you’re a popular baking youtuber, and you’re dating timeskip!tsukishima kei. he’s being interviewed after a sendai frogs game, is asked;
“what’s your favorite dessert of y/n’s?”
it should be a loaded question for him. your baking won the national culinary competition, earning yourself a gold medal. most wanted in baking and pastry arts.
but oh how tsukishima loved your strawberry shortcake. a nice two tier sponge cake, a little wet but not too dense, just the right amount of thickness. with fresh sugar marinated strawberries, an even layer of freshly whipped vanilla bean frosting on the outside, with a singular dollop on top. tsukishima dips his finger into the dollop scooping out a small glob. he takes a lick, groaning in approval at the taste.
“y’know what would make this even better?”
he doesn’t wait for you to answer, smearing the icing on your clit, making a mess. he grins, a glint in his eye as he watches you squirm. his other hand holding your hips down to lean in close against your cunt— you could feel the heat of his breath.
he takes a deep inhale. his holds his breath for a quick second before his eyes rolls in the back of his head, and a loud groan came from the back of his throat.
yeah. his favorite dessert of his was eating your strawberry shortcake off your cunt. swears your cum enhances the flavor.
“her strawberry shortcake?”
tsukishima grins at the reporters words. he tilts his head back, taking in a deep breath of fresh air, slowly nodding.
“her strawberry shortcake.” he reiterates, “yeah. specially made just for me.”
— idk where this came from. brain went brrrr. enjoy ?
Is it just me, or does anyone else notice that Chamuring is getting incredibly more risqué with every new Han Maru art dropped? Like we can tell that you want to whore him out so bad. You might as well commit to the bit and let him get railed too.
— a/n: helloo, sorry this is a day late i scheduled the post wrong.. but enjoy part one! rich daddy soob does smth to me <3
✧ richdilf!soobin x babysitterfem!reader, wc: 4.6k
✧ warnings: nsfw— MDNI!, male masturbation, age gap (reader is 21 & soobin is 30), kinda pervy!soobin & pervy!reader, mentions of reader "getting around", no explicit smut in this one
— ✧ i.
There was a comfort in your solitude, a homey feeling in the slightly broken record that was playing distorted sounds from your favorite artist's vinyl, and you end up having the same realization that you do nearly every single day: you enjoy being alone today. That is, until you have another common realization that trumps your previous one every time: days are longer than twenty minutes; you start to roll your eyes and yawn at the lack of interesting activities in your shared apartment.
Your roommate is almost never home, and you're happy for her--happy that she has a large life and lots of friends that are somehow always able to spend their time drinking or staying out so much, they wouldn't know their house was on fire until three days after it had collapsed--but that's not your ideal lifestyle. You don't think you could last two nights without the comfort of your bed, or even a bed, with the way she ends up sometimes.
You do wish you had friends though, or things to do at least. It's not like you don't have any, but with a total of three, all of whom have their hearts set on an extremely busy pathway for their life, leave you having to go out alone a lot, and catching people's eyes for that reason is not only shameful but tiring. And you have a good chance of getting a boyfriend as well, seeing as though you’re conventionally attractive and smart, and you know that, but commitment to a guy in his young twenties is something you’re not willing to rope yourself into right now, not to say that finding a good guy to commit to right now is easy anyways.
You do have your own goals in life, but yours require a lot more patience and less work, still being halfway through college and working at an unpaid internship to gain some experience in your desired field before you can get a real job.
Ultimately, this leaves you with two qualities you would like to get rid of quickly: alone and broke.
Your parents had been paying for your rent until this point, and although they claim they do not mind, their continuous comments on the subject opened you up to the fact that you should probably consider putting your work in.
There was a multitude of things you do to get some money, you realized after scrolling through the internet for a total of five minutes, but you decided upon babysitting. It would give you time to hone in and work on developing your skills for your chosen career, finish school work, while also making some money, and you love kids, so taking care of a kindergartner four or five times a week couldn't be too hard. Plus, kids are great company, so you definitely wouldn’t be basking in your own silence all day.
It definitely wasn't too hard finding struggling parents, most of whom were willing to pay high prices due to the length of work and hours the job market was requiring from people nowadays. Also considering the area you lived in was pretty well off, comfortable would be the right word, but there were definitely certain spots within twenty miles of you that definitely had money, as you’ve seen, driving by the mansions with your jaw dropped.
Stumbling upon an offer that nearly made you drool just looking at the numbers, you quickly clicked on it. The family was right in your area, nearly ten minutes down the road; the perfect age of seven, an age you’re very used to after visiting your cousins so much; the hours were great, not too early but not too late, so you could still enjoy your bed every night; and best of all, it was a lot of money.
It didn’t take you long to send in your application and resume, the latter of which was detailed and professional due to the number of extracurriculars and success you had in college (which do make you think about how you don’t have a full-time job right now, but you’re working on patience).
You're fairly certain you’d get the job simply because you meet all the requirements; even the safety regulations that make you glad you took lifeguarding and health code courses that pressured you to get all the necessary certifications, but your main concern was the preferred age of mid twenties.
Having graduated less than a year ago, you’re definitely a few years off, but you’re hoping little Choi Minjoon's single father won’t mind, assuming it’s usually mothers who care about those kinds of things. You nearly have half a mind to send an email to the listed email address, addressing your concern and assuring him that you are still fit for the job, but you decide not to, scared to pressure him and turn him away.
Hopefully, he sees your potential and all the good things under the lack of experience and age because you definitely have a lot to offer.
— ✧ ii.
The house was much bigger than you expected; walking in nearly felt like a gift rather than you offering a service for the family. The door itself seemed like the same surface area as the right wall of your living room, and you felt a gust of wind brush past your figure when it opened. The first person you’re greeted with is a sweet petite lady with the attire of what looked like a housemaid. You’re almost surprised at the traditional values the family seemed to have, considering in today’s world, people hire one nanny to take care of all the concerns of the house, including the children, but taking a good look at the amount she would have to cover gives you a better understanding of the situation.
Greeting the lady, you take notice of the echo that takes over the spacious halls, and you press down on your clothes, quickly trying to smooth them out a little more as you start to feel conscious and plain in them. She leads you up the large flight of stairs that make you feel like you have to hold onto the railing to walk up or you might suffer from some form of vertigo. Claiming the owner of the house and his kid are in his office, she makes sure you’re closely following her, most likely so you don’t get lost in the maze that this poor lady has to clean.
She suddenly stops in front of a door, nearly making you bump into her from behind, and you assume this is the aforementioned office where your future employer is. Opening the door, you’re first met with the back of a tall man and a phone up to his ear, standing at the window and watching what looked like his front lawn.
His kid, sat on the couch, stole your attention with a little giggle that sounded like music to your beards, and you met his starry eyes with the sweetest smile that felt warm and fuzzy in your heart. You reach your hand out to ruffle his wellkept hair; he definitely looked like he was born into wealth with his designer sweater vest, white button up, clean black dress pants, and his iPad in hand, eyes glued to the screen.
Once your hand messes up his hair a little, he looks up at you, a stronger interaction than the glance from before, and you crouch down. The room was very quiet, the only sounds coming from his dad’s phone and the low volume of Toca Boca World on the device in his hands. You whisper a little greeting to him and start having a sweet conversation that consists of simple back and forth questions and answers, nothing more than you’d expect from a five year old.
His voice was very gentle and soft, and you realize where he gets it from when your name is called. Looking up, you meet his father, and merely his figure has you stepping back in intimidation.
Minjoon’s father, Choi Soobin, as he introduced himself, was a gorgeous man. Tall, fit, with a face and demeanor so attractive you start to question if he was really as old as he says he is. You watch as his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and you catch yourself staring before you push away any thoughts like that to the back of your head.
He places his phone in his pocket, focusing all his attention on you and his son as he walks over and puts his hand out to greet you. You accept it with a slightly shocked smile until you realize what you probably look like and you regain your composure.
“Hi, you must be the babysitter. I’m Soobin, Minjoon’s dad.” His smile was sweet, a stark contrast from his overbearing frame. His fingers were soft around your hand, and you suddenly felt the urge to stand up straight to fix your posture. You’re almost surprised at his deep tone, but his face captures you even more, and you can see just how Minjoon got so cute.
“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you.” He nods, returning the compliment before he takes a look up and down at you, his eyes contracting and darkening at the sight. Inhaling sharply, his smile falters for a second, and you almost feel a little judged, a number of questions running through your mind. Is there something wrong with your outfit? Did you sound like an idiot? How have you already fucked up and you’ve been in his house for ten minutes?
Whatever it is, you need a job, so you try your best and hope the interview goes exactly as planned.
You were pleasantly surprised when you got the call later that night; you came to the conclusion that he must have been in a hurry to find someone or maybe you were exactly what he was looking for. It was a quick interview anyways, a few questions about yourself, about your availability, and some small talk about your life.
He was very kind about everything, and although he seemed to take all your answers well, his pure demeanor from when you first saw him shifted when he saw you and didn’t change back. You didn’t think about it too much though, seeing as you got the job, it must have been nothing to worry about.
The first week was more difficult than you thought it would be. Minjoon was a shy kid at first, but as the days went by, he started opening up to you more, and that meant tantrums and words that you wouldn’t have expected from a preschooler.
It started with him offering to share his toys with you, a gentle smile and tiny hands pushing half of his lego collection towards you in a way that made you feel flutters inside. Slowly, it turned into him refusing to give you any and yelling and crying when you picked one up. Soobin did warn you that he could get cranky at times, but you didn’t realize it would end up with him stealing things out of your purse and throwing them at you because you wouldn’t let him have a third bowl of cereal.
You almost wanted to complain to Soobin about his behavior, not understanding why he switched up so easily, but every time he came to you, asking if Minjoon was being good with a hopeful smile on his face and tired eyes, you couldn’t help but lie and say everything was fine to ease his mind. He seemed stressed, and you didn’t want to add to it by telling him that his precious little boy was getting on your nerves.
You learned to deal with it after the second week though, having had eleven visits with him and hours spent observing his behavior. Coming to the realization that he must have just needed some time to get used to someone else other than his dad taking care of him, you became more understanding and patient with his actions, and he started becoming more aware as well. Of course, there were the occasional outbursts, but they toned down largely, and it lifted your spirits.
But it wasn’t just Minjoon’s behavior you were noticing. Although most of your time was occupied with taking care of him which consisted of a number of things like feeding him, playing with him, or even finishing up any summer classwork you have while letting him play by himself, your eyes couldn’t help but occasionally drift to the man of the house.
Sometimes, when he’d walk into the room either checking in, or perhaps looking for something, you’d attempt to sit up straight or correct your posture. Not that you’re a slouch, but of course, you want to look presentable in front of him. He is your boss after all. Other times, as it was nearing time for you to go, in line with the time he gets off work, you’d catch yourself with a stray eye as he unbuttons his shirt a bit, pushing the sleeves up and running his fingers back through his hair with a soft groan that makes your cheeks turn hot and your mind wander. It’s simply because you care about his well being though, as his son is your responsibility.
And maybe when he’s on his break and steps out of his home gym after a work out session, you watch the beads of sweat down his neck, the fresh pump in his biceps, and the slight print in his sweatpants catching light. That’s when it gets hard to ignore.
You weren’t one to thirst; you’ve had your fair share of boyfriends and talking stages that have unfortunately all failed, and even now, it’s not like you’re closed off from men or anything, You’re always talking to one guy or the other, but it’s simply for your entertainment, tired of dealing with an immature male ego. It’s safe to say you get around, not enough to sacrifice your dignity and reputation but also enough to get a good fuck once in a while.
You definitely weren’t one to thirst over guys you can’t have, whether it was someone you worked with, someone unavailable, someone not your age, or in this case, all three of the potential attributes. It’s not like you haven't acknowledged the attraction, but you choose to ignore it for not only your sake, but Soobin and little Minjoon’s as well, although the thought of his large slender fingers firmly pressing against your skin has crossed your mind more times than you’d like to admit.
— ✧ iii.
Soobin hates to admit how good you are with his son. From the moment he saw you, he was thinking things wouldn’t go well and that you would just be some pretty spoiled brat who’s only applying for this job to please her parents but couldn’t really care less about kids or anything other than herself. In fact, he was hoping it was true so he wouldn’t be able to hire you, or it would be a great fault on his part to come to the sad truth that he is attracted to his son’s babysitter.
He’s been a single parent for three years now, and while he was fighting the legal battles and dealing with the struggles and hard truths of a messy divorce, he was doing his best to be there for his son.
After almost a year of tough meetings, fights, finding receipts, building up cases , Soobin ended up with primary physical custody of Minjoon, mainly in consideration of his financial situation and the lack of motherly characteristics his ex wife seemed to have. It was definitely difficult for him, and despite Minjoon's mom getting to keep his little boy for one weekend every month, Soobin has dedicated his life to raising him right.
Every single day in the past three years, Soobin has done everything for Minjoon, not that he should be expected of any less as a father, but as he is by himself, the responsibilities fall harder on him, and eventually, they do take a toll on not only his well being but his son tool.
He has worked hard to provide everything he possibly can and give Minjoon the best lifestyle possible, but unfortunately, with his job requiring extra demands recently and work hours increasing, he is unable to be there for Minjoon as much. And without a doubt, he would trust a babysitter that could report back to him and that he knew to a good extent over leaving him with a mother who rarely looks his way and carries no empathy for her own child. And this led him to start searching for someone to be there in his absence.
Soobin was a simple man, not really fazed by the small things in life like unkind people and immaturity. He had dealt with much of that in his early divorce, something he sees as a strength instead of a weakness considering how much he learned from it. He learned to be patient, emotionally mature, and how to navigate seemingly difficult situations; from his child, he learned to be caring, compassionate, and responsible. Something he didn’t learn however, was how to deal with having a thing for a young woman nearly ten years younger, and it was starting to get the better of him.
You were a great fit for the job, a fact that comes with both pros and cons on his end. Pro: his son would be very well taken care of, and con: his mind starts to conjure up images that were greatly too impure whenever he sees you.
It would be the simplest things as well; the way you bite your lip trying to figure out the TV remote, the cute little cotton shorts that ride up your butt as you reach for something, which in your defense, he did say you could wear whatever attire you’d like, or god forbid, you bend over to open the freezer and find yourself a popsicle. And if he caught you eating it, licking the sweet juice as it drips down your fingers, he’d have to go and lock himself in his office for at least an hour.
Everything you did felt too good for him to be looking at, and that seemed to be the only con he could think of. Which is why he chose to keep you around, because it would be better for his son ultimately, and it’s not as if you’re tempting him on purpose, of course.
Maybe it’s just been a while, he thinks, since he’s interacted with a lady he found truly attractive, and right now, his male instincts are taking over, nearly consuming him if he was being honest with himself. But Soobin knows better than to fall into infatuation and risk something that in every way he could think of, would not end well.
It was around the fourth week of your new job, when you and Soobin had discussed a swimming instructor for Minjoon. You noticed he’s taken quite a liking to baths and would request to spend an extra twenty minutes every time he was in the tub; the first time you agreed, and no matter how wet your clothes got after, you continued to say yes because seeing the smile on his face was worth it.
When you asked his dad about it, he agreed that it was around the age that he should start taking swim lessons, and it being the hot air of June, this was a great time. Less than two days later, when you showed up, you were surprised to see baby Minjoon in the pool holding a paddleboard with a man on the other end of it. You looked around for Soobin, not having seen him anywhere in the house until your eyes fell onto his figure, standing over the corner of the pool watching his son intently.
He was dressed in swim trunks, a stark contrast to the business outfit or fully dressed gym attire that you usually see him in, and your mouth unknowingly opens due to the shock. You’re not complaining of course; you knew he was fit from the way his arms’ natural tone would appear while doing simple mundane things like carrying his office bag or picking up Minjoon, but seeing his work was more humbling than you thought.
His hair was damp at the ends, as if he just got out of the pool. His shorts hanging low on his hips, barely tied, almost begging to come off, and with the way you were drinking his sweaty abs in and ogling his enlarged biceps from how he was crossing his arms, you almost felt compelled to go and give his pants a slight tug.
Soobin quickly takes notice of you when you walk in, dressed cutely in a summer dress that would be way too short for your place of employment if it were anywhere or anyone else, but with the view of your sunkissed thighs he's getting, he really doesn’t mind. He also doesn’t fail to notice the way you stare at him, unaware of how tempting your eyes look as you walk up to him. He quickly shakes the thought away, offering a sweet smile that completely hides the thoughts he was just thinking, and you return one yourself.
“Is he doing good so far?” You ask, retreating away from your eye candy and back to Minjoon in the pool. He nods, a simple hum coming out to affirm your question.
“We’ve been out here for just thirty minutes, and he’s already made a lot of progress,” he mentions, a proud fatherly smile on his face. Soobin’s eyes are soft and kind whenever he looks at Minjoon, unable to disguise the true affection he has for the kid, a feeling that you’re starting to get used to after taking care of him for just a few weeks. “The instructor’s here for another thirty minutes if you would like to get in the pool too.”
He looks at you, his eyes quickly darting to the way you lick your lips and look up in hesitation before you respond. “Yeah, that sounds nice. I actually brought my bathing suit today, so that’s good,” you cheer.
Soobin offers to wait outside until you get changed, claiming he has a meeting in the office soon and he has to take a quick shower before he can leave for work, but he soon regrets it when you reenter the pool area in a pastel blue bikini, a coverup so sheer on top of it that there’s almost no use for it.
If he really cared about being your boss, he would have had a serious discussion about what’s appropriate to wear in front of him, but seeing the way the thin fabric barely covers every curve of your figure, the strings on your shoulders so close to untying and letting your tits spill out, he doesn’t give a shit about being appropriate.
You walk back up to him, so innocent and a smile so sweet as if you have no thoughts in the world. You have to know what you’re doing, right? The effect you have on him, how undeniably tempting you look? It must be impossible not to notice the way his eyes are wandering every inch of your skin as you lay down on the lounge chair next to him, your chest rising and falling under the burning sun.
Suddenly remembering a question you had about Minjoon’s meal schedule, you sit up and open your mouth to ask him something before he walks through the back door of the house, slamming it behind him. Assuming he was in a rush, you pout to yourself and make a note to ask when he’s back, instead refocusing your attention and pulling out a bottle of sunscreen.
It’s becoming difficult to control himself, Soobin realizes, as he throws his head back under the hot water, letting it engulf him completely. He grips the handle, closing the glass door behind him, desperately trying to think about anything else other than how purely sinful you could be. He wants to grip the soft curve of your waist, make you moan the way you did when you sighed at your phone the other day, sneaky eyes peeking at your texts from behind you, and he groans thinking about the way that guy was talking to you—he could treat you so much better than some childish punk who won’t understand your worth until he’s ready for you to have his babies.
Why should you wait for a good man when you can have one now? When you can have him at your fingertips doing whatever you please, providing for you, taking care of you, making sure you never have to work again? He tries to breathe through it, but his hand mindlessly inches lower.
God, you make him so frustrated; you make him question himself and his morals, something he’s always taken pride in. Soobin never hesitated, never made the wrong decision, never acted out, and here he is now, self control hanging by a thread. And for what? You barely did anything, and he’s already so provoked.
His mind is racing with the most impure thoughts, cursing under his breath as he has to relieve the ache somehow. The sheer sweat on your collarbone and how good your skin would taste against his tongue, the flimsy top clinging to the swell of your breasts like it wanted to slip off. Like you wanted it to. Fuck, what if you wanted it just as badly as he did? What if you were thinking about him, touching yourself to the thought of his mouth sweetly kissing up and down your thighs, harshly tugging on his hair, moaning his name?
He leaned forward against the wall, the hot water running down the tile and catching on his forehead as he strokes himself, finally chasing the feeling of something so sinful, and the thought just edges him on further. He pumps himself, desperate to cum, remembering your delicate scent and the soft pads of your fingers as they brush against his skin, wishing they would wrap around his cock the way he is. Soobin is so fucking addicted to you, and though it took him long to realize it, the epiphany makes him pump even faster.
Throbbing, sticky, heat pooling low in his stomach, and he thinks about the lazy arch of your back, the slight sliver of stomach that you tease with a simple tank top, and now today? Revealing so much of yourself to him and not letting him have you, making his hips jerk forward in his own hands, begging and pleading your name out loud, nearly wishing you could hear how bad he wants it, you were so cruel.
Soobin comes with a guttural groan, unable to even recognize the sound that leaves his lips, and he stands there under the water for some time, hopelessly trying to wash his release off his stomach and what’s left of you in his head.
It doesn’t work. Instead, he quietly relives the fantasy from which he was holding back. From weeks of pretending he wasn’t so deeply corrupted, from watching you, knowing you were so close to him but still, completely off limits.
academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw
request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c
i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….
update: i wrote a part 2 because it was highly requested! you can read it here :)
rating: explicit
word count: 3,5k
warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:
—
“How do you take your coffee?”
His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetic torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies.
“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.”
Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent.
“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?”
Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.
His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his.
Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects.
“If I may.”
Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?
And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will.
You will not.
“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”
Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use.
But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given.
“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.”
More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate.
Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.
However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table?
That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’d already successfully wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.
However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, an entire picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.
Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all.
Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were.
“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. Heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”
“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”
“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”
“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.”
That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness.
“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!”
“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?”
“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.”
“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”
Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided.
“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”
You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”
“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.
And, well. You can’t argue with that.
Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan.
You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.
“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront.
“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves.
“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.”
“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.”
“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.”
Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce.
“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones.
“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.”
“But they’re so heavy.”
“Well, what would you use?”
He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow.
“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.”
Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted.
“How did you even—“
“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.”
“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?”
Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat.
“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact.
“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.”
He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead.
“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”
“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”
“Very well. Frame?”
“Something durable. Titanium?”
“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”
“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”
“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”
“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.”
He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for.
“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?”
“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”
He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin.
“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled.
“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders.
“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”
Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”
“Precision?”
“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“
You don’t even register when it happens.
Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.
Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one.
What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.
But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair.
And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place.
“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine.
“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.”
And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin.
“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”
“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work.
“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh yes. You’re about to.”
You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement.
“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.
“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.”
“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”
“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”
And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other.
However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor craved to postpone the main course.
Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face.
That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss.
“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites.
And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind.
But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness.
You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him.
That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin.
You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman.
“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.”
“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.”
And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief.
No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you.
“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”
“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.
And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter.
“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”
“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”
You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp.
“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”
Summary: “Her name is Noelle. I had a dream about her, she rings my bell…”
Contains: not smut but we damn near there, longing, somewhat slow burn, requited feelings, confession, Han Kyul being clingy, he’s in love don’t make fun of him, kissy kissy, like heavy kissing, making out, cursing, dry humping, nudity, love confessions, it’s the early 2000s and you have a wispy pixie cut (look at the boarder pic for reference), size difference, fluff, it’s p+rn but p+rn with feeling
A/N- I might write for all his characters like I love him down so bad
Update: YALL this is the first coffee prince fanfic on this app😭 I’m scarrrredd
٩(⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)و*̣̩⋆̩* . °
. . + .°.
Unconventional.
That was the first word that came to mind when Han Kyul thought of you.
It wasn’t the only word, though. Messy, a bit moody but kind, smart-mouthed, odd, cute, distractible but reliable. You were focused yet mixed up- never knowing exactly where you were going but heading there determined anyways- a series of beautiful contradictions. Loud with soft hands; even when you’d scold him, smelling of cotton and creamed strawberries. That’s how you are to him.
But lately it seems you’ve been something more.
He’d been drawn to you from the start, the pretty regular with tinkling laughter and short hair who frequented his cafe, always in a rush of some sort but still taking time to flirt with him and be nice to the staff. At first he thought the initial rush of fondness he felt was just because of how awkwardly pleasant you were but the more you came around, the more familiar he got with you. Learning all kinds of stuff about you and what made you so…you.
Like how you and your mom didn’t speak because of her obvious preference to your brothers all your life even though they were headaches, how you adore your father though, that you go out of your way to wear mismatch socks because you think the matching ones are bad luck, that you prefer hot chocolate over coffee any day, how your jealous that his hands are pretty even though yours are too just smaller, even how you buy men’s jeans just because they’re baggier and you think it’s cute when pants cover your shoes and he thinks you’re cuter than anything. From there he realizes he could see himself liking you in ways that were more than fleeting thoughts and glances; so you two wind up hanging out more personally- more alone. Where he learns things about you through observation and question that make him long in ways he’s never known.
You were messy but you’re also kind, and even around others you were lonely. In fact, you were lonely most of the time. Despite that, you liked the way it felt when you dried your eyes and looked ahead; believing in the day you’d find the perfect skies to your horizon. You liked cloudy days that teetered on gloomy because it reminded you of hugs and holding hands, your best friend is a girl you’ve known since the third grade who you spit your milk on the first time you met- he smiles at that- and when he does you tell him that you don’t find only his hands pretty, but him pretty too.
“Face and all”, you say, pushing his hair back from where you’re laying on his floor like you always did at least once when he had you over and he’s sitting next to you looking down into your face with fond eyes, blinking slow as a smile grows on his lips. God, he wanted to kiss you breathless. The atmosphere is warm and soft and you two are close enough that the sweet smell that constantly clings to you, seeps onto him and in turn he finds himself mimicking it’s nature with how he begins to cling to you. Seeking you out, he’s touchier.
If you noticed, you don’t say anything. And why would you? Unbeknownst Han Kyul, you liked him back- and have since before he even liked you like that- but he was a smart boy so you’d let him figure that part out for himself. You shouldn’t even like him so much but you did. You liked how brash and bossy he sometimes was, enjoyed how oblivious he was to social cues, even how he wasn’t a morning person; getting pissy over the phone yet still wouldn’t hang up when you called him at any time he deemed too early in the morning. He seemed to find almost everything charming; everyone was cute in his eyes and that might be one of your favorite traits of his. Actually, no. Your most favorite trait was the easy way he always soaked himself in your personal space.
He was always kind of handsy but lately it felt like his touch was always on yours and you loved it. Times where they’d be casual at first, until his broad palms would wander then linger.
Times like now. At his place again, standing at his kitchen in a tank top with no bra; cooking for him because you wanted something he couldn’t make quite to your standards. Music playing in the background while you talked until you got quiet, needing to focus while you measured everything. He wasn’t good at being with you and not having your attention so coming to stand close behind you with, he places a warm hand on your shoulder that coasts across your shoulder blades, stopping to squeeze at the base of your neck, biting his lip at your soft gasp before moving his hand down the expanse of your back and gliding under your shirt; resting it at the curve just above your ass.
You tilt your head to the side when he leans down, tracing his nose slowly down your jaw to the back of your neck then head as he inhales deeply making goosebumps break over your skin, his other hand settling on your waist with a firm squeeze and the gasp that leaves you this time comes from a bolt of pure arousal- hands shooting out to grip the counter to steady yourself. The air is charged somehow- startling you with its sudden electricity, voice soft when you lean further back into him and ask-
“What are you doing?”
“How do you always smell so good? ‘Y skin’s soft too…” The low drawl in his voice drops a fireball right down to your core and you shudder. You were aware of your swiftly changing dynamic but never did anything to reverse it. You wanted things to change between you two. There weren’t enough words in any language to express how much you both liked about each other, nothing to give a name to the need to always be in your gravity.
You move to clear things to the corner of the counter (for no reason in particular) when thick arms suddenly surround you as Han Kyul buries his face in that spot where your neck slopes to your shoulder. You feel your heart pound so hard you’re sure he can hear it when he nuzzles closer and you feel his lips move.
“I missed you.”
Your eyelids lower as you smile softly, hands moving to cross over his arms, reciprocating his touch.
“It’s only been what? 4 days since I’ve seen you? I thought you were supposed to be a wild playboy, what happened??” He huffs out a laugh but holds you tighter and you’re beaming at this point.
“Doesn’t matter…I need to see you every day or else.” He was too cute.
“Or else what?”
“Or else I’ll miss you and so hard you’ll feel it and come running back to me.” You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you from how petulant he was being, pouting as he mumbles out into your shoulder about how much he suffered just because he missed you. You shuffle around a bit until you’re turned in his arms and while it’s not the first time you two have hugged, it is the first time you’ve held each other so close.
His onyx colored eyes shimmer with every unsaid word thats turned to stars in his mind, all revolving around you, they form constellations in your image. It almost hurts and he soothes the ache by pulling you closer, dropping his forehead to rest against yours. One of his hands slips back under your shirt to rest above your ass, craving the smooth skin to skin contact as he sighs. You loop your arms around him, steeling yourself as you look dead in his eyes to whisper the same.
“I missed you too.”
It’s a mystery who leans in first but all that matters now is that you’re kissing. Melting into each other as your lips move and it feels so deliriously good- feels like everything you need and more. You can’t help the way you rake your nails down his broad back, feeling him shiver as he groans in pleasure, pulling away to look at you for a beat with pupil blown eyes before surging back to your mouth. His kiss is deeper this time, wet lips sliding and sucking over your top lip then bottom lip before enveloping them together then licking hotly into your mouth, laving his tongue against yours and you’re lightheaded from how quickly your heart drops your core; eyes fluttering in bliss as you moan desperately from the back of your throat.
He couldn’t take this. You were driving him crazy. He needs you. Needs you, needs you. With him- in his life, around him always and forever.
Breaking apart from the kiss with a smack, he looks into your glazed eyes and swears before picking you up and sitting you on the counter, hands heavy with delicious pressure as they caressed your body; panting against your face with scattering pecks.
“I like you.” The three words fill you with warmth as he stands flush to you between your legs but you pull him closer, kissing him firmly enough for your lip stain to transfer, smearing raspberry color in its wake.
“I like you too. A lot, actually-“, his smile is almost blinding as he drops against you in relief. You like him back. You’d never have to be apart, your relationship wasn’t ruined.
You pull him back to your mouth and he tingles when you wrap your legs around him. Heavy breaths turn to gasps and moans while you lose yourselves in each other. Your nipples are hard against his chest and he hisses, even harder in his pants at all the sensations that being surrounded by you brings him. The second time you bring your hands to his biceps, squeezing the muscled fat, he has to pull away- lapping and biting your neck as he bathes in your sweet scent and cute sounds.
Even biting your lip didn’t stop or lessen the delighted moans leaving your throat so you give up, letting Han Kyul take you over as he was pressed to you, his full lips all over until you remember something.
“W-wait!” It takes a while for him to yank himself off you but when he does- you flush seeing how much of a mess he is. Kyul’s hair is messier than usual, lips puffy and stained from the color that was on your own lips, eyes eclipse black- pitching a tent so obvious it’s painful.
“What? What’s wrong? Did I-“, you stop him with a kiss but the second you pull away he’s back to sucking wetly at your neck, humming every now and then to let you know he’s listening and you jolt at the shocks of pleasure, trying to gather your thoughts.
“We- ahn- a date!” You moan the words out through a stutter as you’re almost laying down completely on the counter, legs pushed up and snug against his sides as his front grinds against yours, biting his lip as he nods mindlessly.
“Yeah, let’s date-“, you pull his head back by his hair to get him to focus since he clearly can’t multitask at present and he moans. The sound is wrecked and deep and so needy that it shatters your last threads of resolve and focus as you meet him in another filthy kiss, moving away only to strip his shirt off him, panting against his mouth between kisses-
“After this, you take me on a date- fuck- okay?”
He stares back with hearts practically in his eyes as he nods, kissing down your chest as he undoes the front of your pants, still grinding heavily against your throbbing center and you choke on the pleasure.
“Yeah baby, it’ll be the best date too-“, and you can’t wait, as excited to hold hands and eat food you both like somewhere with live piano music bonding the night away as you are to get fucked boneless on his kitchen counter.
Lips to your forehead snap you out of your datedream.
“Don’t even think of abandoning me after this, I’ll only find you and irritate you until you come back got it? You’re stuck with me.” You smile at his dramatics and he grins back, eyes crinkling in that comforting way they do before he’s pulling your pants and underwear off in one swipe, taking you in with a groan of disbelief.
“ ’y tryna kill me…”, he whispers, before bending down to pepper heavy, wet pecks down your body. You whine, eyes fluttering closed for a second at how good his hot mouth feels, running a hand through his hair; prompting him to look up at you with a cheekily fond grin.
“Stuck with you? Sounds like a dream..”
Only… life with you was so much better than anything his subconscious could ever conjure up.
i just watched the new season of cobra kai so i might write something soon, but kwon's hairstyle is what i imagined kuroo's bedhead to look like in real life!
— synopsis: he hates your intelligence in classrooms and you hate his cunnigness at the court. both go at great lengths to defeat each other, but how is it that both of you were the only ones that can help each other be better?
— warnings: swearing, a bit suggestive, enemies to lovers (although kind of enemies)
You slam your paper on his desk.
Tsukishima barely flinches. He removes his headphones and hangs them on his neck, unbothered by your looming presence as he stares blankly at your paper. 96
The corners of his lips tug down, seemingly unimpressed. "Eh."
"Eh? Aw, is little Tsukishima disappointed at himself?"
He looks up at you, stares deeply into your eyes. And for a moment you'd think his domineering gaze would soften as he was overawed by you. But then he smiles, that annoying little shitty, narcissistic smile.
"Actually, not at all (l/n)," his smile is bright, almost genuine, but his sarcasm is radiating. "I got a 98. Not bad, though!"
You swear steam was coming off your body.
"96 at modern Japanese." He says. "Understandable."
"Understandable?!"
"Don't beat yourself up, (l/n). Not everyone's perfect," he leans back. "Not even me. I mean, I'm just being humble. But yeah, not everyone."
"I hate you," you take your paper off his desk.
"Flattered. Really, really flattered. Thank you for hating me, actually. I feel so honored to be hated." He puts his headphones back on and places his elbows on his desk, his chin resting on his joint fists. Tsukishima smiles at you again.
God, his smile is infuriating.
Tsukishima was someone you'd go to great lengths to defeat. He never bothered for your existence when first year began. He didn't even know your name; Didn't even look at your direction. He'd only known it a month later when you were paired to be partners and he decided to be such a condescending brat when he pointed out your handwriting.
At first you ignored it, took it by heart and started organizing your writings on your notes. Then he decided to put all his self-hatred on you and started to discreetly judge you.
Maybe he wasn't even judging you. Maybe he was just staring at your paper, scoffed to himself, shook his head and laughed because you got a better score than him and he was berating himself. But no, he laughed because he thought you were a tryhard and he was a prodigy.
Obviously none of those were confirmed. But he's a man and a man hates it when a woman's happy.
When he smirks you have the urge to rip his lips to pieces.
You walk away from him and sit on your desk, which was actually beside him.
His scent follows your flaring nostrils as you carefully shove your paper between the notebooks in your bag. Tsukishima looks out the window, hiding his smirk, his foot tapping lightly but never making sound. So you put your own headphones over your ears, in hopes to drown out his deafening aura.
🏐 —
"Shit!"
Tsukishima's knees bends the wrong way and almost falls onto his back as he lands on the ground. The ball echoes across the court as it ricochets off the floor. You laugh loudly, and everyone looks at you.
"You're too advanced for the block, idiot!" You say loudly. Yamaguchi giggles.
He rolls his eyes at you as he chases for the ball. Kageyama sits beside you.
"You know he plays horribly when you're here."
"Oh?" You raise a brow. "Is he not used to a girl looking at her?"
Kageyama scratches his nose. "Probably 'cause he hates you."
You laugh lightly. "Kinda nice that I'm here. I get to see him fuck up."
You laugh and wipe your sweat off. "I'd play with you guys, but his remarks could piss me off and I might, uh, shove that ball up his ass."
When Kageyama laughs again, quite loudly, Tsukishima's head snaps at the bench where you're sitting. Heat rises to his head, his stance losing its usual strength, his arms weakening as he watches you—
Laughing, at some joke you said or Tobio said. Laughing heartily like someone just made the best joke in the world. The way your lips almost reach the wrinkles beneath your eyes. Oh, that's so funny Tobio. You're so funny you should quit volleyball and be a stand up comedian!
He knows you're talking shit about him, too. Idiot. Brat. Showoff.
He had the right to show off. He was better than you.
He was the better thinker; the better scorer.
Tsukishima is better than you.
I'm better than you—
The ball hits the side of his face, his glasses flailing to the side.
The first thing that reaches his ears—your sickening laugh. That monstrous, sadistic guffaw. Tanaka yells from the other side of the court and dives beneath the net to take a look at his face. Nishinoya hovers, hands on his knees, laughing.
"Pay attention, dumbass!" You cuff your hands over your mouth. "Stop daydreaming! It's embarrassing."
He bends to pick his glasses up. Alive, no cracks, frame not broken. He puts it on the bridge of his nose so that he could see your face clearly.
Hideously alluring.
"Do you think of scheming as daydreaming, (l/n)?" his voice, full of disdain, though hidden through feigned sweetness. "Like a child as always. Go back to middle school?"
"Do better at volleyball?"
"I ought to kick the both of you out this court," Daichi says loudly. "Oh wait I can't speak to (l/n) like that. S-sorry!"
Tsukishima sneers, his lips frowning. He approaches the rolling ball, watching as it hits the wall and propells back towards his awaiting feet. When he picks it up, he steals another glance at you talking to Kageyama.
The King and the Brat. The most annoying combination in the entirety of Karasuno campus.
Somehow, seeing you next to Kageyama and being given the nickname as if the two of you were a pair sends a tight rope around his chest that causes it to ache a little. Tsukishima huffs it out, an unsettling in his bones.
Please don't look at me.
The ball flies into the air, and his palm raises just in time to make contact with the ball.
He sees you watch from the corner of his eye, a blurried silhouette, but your figure was familiar enough for him to recognize you. His heart beats a little louder.
🏐 —
No.
Shit. Fuck. No
God damnit. 74.
Tsukishima stares at his paper in horror. In his entire life, he has always gotten two digits on his scores. However, they had always been ninety onwards. Never in the line of sevens. He doesn't know if his horror is displayed across his face. He prays it doesn't—he would die if you saw his expression.
He leans sideways to the right, his eye darting towards the side to peak at your paper.
98.
The english language was something that was easy to learn but never easy in exams. This—despite boasting that english was the easiest subject—was his weakness.
You're too preoccupied to notice his existence. Good.
He turns around to look at the green haired boy.
"Yamaguchi." He whisper-yelled. "Tadashi."
Yamaguchi looks up. "Yes?"
This was it. Years of built up pride, intelligence, boosted ego— down the drain. As soon as he'd ask him the question, it would forever alter the image of himself towards his friend. Tsukishima was no longer the brainy four-eyes of the Karasuno Volleyball Club.
He would now be Tsukishima, the idiot four-eyes.
Maybe I'm overreacting.
He stands up and sits beside the empty chair next to Yamaguchi.
"How- What's your score?"
Yamaguchi looks puzzled as he glances at his paper. "E-eighty eight."
God, this is depressing.
"Um," Tsukishima scratches the back of his neck. "Could you help me with English?"
There it is. His face says it all.
"Don't you even—"
"You, Tsukishima Kei, asking for my help?" He laughs incredulously. "Are you sure? What's your score?"
"Don't want to talk about it."
"Aw, c'mon Tsukki." He pouts playfully like comforting a weeping baby. "I'm sure it's not that bad."
Tsukishima tells him in a low voice. He never thought he could hate Yamaguchi's laugh. But he did, right after he laughed at his score. It wasn't even a failing grade.
"You know who should tutor you though?" He puts his paper in his bag. "(l/n). She's good, y'know. I heard her speak english once. I thought she was from, uh, some foreign country or something."
"She's not even that good." Tsukishima takes off his glasses and wipes it with the corner of his uniform. "She's good with memory but she forgets it right after the quiz like a ditz."
Yamaguchi snorts. "She's the one who got the best score out of all of us."
"Yeah, no thanks. I'd never let her teach me."
"I think you're forgetting I'm right here in front of you." You turn around, placing your elbow and forearm on the back of your chair and look at Tsukishima. "I can teach you."
Tsukishima scoffs. "No thanks. I'd rather repeat freshman year."
"Are you sure?" you pout, placing your chin on the back of your hand. "I can teach you, little Tsukishima."
"I'm not little."
"Yeah but your brain is."
"Yamaguchi, help me out here."
He can't ask for your help. Never ever. Never will he ever ask for your help. Tsukishima can study this himself. He's always studied by himself. He's never needed anyone, and certainly not you. He was independent, cunning as everyone says. Tsukishima does not need tutors.
Up until now.
"Please help Tsukishima study," Yamaguchi looks at you. "He's too prideful to ask but he really needs your help."
Tsukishima stammers. "T-that's not what I meant!"
"Aw, is this true?" You're taunting him. He feels like a child.
"I can study by myself. Fuck off."
You smile at him. In a way that he can't read. It was soft, almost kind, like you wanted to help him wholeheartedly and wanted his english to improve. Then he looked into your eyes and all the kindness in your smile had been washed away by this pity in your eyes that you enjoyed. Tsukishima huffs.
"No need to be shy about asking for help, little Tsukki," you coo. "We'll study in the locker room while everyone else plays. You're skipping practice today."
Tsukishima zips his bag and stands up. He towers over you, covering the sun that blinds you through the glass window. He looks down at your eyes—teasing, condescending eyes. His lips are turned to a frown, which makes you smile even more.
"I'm not skipping practice."
"Too bad. You are. You know, if you let me help you, you'd stop having that distraught face everytime you get your english paper." You take a step closer, neck bent backwards to look up at him. "Yeah, I saw your face."
Yamaguchi nudges his arm. "C'mon, Kei. Ask for her help. You know you need it. Don't be so prideful."
Tsukishima growls. He doesn't say anything yet, all the confidence in him washed away by a score that wasn't even a failing grade. His palm rubs the space between his eyebrows and mumbles:
"Help me."
You lean in, ear towards him. "Couldn't hear that. Sorry?"
"Help me study."
"Are you commanding me or asking?"
"Please help me study."
"Don't mumble, Tsukishima."
"Damn it!" He groans. "Please help me, dearest (l/n)." His voice drips in sarcasm, peering at you through his scratched lenses. "Help me get a better grade at english. Help me stop myself from strangling you! Idiot!"
You lean back, the bottom of your spine resting on your table as your left hand props you up. Tsukishima is almost seething, his eyes widened a little as his anger seethes through his nostrils. You hum, pretend to think, then slap his right cheek twice lightly.
"How kind of you to ask, little Tsukki." You wrinkle your nose at him, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "See you at the locker room."
When you leave, his head turns to Yamaguchi who smiles innocently. Tsukishima almost strangles him instead.
🏐—
The boys are thirty minutes late to practice. Including Daichi.
"It's the sequence of the words, Tsukishima," you point your pen at his test paper. "The spelling's no problem. You're good at it. It's just with how you've formed them together."
They all sit behind the two of you, watching silently. Tsukishima is red from embarrassment as he ignores them.
"What's so wrong about this sequence? It sounds correct."
"Just because it sounds correct doesn't mean that it is correct."
Hinata snorts. Tsukishima's head snaps at it. "Don't snort, dumbass. Last time I checked you got a twenty at your exam."
"You hit a nerve there, Shoyo," Kageyama giggles.
You sigh and slap your hands at your thighs. "Sawamura-san, why are you guys even here?"
He stammers, his back straightening as he fixes his bag on his left shoulder. "Jus–Just wanted to make sure you two will be fine. Let's go guys."
When they leave, Tsukishima relaxes in relief. He stares intensely at his notebook, figuring out the correct answer. You try not to laugh at him, but the sight was entertaining; seeing him suffer brought your heart at ease.
"Figured it out, moron?" You bring your own notebook out, flipping it to the last page you'd written on. "It's really not that hard."
"Shut up, (l/n.)" he says. You make a small sound, similar to "okay!" As you begin to write down on a blank page.
And you're like that for a few hours.
Tsukishima answers the questions you've written for him, and when he asks you for help, you cordially help him without telling him the answers. Then you both go back to formidable silence, doing your own perspective works.
He almost enjoys this newfound environment created with you. Somehow, his body is more tranquil, but at the same time his mind is racing, because you're here. Tutoring him. Tsukishima has always believed that he was one step ahead of you, making sure you were unable to catch up with him. But now he's slipped from that step and you've caught up and you're deriding him.
Nonetheless, you're his only hope right now.
He looks at you.
Your hair is tucked behind your ears and your teeth are currently creating dents at the eraser of your pencil. You're concentrating, seeming like you've forgotten that he's sitting in front of you. And Tsukishima's eyes are extremely blurred, but when he looks at you through the gap between his glasses and forehead, your face was somehow clearer.
"Are you a dog?" he raises a brow. "Don't chew on your pencil."
You huff like you're being scold and place your pencil down. But the chewing didn't last a second as your bottom lip is now tucked between your teeth. Tsukishima rolls his eyes.
"Here," he flips his paper and shows it to you. "Did I do it correctly?"
You take the paper from him and read it. He hopes you're at least slightly impressed, that you're not arbitrating his answers nor think they're half-assed. When your red pen moves into a slant, the corner of his lip twitches upwards. But when you circle the number, he has this urge to shove that pen into your eye.
"Hm, not bad. But not enough." you flip the paper.
70.
Four points less.
"Damn it." You can tell he's disappointed at himself. "You suck at teaching."
"Excuse me?!" Your eyebrows furrow. "Hey, I've spent the past four hours teaching you here, stickhead. The sun's almost down!"
"Do you have to go home already?" He asks. You shrug. "Then we can stay here until they're done with practice."
"Tsukishima, I have freshly cooked doburi waiting for me at home. Do you know what donburi is? Do you know what it tastes like while it's still hot? Fucking donburi, Tsukishima." You whine. "Would you like to study at my place instead?"
You seem to not have processed what you've offered, but Tsukishima has. He's surprised at your comment, watching you look so desperate to get home and eat that "fucking donburi." He waits for a moment until you realize and you do, but it seemed like you didn't care when you lean back and raise a brow.
"Well?"
"Sure."
His quick, almost unhesitant compliance surprises you. Tsukishima adjusts his glasses and brings his headphones out as you both head out the door. You lock it behind you, with Tsukishima already walking ahead.
You pass by the gym. "Sawamura, everyone, we're heading out!"
Tsukishima appears beside you. "We're going."
"To where?" Yamaguchi approaches you both. "Are you going to eat out? Ooh, can you bring food back here?"
"We're going to her place to study." He answers. "We can't come back."
The others seem to hear what he said, because Hinata yells: "What kind of studying are you going to do, Stingyshima?"
"Something that your tiny shit-for-brains can't comprehend." He retorts. "Focus on your receives, squirt!"
You wave to everyone and catch a glimpse of Yamaguchi's smile. You roll your eyes at him and poke your tongue out.
🏐 —
The way home was quieter than you expected.
Mainly because Tsukishima had his headphones on and all you hear was your un synchronous footsteps on the stoned sidewalk. You take small looks at your peripherals to see what he's doing. And, well, he's walking... like every other normal person.
But you're walking side by side and there's this space between you that's so close but also so far away. You feel his heat touching the fabric of your shirt, his hand twitching and just barely grazing yours. Then he speaks:
"You walk like a penguin," he says. "Why are you like that?"
"Why are you so annoying?" you roll your eyes. "I don't point out how you walk."
"That's because there's nothing wrong with my walk," he puts his headphones down, hangs them around his neck. "What? Got a stick up your ass or something?"
"I'll stab you with that stick."
"Gross."
You turn a corner and he follows suit like it was normal for him to follow you around. When you stop in front of your gate and unlock it, he bore no unhestiance as he removed his shoes and entered your home.
There was no one else around. And as soon as Tsukishima entered, you disappeared in his vision. Although, he hears you yell from afar: "Set your bag wherever. Stay in the living room though!"
He assumes you're either changing your clothes, getting a bowl of donburi, or both. He obeys, sets his bag on the floor and sits cross legged on the carpet of your living room, taking his notes out. He sees the sun inching away behind the roofs of the houses near by, waiting for you patiently.
And then his eyes roam to picture frames.
Never would he think that a picture of you smiling would be so endearing. That smile of yours, painting you an angelic aura, like people would never expect that you'd be the devil's descendant. Nonetheless, you were still beautiful.
The picture was you in a ponytail, face doused in sweat; the background, although blurry and dark, looked familiar. But Tsukishima was more focused on your gleaming smile, the way your eyes are almost closed and your lips were pale and your teeth were shiny.
"Hey, douchebag," you sit beside him despite the free space on the opposite of the coffee table, setting down two bowls of donburi. And yes, you had changed your clothes into something comfier. "Let's eat and study."
He never expected that you'd get him a bowl, thought that he'd have to ask or drop hints of him wanting donburi. He takes it though, and it is freshly cooked. He now understood your eagerness to go home.
An hour passes by.
The bowls are empty and set aside. Tsukishima's notes are scattered, hair disheveled from him constantly running his fingers through them. That string of hatred between you has been put aside as you both seem to tolerate one another through this session.
"Tsukishima," you say, almost sternly, placing two cartons of strawberry milk on the table. "It's easy to determine an adverb in Japanese. It's no different in identifying it in English."
"I know that, dumbass. What are you, a consciousness?" He takes his box, taking the plastic off the straw and shoving it on the circular foil. "Gimme yours."
He takes your carton and shakes it before doing the same and handing it to you. You blush vehemently, murmuring your gratitude and wrapping your lips around the paper straw.
Tsukishima's eyes wander out of boredom, tracing every corner and every ridge of your home. Until his eyes land on the sliding door to your backyard and catch a glimpse of that familiar blue and yellow ball.
"You play volleyball?" he queries, both his eyebrows raising.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Back in middle school."
"Bet you were shit at it."
"I was a middle blocker."
Tsukishima's back straightens, staring at you in hidden surprise. "At that height?"
"I'm not that short! Asshole," you throw your pen at him. He catches it with ease, setting it beside his notebook.
"Why aren't you in the women's volleyball club, then?" his brow raises. "Too short? They didn't take you? Failed the tryouts?"
You look down at your fingers, covered in peeled up skin and charred fingernails. You feel embarrassed, avoiding his eager stare. You sense his want to know your reason, radiating off his eyes.
"Not saying," you push yourself up, now standing in front of him. Tsukishima's eyes follow you, trailing uo from your thighs up to your neck, his irises darkening until he meets your gaze. "Get up. Time to go home."
"Let's play."
You stammer. "W-what? It's late."
"And I want to see you play." Tsukishima stands, hovering over you. "It's only nine in the evening."
You purse your lips, arms going limp on either side of your tired body. Though despite being worn out, you walk towards the door and slide it open, being greeted by Miyagi's brumal air that raises the hairs on your body. Tsukishima tugs on the sleeves of his sweater, covering half of his fingers, before following you out.
Barefoot in the evening, with the moon casting a pearlescent glow on your enervated bodies, the thump of the leather ball is in sync with your beating heart; and at each thump, it seems to wake Tsukishima up more.
"Tell me why you're not in the women's volleyball club," he sets it towards your direction.
"No." Your wrists join, your right fingers placing themselves on top of your left fingers, both thumbs settled side by side as your wrist ricochet the ball towards him. "It's none of your business."
Tsukishima catches it with ease. "You're lame."
You scoff, returning the ball. "I am not."
The blue and yellow ball floats into the evening air, the bright colors darkened by the stygian sky, only luminated by the moon and the lights outside your backyard. Tsukishima sets it to you again. "Listen, I don't really care about whatever your reason is. I just want to know."
You huff. There's no harm in telling your enemy a secret of yours, right? It's not like he was popular enough to go on and tell people. And like he said, he didn't care.
The ball comes in contact with your wrists. "I got injured. Well, not seriously injured. I can still play but I'm not as good as I used to be." Tsukishima catches the ball and rests it on his hip, listening to you explain. "I actually got a surgery at my calf."
You lift your pajamas just below your knee, showing the healed scar at the back of your calf. "The bone got dislocated 'cause one of my teammates smashed onto my leg when she was trying to save the ball. She got injured too, actually."
"Obviously," he retorts, now staring at your calf. Something about Tsukishima staring at your scar seemed too intimate as it should be, staring at your bare skin. His blonde hair drapes over his forehead, glasses glinting in the moonlight. "So where do you struggle?"
"Blocking. I can't jump properly." You scratch the back of your neck. "I can set though. Just, it's not in my heart."
"It's just a club," he says. "Play whatever position you want." Tsukishima sets the ball to you again.
"Just a club, huh?" You smirk. "Why'd you fail your test?"
"Because I was thinking too much of what I was gonna do when I'm at court again."
"And it's just a club."
"What's it to you?" He snaps. "At least I'm in the Volleyball club. Have I taken your dream?"
"You're a child."
"Yeah yeah. Join the club or whatever. Don't care if you don't or you want to."
You set it back to him again. "I want to."
Tsukishima senses your melancholy longing for the sport, sees your disheartened look as you think about all the chances you've lost. His heart twinges just the slightest, holding the ball between his slender hands. He almost pities you.
"Tell you what," he sets it to you. "If I pass the retest tomorrow, I'll help you with your blocking. If not," he shrugs, catching your return, "good luck with your life."
"You sound like this is a once in a lifetime opportunity." You roll your eyes.
Tsukishima hopes he passes the retest tomorrow.
Mainly because it was import to him to ace it. Partly because he wanted to see you on court.
🏐 —
100.
You read Tsukishima's answers. In the fluorescent lights, his neat handwriting presents to you all the knowledge he's obtained from your chaotic teachings. He scoffs proudly, resting his lower back on the edge of his table.
"Not bad, nerd." You hand his paper to him. "And you beat me by two points."
"That's because you're an idiot," he sits down on his chair, though still facing you. "See you at the gym later."
Your brows furrow. "The gym's closed. Coach Ukai said today's rest day."
"But I'm not Coach Ukai," he fixes his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "It's just for today. And only today."
"Fine," you agree. You act like you're forced to say yes, but deep inside the vessels of your heart and every part of your brain, they throb with excitement.
So you meet Tsukishima outside the gym after class in a white shirt and gym shorts. He meets you there, clad in the same outfit, heat radiating off his body that warms your always cold flesh. For a moment he admires observes you, your attire unfamiliar but nevertheless appealing hideous.
When you enter, the court seemed bigger without the boys rousing around the court. It was quieter, no shoes squeaking, no balls slammed, no eager yelling. You set your bag down on the floor and see your untied shoe laces.
"Fuck," you mutter.
But before you could bend down, Tsukishima has already knelt in front of you.
His knee rests on the tip of your shoe, fingers ribboning the laces of your rubber shoes. Your eyes widen, body stiffening, and it felt like forever as he tied it (it was actually only 10 seconds).
"You're a dumbass for leaving your shoelaces untied." He makes no comment as to why he's decided to tie your laces, but you swear you see his ears turn a twinge of pink.
Tsukishima takes a ball and goes to the other side of the court. When you stand opposite from him, he rolls the ball to your direction.
"How long has it been since you've played?" he asks, loudly, voice echoing across the empty gymnasium.
"Uh, a year and a half." The ball bounces between your palm and the squeaky floor. "I'm a little rusty."
"You are rusty. Your receives were shit last night."
You growl at his tease.
"We're not gonna start with the blockings. We have to start from the beginning." Tsukishima positions himself, knees bent and apart, his hands on his knees. "Serve it."
So you do. You toss the ball into the air, your hand striking as it meets the ball, and it flies across the net. It goes outside.
"Idiot." Tsukishima laughs. "First, don't try to aim it to me. You don't want your opponents to save it. You have to aim it at an open spot inside the line. Second, don't serve too hard it goes outside."
"Okay!" You yell. And you serve again.
The ball grazes the net, but the momentum deems the ball to be inside the line. Tsukishima catches it and receives it back to your side.
Shit.
You race after the ball, joined wrists hitting it back to him. He dives, the back of his hand coming contact with the ball and it goes back to your court.
And it's high in the air, so you take the chance to bend your knees and jump, spiking it to his court.
Tsukishima blocks it.
He laughs. "You're horrible at this."
"I don't exactly have a libero to save it, don't I?" You retort.
Tsukishima smiles a little, laughing at your loss point. "Give me the ball." You roll it to his side. "I want you to try and block me."
"The net is higher than it is for girls, you know." You approach the net. "I'll have a hard time."
"The higher you jump, the better you can block the ball. And you'll even have an advantage against your enemies since you're practicing with a higher net, (y/n)." He dribbles the ball.
Tsukishima called you by your first name.
Not your surname, not some insulting nickname. Your first name.
Your knees weaken at the sound of his voice dropping the phonemes of your name.
But when he flings the ball upwards, you feel your body go rigid. And just before his incoming ball passes through the net, you jump, fingers stopping the ball.
But the ball doesn't go to his side, instead it falls down below the net, at your side. You land clumsily on your feet, ankle bending but not painfully.
"See, you got it. You just have to jump higher."
"Shut up, you stilt walking clown." Your leg throbs, shaking. "Hit it again."
"See this?" Tsukishima brings his hands in the air, his arms and hands bent inward. "You block like this. Don't straighten your arms. It sets the ball upwards and they get the point since you're last touch. Block me again."
You kick the ball to his direction. Tsukishima springs the ball into the air once more, his arm flinging back when he jumps and strikes the ball towards you.
Filled with adrenaline, you jump as high as you could, your chest as high as the edge of the net, arms and hands bent inward as you block the ball and ricochet it towards him.
He doesn't do anything and watches the ball roll outside the court. Tsukishima's eyes shoot up and look at you, the corner of his lips bent downwards in amusement.
"Not bad. Try harder though."
You snarl at him.
Hours pass and you're both drenched in sweat. His shirt sticks to his chest, his hair damp across his forehead. He's wiping his face with a towel and his glasses rest on top of his hair. You drink from your water bottle.
The sweat drips down the tip of his nose, golden eyes drowsy yet vigorous with adrenaline. His lips are parted to pant out tired breaths, his adam's apple bobbing, the veins of his arms protruding. And he's sitting at the same bench as yours.
You swallow the liquid in your mouth.
"One day of practice isn't enough to get me into the club, Tsukishima." you say, wiping your mouth. "Thanks for teaching me though."
Tsukishima sets his towel down. "It's whatever. Your receives are go-fine, anyway. And you're really not that tall enough to block. You're hopeless."
"I wish Hinata was here to say that so he could yell at you."
Hinata. Tsukishima feels something uncomfortable rise to his chest when you mention his name.
And it seems as though you have summoned that tiny tangerine devil.
"Oh, Kageyama! The lights are open, someone must be here," your head turns and see that Hinata's hair pokes out the door before his head fully goes in. His eyes roam around until they find you. "Oh! (y/l/n)-san!"
"Hinata," you smile kindly. "Why are you guys still here? There's no training today."
"Tanaka-san said we can train for as much as we want as long as we don't tell Sawamura." he hops inside, Kageyama following suit behind him, unzipping his jacket. "What are you doing here, Stingyshima?"
"None of your business." He replies, irritation dripping off his sharp tongue from the nickname. "What do you think we were doing? Playing kendama?"
"I wouldn't mind playing kendama," Hinata looks at Kageyama, who shrugs. "Can we join?"
"Hopeless child," Tsukishima rubs his face with his towel again. "It's getting late. We should go home."
His usage of plural rather than sigular denotes that his usual selfishness has been decreased due to your unwavering presence, having been spent multiple hours with you for the past two days than usual. Tsukishima has easily adapted to include you in whatever he was going to do next.
We should go home.
"Aw, well, can you leave us the keys?" Hinata asks you. Tsukishima shoves the keys in the small boy's hand. "Thank you, Stingyshima!"
Tsukishima slings his bag over his shoulder, approaching the exit. He looks at Kageyama. "Fix your sets, your Majesty. You wouldn't want to clip the wings of Karasuno now, would you?"
You can see the smirk formed in his face. Kageyama is fuming, his fists clenching. "You– I...– You piece of shi– Hnmgh– You dumbass! Hinata!"
"Why me?!"
Tsukishima walks away without waiting for you, although you follow suit behind him. And when you reach the school gates, he turns right rather than left—and his way home begins with him turning left.
Yours was to the right.
"You gonna walk me home?" You joke, finally catching up behind him. Your weary legs has made you walk slower, though enough to now keep up with Tsukishima's tired pace.
"Yes."
Tsukishima doesn't spare a glance at you. But you look at him in shock. Then you shoot him an upsidedown smile, humming.
"No longer Stingyshima, I see."
"I ought to leave you here and get kidnapped." He states bluntly, finally looking down at you through his peripherals.
"Why are you walking me home then?"
"Because I want to take a long walk."
"Yeah sure, whatever." Your hands meet behind you, hitting the top of your bottom at every step you take. "You wanted to take a long walk. Could've gone to the park, could've roamed around your street. But yeah, you're walking me home so you could have a long walk back to your home."
Tsukishima tuts, his arms crossing. "Are you implying something, (y/n)?"
Your first name. Again.
"Oh, I'm not implying anything!" Your eyebrows raise, looking fully at him. And Tsukishima turns his head and looks at you as he walks. "I'm just stating what I've observed, Tsukki."
"Don't call me that."
"Okay!" You turn to your gate. When you reach inside the small box and pull on the lever of your door, you sense that Tsukishima is still standing behind you wth his hands in his pockets, watching you intently. So you turn around when the gate unlocks. "Yes? Do you need to use my bathroom first? Want a carton of milk or something?"
"No." He says. "Get in already."
You rest your back at your gate. "Tell me the real reason why you walked me home."
"No."
"So you lied to me earlier?"
"N-no."
"So what is it?"
Tsukishima sighs. Then he takes a few steps, approaching you and bends down so that his face would be equal to yours.
His scent is sweet, like freshly picked strawberries. And his lips, though thin, was soft and pink. And the tip of his nose grazes just above yours. And his golden eyes narrow to gaze at every speck of your irises. The corner of his lip turns upwards.
"That shut you up." He says. You blush, and he seems to taunt you. "Still want to play volleyball?"
His breath is hot fanning over your cold face. You can't help but nod. You swallow thickly from the close proximity that Tsukishima has created.
"Okay. Well, I still need help with english. And you obviously still need help with volleyball. So you reap what you sow. We'll help each other."
Tsukishima says those words like they're a command. Like they're being read from sacred scriptures. An event waiting to be happened for a prophecy to be fulfilled. Tsukishima's tone was flat but his voice deemed importance.
"Okay," was all you managed to let out through a breath. "See you tomorrow?"
Tsukishima stands up, eyes you up and down. Then looks into your eyes again and you swear that his gaze softens.
"See you tomorrow."
🏐—
A few weeks pass by.
At mornings, Tsukishima has come to pick you up and you studied on the way to Karasuno. You spend your lunches together, along with Yamaguchi, as well as Hinata and Kageyama who—while also bickering like children—listen to whatever you teach Tsukishima.
After classes, you find yourself joining the boys at the volleyball club, with Tsukishima helping you practice your blocks and receives. Though you notice that the boys take their strengths down a notch, which you are somewhat grateful for — because they truly are strong, and you're not ready to catch up to their level yet.
And at nights, Tsukishima walks you home with a milk carton in hand and sharp remarks in his mouth.
There's still a thick smoke of hatred that covers the both of you, that string of annoyance wrapped around your fingers. Yet as days pass by, that smoke has been thinning at every civil interaction. Albeit that annoyance still lingered.
And until today, that smoke has turned into this very light fog, until you begin to question why you hated Tsukishima in the first place.
Your phone vibrates.
tsukishima. Where are you? 8:32am
you. almost there. forgot my bag at home. 8:33am
tsukishima. Hurry up. It's cold outside. 8:33am
you. will do. sorry :| Read at 8:34am
Tsukishima is standing outside the gates of Karasuno, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed as you quickened the pace of your walk.
"You're so slow it's annoying," his eyebrows furrow. "Why'd you forget your bag? Idiot."
"You pressure me, douchebag." You flick the bridge of his glasses. He yelps. "Hurry. I want to study already. We have a quiz at 9."
When you and Tsukishima sit on your respective seats, you quiz each other with lazily scribbled flash cards. He seems to have absorbed the passed on knowledge and had answered the questions with ease.
So after the quiz, he seemed content; confident.
"How well did you think you did, beanpole?" You zip your bag.
"Well enough to beat your ass," he replies. Then, he does something new.
He smiles at you.
It wasn't a bright smile. Not energetic, but radiates some kind of light happiness. Seemed like a smile of gratitude.
You feel your cheeks flare.
After classes, you meet outside the gym as always, both of you changed into training clothes. Then you spend hours and hours jumping and tiring your wrists out, squeaking your shoes off the floor.
By the time the sun has set, Tsukishima was waiting for you again.
"Let's study."
Your eyes widen and you look startled. Tsukishima looks bored. "I'm pretty sure you got yourself covered for the rest of the year, Tsukishima."
"And I don't think you can train by yourself in volleyball," he adjusts his bag. "Let's just study. Reap what you sow."
"You keep saying that."
He ignores you. "Let's study at my place."
"E-excuse me?"
Tsukishima begins to walk to his direction. And despite your reaction, you follow him either way. "Let's study at my place for a change. I'm sick of your living room."
He says it like he's spent years hanging out in your living room. Your feet runs on the cobblestone to catch up with him. "But- What else are we gonna study?"
"Whatever I want."
His house wasn't actually that far from the campus. When you've turned a corner, he opens the gate and lets you in. When you enter his home, it's warm and clean, so you set your shoes aside and walk in your socks.
No one's home.
Tsukishima could've led you to their living room. Instead, he goes directly to his bedroom. And when you don't move, he looks at you through the door with a raised brow, as if to say "well? why aren't you getting in?"
So you do.
You sit on the edge of his bed, watching him unzip his jacket and set it aside. You decide to stop acting so wary and let you back fall to his bed, taking your phone out.
"So when are your tryouts?"
You look at him, placing your phone on your chest. "Next week. Michimiya was nice enough to let me try this late into the school year."
"I'll be there." He sits down on the other side of his bed.
"Oh," you're stunned. "Okay. Um, what do you want to study?"
You pull yourself up until your whole body is on his bed, sitting up and resting your back at his headboard. Tsukishima brings his legs to the bed, resting them beside your socked feet.
"Chemistry." This is new. "Can you run me through it?"
And you do. You take your notebook our and run him by all the lessons discussed for the past week. Tsukishima's pretends to listen but he actually doesn't.
Instead he's staring at your scar at your leg, up and down your very exposed thigh, but mostly at your scar.
You notice this immediately. "Tsukishima, why are you staring at my scar?"
"It's Kei," he looks at you, his hand resting just beside your calf, index finger twitching to trace the ridges of your scar. "Call me Kei."
Kei.
"Okay, Kei."
Your voice, filled with dulcets, his name sounding mellifluous as it rolls of your tongue. Tsukishima's heart beats wildly, and has decided to come with the terms that he hates you— because he likes you.
"Your scar looks... cool..." his index finger finally sets on the soft skin of your healed wound. You shiver at his featherlight touch.
And he's so near you now. As near as that time he walked you home and bent down to your height. And gods, he was so handsome. Even with his scratched glasses. Your mouth gapes the slightest, shaking hands reaching to remove the spectacles off his nose.
Tsukishima lets you. You see sweetness of his stare, all that hatred you used to see seemed to have melted and dripped from his sweat. This kind of Tsukishima is new– foreign, yet seemed right. Seemed destined to happen.
"Kei," you murmur. "What are you doing?"
"Is your skull too thick to process your environment?" his laugh leaves him in a huff, smirking.
"You're so eager for me to teach you something you're already good at so you could keep training me," your brows meet in the middle the slightest, a crease on your forehead that Tsukishima wants to wipe away. "Why?"
"Because you're good, (y/n)." He declares. "Your injury isn't stopping you to perform your best. You're just scared."
"Then why not just train me without me having to tutor you?"
"Because I don't want to lose these kind of moments." he whispers. "Jesus, (y/n), I like you. It's why I brought you here, for fuck's sake."
His lips are warm compared to his cold hands.
You gasp, though eyes fluttering shut, and your eyelashes tickle his soft cheeks. Your fingers wrap around his wrist as he holds your delicate face in the palm of his hands, careful not to hurt you as his lips remain planted on yours.
When Tsukishima pulls away, he's not far from you. His lips hover over yours, breathing your air, his forehead resting just slightly on yours. Your fingers come up to tangle themselves on his silky hair.
"Lose moments like what, make out with me?" you giggle. "If you wanted to make out, Kei, just tell me."
"You never shut up, do you?"
His lips meet yours again in an open mouthed kiss, his tongue unabashed to graze your shy muscle. You hum in surprise, feeling yourself fall backwards when he gently cradles your head to rest on his sweet-scented pillow.
Somehow, you did meet up with your end of the bargain, only with something better.
Something better– like his hips slanted against yours as his mouth spreads shameless ardor across your body.
Something better– like how he whispers your name against your lips like a sacred prayer before he kisses you again carefully.
Something better– like a newfound relationship with Tsukishima Kei, someone you swore was your enemy, but now was someone you could spend your days with in his bed getting warm in ways fire couldn't.
Tsukishima looks into your eyes, tells you his secrets through his dilating pupils. His calloused fingers push your hair behind your ears, and then he kisses your forehead, followed by silk petal kisses on the plump of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and then your lips.
His hands wander beneath your shirt, palms no longer cold as they're heated by the fervor of your body.
"You're so pretty."
"What a sap." you tease. "You're in love with me."
"I am." His nose rubs against yours lightly. "I so am. I'm in love with a dumbass. My ego has exploded."
tsukishima has always cared for you, but will he ever be brave enough to show it?
cws; angst, fluff, happy ending, kissing, fem!reader, petnames, arranged marriage to lovers, mentions of infidelity, swearing, not proofread i think thats all
wc; 2055
you're eighteen, freshly graduated when your parents tell you about their plans; nineteen when you meet tsukishima kei. he is calm, confident, and self-assured, a complete opposite of you — you're wondering whether it's possible to survive a fall from a skyscraper. not that you'd ever actually do it, of course.
the wedding happens a week before you turn twenty, and that night, tsukishima has the grace to at least pretend to not notice as you cry yourself to sleep. when you've almost dozed off, you hear him stumble out of bed and walk away. you wonder if he has a girlfriend, another partner, someone he truly loves, someone you're keep him away from. the freezer opens and closes. the prospect of you coming between two people too jarring to think about, so you try not to, and you are asleep when he gets back to bed.
the next morning, you're mortified at your appearance in the mirror, eyes red and puffy — much worse than expected, too. no wonder tsukishima had looked at you like that. oh, shit. you're a tsukishima too, now. you turn around, preparing to go to the kitchen to look for an ice pack — you don't remember seeing one, but it still gives you something to do instead of hating yourself and him and your entire life. when you're maybe halfway there, you bump into your new husband. he hasn't been expecting to see you here either, freezing in place with a couple of spoons in one hand. wait, spoons?
he holds them out to you awkwardly, brows furrowing as you stare at him. "what? take them, my fingers are getting cold."
you finally find your voice. "what for?"
"your eyes?" he says it like it's obvious. "i put them in the freezer last night."
oh. oh.
"t-thank you," you stammer, snatching them out of his hands, rushing back to the bathroom. maybe things aren't that bad after all.
living with tsukishima means you have to learn quickly that words are not enough — words are never enough. the first few days, it's difficult for you. when you cook something hoping he'll like it, and all you get is a cursory good, a distracted not bad.
it hurts, really hurts at first. you don't even want to be here, and the lack of appreciation makes it so much worse. that is, until, he invites his best friend, tadashi yamaguchi, over for dinner.
the two of you get along much easier than you expect — he's a complete opposite of your husband. when tsukishima is away from the table, he asks about the recipes. he's heard great things about your cooking, he says. tsukki will not shut up.
"i thought he didn't like it," you say. yamaguchi laughs at that, and that day you find out that with tsukishima, you have to look deeper than just words. you have to notice the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his appreciative hums, and the way he takes second helping and sometimes even thirds.
and then one day he approaches you, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. he clears his throat, runs one hand through his already messy blonde hair, clears his throat again. he fixes his glasses as you stare up at him expectantly. "yes?"
"canyoumakesomemorestrawberryshortcake."
"what?"
"strawberry shortcake," he gets out through gritted teeth. oh, you realise. he's embarrassed. "can you make some mo—"
"of course!" you reply before he can finish, trying to spare him the humiliation. on second though, this does mean he likes what you make. life is suddenly a little bit nicer.
tsukishima (willingly) holds your hand for the first time on your first anniversary. you refer to him as kei, now, and he doesn't really mind either. he thinks it's pretty, the way you say it. but he'll never tell you that, of course. he buys you your favourite flowers, even though it's not supposed to be a special date, because you're only married because your parents made you.
you hold the bouquet with one hand. "kei, you didn't have to!"
"i wanted to," he shrugs. "you're not the worst person to do this with."
"oh," you sigh, and the smile on your face is real, so real, and so is the way his lips quirk up — a small movement, but it's there nonetheless. "you too, kei."
you turn to go put the flowers in a vase when he grabs your wrist, pulling you back gently. his hand slots perfectly into yours, and he gives it an experimental squeeze. you squeeze back, and his thumb brushes over the back of your hand. "i mean it, y/n."
"i know." it's hard to suppress the grin that's trying to take over your face as you say it. "me too."
handholding becomes normal after that, whether he's holding onto you in the midst of a crowd, or the two of you are at home and he's playing with your fingers lazily. sometimes kei's doing something on his phone — he uses it one-handed, even if it makes things more difficult or slows down his typing — and your hand is in his other one. your hands might lie in the space between the two of you, fingers tangled together, or maybe he's tracing shapes, letters, words onto your palm — whatever comes to mind. either way, you like it. you like him.
nowadays, he even kisses you(r cheek) goodbye before work, and if he's extra tired after, he finds himself melting into you. your presence itself comforts him, your existence a soothing hand over his brow. he hopes you don't mind where this is going.
spoiler alert: you don't.
you've just poured yourself a cup of coffee when your husband walks into the kitchen, rubbing at his bleary eyes. he looks like he's just gotten out of bed and come here. there's something different about him that you cannot quite place, so you ignore it, half-turning to face him. "morning."
"g'morning," kei responds. his morning voice is low, rough as he walks up to where you're situated between the counter and the kitchen island. his hand falls to your waist easily as he moves you out of his way to stand behind you. his chin rests on your shoulder as he stifles a yawn. "i want some too."
you hand him your cup and he hums gratefully after taking a sip. putting it back on the counter, he wraps his arms around your waist. his body curves over yours as he lets go of himself. the weight is comforting as it blankets you — maybe the two of you can stay like this forever. you relax into the back hug; he nudges your head with his. "can't find m'glasses."
oh. so that's what's missing.
"i'll help you find them," you suggest, not questioning his rather... clingy attitude today. it's been well over two years since the two of you got married, and while he has told you on multiple occasions that you can see whoever you want, your moral code is still not low enough to partake in what can basically be termed as infidelity. even if the marriage is arranged, and there are no feelings involved — that's a lie, you know by now that you've definitely fallen for your husband, and hard — you still don't want to do anything of that sort, which has lead to you becoming quite touch-starved over time. so when tsukishima started becoming more and more physically affectionate as of late, you didn't dare question it, savouring every moment instead. over time, it's gone from fleeting touches and hooking his pinkie around yours while he tries to look unbothered, to much more confident hugs and handholding. essentially, everything a couple can do together — except kissing.
that's not to say you don't want to kiss him; you really do. when you see him chewing on his bottom lip, lost in thought, you want to kiss him. when you see him lick his lips while playing volleyball at all the games that he's started inviting you to now, even from afar you want to kiss him. and when one of his old friends from high school texts him about something stupid and his lips turn up into a pout without him noticing, you definitely want to kiss him.
but you digress.
it takes a two-minute search to find them on the floor by the bed; the floor by your side of the bed no less. the covers are more messy than you remember, even though you're sure you fixed up your part of the bed. the blankets are messy, pillows squished. the only way it could possibly be this way is if someone had been rolling around and also hugging your pillows.
you and tsukki live alone. you don't have any pets. you didn't do anything, and tsukki definitely would not — would he?
"why're you even out of bed so early?" you ask him as he falls back onto the covers. "you don't have work today."
kei flushes — actually flushes, a pretty red hue spreading across his face as he thinks of an answer. "you... weren't there," he says carefully.
"i see." your reply is just as cautious as you test the waters; after all, this is the first time whatever the two of you have going on between you has emerged from where it was comfortingly held captive in words left unspoken. "well, i'm here now."
"good," he says, and there's the slightest hint of a smile playing about his lips as he pats the space beside him. "c'mere."
oh dear. you really are sleepy, aren't you? maybe you shouldn't have gotten up this early either.
this time, you're the one waking up alone in bed — fortunately, too, because extricating yourself from the ridiculous pile of limbs that the two of you become every night is one of the least favourite parts of your day.
you find him pacing around the living room, phone held up to his ear. "that's not fucking working, tadashi! she's my wife, i can't just tell her that!"
his eyes meet yours; you raise a brow. tsukishima looks like a deer caught in headlights, before he cuts the call and puts his phone down. "hi."
"hi," you respond. anxiety twists in your stomach, a dark creature from an inky pool that crawls out and takes all of you. "what can't you just tell me?"
"nothing." it comes out too fast, and he knows he's fucked up by saying it.
"o-oh." you take it brilliantly, in stride. "well, are you having an affair, or something?"
you try to play it off as a joke, but the fear and insecurity is pathetically apparent in your voice. "i don't mind if you are—"
"i'm not!"
"it's totally okay if you are! that was part of our agreement, right?"
kei groans. he's not sure whether he should be put off or attracted by the way you're hell-bent on lying your way through this. "i swear i'm not, y/n."
"then?"
he swallows harshly. oh well, now it never. "come sit?"
you comply quietly. if not an affair, then what? technically, it doesn't count as one, you have to admit. but still, what was all of that affection for, then? to soften the blow?
"i like you," he whispers. his hands twist around each other nervously, knuckles white. "i know this is weird because we're fucking married, but i do—"
"okay," you breathe. "okay, me too."
you've thought about kissing kei tsukishima way more than you should. and when his tongue slips out to wet his grinning lips and his hand brushes your hair away and splays out to hold your face in one fluid motion, you especially want to do that. so you do.
you like being in love with him. when the two of you are glued together, when he absentmindedly traces iloveyous onto your palm, when he draws hearts on your shoulders with his thumbs. when he becomes much more vocal about how much he loves you, exactly. now, you even get to hear him say it out loud.
"i love you," he says, kissing your pajama-clad shoulder. "my sunshine princess."
"fuck's that?" you ask him, laughing, but you like it all the same.
"you're that," he replies, and refuses to elaborate.
as it turns out, you like him being in love with you too.
been on that married couple shit lately thanks mom ig. my parents also used to call me somethinf along the lines of sunshine/little miss sunshine when i was a kid bc i was so happy. not so me now but ill take it:)
chest hurts when i inhale like stopppp.
anyways 2:30am so i'll sleep now. lot of care, take love.
also ive been stuck at 499 for hours now so what should i do for 500
kenma, tsukki, kageyama, hinata; 2,025 words; fluff, slightly suggestive, mentions of hickies, no "y/n", fem!reader, whiney!kageyama, dom!hinata, tsukki being... tsukki, post timeskip!characters
summary: these hickeys like the remnants of our love, footsteps on the sea-soaked sand, a line of demarcation -- here is where our story begins.
a/n: i just rly wanted to write about hq! babes and hickies...
kenma.
the first time it happens, it’s a mistake — a brief moment of vindictiveness manifest in the way he whines and nuzzles into your neck before opening his mouth and sinking his teeth into your skin. when you gasp, your head tipping back, kenma pauses, pulling back, his mind already cataloging this very interesting new piece of information for later use, but his eyes have yet to catch up — his body has yet to catch up with the sight of you, cheeks pink, lips parted, eyes slightly glazed over as you stare ruefully up at him, a hand coming up to press over your mouth as you frown.
“w-what was that for?”
kenma hums, sitting back with a pout, “you were the one being unfair.”
you scowl, “how was i being unfair? you lost the game fair and square — the stakes were loser does the dishes.”
kenma sniffs, his nose crinkling at the thought, “but we have a dishwasher — it’s literally in the name —”
“but the nice wine glasses can’t be put through the dishwasher!”
you push yourself up onto your elbows even as kenma slumps back on the sofa, groaning loudly. still, he lets his head slump to one side to stare at the rapidly darkening patch of skin at the junction of your neck and shoulders. there’s something that feels dangerously like desire calcifying in the pit of his stomach and he weighs the pros and cons of leaning forward to give you another good bite.
really, dinner was great, dessert was better but — this.
suddenly, he understands what his teammates had always meant when they’d said they could keep on eating forever, even when their stomachs were full to bursting, even when they thought they’d be ill.
“stupid wine glasses…” he murmurs, leaning forward to prop his chin on your shoulder. you laugh, a soft, breathy thing as you reach out to tug a strand of hair from his low, messy bun.
“but the wine was good, no?”
kenma hums, letting his head loll back and forth, his eyes flickering down once more to the round ring of red now rising against your skin. he allows himself a tiny grin, leaning forward to press a kiss over the tender flesh. he makes note of the way you gasp, soft and expectant, the way your body seems to tense and then go laxed beneath his hands.
“yeah…” he whispers, smirking as he sinks delicate fingers into your hair, gently shifting your head to one side to allow him more access, “guess it was good…”
he presses another kiss to your neck, just slightly below the reddening hickey.
“g-guess? that was — a-an expensive bottle…”
“hmmm…” kenma trails his lips down over your shoulder, tugging lightly at your shirt, the wide collar falling away easily. when he finds yet another patch of unmarred skin, grazing his teeth over it, he feels the way you reach up to fist your fingers in his hair.
“’zume… don’t think you can get out of doing the dishes like this…”
kenma laughs, letting his breath puff out against your skin seconds before he opens his mouth and takes another soft bite. he doesn’t miss the way you whimper this time, doesn’t mistake the hitch in your breath for something like surprise when he knows better — and he knows you best of all.
“not trying to get out of doing it… just… we never specified when the loser has to do the dishes so…” he licks his lips, glancing up at you with a bright, devilish flicker behind his eyes, “i’m just taking my time with the meal. nothing wrong with that, right?”
tsukki.
it is a normal thing, for you to wake up in the morning and find remnants of the night before scattered across your skin like sand dollars littered upon a stretch of beloved beach. and tsukishima is never apologetic — ever.
if anything, he looks upon his work with pride, smirking as you tug at the collar of your shirt, tutting.
“tsukki… i told you not to bite so hard…”
“hmm… sorry, i must’ve forgotten,” he props a cheek on his hand, peering at you over his glasses, his tone the farthest thing from apologetic, “heat of the moment and all.”
you shoot him a reproachful look in the mirror and watch as his grin widens ever so slightly.
“the girls are the museum are gonna have a field day with this.”
tsukishima shrugs, slumping back into the bed with a loud, long sigh.
“dunno why girls have such a weird fixation on other people’s boyfriends. ‘s not like it’s any of their business.”
you tug listlessly at the collar of your button up shirt, resigned to the fact that you’ll never be able to hide the marks properly as you heave another sigh.
“it’s just how we communicate — it’s like… how guys sometimes just need to like… punch it out — or whatever.”
“or whatever?” tsukishima almost chortles, rolling over onto his stomach again. your schedules at the museum only overlap 2 days a week, and the rest of the days, either he’s off or you are. it’s a miracle the pair of you were able to meet in the first place, let alone hit it off like you did.
“yeah. i don’t know how guys communicate,” you say, even as tsukishima swings out of bed to come up behind you, looping his arms around your middle.
“we… don’t, really,” he admits, in a customary deadpan, propping his chin on the top of your head with obscene ease. you frown up at him, tilting your head back till it hits the middle of his chest.
“you’re gonna make me late again.”
“so?”
“so — unless you want me to get fired —”
“they’re not gonna fire you. you’re too good at… cataloging maps, or whatever it is you guys do in the cartography department.”
tsukishima spins you around his arms, pressing you lightly back against the mirror. he considers you for a moment, with eyes just sharp enough to pass for academic interest, but you see the darkness misting its depths, the pressure in his fingertips as he leans in to seal his lips over yours in a kiss that could only be called searing.
you break away gasping, only to feel his lips trail fire down your neck seconds before —
“t-tsukki — !”
he pulls back with a satisfied smirk; you can feel yet another bruise blooming along your skin.
“there. one more thing for you and your girlfriends to bond over, hm?”
kageyama.
it is a deliberate thing, the first time. but kageyama remembers the strange gravity, the tug just behind his navel, the persistent itch of curiosity as he leans forward to sink his teeth into your skin.
he likes the way you hiss, the way you go soft in his arms, the pair of you already a pile of tangled limbs on the massive sectional in the living room, the lights dimmed, half a bottle of red wine yet un-drunk on the coffee table.
“tobio… what —”
he hums, burying his face in your shoulder, fingers digging into your sides.
“… something i wanted to try…”
“hm?” you gently card your fingers through his hair, quirking your head to one side.
“it’s just —” he pulls back, a deep blush prickling his cheeks as he looks anywhere but at you, “something… i’ve wanted to try. for — a while,” he admits, looking shockingly small for a internationally renowned volleyball player, hunched over on the couch like this, his lips stained dark with wine.
you giggle, leaning up to tilt his chin back towards yours.
“sure. you can try whatever you want.”
you lay back, stretching out beneath him, pliant and willing, and kageyama goes still for a solid four seconds before he narrows his eyes, an un-namable hunger clawing at his insides as he pulls you beneath him and groans into your skin.
he likes the way the colors seep the surface of your skin, likes the way it’s so obvious against the bright of your collarbones. he spends all of the following day in an intoxicatingly good mood, to the point where his teammates are understandable suspicious. but he just tells them he slept well, that he had a good dinner last night, that wine was really, really delicious.
and that thanks for the recommendation.
hinata.
brazil has changed him, in more ways than you can count, but at the same time, in some ways, he is just, just the same.
“s-shou-you!”
“mmm —” he whines sucking a deep hickey into the junction of your neck, his pupils blown wide as he pulls back, lips split into a too-pleased grin, “what is it? did i hurt you?”
there’s the barest hint of a tease in his voice, and anyone else might’ve thought he’s completely serious, that he’s actually worried. and in a sense, he is — he’d never want to actually hurt you. but he also knows that — to a certain degree, you revel in this kind of pain.
you chew on your bottom lip, shaking your head.
“no… it’s — it’s okay.”
“yeah?” he sounds entirely too happy with himself as he reaches forward to thumb at the damp spot on your skin, “ah… that one’ll be pretty. just like you!”
he laughs, his joy so pure and infectious that it makes you blush. you look away.
“shou…?”
“hm? what is it, pretty girl?”
he bends back down to press a light kiss to your collarbone, peaking up at you with those would-be innocent eyes.
“don’t… don’t tease me.”
hinata laughs, that self-same, joyous sound.
“but i like teasing you!” he says, with no hint of malice, not a single sliver of shame.
you can only cover your eyes with your arm, turning your head away.
“aww, don’t do that —” he says, coaxing your hand away before pinning both of them above your head with a single, fluid move. your breath hitches.
“don’t hide from me…”
it’s too much to hope for that someone with eyes like his would miss such a thing. you watch as the dark, lightless centers of his eyes grow ever so slightly larger, threatening to overtake the honeyed ring of his actual iris.
“can’t… can’t help it…” you look away, feeling the waves of indomitable heat, wave after wave, washing through you, collecting at the base of your stomach to twist into something deeper, something harder.
“can’t help what, hm?” hinata laces your fingers with his; distinctly, you can feel his thighs flex on either side of your legs, locking you in place. the summers are hot in rio, but you can’t help but wonder if more than half the heat in the room might be coming from the pair of you alone.
all around him, the air wavers like a reflection in pond-water —
“shou… just —” you lick your lips.
“ah…” there’s a soft whine curling at the edge of his voice as he leans down, “you’re not playing fair at all…”
desire pulses like a heartbeat inside you.
“shouyou, please,” you beg, trying to wrest some semblance of control back from him but he’s having none of it. he pins your hands to either side of your head, his bed more than wide enough for the pair of you, with room to spare.
“mah… you gotta be a bit more specific than that,” he says, his voice almost casual as he noses into your pulse point right beneath your jaw. you hold your breath and a second later, the harsh sting of his teeth rakes through you, chasing pleasure down your spine.
“m-more —” you choke out the word against the heat of his lips and you feel rather than see him grin above you.
beloved - Tsukishima and being soft for you and only you
prompt list reqs are: temporarily closed
beloved
tsukishima; 1,787 words; fluff, established relationship, no "y/n", soft!tsukki, kissing and banter, tsukki being... tsukki
summary: 5 times tsukki is soft just for you and 1 time when he doesn't care that everyone else can see
a/n: this is an ancient req but... welp, here we are! u__u
01.
in the middle of the night, his eyes still marred by sleep and the lack of glasses, when the world is a watercolor haze of shapes and softness — he feels you tug away from where you’d been curled up against his chest, shifting under the blankets. he groans and tries to pull you back.
“kei… what’re you doing?”
“don’t go… i was warm.”
there’s a whine in his voice you’re certain he’s never let anyone else hear before, no one other than you and the silent, watchful moon, swinging low in the mid-autumn night.
“i’ll be right back — i need to pee!”
“well pee quick,” he says, voice gravely from sleep as he shoves his face back into his pillows and tries not to mourn the you-shaped emptiness in the bed next to him. he wonders briefly how he’d lived so many years, slept so many nights just by himself in this bed, his body and no one else’s to keep him warm.
he counts backwards from twenty, knowing that by the time he gets to about seven or six, you’ll be crawling back under the blankets, nuzzling into his side. he gets to eight, seven, six —
“there, see?” you shimmy back into his arms and he sighs a sigh that could be misconstrued as exasperated. but you know him well enough (and he knows you do) to know it’s nothing short of absolute contentment.
“mm. sleep,” is his only mumbled reply as he once again buries his face into the soft bend of your neck and breathes.
02.
out shopping, even though he’d made such a fuss about not wanting to go, about how it’s nothing more than a pointless endeavor and only contributing to the economic monster that is capitalism — but the way you press a sundress to your front in front of a full length mirror, the light in your eyes, the bright smile on your lips — it stirs something inside him. it inspires quiet; it inspires… admiration.
you spin around, laughing, clearly delighted to have caught him staring.
“what do you think? does it look good?”
tsukishima purses his lips, schooling his expression back into a frown as he scoffs and casts his eyes up towards the ceiling.
“’s all the same to me.”
“aw… c’mon, you don’t mean that,” you say, twisting back around to tug at the dress, contemplating if it’s worth trying on.
“sure it is. i mean — i’d like you in whatever, so.”
and silently, he thinks that the way you blush at his words is worth the trip… and all the bags he has to carry along the way.
03.
over strawberry shortcake, with two steaming caramel lattes — you humming happily to yourself as you snap one picture after another of the delicious-looking assortment.
“camera eats first!” you declare, snapping your phone shut and reaching out to pick up a fork. you pause over the petal-pink of the shortcake, decorated with three glistening strawberries, the soft white cream light as clouds.
you bite your lips, “ah… it looks almost too good to eat!”
at this, tsukishima sighs, reaching out to stab straight through a strawberry, despite your squeak of indignation and alarm. he wordlessly presses the strawberry to your lips, smirking to himself as he watches the buttercream smear across your mouth before you have the sense to open it and take a bite.
“mm! it’s good!”
“hn. i’d hope so — it was 2,000 yen.”
tsukishima scopes another bite for himself before pausing, his eyes caught on the languid sweep of your tongue across your lips as you try to catch the remaining cream. and, thoughtlessly, almost as if driven by nothing more than instinct and that strange, animal magnetism, he leans forward to swipe a thumb across your lips, pressing the excess into your mouth.
slowly, you close your mouth around his thumb, and he feels the slight pressure of your tongue against his skin. he swallows; you suck, letting his thumb go with a slip pop that leaves tension swelling in his chest like an overfilled balloon.
later, caught just outside the cafe, with his fingers curling into your hair, tilting your head up to meet his — tsukishima thinks that there are some things, perhaps like the strawberry shortcake, too lovely to devour. and then — there are some things, perhaps like your lips, entirely too lovely not to.
04.
after practice, when the moon hangs heavy in the mid-summer sky and the cicadas are singing loud enough to shake loose the stars — tsukishima leans back against your legs, his head falling into your lap as you reach down to slip off his glasses.
“so… how was the training camp?” you ask, tracing your index finger along the high bridge of his nose.
“tiring. the little orange dolt thought it’d be a good idea to break in —”
“break… in?”
“yeah, he just showed up and — i dunno — prayed that no one would notice that he wasn’t invited. idiot.”
your laughter is summer-sweet and full-bellied, and it has you tipping back on your couch with your fingers still tangled in tsukishima’s slightly shower-damp hair.
“it’s — it’s not funny!” tsukishima twists around, frowning hard enough for you to burst into another fit of giggles, reaching forward to run your thumbs along the ridges between his furrowed eyebrows.
“i mean… i think it’s pretty hilarious. that takes balls, doesn’t it?”
tsukishima huffs, swiveling back around, shoulders hunched as he grabs for the remote and clicks on the tv, switching through channels at light-speed. his glasses lay forgotten on the sofa next to you.
“or he’s just too stupid to think about the consequences.”
you reach forward with an indulgent smile, looping your arms around his wide shoulders.
“oh, c’mon… cut him some slack. not everyone can be as tall, handsome, and talented as you are, right?” you say, nuzzling into his cheek even as he swats half-heartedly at you.
“quit it.”
you giggle, hugging him all the tighter until he spins around, pinning your wrists above your head with a speed not usually associated with someone of his height. he hovers over you, his head cocked to one side.
“oh yeah? and what’re you gonna do for your tall, handsome, talented boyfriend to make him feel better after such a stressful day at camp, hm?”
you hiccup, lashes fluttering as he bears down over you.
“i — ts-tsukki —!”
“hn. wrong answer — two more chances.”
you press your lips and glare at him with what you hope is a reproachful air. tsukishima only smirks, shaking his head even as he bends down to press into your space, your chests pressed, his body covering yours and then some. his lips brush the lobe of your ear and he revels in the way you shiver.
“fine line between stupidity and courage, i’d say… don’t you agree?”
05.
before the game with shiratorizawa, with his brand new glasses, and his head bowed low.
“don’t be scared,” you say, reaching down to link his fingers with yours. they’re so long, so strong. the palms peppered with calluses.
tsukishima scoffs, “i’m not scared.”
you smile, rocking up onto your very tip toes to press a chaste kiss to his lips. luckily, tucked behind a large column, around the corner to a deserted corridor, no one is there to see.
“you’re not a very good liar,” you say, falling back onto your heels, peering up at him as he stares down at you with slightly narrowed eyes. then, he bends forward to trap you against the column, his breath hot along your lips.
“and you’re gonna make me late for warmups.”
he pulls back at the last second, leaving you breathless. but the smile that dangles from his lips is less sanctimonious than usual. he reaches up and flicks at your forehead when you make no move to follow him.
“i’m not scared, i’m nervous. but… i guess seeing you in the stands would make that a bit better.”
you bite down on your bottom lip, linking your hands behind your back.
“well then, what are we waiting for?”
06.
after the shiratorizawa match, when everyone is still running high on adrenaline, puffy-eyed with happiness, you bound down to meet him, skidding to a halt just outside the giant gymnasium doors. there are bandages on his fingers and sweat dripping down the tip of his nose.
his cheeks are pink with exhaustion, but his eyes are clear and bright and wanting.
“guess you didn’t have any reason to be nervous after all,” you say, trotting up to meet him as the rest of the team parts around the pair of you like water around a river rock. yamaguchi glances over his shoulder even as he herds hinata and kageyama away, the pair bickering over this or that.
tsukishima crinkles his nose, but his eyes narrow at the sight of the redness beneath your eyes. he reaches up his uninjured hand to trace along the dried tear-tracks along your cheeks.
“what’re you crying for?”
you sniffle, shooting him a glare.
“just because you weren’t scared doesn’t mean i wasn’t either — but you won — so that’s all that —”
he quiets you down with a kiss, standing there, in the open gymnasium hallways, the chattering of hundreds of students ebbing around you both. distantly, you can swear you hear tanaka whoop, only to be cut short by what sounds like sugawara smacking him painfully upside the head.
tsukishima frowns as he pulls back, “y’know… i’d prefer if your mind wasn’t on other things when i kissed you.”
“wh-what — i wasn’t —”
his lips thin into his trademark smirk as he tugs your chin towards him with two fingers, his hold more gentle than it looks.
“hm… seems like you’re not a very good liar either but… guess i don’t really mind that much.”
your retort dies on your lips as he leans down again, and this time, you don’t think about how the pair of you are still standing in the middle of a very visible hallway, how people are probably starting to stop and stare.
this time, you kiss him back like nothing else matters in the world except for his lips and how perfectly soft they are on yours.
