a wrapped-around tentacle of the kraken on his back— roll along
with his muscle. You shoot him a half-smile.
“Something on your mind? The fact that we’re inevitably going to have to deal
with a kid one day, perhaps?” You gesture to your inner thighs, where he’s
still leaking from you. Mattsun snorts at you.
“Nah. We’ll deal with that when it happens.” He says breezily, and before you
can ask him what the hell that’s supposed to mean, he continues. “Did you mean
it?”
Your eyebrows furrow. “Did I mean what?”
“You said you’d do anything.”
You scoff at him. “As one usually tends to say when held at the brink of
orgasm.”
He grins at you and it’s bright but also dangerous, a little bit of that sly
Mattsun charm glimmering in his eyes. You hate that it makes any semblance of
irritation in you dissipate.
“I want to try something, then.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not telling.” He says. You don’t even bother trying to force it out of
him, instead choosing to roll your eyes and turn back to the counter. Out of
the corner of your eye, you notice the pot from earlier; your hunger for a
substantial meal instantly rushes back to you. You use the spoon to scoop some
of it up and take a bite, though you immediately spit it back in.
“It’s cold!” You whine.
“I’ll make it up to you.” He says, and although you glare at him, that look in
his eyes lets you know that he’ll keep good to his word.
__
Him ‘making it up to you’ comes a lot sooner than you expected it to.
You’re sandwiched between him and Makki on the couch— a typical Saturday night
occurrence for you, given that both men liked to spend time with you before
your hectic workweeks took over— holding a bowl of popcorn in your lap to
share. Some lame action movie, grainy because Mattsun couldn’t pirate a better
copy, flickers on your television. As little as you care for the boy’s taste in
movies, you have to admit that the idea of sharks in a tornado is indeed, a
terrifying one.
You’re so embarrassingly engrossed in the film— now a guy is using a chainsaw
while inside a shark?— that you don’t immediately notice the weight of a warm
hand on your bare knee. When you do, though, you nearly fling the entire bowl
of popcorn out of your lap, because that is most definitely not your
boyfriend’s hand.
Makki has his eyes trained on the movie just like Mattsun does, though you can
see his dark eyes flick over to briefly meet yours. He’s keenly aware of what
he’s doing, and the thought alone makes you swallow harshly. He’s just fucking
with you, right? He’s not actually making a move on you while Mattsun is
sitting right there, is he? Maybe he’s just being… weirdly friendly! Yeah, that
has to be it—
His hand begins to slowly slip upwards, over the bare skin of your thigh,
though it stops right at the edge of your shorts. You’re frozen, absolutely
petrified, because you’ve never actually prepared for a situation like this.
You look over at Mattsun quickly, almost in disbelief that he hasn’t noticed
what’s going on right in front of him; Makki is hardly being discreet. You
swallow harshly again, absolutely mortified when you squirm as Makki swipes his
thumb under your shorts for a second, though when his whole hand moves to slide
underneath, you find that you can’t keep quiet anymore.
“Um.” You aren’t sure what words can properly convey your confusion, so you
settle for a broken, cracked syllable that’s much louder than it needs to be.
Both boys look at you then, then at each other. Mattsun smiles.
“And you were doing so well.” He tuts at you. Your eyebrows furrow and your
mouth falls open slightly as you look between the two. Makki hasn’t moved his
hand from your leg, but it stays where it is instead of moving up further.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You scoff, your confused expression
morphing into a little bit of indignation. “Are you guys fucking with me? You
almost gave me a heart attack!”
Makki snorts out a laugh, but Mattsun looks at you with a raised eyebrow. You
look right back, until Makki butts in.
“You didn’t tell her?” He shakes his head. “And here I thought she was just
playing it really cool. I should’ve known.”
“Known what.” You say. Your eyes are still narrowed at Mattsun, who shrugs
nonchalantly.
“I said I wanted to try something new earlier.”
You put two and two together immediately.
“And you didn’t think to ask me?” You snap. “Fucking you and your best friend
is a bit of a tall order, Issei, and you didn’t even consider finding out if I
was even attracted to him in the first place— No offense, Makki.”
“None taken.” Makki finally removes his hand to take some more popcorn.
“Besides, I know I’m one ugly fucker.”
You shoot him a sour look. “That’s not true and we all know it.”
“So you are attracted to him?” Matsukawa doesn’t look insulted in the
slightest— in fact, he looks borderline excited, though his forced nonchalant
facade would have hidden that from you had you not been so familiar with every
emotion that passed over his face over the years.
“That’s not the question, Issei, the question is why you didn’t think to ask me
before scheduling a three-way!”
“I didn’t.”
“You sure as hell did, because there’s no way in hell I just imagined—”
“Not a three-way.” He cuts you off. “Something else.”
You stop mid-sentence, tilting your head at him out of habit. Once he’s
satisfied that he has your attention, Mattsun shoots you a sly grin.
“I want to watch.”
“You… oh, my god.” You feel like your heart is leaping out of your mouth with
how simultaneously mortified and intrigued you are. “You want to watch me fuck
Makki?”
He nods and had there been anything but a plea in his eyes, you might have
thought he was still yanking your chain. But his eyes move between you and his
best friend at the same moment his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, and it
sends your blood rushing up into your cheeks. You look over at Makki, who’s
eyeing you with very thinly veiled interest that you hate to admit is not
foreign to you. You wonder how long the two of them have been talking about
this, if they texted about it before Makki arrived just like they would any
other conversation. For some reason, the idea of Makki not hesitating to take
the chance to be with you makes your entire body feel funny. It takes you a
moment, but then you numbly nod.
The smile that spreads across Mattsun’s face is almost stupidly excited.
“So you are attracted to me.” Makki’s voice is in your ear in an instant, his
arms curling around your waist to pull you closer to him. He smells like
something musky and spiced. You bite your lip and look at Mattsun.
“Are you, princess?” He asks. He wants you to say yes. You want to say yes. So
you do.
Makki snorts. “You call her princess? That’s cute.”
You tilt your head to glare at him but he’s right there, his lips barely inches
from your own. You freeze again, unsure as to how to proceed. Mattsun licks his
lips again as he watches the two of you.
“Kiss him.” he says. His voice is pitched low, demanding and breathless. You
consider for a moment, thinking of the possible repercussions of such a
situation, before deciding that if you have a free pass to kiss one of the most
attractive people you know, you may as well take advantage of it.
Kissing Makki is very, very different than kissing Mattsun. He’s much less
forceful in favor of being languid, prying your mouth open slowly with his
tongue and sliding it past your teeth to touch yours. He groans into your mouth
when you press yourself a little closer to him, a sound that Mattsun mimics in
appreciation as he shifts in his seat to get a better view of the scene before
him.
Hanamaki pulls back after a couple moments so that he can nip a little at the
juncture where your neck meets your shoulder, though he doesn’t dare add to
your collection of hickies there. One of the hands curled around you moves to
slide up under your shirt, warm against the chilled skin of your stomach. He
grabs your left breast in his hand, shamelessly groping you over your bra and
urging a small sound out of your mouth.
“Fuck.” Mattsun mutters to himself, inhaling sharply through his nose when he
watches your gaze flick in and out of focus. The closing credits for the movie
roll silently across the screen, though none of you pay them any mind. The
world seems to be in Makki’s fingertips as he slowly starts to drag them over
your skin, wasting little time in prompting you to pull your shirt off.
You tilt your head to the side to kiss him again as he grabs your chest with
both hands now, pulling you almost flush against him. His hips rock up into
your body as he slowly pulls you into his lap, grinding his slowly-hardening
cock against your ass. You shiver a little bit, wondering if you’ll actually
have the nerve to go through with this. You can’t even spare a moment to think
about how your boyfriend even thought something like this up in the first
place, though, because at that moment Makki bites down lightly on your bottom
lip and sucks it into his mouth, giving your chest a firm squeeze with both
hands as you moan.
“Hey.” Mattsun interjects, and you both break away immediately. Slight panic
shoots through you as you think he might call the entire thing off, but instead
he makes eye contact with Makki and grins that lopsided grin you love so much.
“Finger her.”
“I can do that, yeah.” Makki breathes. His heart thunders against your back and
you’d grin at the effect you have on him had you not been so preoccupied with
how his right hand moves downward, to the elastic band at your waist. “Can you
take these off for me?”
You nod dumbly, wiggling out of your shorts and then, after additional thought,
your underwear. The deep breath that you take as you spread your legs wide
betrays just how nervous you are. Makki presses a short kiss to your temple.
“Comfortable?” He asks. You nod, squealing just a tad when he traces over your
slit with two of his long fingers, dipping the tips of them inside you just to
pull them out again. He holds them up so that he can see them, coated in your
essence. He touches them together just so he can pull them apart again, letting
out a pleased sound at how the action creates a small little string that
spreads as he widens the gap between his fingers.
He doesn’t say anything like you expect him to. Instead, he lowers his fingers
to slide them back into you. He’s slow and languid, the exact same way that he
kisses, and immediately he skims your inner walls with his fingers in search of
something that Mattsun probably told him to find. You jolt in his hold when he
does, a surprised half-moan, half-shout leaving your lips. His other hand
leaves your breast in order to keep you in his lap as your hips move of their
own accord.
“Cute.” He snickers. You want to scold him but he’s curling his fingers in you
at different intervals, straightening one out just as the other slides against
the texture of your inner walls. It’s different than the way Mattsun touches
you, more rhythmic and teasing. You bite your lip and tilt your head back,
letting it rest on his shoulder as he works another finger inside of you.
Mattsun runs a palm over the tent in his pants as he watches, eyes trained on
the way Makki’s long fingers disappear inside your glistening cunt and how your
face twists into arousal in a way that only he’s seen before. Surprisingly,
jealousy doesn’t find its way into his veins; just blatant arousal and
excitement. He shifts in his seat once he notices your expression morph into
something a little more familiar; he holds up a hand. Makki immediately stops.
“She’s close.”
Makki’s lips split into a borderline sadistic grin and he removes his fingers
without a second thought. You make a noise of frustration, lifting your head to
glare at your boyfriend across the couch.
“You’re mean.”
He shrugs, moving to stand. You’re almost afraid that he’s about to pull the
ultimate dick move and end the entire thing just to see you squirm, but instead
he just seats himself in one of the armchairs diagonal to the couch in order to
give the two of you more room. He undoes the front of his jeans without tearing
his eyes away from the two of you, shoving his pants and boxers down just
enough to free his cock. The piercing gleams in the low light as he grabs his
cock in his hand, languidly stroking. Both you and Makki sit, transfixed by the
sight. Mattsun grins.
“Oh, by all means, continue.” He drawls. Makki laughs but it’s a little tight,
like he’s uncomfortable with how aroused he is.
“I guess we should, then.” He says, sliding you off of his lap so that he can
yank his shirt off, letting it crumple on the floor. His belt buckle chimes as
he pulls it out of the loops, stepping out of his pants so that he’s left in
his boxer briefs. He looks at you pensively for a moment as you pull your bra
off. You look back at him.
He then turns to Mattsun. “Pick a number.”
You’ve never seen such a wicked expression on your boyfriend’s face before, not
even in the midst of all the depraved (and sometimes questionable) things the
two of you have done. Mutual understanding flows between him and his best
friend, silent yet heavy. You squirm.
“Ten. I don’t want to make it too difficult on her.”
Makki nods, then looks at you.
“Hand or belt?”
The realization takes a second to dawn on you, and you immediately squeeze your
thighs together as sharp arousal courses through you. Your fingers curl into
the fabric covering the couch.
“Belt.” You say. Makki laughs a little hoarsely, raising a brow at you.
“Atta girl. Hands and knees, then.”
You nod, doing as the wing spiker instructs with very little hesitation.
Mattsun sighs contentedly as he watches you position your hands on the armrest
of the couch, nodding at you in the most reassuring way that one can while
simultaneously masturbating.
“Count.” Makki orders you as he folds the belt over. That’s all the warning you
get before he brings it down against your right asscheek, the smack of leather
against sensitive skin ringing through the room. You cry out, the sting unlike
anything Mattsun has ever delivered before. It hurts, yes, but it does more for
your arousal than anything.
“One.” You whimper. Your boyfriend and his best friend share a laugh. The other
cheek is next, and this time you bite your lip to keep from wailing at the
treatment. “Two.”
“You sure I’m not hurting you?” Makki asks, pausing for a moment. You shake
your head, missing his growing grin. “Good.”
Three and four are delivered with much the same intensity, leaving behind a
certain numbness in their wake that make five and six bearable. Wetness smears
the inside of your thigh with each smack against your ass, and you don’t even
have to look to know how discolored the skin is becoming. It hurts so good that
your head is swimming and your eyesight goes a little blurry, though that may
be the white-hot tears of satisfaction that threaten to spill onto your cheeks.
“Seven.” You croon once you hear the whistle of the belt through the air. It
meets your ass in that same moment. Mattsun squirms a little in his seat as he
watches, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. His pace as he jerks
himself off is still languid, but the look in his eyes is almost frantic.
“Eight.” Makki slips a single finger inside of you as he hits you with the belt
again. You’re all but sobbing at this point, hot tears streaking paths down
your face as his hand comes back down again for the ninth. The finger inside of
you does little to stimulate you other than providing you pleasure just by
being there, but you clench around it nonetheless when Makki brings his belt
down against your ass for the final time.
“Ten.” You pant as he tosses the belt to the floor. The hand that held it comes
back to rub soothing circles on your ass; you’re sure he’s bruised it, but at
the moment you don’t care much.
“You aren’t gonna use that to choke her?” Mattsun jokes, using his foot to
point to the belt while he strokes himself.
“Nah.” Makki presses a gentle kiss to the top of your spine. “I’m not gonna be
too harsh. She’s been good.”
“Huh.” You say, using your wrist to wipe the tears off of your face as you
catch your breath. “Makki’s a sweetheart after he gets all his frustrations
out. Who would have guessed.”
“He’s only being nice to you because he’s about to be balls deep in you.”
Mattsun points out. You stick your tongue out at him, as if the fact that he’s
currently jerking off and Makki is removing his underwear aren’t factors in
your conversation. He gives you a lopsided smirk, his thumb sweeping over the
head of his cock.
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.” You tease. He raises an
eyebrow at you.
“Who says I’m not? The locker rooms were a weird place in high school.” He
says, and you want to ask him if he’s toying with you or not, but at that
moment you feel Makki’s bare cock rub against your stinging ass.
“You ready?” He asks, voice low and a little husky. You look at him over your
shoulder, then back to your boyfriend, who nods, his grin dropping into
something more serious as he swallows in anticipation.
You nod as well, deciding that words don’t really do a situation like this
justice. Makki grabs your hip with one hand as he guides himself into you with
his other, a gasp stuttering out of him when he finally buries himself inside
of you.
“Jesus fuck.” He mutters. “You’re tight. Fuck, Mattsun, how’d you get so
lucky?”
“Good karma.” Mattsun grunts, picking up his pace a little as he stares
blatantly at where you and Makki meet, the way his cock shines with your
wetness as his hips slowly meet and separate from yours. While Makki lacks the
cock piercing that you’ve come to adore for its stimulation, there’s no denying
that he’s huge, filling and stretching you to the point where it nearly hurts.
You let out a choked moan.
His other hand, now free, curls under you so that he can press your clit down
and move it in tight circles. You groan, back arching, and Makki reciprocates
the sound when your cunt tightens even more around him.
“Fuck.” Mattsun mutters, the sound caught between a frantic groan and a pleased
sigh. His hips buck up into his hand slightly as he watches, enjoying the noise
of Makki’s hips slamming into your raw ass. He’s never been this far away when
witnessing your face contorted in pleasure, never been able to take in your
entire body as you’re lost to bliss; the way your hands tremble, how your toes
curl, the bumps of your spine in your arched back. Makki isn’t too bad to look
at either, with his hair tousled and his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as
he absolutely rails into you.
“God, you feel so good.” Makki groans, pausing from his brutal tempo so he can
slowly grind into you, inhaling sharply through his nose. “I’m gonna come like
a virgin.”
Mattsun laughs airily as he fists his cock. “Not in her, though. That’s my
job.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Makki leans over you so that his chest skims your back. Without
the telltale nipple ring, it’s almost painfully obvious that you are, by some
definitions, cheating on your boyfriend. But how can something so morally grey
feel so damn good?
Makki licks at your shoulder blade before deciding on a spot to bite down on;
you cry out his name like a long-forgotten prayer, voice climbing with every
syllable as whiteness starts to blur the edges of your vision. You’re climbing
higher and higher, towards the precipice that promises you mind-numbing
pleasure, and Makki seems determined as hell to bring you there.
The stimulation on your clit is almost too much but it works, timed perfectly
with a brutal, precise thrust that robs you of all ability to speak. Your eyes
meet with Mattsun’s as you topple over the edge, a garbled sound in your throat
is all that you can manage. He recognizes the expression immediately, his
eyebrows arching upwards and a muscle in his leg twitching as he too finishes,
spilling into his hand with a groan that seems to settle into your bones.
Hanamaki finishes just a few moments after the two of you do, pulling out of
you with a strangled noise and coating your back in his come. The hand still on
your hip trembles as he does, a satisfied noise rumbling in his chest.
Silence overtakes the room. It takes Mattsun a little bit to clear the
fogginess of post-orgasm bliss from his eyes, and longer still to trudge to the
kitchen to get something to wipe his hand off with. Makki, still panting, sinks
back into the couch with a noise of disbelief. You stay stock-still, afraid
that if you move you’ll end up staining your couch with the emission on your
back.
“So?” Mattsun reappears with a paper towel in hand, carefully cleaning off your
back. You smile thankfully at him when he finishes, allowing yourself to drop
onto the couch.
“So, that was… different.” You muse.
“Good different or bad different?”
“Good.” You reassure them. “Just… wow. I can’t really believe I did that.”
“I’m glad you did.” Makki wipes a hand over his face, a stupidly satisfied grin
appearing immediately afterwards. “I’ve been waiting to do that since high
school.”
“Oh my god.” You roll your eyes. “Have you guys been like, planning this since
then?”
“Something like that.” Mattsun tosses the crumpled towel into the wastebin.
“But it wasn’t just us.”
“Nah, it wasn’t.” Makki and Mattsun share a look and a knowing snicker. You
raise your eyebrows.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.” Mattsun drawls as Makki smirks. “Maybe next time we’ll have to
call Oikawa and Iwaizumi over to talk about it.”
***** Miya Atsumu - One of Those Nights *****
Chapter Notes
     Heya, guys! By (very) popular demand, here is the Miya Atsumu
     installment of ASID! Ever since his first introduction, he’s been
     highly requested on my tumblr, so I figured I could pull something
     together for him— and the result was very different than what I
     usually write.
     While everything in this chapter is completely consensual and NOT
     forced OR coerced, I do want to say that the reader in this chapter
     and Atsumu have a very antagonistic outlook on each other, and Miya
     is rather frank and bold in trying to get what he wants. If that
     isn’t your cup of tea, then by all means feel free to skip this
     update! I did really want to explore different types of relationships
     in this pornthology, though, not just ones that are mushy or pining-
     if I had to label this one, it would surely be 'enemies with
     benefits'.
     I also apologize that this is largely plotless. I promise more
     substantial updates are to come!
     xoxo sabby
     (PS- a thank you, as always, to Zen for beta reading).
     TAGS ADDED: Hatefucking, enemies to lovers, enemies with benefits,
     rough sex, outdoor sex
If anyone were to ask you what the hardest part of managing the Inuka boy’s
volleyball team was, your answer would not be what they expected.
It isn’t dealing with the aftermath of a devastating loss. It isn’t looking
after a group of excitable and hormonal teenage boys like a mother hen. It
isn’t waking up extra early for morning practices, or having to entertain
yourself on long bus rides to other prefectures.
It’s the training camps.
Not them as an idea, per se. In fact, the concept of a training camp used to
entice you in an odd sort of way. Meeting other managers and players had always
been fun for you when you managed your middle school team back in Tokyo— you
assumed it would be much the same way when you moved to the Kansai region.
That’s why you'd signed up to help out in the first place. Fun, friends, and a
sport you enjoyed watching; what could possibly ruin that?
Well, you’d come to learn, a lot could ruin that. And ‘a lot’ came in many
forms— but nothing really incensed your fury quite like one in particular.
“I can’t believe he had the gall to call me a bitch today!” Your words are
sharp enough that the boys around the room all flinch, even if they aren’t
completely paying attention to your rant. After nearly three years, most of the
upperclassmen have come to terms with the fact that you'll always be in a sour
mood when you make the trek for your prefecture to Hyōgo for the annual summer
training camp, and there’s only one person to blame for it.
“This is far from the first time Miya-san has called you that, [Name]. Maybe
you should just ignore him.” Suzuki Gin— your captain and the closest thing to
an authority figure that your team has— gives you a halfway sympathetic look
that you know is supposed to portray helpfulness, but instead just serves to
make you all the more bitter.
“He’d just take that as a victory, then.” You say, and it’s not wrong. For as
long as you’ve been managing your team, you’ve hated Miya Atsumu— and he’s
hated you right back. You’d say it’s unjustified, but you’ve been known to
fling his insults right back at him with enough venom to make a lesser man
cower. Where and when this hatred started, you can’t say for sure; just that it
almost feels like a part of you now, like you’re meant to trade bitter words
with the Inarizaki High setter every time your team joins his at camp. It feels
akin to a competition at this point, and you’ve never really been good at
losing.
“So? At least he’ll be off your back then.” Gin reasons, fiddling with the
small bag of chips that he has in his hands. The team is in varying states of
exhausted, scattered around the club room that had been converted into a
sleeping area for the duration of your stay at the camp; some of them are
already trying to doze off after a long day of practicing receives and serves,
while others listen halfheartedly to you go on and on about Miya the way you
always do when you’re around the Inarizaki boy’s volleyball team for longer
than five seconds.
“Like she wants him off her back.” Abe Mikado chimes in, pulling open a bag of
popcorn with his trademark devilish grin plastered across his face.
“Save the provoking for the court, you dick!” You huff at the libero, “I’d
rather eat my own foot than have to deal with him any more than I need to, and
you know that!”
“Right,” Mikado snorts at you, tossing a piece of popcorn in the air so that he
can catch it in his mouth, “you’re not fooling anyone, you know.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” You snap, grabbing the rest of his snack
from his hand as a form of punishment. He looks at you for a moment, quirking a
black brow as if the answer should be obvious.
“You and Miya.” He states. Your stare begs for him to continue. “There’s some
tension there.”
“Yeah, no shit.” You scoff, taking a handful of popcorn and cramming it into
your mouth. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve been saying? I want to skin the dude
alive.”
Gin makes a noise of distaste from next to you. Whether it stems from the fact
that you’re talking with your mouth full or openly discussing murderous
intentions, you’re not quite sure. Mikado rolls his eyes, reaching out to grab
his bag of popcorn back from you, but you’re quick enough to keep it out of his
reach. He tuts at you.
“Different kind of tension. Y’know, the kind where you secretly want to have
heated, rough, ball-slappy sex.” Mikado elaborates. You immediately freeze—
long enough for him to retrieve the food that you’d stolen— the expression on
your face a cross between incredulity and pure, visceral rage.
“Excuse me?” You’re well aware of how strangled and pitched your voice sounds
leaving your lips, how guilty it must sound, but you find that you can’t really
focus on that when the weight of Mikado’s words sink in. “Me? And Miya?”
“Yup.”
Gin sighs, a worn-out sound that doesn’t befit a boy his age, and runs his
fingers through his unruly hair as he looks between you and the libero. “Can we
not do this right now? We have to be up in a few hours to start practice again,
and I’d prefer if I didn’t have to spend my precious sleeping time mopping up a
puddle of blood or somethin’.”
The humor of Gin’s request is lost on you as you stare Mikado down. He’s
smiling now, in that stupidly self-assured way that he always does, dodging the
halfhearted smack you send in his direction.
“Why? It’s the truth.” He says. A few of the first years seem on edge from the
practically murderous aura that your radiate.
“It’s not the truth and you know it!” Gin winces, putting a soft hand on your
shoulder.
“Hey, [Name], Mikado’s just trying to—”
“Yeah, sure. Then why are the two of you always looking at each other?”
“Because we want each other dead, Mikado!” You snap. “He’s an arrogant prick
and I’ll never see him in any other way!”
“You sure about that? Because this has been the norm for almost three years,
so—”
“Can you stop trying to ruffle the feathers of everyone you know, Mikado?” Gin
tries again, this time with a little more success. “One night. I’m asking for
one night this week where I don’t have to worry about you killing our manager
by raising her blood pressure.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll leave the ‘ruffling’ to Miya-san then, I guess.” Mikado
relents, and you roll your eyes before jabbing at him with your foot. He
snickers, and you find yourself unwittingly wanting to laugh as well— after
all, that’s usually how your good natured squabbles with the fellow third-year
end. The two of you laughing, him promising to buy you a popsicle or something
the next day so that you’re even, and the teasing being buried until a
different after-school practice.
But this isn’t an after-school practice. This is a training camp, and Mikado
has made a startlingly accurate observation. You and Miya Atsumu do look at
each other for a little too long, nearly to the point where it seems like
you’re indulging in the attention of the other—
No. No! You can’t follow that train of thought. It’s dangerous, it’s crude, and
most of all, it’s wrong. There’s nothing more to your relationship with Miya
Atsumu than pure hatred. He’s a rat bastard, intent on making you feel like
garbage, and that’s the end of it. There’s no other thoughts, no undercurrent
of desire or wanting that can be uncovered.
Or is there? A small, treacherous part of your mind thinks as Gin stands to
turn off the lights of the team’s makeshift boarding room, the sound of
polyester swishing together signifying that most of the other boys are now
settling into their sleeping bags. Even Mikado, who had been so lively with his
prodding moments prior, has turned in for the night, fluffing up his pillow
before unceremoniously plopping his head down onto it. Had your thoughts not
been wandering, you might have snickered to yourself.
Instead, all you can think about is those long stares, those sharp eyes, and
the implication behind them. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you’d never
seen him look at you with some semblance of lust, but you’d always attributed
that to him being a hormonal teenage boy. But Mikado’s taunt, however joking it
might have been, strikes some sort of truth within you that had been very far
buried in your subconscious. Were you… attracted to Miya Atsumu?
No! You think again, though even to yourself your thoughts sound unconvinced.
We hate each other, and it’s going to stay that way!
You think it over and over again like a mantra until your eyelids feel heavy,
but you can’t help the fact that it’s peppered by the memories of an annoyingly
familiar smirk.
-----
The night is still when you jolt back into consciousness, nearly silent save
from the soft snores that float into the air around you. You shift a little in
your sleeping bag, suddenly aware of how uncomfortable the floor is against
your back. After tossing and turning for a couple of minutes in an attempt to
slip back into your slumber, you come to terms with the fact that you’re not
getting more rest any time soon. Not with the way Miya Atsumu’s face keeps
flashing behind your eyelids, at least.
You have half a mind to nudge Gin until he’s up with you; the lateness of the
hour kind of puts you on edge, and you’d like to have some company. But you
remember the tiredness of his voice earlier and you know you’d feel guilty if
you did— instead, you think back to all the water bottles that were lined up at
the edge of the court after practice. You’d forgotten to clean them in your
haste to get away from Inarizaki, you realize, and so you slide from your
sleeping bag as quietly as you possibly can.
The gymnasium is at the end of the hall. You push the door open slowly to keep
it from squealing, conscious of the fact that the other teams are likely
sleeping in the other club rooms around you. You’re not too keen on the idea of
another captain scolding you in the middle of the night for waking up his team,
and so you make sure your retrieval of the bottles careful and silent.
There’s a large sink along the outer wall of the gymnasium directly next to
this one; you know this from your last training camp, when a few of the boys
from the assembled teams filled up the basin to dunk their heads in after they
ran laps. The memory, fleeting as it is, makes you smile as you open the side
doors of the gym, propping it with a doorstop. The air that immediately meets
your skin is balmy with summer yet carries a slight bite to it that almost
makes you wish you hadn’t worn just a tank top and shorts to bed.
Nevertheless, you exit out into the night with the water bottles gathered into
your arms. Directly across from the side door is that sink, a small shelf above
it that you arrange each of the orange bottles on as you search for soap— which
you find next to the outermost faucet in the line. As you squirt a little bit
of soap into the first bottle, you find your thoughts wandering again into
dangerous territory.
You’re not fooling anyone. Mikado’s words echo in your mind as you turn the tap
on, creating bubbles that overflow into the large silver basin. You click your
tongue absentmindedly, your annoyance rehashing itself as your mind gravitates
towards the thought of Miya Atsumu. That stupid smirk, his annoyingly
persistent confidence— you tip the contents of the bottle into the sink with a
sigh. It’s almost pitiful, you think, that you hate him so much and yet you
can’t deny the magnetism that he has, the pull that makes your skin prick with
heat every time he stares at you from across the court.
The first bottle is done. You put it back up on the shelf and grab the next
one.
Who does he think he is, anyway? You think to yourself as you turn the tap back
on. All those long glances, the way he licks his lips— Some of the more easily
intimidated players are right when they say that his presence is unsettling.
But for you, it’s unsettling in a different way, one that isn’t attributed to
how good of a setter he is.
And that’s why you suppose you can feel him behind you before you actually see
him. It’s like his presence is announced by a change in the air, a new weight
in the atmosphere, and it makes you freeze for only a millisecond before you
resume your task. This is unavoidable, and you know it.
He’s unavoidable.
“Go to bed, Miya.” You say, not even bothering to turn around and face the
setter. You hear him make a small noise in the back of his throat— amusement,
annoyance, you can’t really tell— and the sound of gentle footfalls that tells
you he’s blatantly ignoring your command. You sigh in irritation, a muscle in
your jaw jumping as you dump the soapy water from the water bottle and fill it
back up to rinse it out.
“Kinda late to be cleaning out water bottles. Thought you woulda done that
earlier.” He drawls, and you can practically picture him leaning against the
doorjamb, those cruel eyes of his glittering in the moonlight as he watches
you. You feel something like anticipation tinge the blood in your veins and it
makes you uncomfortable.
“Can’t sleep. I figured I’d do something useful— y’know, that concept that you
can never seem to grasp.”
He laughs once, a short sound that flings itself out into the night. “What, you
get nightmares or somethin’?”
“Don’t see how that’s any of your business.” You shake a few droplets off of
the bottle in your hand, gently placing it on the ledge before grabbing the
last one and unscrewing the cap.
“It’s my business when it concerns you.”
“I never have been and never will be ‘your business’.” You bite out, putting
soap in the bottle. He laughs again but it’s lower, more dangerous, and it
takes you by a certain sort of surprise that immediately has you looking over
your shoulder at him, mouth slightly parted and brow furrowed.
“Yeah?” He sounds thoroughly unconvinced. You’re close to being consumed by the
sudden urge to spit at him, to punch him hard enough that you ruin his
annoyingly perfect face. You wonder if he can see that in your expression,
because his condescending smirk falls into something a little more subdued as
he tilts his head at you. His arms are crossed against his chest and you see
them tense a little, like he’s forcing himself to hold the position of
nonchalance.
“What are you getting at?” You say to him, locking your gazes. It feels like
you’re pushing some invisible boundary, addressing your tension directly like
this.
“Am I not allowed to have a friendly conversation with a rival manager?” He
says, completely skirting the implications of what you’ve asked. Now it’s your
turn to make an aggravated sound, turning with a glare back to your task. You
should have known better than to expect anything less than complete irritation
from Miya Atsumu.
“There’s a handful of them inside that I’m sure would love to talk to you.” You
point out. “Go wake one of them up.”
“Nah.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you, so get lost.”
It’s so quiet that for a moment, you think he has left. It’s both a relieving
and surprisingly forlorn thought. You think, for a moment, how odd it is that
you seem to somewhat thrive on the tension between the two of you, stretched
close to breaking like a piece of elastic; but then you hear him exhale and all
annoyance returns to you. Your grip on the bottle in your hand makes your
knuckles turn white, bone straining against skin.
“We don’t have to talk, then.” His voice is right there all of a sudden and you
can’t help but flinch slightly, so caught up in your internal frustrations that
you hadn’t heard his approach.
“Yeah, okay. We can just sit across from each other and glare for hours.” You
snort, inwardly praising yourself for keeping your voice level. Closer up, you
can hear the soft rumble from his chest that signifies a laugh— dangerous and
observant and enough to make you swallow thickly.
“Actually, I had somethin’ else in mind.” One of his arms skims over yours as
he brings it upwards, hand curling around the lip of the basin in a way that
effectively traps you in on that side. You look at it for a moment, at his long
fingers and the delicate muscle of his bicep, and the realization dawns on you.
Your thoughts immediately fly to Mikado, wondering if he’s some sort of
prophet, before the sensation of someone breathing on the soft skin of your
neck rips you from any sort of lengthy introspection.
Your grip on the bottle slackens and it falls into the large sink with a
plastic-on-metal clatter that seems to echo off of the few trees that surround
the gymnasium; you spin on your heel to face Miya, tilting your head up so that
you can glare at him directly with the most menacing sneer that you can muster.
“You’re not fucking serious.” You all but snarl, hands immediately flying up to
his chest in a way that keeps his body distanced from yours. The side of his
lip quirks upward at your reaction, as if he’d planned for it, and his other
arm leisurely comes up at your side to mimic the position of the first one.
He practically looms over you like this, caging you against the sink in a way
that can’t be mistaken for anything other than predatory, a show of dominance
rather than passion. Had he not been so accustomed to them, Miya might have
withered under the intensity of your glare; instead, his smirk just becomes
more severe.
“I am.” He replies.
“You’re a pig.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.” His face dips down slightly and you’re thankful
that you know what he’s about to do before he does it; you jerk your head to
the side to avoid kissing him, delighting a little at the bemused expression
that flits across his eyes.
“And I mean it, Miya, so I don’t know in what universe you think I’d agree to
willingly touch you.”
“This one.” He answers simply, and you’d laugh if you weren’t busy dodging his
attempt to kiss you again, pushing at one of his arms in an attempt to get
yourself free. He doesn’t budge, and you consider for a split second just
dropping to the ground and crawling out under it, but at that moment his other
hand flies up, his fingers suddenly digging into the side of your face with no
small amount of pressure as he grabs your chin and forces your head forward so
that he can look you in the eyes again.
“Let go of me.” Your voice is dangerously low, full of a promise that you’ll
have no issues carrying out, but he doesn’t budge. You attempt to pull away the
hand that grips your face but it’s in vain; his hold is too strong, and he uses
your momentary distraction to push his body against yours, pinning you down
hard enough that the lip of the sink digs into your lower back. It’s anything
but comfortable.
He doesn’t seem to care.
“Just let me fuckin’ kiss you.” He snaps, all traces of mirth gone from his
face. It’s a command and the both of you know it.
“Get your hands off of me. I’m not going to ask you again.” You counter, though
your words sound insincere to even your own ears. His sneer becomes more
daunting at your statement, and his grip tightens even more.
“Good. It’s a waste of breath.” Is all he says before he practically smashes
your lips together. You can feel the pressure of his fingers on your cheek
against your teeth, and the roughness of his mouth is enough to make you
slightly uncomfortable. But there’s something there, something that goes hand
in hand with the anticipation that you felt earlier, that makes you want to
tangle your fingers into his hair and pull him even closer.
His tongue skims against the crease of your lips not long after his initial
kiss, and you keep them sealed. He makes a sound of annoyance that vibrates
against your skin as he uses his tongue to all but pry your mouth open, holding
it that way with his hand. There’s no battle for dominance or smooth dance
inside your mouth like some romance stories would have you believe; the wet
muscle all but invades you, sliding over your teeth and your gums like he has
something to prove, like he wants to show you exactly how much leverage he has
in the situation. You almost want to bite down just to see him bleed.
But you don’t. And when he breaks away from you to rest his forehead against
yours, you focus on not feeling the weird sort of intimacy that stems from it.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” His voice is somewhere between a pant and a rasp,
his eyes searching yours in the dim light for something that you unfortunately
know is there. When he sees it, he grins.
“It was awful.” You say, just to irk him. He kisses you again after that, and
it lacks the rushed quality of the first one. He has you where he wants you,
and the both of you know it.
His grip on your jaw softens. You move it a bit, conscious of the ache, and he
refuses to let go fully. A little bit of understanding flows between the two of
you. It’s foreign and almost as painful as the way he holds you.
“If this happens,” you say, voice low, “nothing is going to change between us.
I’m always going to hate you.”
“And you’re always gonna be a bitch.” He says in return. “Don’t get the wrong
idea from this.”
“Oh, fuck you.” You spit, and now it’s your turn to grab at him, your fingers
tangling into the bleached part of his undercut so you can crash your mouths
together again. Your teeth clack together and he groans, low and deep against
your lips.
“You’re gonna.” He promises once the two of you separate again. You scoff at
him but there’s no ignoring the fact that you are. As if to remind you of that,
one of his knees forces itself between your legs and slides upwards, pressing
against your clothed cunt. Unwittingly you let out a soft gasp, the fingers in
his hair instinctively tightening.
He finally completely releases your face in favor of immediately palming one of
your breasts, squeezing it through both your shirt and your bra. He keeps his
eyes locked on yours as he does so, again searching for a crack in your
composure. When he finds it, you can read his intentions clear as day; he wants
to split you open, wants to dominate you and change you and own you just to
assert himself.
And you want to let him.
“You’re cute when you’re like this.” He muses, slowly rubbing his knee back and
forth against you. You don’t reply, instead shifting your hips just slightly so
that the pressure of his thigh becomes more intense, your nerves buzzing under
your skin like live wires.
“You’re such a— ah!” You gasp when he squeezes your breast again and allows his
lips to fall to your neck, where he wastes no time in grazing his teeth against
your skin. “Such a cocky bastard!”
“I have every right to be.” He counters, lips dragging against the juncture
where your neck meets your shoulder as he speaks. The slight midnight chill
pricks at your skin almost as much as his teeth do.
“You think so?” You spit. He laughs, and you can practically feel the sound
reverberate throughout your entire body.
“I know so. And,” the hand at your chest suddenly inches upwards, grabbing the
neckline of your top and the cup of your bra in his fingers and yanking
downward to expose your breasts, “you’ll know it too, soon enough.”
“As if.” You say, but your voice is soft. It lacks conviction and purpose,
which the setter delights in. He runs his thigh against the apex of your legs
as he inches forward, pinching a nipple between his fingers and pulling
slightly harder than he should, yanking a sensual, throaty noise out of you.
“Stop bein’ a bitch for once.” He coos in a way that tells you he doesn’t want
you to stop, that he wants you to do anything but. Your emotions are dangling
somewhere between annoyance, fury, and lust. The strongest of the three wins
out and you grind yourself down on his thigh, eyes threatening to flutter
closed.
“Make me.” You pant back at him and he groans, somewhat helplessly, against
your skin.
The challenge is enough for him to momentarily abandon your chest, his fingers
practically flying to the waistband of your shorts as he pulls his leg back. He
yanks downward on one side and you immediately go to help, shoving the other
side down as you ignore his blatantly amused expression. Your underwear is all
that’s left to protect your cunt from his hungry gaze, and you go to remove
them too when he stops you.
“Leave them on.” He says, kissing you for a third time as he all but jams his
knee back between your legs. You let out a sound that reads partially like a
yelp and partially like a hiccup, but it’s all pleasure and it’s all
anticipation, your head tipping back and away from his kiss as he lazily moves
his leg against you. It feels better like this, with less fabric, but there’s
still the delicious grind of woven cotton against your sensitive slit.
“You’re enjoying yourself.” He murmurs against your lips.
“Don’t let it get to your head.” You say, though the flippant tone to your
voice gives way to a soft groan as he increases the pressure.
“Yeah, yeah.” he scoffs before diving in for your lips again. And although the
movement is slower, more lethargic than the first two times, he hasn’t lessened
any of the pressure or the intensity.
A single hand snakes upwards and presses small circles onto your clit in time
with the movements of his leg, collecting dampness in your underwear that would
embarrass you had your head not been spinning. Your hand goes from the back of
his head to his shoulder so that you can steady yourself, curling your fingers
into the stretch of his T-shirt. His expression drops from arrogant and amused
to focused— something you recognize a little too well from watching him play in
games— and the determination that you see there holds a promise that you’re not
quite sure that you can handle.
He doesn’t seem to care. His fingers press harder as his leg slides faster
against you, and you know what he’s trying to do without him even trying to
vocalize it: to humiliate you, to make you live with the fact that he got you
to come on his leg. You open your mouth to tell him that you aware of what he’s
doing and that he’s a jackass, but all that comes out is a pitched moan that
seems to float all the way up to the stars.
“Feel good?” He says, but you’re fully aware that he’s not just asking because
he cares about your comfort. He wants to hear you praise him, wants to rub it
in your face that you’re already at his mercy. So, you clamp your mouth shut.
He smirks down at you, his free hand going back to your chest and cupping one
of your breasts. You bite down on your bottom lip as the circles he presses to
your clit gain speed, hoping to trap any more moans before he can hear them.
“I asked you,” Miya says once he recognizes what you’re doing, voice strained
with the effort he exerts, “if it feels good.”
“Feels fine.” You want to sound disinterested, focusing on the uncomfortable
way the sink digs into your spine, the fact that you’re out in the open—
Oh god, you’re out in the open!
“Miya—” You start as the fingers on your clit get almost frantic in their pace,
and the sentence jumbles itself in your throat as pinpricks of warmth gather in
your crotch. The familiar sensation overwhelms you before you can properly
vocalize what’s going on. Your entire body feels like it’s lighting itself on
fire, the stimulation to your clit proving to be too much as your head tips
back, a pathetic-sounding moan falling from your lips while your muscles clench
and spasm, your body subconsciously grinding back down on his leg for more of
that friction until you feel like you’ve snapped, like you’re drowning and yet
breathing for the first time.
The babble on your lips dies down as you slowly wind down from your peak, your
body immediately relaxing and feeling almost gelatinous in his grasp. He laughs
to himself; it isn’t lost on you how helpless you must have looked, using his
leg to get yourself off. You scowl up at him, chest heaving, and make an
indignant sound as his eyes latch onto your breasts in the moonlight.
“We,” you inhale deeply, still slightly winded from your orgasm, “are outside,
you fucking idiot.”
“Look at you.” He tuts, looking as if he wants to laugh right in your face.
“Gettin’ what you want, and then goin’ back to being absolutely insufferable.
Haven’t ya ever learned to be gracious?”
“You’re—”
“Besides, how are we gonna fuck anywhere else?” He interrupts, something akin
to a victorious smile threatening to split his face. “Unless you wanna go
inside and run the risk of someone from your school walkin’ in on you gettin’
boned.”
You cringe at the thought of Gin accidentally bearing witness to something that
you’re pretty sure you won’t be able to explain.
The setter lowers his leg slowly, heightening your feelings of exposure with
the chilly night air breezing over the dampness of your panties. You try not to
let any more vulnerability show on your face, perfectly content to just pick up
the remaining pieces of your composure and reassemble them. However, it seems
that Miya has other ideas.
In one fluid motion, he yanks you away from the sink only to slam you against
the open space of wall next to it. You yelp, the brick digging into the
sensitive skin of your back, and he peers down at you as he presses your bodies
flush together. You can feel his hardened length pressed against you, heavy and
warm against your thigh.
“If you’re worried about gettin’ seen out here, I’ll just cover you.” He
murmurs, though the softness of his voice in no way translates to emotional
leniency.
“How sweet of you.” You scoff. Atsumu rolls his eyes.
“Not really doin’ it for you.” He clarifies, punctuating his statement by
grinding his hips into yours.
Oddly enough, you’re somewhat glad for the fact that he’s already gotten you
off; without the haze of lust immediately clouding your judgement, you’re able
to glare up at him and properly stand your ground. “Are you always this selfish
in bed?”
“Me? Selfish?” Miya bends down and nips at your earlobe, chuckling as a squeal
escapes your lips. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear. “I just got
you to come, don’t ya remember?”
On cue, one of his fingers traces the damp patch on your underwear; skimming
along the edge and dipping inside to collect some of your release. Your breath
hitches and you squirm against the wall, watching as he removes the digit and
holds it up closer to his face.
“Yeah, that’s…” the side of his mouth curls into a salacious grin as he
inhales, “that’s what I like.”
“You’re gross.” You say when his tongue darts out to lick at the finger, and he
laughs again under his breath.
“Yeah, yeah. Take your underwear off, alright?”
“Why, so you can sniff those too?”
“Not a bad idea.”
“God, I’m going to gag.” You scoff. Miya raises a brow at you in what you
assume is some sort of irritation bastardized by lust.
“Off.” He says, hands toying around the elastic of your underwear.
You wait a beat before deciding that yes, you really want to do this, and yes—
you’ll probably regret it later on when he’s shooting you shit-eating grins in
the gym. With a sigh that you force to sound reluctant and bored, you yank your
underwear down your legs and allow them to fall at your feet. Almost
immediately, Miya grabs the tops of your thighs and brings them to his waist;
the movement catches you by surprise and you cry out, your legs instinctively
wrapping the rest of the way around him. He grins, teeth bright in the
darkness, the tip of his clothed erection prodding against your slit as he
shifts. It’s enough to distract you from the feeling of brick digging into your
back.
The material of his shirt sliding against your breasts while he pauses to free
his cock from his pants feels foreign, distant, and it’s enough to remind you
that you can’t get too invested in this. He doesn’t like you, you don’t like
him— this is the result of pent-up frustration and teenage hormones, not even
close to being intimate—
He jams himself inside of you without any preamble, and a shout rips itself
from your throat immediately. It doesn’t hurt in the slightest, but he’s
substantially sized and made absolutely no effort to ask if you were prepared.
“You fucking asshole.” You seethe, dodging his lips as he sets about to kiss
you just like he had earlier. Instead of chasing it again he simply laughs, and
it’s cruel and heartless and so incredibly hot that all you can do is sneer at
him, “what if I wasn’t ready?”
“Oh, you were fuckin’ ready.” He coos, sliding himself out just a bit so that
he can snap his hips right back onto yours, the slick sound of him penetrating
you reaching your ears. “You’re wet as hell.”
You have no response; he’s right, after all. Instead, you opt to roll your eyes
at the bastard despite the fact that you very much feel like you’re about to
melt around him. He really does have every reason in the world to be cocky, you
think; not only is he just about the best setter in this prefecture— and all
the surrounding ones, for that matter— but he’s hotter than the devil’s dick
and he fucks like an absolute sinner, too.
You clench your eyes shut as his fingers once more find purchase on your
swollen clit, your own arms slinging around his shoulders. Without the
distraction that his face brings, you’re able to think just a tad more clearly
about your predicament, about how he was basically able to catch you off guard
and get your panties on the ground with minimal convincing, how he was going to
hold this over your head every single time you saw him.
It pisses you off, and there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s the price you
pay for carnality, you suppose.
Your fingernails dig into the back of his neck and you feel the muscle shudder
slightly as he moves, his form nearly smothering you as he groans low in his
throat. You tighten around him, eyes still shut while you pant. He’s hitting
you in all the right places, giving it to you exactly where you need it, and
all you can do is gasp and writhe in the setter’s grip while he pummels into
you. He’s surprisingly quiet, you note, and it makes you feel a little better
that he’s so invested in fucking you that he can’t even scrape together a few
insults to toss your way.
A smile twitches the corner of your mouth. A low hum lets you know that he sees
it, and suddenly he goes from ramming into you to making slow, languid strokes.
“Open your eyes.” He murmurs. You crack a single one open to peer at him.
He’s a lot more wrecked looking that he probably thinks he is. There’s a fine
sheen of sweat covering what’s visible of his skin, making his shirt stick to
his chest and his hair plaster to his temples. His tongue peeks out to swipe
across his lips as he peers into your eyes, something strange hidden in the
depths of his own.
“Look at me,” he rasps, “when I’m fucking you.”
And all you can do is nod, opening your other eye at the same moment he slaps
his hips against yours again, filling you so fully that you think you might
burst. You spare a quick glance downward to look at where the two of you are
joined and the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you is enough to make
you shudder.
“So demanding.” You pant whenever you can find words, swallowing hard to keep
your throat from getting too dry.
“You’re willing to listen.” He retorts, starting to pick up speed again. Any
coherent thought on your tongue becomes long forgotten when he shifts his hips
ever so slightly and the tip of his cock slams into something that makes you
see more metaphorical stars than physical ones. You try to keep eye contact
with him but it’s hard when all they want to do is roll back.
“Yes! Right there!” You wail, nails nearly puncturing his skin. “Right there!”
The noise he makes when you continue to tighten around him is low and guttural
and masculine. The hand at your hip tightens into your skin almost impossibly,
past the point of bruising and just downright painful, but you don’t even
notice as he continues to thrust into you, his breathing labored as he stares
you down.
Frankly, you can’t believe that he’s coaxing you to finish again until warmth
blossoms under your skin once more, your tank top nearly drenched with sweat as
you cry out into the night, vision momentarily flickering from normal to pure
white and then back again as he fucks you through your orgasm. His expression
goes from hazy to severe in a heartbeat.
You’ll reprimand yourself later for coming apart so easily with him inside of
you, but in the moment you can hardly think at all. He’s everything and nothing
all at once, the cause of a pleasure that simultaneously eclipses his entire
being. You’re not even sure if you’re alive at this point— in fact, you think
it could be very possible that he’s fucked you to death.
Coherency begins to bleed back into you after a few long moments of you nearly
sobbing out his name, and the second that it does you’re aware of something
warm inside of you, something foreign that you had forgotten to consider. Your
eyes widen as he stutters out a curse, punctuated by a strangled rendition of
your name as he finishes inside of you.
And then, it’s silent.
“Fuck.” He groans after a long pause, catching his breath like he just ran a
marathon.
“You…” You trail off as he rests his forehead on your shoulder, still breathing
heavily.
“God, that was good.” He mutters, mostly to himself, but you can still hear him
clear as day. However, there’s blood rushing in your ears, a furrow to your
brows, and a scowl back on your lips.
“You…” You start again, anger seeping into your words, “you came in me, you
jackass!”
He pulls back a little to look at you again, and you can tell from his
expression that he’s not even slightly remorseful.
“Oops.” He says, tone flat. You make a sound of frustration, pulling one of
your hands from his neck so that you can shove his shoulder. He’s wholly
unaffected by this, instead focusing his attention on pulling out of you and
yanking his shorts back up.
“‘Oops’? Really?” You snap. He shrugs, his post-sex smirk the most infuriating
thing that you think you’ve ever seen. “You’re lucky I’m on birth control!”
“Yeah, yeah.” He runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, grinning at you
as he bends down to pick something up. You pay the motion little mind, your
focus on the fact that you’re currently leaking out onto the cement. “You
good?”
“I’m fine.” You bite out. “Still hate you.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He sighs in the most self-satisfied way that he
possibly can, shoving his hands into his pockets. “That was pretty fun. We’ll
have to do that again sometime, sweetheart.”
“In your fucking dreams!” You’re somewhat glad that the cover of night masks
the way your skin flushes. He snorts.
“We’ll see about that. G’night.” He turns and strolls away from you, back
through the gymnasium doors, with a nonchalance that temporarily renders you
speechless. You almost can’t believe what just transpired, can’t believe that
you let him touch you like that, can’t believe that you want to do it again—
Your thoughts are halted once you think of him stooping towards the ground. You
look down, eyes straining in the sparse light, and immediately a realization
dawns on you.
He took your fucking underwear.
Your frustrated shout rings out into the night. You don’t care enough to be
silent in this moment, not with your underwear in some jerk’s pocket and his
come streaking down your legs, and especially not when you can practically hear
him laugh to himself as he continues the trek back to his team’s room.
End Notes
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