i am twenty-six and from the usa, i write mostly hq + sometimes jjk, i like bullying my faves, and i have kuroo tetsuro (derogatory) on the brain at all times
i’m not really an active writer anymore but i am leaving this blog as is so the works i already posted can remain accessible—and so i can lurk around n maybe reblog some posts every once in a while :)
✧ mlist ✧ tags ✧ about ✧ guidelines ✧
— [18+] contains nsfw + occasional dark content
— follows+interacts from @blanketchan
most recent work: just a little // bokuto x reader [nsfw]
current concern: crippling loneliness of being in ur 20s xo
How about more band!au jean??? maybe post-show andrenaline rush sexy times or something?
ghosts of you and me
jean kirstein x f!reader
you weren't exactly planning on fucking your musician ex-boyfriend in the backseat of his jeep in the parking lot of a concert venue months after your painful breakup. and yet—
wc: 1.9k
18+
c: smut (with feelings!), band!au jean, exes to lovers, car sex, unprotected p in v, creampie, tattooed!jean, jean’s big dick
“Jean,” you whine, fingers tightly grasping the headrest for purchase, the plastic seat belt clip digging into your knee.
The car creaks and groans, and Jean’s mouth is hot and wet against the tender juncture between your shoulder and neck, fingers splayed across your lower back. You tell yourself it’s the adrenaline—the way the stifling air in the backseat of Jean’s shitty old Jeep feels like an overworked rubber band that’s about to snap.
It’s nothing more than muscle memory—the way the divots of your spine intimately remember the steady pressure of his fingertips along each notch.
It’s a reflex—the way you reach up to rake a hand through his messy brown hair, revelling in the way his breath hitches beneath your touch. The answering stutter of your heartbeat in kind.
It’s—
“I missed this,” he shudders, every ounce of his wrecked tone thrashing helplessly, ruthlessly against your ribcage.
You missed it, too.
Even if you shouldn’t.
—
“Thanks for coming out tonight, everyone.”
The final guitar chords crackle over the amp as the band's set comes to an end, the drums petering out while the bright, colorful lights flooding the stage slowly fade into darkness. Turning toward the bar, you slide onto a stool while the crowd bursts into excited murmurs. Cool air wafts into the humid room from the double doors at the entrance as people begin to disperse and make their way outside.
And despite the fact that the continuous rush of amplified sound is no longer vibrating throughout the room, your heart hasn’t quite gotten the memo as it dances an unsteady beat in your chest.
The bartender slides you a cup of water, and it’s halfway to your lips when a voice beside you interrupts, “Can I get you something stronger?”
You don’t immediately respond, taking a slow sip before looking over the rim of the glass at the man sitting in the stool beside yours. Though you’ve never met him, you’re fairly certain he was in one of the opening bands.
“I’m good, thanks.”
He quirks a brow, seemingly a little taken aback that his messy auburn hair and boyish grin aren’t enough to garner more of your attention.
“You sure?” he asks.
“She’s said she’s good,” an all-too familiar voice cuts in from behind you, a little rough after being poured into a microphone for the past forty minutes but settling deep in your gut all the same, and the weight of an arm settles around your shoulders.
The man’s eyes widen a little as he takes in the sight of the tall man you know is standing there, and he murmurs an awkward apology before seeing himself out, leaving his half-full drink behind.
Leaning your head back against the warmth of a solid chest, you look up and meet Jean Kirstein’s gaze. “Maybe he just wanted to see if I could get him backstage to meet the headliner.”
He snorts, “That’s what you think?”
“The lead singer’s pretty hot,” you shrug, like this banter between yourself and Jean is still considered normal.
Like you didn’t break up six months ago.
Like this wound isn’t still fresh.
Like your skin isn’t ignited, set aflame, burning helplessly beneath his touch.
As you turn around to face him fully, Jean casually leans against the bar, and you do your best not to allow yourself the privilege of roving your eyes over the fresh tattoo nestled in the crook of his elbow, the bold colors standing out amongst the existing sleeve covering the expanse of his arm. The trails and lines of ink are slick with sweat, and it’s a battle in and of itself to try and forget all the paths your fingers and mouth have traced across them.
All the ways those designs have been pressed flush against your skin, slick with sweat for an entirely different reason.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Jean says carefully, referring to the text he’d sent you last week with a screenshot of an email confirming you were on the guest list for his band’s first hometown show in months.
The first text he’d sent you in just as long.
You’re still not sure what possessed you to, given that Jean’s unforgiving, tiring tour schedule was the crux of your breakup in the first place.
“I didn’t think I was going to either.” Inhaling slowly, you slide off of the stool. “I should go.”
Jean’s eyes track the movement of your keys now clasped in your hand. “Can I walk you to your car?”
--
Foolishly, you thought this might give you closure—watching Jean sing and yell and trail his fingers along his guitar strings beneath the blazing stage lights from your place at the back of the room. You thought you would know you both made the right choice when you looked at him and no longer felt a sharp, stabbing ache of what once was.
But the moment he stepped onto the stage and drug a hand through his messy hair, the light catching on the stupid green woven bracelet you snugly tied onto his wrist two summers ago, all the air left your lungs in a rush as a dizzy feeling poured over you.
And now you’re straddling Jean in the backseat of the same goddamn car you shared your first kiss in, the same car he bent you over the hood of on a balmy summer evening parked right on the beach beside the crashing waves, the same car you fucking cried your eyes out in when you realized this wasn’t going to work anymore.
The same car you slammed the passenger door of and didn’t turn back, not even when Jean’s headlights sat idle at the curb long after you stumbled into your apartment.
You could blame him for the way his hand ghosted over your wrist as you slid your car key into the lock on the door handle, his intake of breath audible as his chest brushed against your back, lips buried in your hair as he murmured, “I’m sorry.”
You want to blame him for the way every nerve ending in your body was set alight, the way you were helpless to stop your body’s need to sink into his embrace.
But as your fingers carded upward through the back of his hair—
As a soft little groan rumbled in his throat, his thumb inadvertently stroking your hip through the fabric of your dress—
The trajectory was inevitable, the desperate crash of his mouth against yours, his lips setting every scattered thread of longing ablaze.
Fog coats the windows of Jean’s car, the opaque swirls of white leaving little to the imagination as the dull glow of the parking lot lights illuminates his lust-blown pupils. Yet you can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’re choking down a whimper at the feeling of his cock sliding horizontally along your slick folds.
One strap of your sundress falls down under the careful tug of Jean’s finger, your bra following, and there’s a reverent sound spilling from his lips as he leans forward to mouth at the breast now exposed to him. He lightly drags his teeth over your peaked nipple, the way he knows will make you squirm and moan, and there’s a rumble of satisfaction in his throat as you arch into his touch and shamelessly grind against his shaft.
Looking up at you, he exhales, his breath hot against your spit-soaked skin. “I don’t have a—”
“I’m still on the pill if you’re—”
“There hasn’t been anyone else.”
His admission hangs heavily in the air between you, your heart fumbling in turn with the words as they repeat in your head.
“But we don’t have to…” he trails off, giving you an out if you want it.
As if you’re not still head over fucking heels.
“Jean, please,” you whisper, past the point of caring about the pathetic way your voice breaks midway through.
He cups your face in both hands, a thumb swiping away the tear sliding down your cheek as he leans in to kiss you softly, tongue flitting across your lower lip.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, low and rough. “I’ll give you anything.”
Him.
This.
Everything.
“Fuck me,” you plead.
Jean’s fucked you plenty, and yet even the memory of it pales in comparison to the feeling of him nudging the head of his cock at your entrance, the stretch of his shaft sinking into your tight, soaked cunt to the hilt.
His mouth finds yours again in a messy kiss, both of his hands gripping your waist as he groans into your mouth. “Were you this wet all night?”
You’d be lying if you denied the way your thighs clenched together as Jean tucked his guitar pick between his teeth, callused fingertips deftly working along the strings.
It was embarrassing, the wet patch you could feel forming in your panties as you found yourself lost in the gravelly tone of Jean’s vocals against the mic, your thoughts betraying you with memories of that voice lost between your thighs as he mouthed at your cunt.
“What do you think?” you gasp as he lifts you from his lap just enough to start fucking up into you.
He kisses you again, tongue sliding against yours like he’s fucking your mouth now, too, and it’s so hot and messy that he groans at the feeling of your pussy clenching down on him in turn, a line of spit hanging between your mouths when he pulls back to nip at your swollen bottom lip.
“I almost called off the show as soon as I spotted you in the back wearing this fucking dress,” he grunts, one hand sliding up your side and grasping your breasts.
Jean’s dick is so big, it would be borderline painful if the walls of your cunt weren’t intimately familiar with accommodating this euphoric push and drag. You’re already drunk on it—the feeling of being stuffed so goddamn full again. Of the feverish, intense pleasure that comes from riding his cock, your tits bouncing with each jerk of his hips, another fresh wave of sticky arousal leaking out of you.
“So fucking wet,” he moans appreciatively, hotly mouthing at your neck, fingers digging even harder into your hipbones as the sopping squelch of your cunt is amplified with each thrust.
There’s a surging, trembling need in the growing sloppy desperation of his length pounding into you, the increasingly strangled way you’re choking out his name and begging him to fuck you harder, harder like some fucked up, filthy prayer. You’re both too keyed up for this to last any longer, not when Jean’s fucking you this deep—like he wants to make sure your pussy will never forget the feeling of his cock buried inside of you.
And Jean knows you’re close, it’s clear that he remembers how you start to sound like you’re about to cry as you whimper with the white-hot pleasure of your impending climax.
“Come for me,” Jean heaves against your throat, teeth dragging against your sensitive skin. “Come all over my cock.”
You’re lost in the sweeping downpour of pleasure that explodes inside of you, your cunt pulsing and dripping as your walls flutter and contract around Jean’s shaft, every muscle in your body quivering with an overload of ecstasy.
Watching you fall apart sends Jean hurtling toward the edge, your panting, needy plea of, “Inside,” his final undoing as he chokes out a gasp and plunges in hard one last time before emptying himself inside of you, hot, thick cum spilling deep in your cunt.
And despite all this reasons this shouldn’t work, didn’t work, can’t work, won’t fucking work—you don’t care.
Not right now.
Not when your ears are still ringing with the desperate, choked out moan of your name on Jean’s lips as he came.
(Not when you swear you can feel something wet dripping on your skin as he shudders, his face buried against your collarbone.)
Letting the table know that no one has even eaten out was embarrassing, but you certainly weren't prepared for the results. As soon as Hizashi left the table, you grew quiet.
And then Aizawa makes his move.
"I could do it for you."
Aizawa's eyes never leave the point in the distance that he's locked into. He takes a sip of his drink, tipping it back until the foam clings to the sides; it's liquid courage, you think. You glance over to Hizashi, who's patiently waiting at the bartop for a waiter's attention. When he looks back to you, he shakes his drink in silence question and you nod back; yeah, you'll need another beer.
"I could go down on you."
You close your teeth around the glass rim of your bottle, trying to grit theoigh the feeling of your racing heart. Your voice stays low, as if anyone could hear over the din. "You'd do that?"
He leans back in his seat, chin up, expression neutral.
"I'd beg for it."
Hizashi is ordering now, glancing back at your table again. Neither of your faces betray the conversation, but you're flustered.
"You don't mean that."
"I do. I really do." His voice is unusually smooth. There's none of his usual grit. "I've thought about what I'll do to you."
He places his glass down and runs his thumb through the condensation.
"I'll be gentle. Slow. I'll take you home, lay you down in my bed. Make you nice and comfortable."
He rubs his thumb back and forth, tiny, little, delicate circles that draw your attention and hold it there. Your skin prickles at the thought that he can touch you like that--
"I'd take my time with you too." Aizawa continues. You hate how he can keep himself so stoic. "Undressing you, kissing your thighs, talking to you. You're going to cum before my lips touch you."
Heat pools deep inside you. Every thrum of want is laced with anxiety. You think you want this-- you think-- but you don't want to disappoint him either.
"That won't happen. I-It takes me a long time to..." You hem for a moment with embarrassment. "Finish."
"I don't care." Aizawa almost smiles. "I'll see it through."
Hizashi is walking over, balancing three drinks in his hands. Aizawa moves to acknowledge him, then finally looks towards you out of the corner of his eyes.
"Oh. And I'll make you cum more than once."
Your throat goes dry.
"What are you guys chatting about?" The blonde coos, bouncing his eyebrows and shoulders conspiratorially. He slides you your drink and you quickly take a sip. It only makes your head spin more.
"This one-" Aizawa jerks his head over to you. "Was trying to tap out after one."
You almost have a spit take with your drink.
"Shouta-" you begin to scold, but Hizashi cuts you off.
"Just one drink? Boo!" He's genuinely offended."I thought we were going to go wild tonight!"
Aizawa has this smarmy look of satisfaction on his face. He knows that you know what he's really saying.
"I said she should have at least four." There's a dark glint in his eye when he finally meets your gaze.
✮ tags ; afab + gn!reader, recently established relationship, mutual pining, pwp, dry humping + making out, nipple play, implied raw sex, super love-dovey, deliberate name change from iwaizumi to hajime 18+
✮ wc ; 4k (???????)
✮ a/n ; something deeply frightening happened to me in writing this but whatever. made it with ten minutes to spare happy bday mr iwaizumi
pls be nice if characterization is everywhere its been a while
He’s nervous.
So nervous.
You laugh at him over a can of beer, even harder when he visibly flinches at the sound. The room is too quiet since all of your company has left for the evening. Iwaizumi is tipsy but not drunk - though you think if he has another can he’ll get there just fine.
“Your face is gonna get stuck if you keep frowning.”
He shoots you a glare that makes your lips quirk up. “Shut up. You sound like my Ma.”
“How is she by the way? Still good?”
Iwaizumi snorts and takes a long sip of his beer. He tilts his head back against the couch, arm stretched along the seats. His muscles pull taut underneath the skintight material of his turtleneck. You find yourself sitting on your hands to calm down, but you’re too unfocused for it too work.
“She’s good. She likes the countryside. Been growing squash and tomatoes and everything. Gonna try and stay with her a bit during off-season,” His voice is wistful and affectionate. An only son, filial and polite - you smile at him lovingly. “You should come visit with me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? Guess it’s the same since we’ve already met but since we’re going steady I though you might be too nervous.”
The realization settles in too late. Just when you thought he’d swallow the nerves down, they make an appearance once again. He sits up straight, clearing his throat, diverting his gaze to the coffee table separating you both. A blush spreads up, all through his body. His ears turn especially turn some shade of cherry red. Dusts all along his nose. He tsks at you, tongue clicking with a familiar petulance. You bite back a laugh.
“Going steady? Seriously?”
“Well,” Your face twists in mischief as you look up at him, your eyes locking briefly. “You’d get all hissy if I called us lovers.”
His eyes go wide - in equal parts shock and mild disgust. You can’t hold the laugh back that time time no matter how hard you try. It bubbles up out of you, euphoric and hysterical. Your laughter is too loud to savor his displeasure, so caught up in it that it takes you a few minutes to calm down again,
“I hate you,” Iwaizumi mumbles. A grin splits your face.
“No, you don’t.”
He frowns and his blush darkens just a touch
The room goes quiet save for the sound of your heartbeat. You try and collect yourself. The house feels too quiet, all prior company absen. Not that Mattsun and Maki dragged out Oikawa to be considerate of your newfound love or anything. You’re sure you’ve already gotten a long text detailing your extortion related to the favor. Still, you’re glad to be alone with him.
It’s easy to split your time between all of them separately when you’re all in the same place - but complicated to be all together. And alone time with Iwaizumi has always been hard to come by.
You’ve been pining for him since highschool - the frequency you wish to see him tuned tuned by the passing years of your relationship and feelings. You’ve gone through the whole spectrum of desires. From wanting to see him everyday constantly, to hoping you’d never have to see him again. It took you well over a decade to make any progress, and the entire process (while surely heartfelt) has been unmistakably clumsy and so, so long.
Spending alone time with Iwaizumi has thus always been complicated except for this one time. You got together, officially, just last week. The day he came home, where you incidentally found yourselves alone together. Something that’d been rare years prior due to said pining and trying to get over him. You don’t even really know how it happened. It felt like the most significant moment in your life thus far and incomparably anticlimatic at once. He was just sending you home since you’d got completely shitfaced, and before you left you grabbed him by the collar and announced it. Just like that.
(You threw up half-way through the car ride back. Your Uber was nice enough to pull over so you didn’t do it in his car.)
You went home after and didn’t speak for days. It took a few more days for either of you to work up the courage to sort things out forreal, but you made it work with the help of even more alcohol.
Things get busy though, when Oikawa returns home and Hajime is off-season. It’s rare things line up, and when they do - it’s only natural you spend all your time together. You did today too, celebrating Iwaizumi’s birthday among the four of you with take-out and Godzilla movies on your nice flatscreen.
But you haven’t been alone with each other since your chat establishing your relationship as not a pipe-dream, which was notably through text.
He’s nervous, so incredibly nervous but so are you. Just a little.
You look up after being lost in thought - to see Iwaizumi stare at you. The air shifts slow and steady, thick tension stirring in your gut. You bite the inside of your cheek, rubbing your feet together as you fold over yourself, chin resting on your knee.
You wonder if you should be the one to break the distance. Iwaizumi beats you to the punch this time. You suppose you’re even.
“Come ‘ere.”
He pushes the coffee table farther away from him with ease, careful not to knock anything over. Your tipsy self swoons over his competence, but you’re sure you’d do the same sober.
The look he gives you as you crawl over to him makes you feel bashful. You go over until you’re sitting side by side - stretching your legs out. Your thighs barely touches. Iwaizumi jolts, swiping a hand over his face in exasperation.
“Sorry,”
You shake your head. “It’s okay.” Because it is, then just to make sure. “Are we okay?”
“More than okay,” He admits, a breath of relief following the words. “It was a good birthday, by the way. Thank you.”
“They’ll get upset that you only thanked me,”
He bristles immediately making you giggle. “I’ll thank those knuckleheads later.”
You smile at him, wide and bright. He looks at you before quickly looking away, laughing a little humorlessly to himself. You wonder what he’s thinking about but decide against asking, comfortable letting him go at whatever speed.
“Can I uh—“ He clears his throat. “Wanna kiss you. Just uhh… shit.”
You’d love to tease him, but you feel like your heart might explode out of your body so there’s not really much room. Nodding, you sit up on your knees and turn a little to face him. His features soften with remarkable fondness. You flush at the sudden attention. He sits up straighter, turning his head to face you. His forehead knocks against yours softly, noses brushes. His eyes are so sharp. You have to close your own when you feel him leaning in to kiss you.
Iwaizumi is warm. His lips are softer than you thought they’d be. His hands feel big as one snakes up to cup your neck. He gives you one deep kiss, followed by two pecks before pulling away to make you chase him. He rewards you by kissing you agai. The sudden pressure makes your head spin.
You pull away dazed. “You’re… super good at kissing.”
“Yeah?”
You press your thighs together at his reply. So sexy it’s unfair. “Uh-huh.”
He gives you a weighted hum.
His reaction spurs you on then. You pull away from him momentarily. Iwaizumi stares at you in reply, worry making his brow furrow. Before he can get the words out, you seat yourself on his lap. He’s taken aback as he realizes your intent, your arms around his neck. It’s not even really the alcohol, as much as it’s everything else. Cramped in your living room together, pressed up against your couch. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, and shiver in his arms smelling his cologne. Spicy with a hint of pine. He hesitates, hands settling so carefully on your hips.
He lets you stay like that undisturbed until you’re ready to pull away. Like he senses you needed that. He’s always been so good at knowing what exactly you need. Suddenly restless you decide you need to look at him again - make sure he’s real. That this is real.
“Hey,” He mutters. His pitch is low, sends your heart hammering.
You giggle, fluttering nervously. “Hi,” And then, “You like me,”
“Pfft,” His voice is so tender, so soft, so comforting. “More than that.”
Suddenly overwhelmed by your own giddiness, you squeak. You want to bury yourself in his shoulder again, but he’s quick to hold your wrist and stop you. He pins you under his gaze. It’s so intense you can’t help but feel like a deer caught in headlights. Your head is empty and all he’s doing is looking at you.
But maybe that’s the whole problem. He’s looking at you, and you’ve wanted that for more than a decade. Now having it is too much, too suddenly - and you’re almost afraid of having it. It’s just a gaze, but it’s yours. He’s telling he’s yours in a way that’s just like him.
“You…” He starts on something before letting you go. “For a long time,”
He doesn’t need to explain. You already know.
“Me too,”
He calms down when you get it..
“Really?” He follows up. He doesn’t look at you as he goes on. “How long?”
You think on it.
“Since we were fifteen?”
“Same as me, then.” He’s clumsy with the follow-up. “That’s…”
“Dumb? Ridiculous? Too long?” You say, filling in the words for him. “I know.”
The extent of your own longing comes to you in waves. Love, like the sea trapped behind ice - so easily shattered. You’re drowning, your lungs aching trying to get adjusted to what is finally yours. The shock of it comes and goes, but you’re surrounded by it all the same. Iwaizumi stares at you and you stare back and nothing in the world exists except this desire you’ve kept to yourself for years.
His name comes out like a whimper on your lips. “Iwaizumi,”
“Hajime,” He corrects, so tender. So sweet to you. “Please,”
“Hajime,” You test the name out on your tongue. It’s sweet.
He doesn’t say anything after that.
Your breath hitches as Hajime crowds into your space again. His hands are firm on your hips as he kisses you again. It’s different from before, lingers longer - his tongue pressing along the seam of your lips until you open them and allow him in deeper.The taste of alcohol is clearer on your tongue, bitter remnants of malt making you drool at the corners of your mouth. You kiss hungrily, your hands carding through the short, black hair with a longing sigh. Hajime groans a little when you tug at the root and the only thing you can think to do is try to sink into him further. .
The hear raises without warning. Your skin under your clothes feels like it’s on fire. It feels different too suddenly for you to adjust and keep completely calm. Lust that borders cosmic engraves into your bones. Crumbling under the weight of it, you kiss Hajime like your life would end without it. In the moment, it feels like it would. Exchanged breaths are the only source of air for that space and time. You feel frantic, hazy - and Hajime who you know to be so steady, proves to be in the same place as you.
His hands are so big. You can feel how tight he grabs you, his thumb pressing into your hipbones - itching to go lower. You don’t want to pull away but you want more. In the second you take a breath you tell him as much. Your own delirium might bring you shame if you were in any place to really feel it. “You can touch me. However you want.”
“Fuck. Don’t say that.”
“Hajime, please.”
You mutter something but you don’t catch what it really. Your head is swimming with unrepentant ardor and your tongue feels too heavy for your mouth. Hajime kisses you again and takes the lead. The pleasure echoes in how you sigh, your hips rutting against his lap as his hands squeeze your ass. His hands are so fucking big - strong and kind and hold you with no uncertainty. The groping goes straight to your cunt, stomach starting to twist with familiar arousal. You push your hips against him again.
You’re hardly thinking about it. Hardly thinking at all - no coherency or sense thrumming through your brain except his name. Hajime, Hajime, Hajime. An incantation of destiny. A love song.
You feel his fingers inch up to go underneath your shirt - all of a sudden feeling burdened by all the layers between you. You can’t calm down.
He pulls away from you first in that instance. Before you can ask, he nudges himself close to your neck, kissing along your jaw. You feel the fabric of your shirt tug. “Can I take this off?”
You nod rapidly, then mimic him wanting him to do the same. His laugh is raspy in the follow through - your shirt and bra discarded somewhere on the floor. He stops suddenly, flicking his gaze up to you like he’s asking permission again. You just nod, not knowing how else to convey your desires.
Your nipples pebble in response to the arousal and cool air. Hajime’s tongue flicks from his lips.
His gaze makes you feel ticklish. He runs his palms over your tits with an appreciative noise. His eyes linger long enough to make your skin go hot all over, your spine prickling with heat.
“Staring,”
He looks up at your face, amused by your pout then kisses you as he feels you up, calloused palms brushing against your nipples, tits fitting perfectly in his hands. He smiles a little against your mouth. “Guess I am.”
“Take yours off,” You plea.
He obliges you, peeling the tight shirt away from his body and leaving his bare torso in full view. The proximity makes your lungs tighten like they can’t get enough air - heat radiating from his skin. His physique is toned, layers of muscle soft and comfortable He’s structured and gorgeous like a statue. You’re greeted by his broad chest and the corded muscles of his biceps. All sinew and strength, down his core. Strong and stable and big everywhere you could possibly look. You feel awestruck, mouth-watering at the sight - clit throbbing. Objectively attractive, you’re sure anyone in your place would feel the same. But this is your Hajime and the body he’s worked so hard on, full grown and yours. The trail of hairs down his stomach, getting coarse. The v-line of his waist makes you clench.
Too much.
The words tumble out of you before you can stop them, like water spilling from a broken dam. “I want you to fuck me so bad,”
His brows raise. You can feel something twitch hard against your clothed pussy. At full mast underneath the confines of his pants. \Your eyes go wet when you realize what it is. Mind sticky, you draw your lips into a pout and silent protest. Despite your desperation, you almost want to say it again, pleasure thrumming through your body at his reaction. It feels like electricity sparking up from the base of your spine all the way to the top of your head.
Hajime presses his face to your neck all over again - hot, open mouth kisses trailing from jaw to chest. You gasp when his mouth closes around your tits, tongue laving over the tender skin and making your back arch.
“Wanna fuck you so bad,” He mirrors. His voice is scratchy and his grip is tight. “Been wanting to fuck you so bad for so long, you have no idea.”
There’s something true and well pathetic about the yearning that wells up inside of your gut and settles itself in your sternum. It spreads and grows and tangles in your ribs, curls around the vessels of your heartbeat. The kind of yearning that makes your whole being tremble, makes you want to preen and sing like a canary. It’d be good if time stood still so he could fuck you infintely - never being able to go where you can’t reach.
You rock against him and Hajime holds you steady like always. His voice drops down to murmur - speaking with alarming clarity. You’re teary from the sound of his voice.
“Let’s cum together,” He offers as reprieve, so sweet despite the harsh grip on your hips as he draws your weight down closer to him. You’re suddenly conscious of your choice in clothes - how thin the fabric of your shorts really as as the rough outline of his cock presses against the seam. You’re glad you didn’t wear underwear “And then I’ll make you cum again. I’ll take care of you,”
“You always take care of me,” You say with no awareness of your surroundings. He laughs breathlessly. ‘
“Yeah..since it’s you, it’s easy.”
You go wide-eyed but don’t get a minute to dissect. Not bothering to unbutton his jeans, you gape at the hard outline of his cock confined in black boxers. his He picks you up with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist as your spine touches the carpet of your living room floor. You make a surprised noise as you’re let down gently. He doesn’t unfurl you from him. You spark back to life as his lips meet yours again chastely. The complaint you had dies on your lips when he trails down your jaw again. His voice is next to your ear, sinfully rough - warm breath tickling your skin. His teeth tug on your ear lobe and you shiver.
“Tell me if it’s too much,”
You don’t get a chance to ask about it.
The sudden motion of his hard cock rutting and humping against your sticky, wet cunt punches the air of out of your lungs.
There’s only a single layer of wet fabric keeping him from fucking you. The very idea makes your pussy throb unhelpfully. You understand all of a sudden that this was what he meant about wanting to make you cum. But it’s Hajime, your Hajime - so making you do any work wouldn’t cut it. Humping you in missionary of all things like he’s already inside you.
The thought overwhelms and you gasp.
You don’t recognize the sound of your own voice, so high and pitchy with need. Pure pornography. But there’s no camera for you perform for, nothing but Hajime above with with a heavy gaze. Your spine arches at the sensation once it hits its stride, the angle of friction just right. The indirect touches makes your core throb. Your clit has been achingly sensitive for so long, and the release of tension in a single thrust is enough to make you shudder each time. It feels like you’ve been holding the feeling in your entire life. You wheeze his name out brokenly as he does it again - a sharp thrust, precise enough to be perfect like he already knows you that well.
Your lower body feels week as the arousal starts to climb to a steady chorus. You pant for him like a bitch in heat.
He’s not inside you but the smack of his hips against yours makes you feel like you’re getting fucked anyways. You imagine how it’ll feel when he really fucks you and can’t see straight after the fact. Each little movement spreads precum along your shorts, already wet with your own arousal. The friction of the damp fabric makes you cry out from pleasure, animalistic with need. Your nails dig into his biceps as he kisses you all over, wherever he can possible reach. Along your neck, shoulders, collarbones chest. Any place he has accsess.
You want him so fucking deep it’s frustrating, want him up to your throat - but the lack of direct touch makes you want him more desperately. And it makes it feel so, so good. The kind of pleasure that’s dull and throbbing but makes something in your spine go alight, like shoving your thumb into a bruise. You want Hajime to press himself into you hard enough to make the healed dull yellows vibrant purple and red all over again.
You gasp helplessly each time he rocks his hips into you. He’s whispering such filth against your ear, into your mouth each time you kiss and you can’t reply with anything but his name. He praises you each time anyway, goads you into saying it again. Again and again and again until you can’t find your own voice.
“Say it again,” Hoarse, punctuated by another thrust that nearly drives you over the edge and makes your eyes go wide. “Say my name again, baby”
“Hajime.” So you say it- can’t think of any substitute since you’re not sure god would suffice. Locked between you in the warm sticky air is just Hajime, all yours.
Every muscle in your body starts to lock up as you hit the final stride to your orgasm. You want to cum so badly for him and only him. All over his cock in any way he’ll light you. The thought pushes you over the edge. Over and over and over until you hang over the precipice of your own orgasm. When it hits, it hits like a crash of thunder on open plain. Like suddenly everything in you that’s every been grounded in Earth is scattered with sparks, skating and careening across your body. You feel him in the fiber of your being. Your toes curl at the sudden release, not able to voice a warning that isn’t just a soft gargle in the back of your throat. He doesn’t stop or stutter in his motion, instead gripping your hips tight as he can while lets you run through your high - nothing but praise and affection.
You can feel him more than you can see him cum along with you. Sticky, hot seed flowing in spurts as his dick twitches for you - his ragged breathing covering your skin in goosebumps. You moan at the warm sensation drenching your poor, covered pussy and find the load to be wasted though you feel contented anyway.
You’re barely sane enough to catch your breath, but he eventually lets you down - though you can’t keep from hugging him. You pull back to look at each other.
You brush the sweat matted hair away from his forehead with a lovesick sigh and giggle. He looks down at you with a grin, pressing his forehead to yours with.
“Can’t believe I came in my pants like a teenager,” He says through a laugh.
“It’s like making up for lost time,” You say warmly, all floaty. “Plus, the way you were fucking me but not fucking me…definitely a man. It was really hot, you know?”
He groans. “I’ll get riled up again.”
You smile at him. “Let’s fuck lots for your birthday, Hajime.”
“Is that the present you mentioned earlier?”
You pretend to think on it. “Mm..no. Not just the sex, anyway.”
He looks at you confused as you lean in closer to him. “It’s safe so there’s no condoms anywhere in this apartment, unless you wanna go stop to get some.”
He gives you a blown out look of lust with a soft breath, voice bordering a growl. “As if I’d make it through the door now.”
You laugh helplessly happy and kiss him. “Happy birthday.” And then a little quieter. “I love you.”
He softens visibly but doesn’t say anything else. You don’t need to hear him to know.
You think the spare copy of your keys might make him cry. So you decide you’ll give it to him later.
The clock hasn’t hit midnight yet, anyhow. You have plenty of time.
In which Osamu asks his brother to keep you company while you're closing the shop alone one night. And it wouldn't be an issue...if Atsumu wasn't the bane of your goddamn existence ever since your stupid drunken hookup years ago.
wc: 3.7k
c: 18+, smut, enemies to lovers speed run, the complete and utter defilement of onigiri miya (sorry osamu), miscommunication, fingering, unprotected p in v, atsumu is down so bad and also he's an idiot, protective!atsumu, miya twin banter, best friend!osamu
“Absolutely not.”
Osamu pauses in the middle of counting cash at the register and glances up to follow where your narrowed gaze is focused—a head of blonde hair on its way through the front doors of Onigiri Miya.
“I didn’t want ya closin’ alone,” Osamu replies, returning his attention to the stack of bills in his hand.
“Hey dickhead, I hope yer feedin’ me for this!”
Instant headache.
Instant fucking headache.
You let out a long-suffering, exaggerated sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re only leaving an hour early. I can handle this alone, Osamu. I promise.”
Osamu closes the register, turning around to look at you with his arms crossed. “It’s a Saturday night. I don’t like you dealin’ with the drunk stragglers by yourself.”
Glancing around, you pick up the only vaguely threatening object within arm’s length—a plastic spork. “I know self defense.”
Raising an eyebrow, Osamu glances from your face to the small utensil clutched between your fingers. “Wouldn’t be the first time Tsumu’s been stabbed with a spork,” he mutters.
“Fooooooooooood,” said twin dramatically whines, plastering himself across the counter like a fainting Victorian maiden.
“Get yer sweaty ass offa there,” Osamu grunts, snapping a rag against Atsumu’s arm.
He yelps, muttering something under his breath before finding a normal sitting position on the stool.
“Alright, now get outta here so you’re not late for your date,” Atsumu chides, running a hand through his hair.
It’s obnoxious, actually—the way he still manages to look infuriatingly attractive even with his sweaty bleach-blonde hair sticking up in every direction, his face still flushed and voice a little hoarse from practice. At the very least, he had the decency to toss on a clean black tee with MSBY emblazoned in large gold letters across the back.
You hate Atsumu Miya and his stupidly perfect face.
And his calves—who the fuck has calves that nice.
You also hate Osamu, your best friend and boss, for unceremoniously dumping your least favorite Miya into your lap at 8 o’clock on a Saturday night.
“It’s not a date,” Osamu yells from the office, walking out with a jacket slung over his shoulder.
“Looks like ya showered for once today, dirtbag,” Atsumu shoots back, mouth full of rice. “Sounds like a date to me.”
“Choke,” Osamu deadpans as he heads for the door, “…but not in here. Don’t have time for all that paperwork.”
Atsumu salutes his brother as you stand in the middle of the shop with your hands wrapped around the broom.
“Can’t promise what kind of paperwork you’re gonna have to do after leaving us alone together,” you mutter.
Osamu leans in, patting the side of your face. “Just promise me you’ll mop up the blood.”
—
You’ve known the Miya twins for years now, though it was Osamu that you first became friends with after a shared class in your second year of university.
Atsumu was more like the miserable cold that you accidentally bring home from vacation.
The miserable cold who you’re instantly, stupidly attracted to from the moment his brother introduces him to you. Who you end up drunkenly making out with in bed after a party one night.
Who passes out midway through and disappears before you’re awake the next morning.
Who had a fucking girlfriend at the time, unbeknownst to you. Knowledge courtesy of Osamu, who nearly undeservingly took a textbook to the head when he told you.
Who, to this day, three years later, has never even acknowledged that it happened.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t been harboring a stupid crush on him for months. And if perhaps you’d been a little more drunk, enough to forget the taste of his lips, the press of his fingertips into your hips. But naturally, that little hiccup drove an irrevocable wedge between the two of you, leading you to regard the blonde Miya in a perpetually antagonistic manner until the end of time.
Such is life.
“I think you might rile ‘im up better than even I can nowadays,” Osamu had observed once, after Atsumu balked in aggravation when you returned from picking up everyone’s fast food orders and handed him a kid’s meal instead.
Atsumu, never one to back down from a challenge, met your piss poor attitude in spades, going so far as to barge in on your dates on occasion, plopping right down at the table and obnoxiously stuffing whatever appetizer was in front of him into his mouth like you’d invited him.
—
Surprisingly, despite the restaurant’s minimal square footage, the two of you manage to avoid one another for the next forty-five minutes—Atsumu quietly sits at a table watching game replays on his phone while you wipe down the counters.
You almost forget he’s there, until the bell above the door dings to announce what’ll probably be the last customer of the night.
And—fuck.
Osamu kicked this guy out last week when he wouldn’t take no for an answer after you refused to give him your number.
“Hey pretty girl,” a tipsy voice slurs as the man settles down at the counter.
“Sorry, we’re about to close,” you tell him, not looking up from the pile of receipts you’re sorting on the other side.
“S’not why I’m here,” he chuckles.
Take a hint, buddy.
“We’re closing soon,” you repeat firmly.
A hand grasps your wrist, and you yelp as he murmurs, “What’re you doing after this?”
“Get your fuckin’ hands off of her, and get the fuck out,” a cold voice interrupts.
A hand clamps down firmly on the man’s shoulder, and you watch the pain flit across his face as fingertips dig into his collarbone.
“Now,” Atsumu adds, his voice so harsh it brokers no room for argument.
You may call yourself an expert in Miya antagonization. But as you look at Atsumu’s stormy, furious expression, the tense set of his jaw, you realize that you’ve never seen him truly angry.
Not like this.
The man quickly gets up from the stool, putting his hands up in front of him as he stumbles backward and says, “I didn’t mean anything by it, man.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Atsumu replies, his voice low. “I’m sure my brother was a real nice guy when he told ya to leave last time. I ain’t nice. Don’t fuckin’ come back here.”
The silence is deafening when the front door swings shut, broken only by the sound of Atsumu twisting the lock into place and flipping the sign to CLOSED. Your heart, meanwhile, is frantically pounding in your chest.
Atsumu wasn’t even here when that happened last week, which means Osamu must have told him for whatever reason, and…
“You alright?”
Atsumu interrupts you from your thoughts, and you glance up to find a disarmingly concerned expression burrowed into his features.
“Yeah…thanks,” you exhale, quickly turning around to busy yourself with anything but staring at the downward curve of his lips.
You have all of ten seconds to yourself before Atsumu comes to stand beside you behind the counter, idly tidying a pile of napkins as he explains, “Samu was worried that creep might come back, so he was gonna cancel his plans tonight so you wouldn’t be alone if he did. I told him I’d come make sure ya were alright.”
You’re not sure why, but suddenly, you’re angry.
You’re really fucking angry.
Maybe it’s because you’re a little raw in the wake of the adrenaline rush from that uncomfortable encounter, a little shaken by the stranger’s boldness and the way Atsumu stepped in without a second thought.
Maybe you swear it looked like Atsumu was about to reach out to you afterward, his hand falling back to his side in an aborted gesture between one breath and the next.
“Since when do you care if I’m alright, Atsumu?”
Atsumu startles beside you. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, you led me on years ago and nearly fucked me at a party—you probably would have, if you didn’t pass out in my bed halfway through taking off your pants. You disappeared the next morning, failed to inform me that you had a girlfriend, and then conveniently acted like it never fucking happened.”
He stares at you, mouth slightly agape. “I’m sorry, I what now?”
You turn to face him fully, crossing your arms, an incredulous look on your face. “You’re joking, right?”
“Was that…oh….” Atsumu scratches the back of his head, trailing off. “That’s the night I blacked out.”
“I mean yeah, you were kind of trashed.”
“No, like that’s the night that made me realize I had to cut back on drinking. I’ve got no memory of what happened. Zero. Haven’t drank that much since.”
“So was it not concerning that you woke up in my bed?” you ask, brows furrowed.
“I hardly knew ya back then. Didn’t even know that was your dorm room, and you were hoggin’ all the covers. Couldn’t even see yer face before I panicked and crawled my hungover, half-dead ass back to me and Samu’s.”
Well, this is certainly news to you.
“…and Osamu never told you.”
Well, why would he, after you spent two hours bitching to him about it and then threatened to never speak to him again if he made the situation even more embarrassing by telling Atsumu you were upset.
“Nope,” he replies, popping the p for emphasis before sobering a bit as he says in a more serious tone, “I’m sorry. For doing that to you, and for forgetting that it happened.”
You reach out, punching Atsumu in the shoulder.
“The fuck was that for?” he exclaims.
“So why have you been such an insufferable jackass all these years?”
Atsumu raises his eyebrows, looking affronted. “You haven’t exactly been a ray of sunshine either, sweetheart.”
Well, true.
But still.
(You try to ignore what the stupid pet name does to your heart, which is currently in the midst of a traitorous backflip inside of your chest.)
“At least I didn’t barge in and ruin your dates for no reason,” you glare.
“That was like, twice,” Atsumu defends himself. “Maybe three times.”
You stare at him.
“The fourth time doesn’t count, that guy was a dickhead. Samu wanted to punch ‘im, too.”
“You ate an entire basket of breadsticks.”
Atsumu shrugs, taking a step closer to you. “They’re bottomless for a reason.”
You’re not sure when it happened, but you’re pressed up against the prep counter in the back of the shop, and one of Atsumu’s hands is resting on the cool metal surface beside your hip. Not quite touching you, but you swear you can feel the heat of him all the same.
“You ruined my dates for breadsticks?” you ask quietly, holding his gaze.
Atsumu’s thumb twitches, and you feel the featherlight touch through your jeans. “I ruined your dates because I was jealous.”
Blood rushes in your ears, your mind struggling to comprehend the rush of emotion flooding through you. Embarrassment, elation, shock, annoyance—and something else, something with a darker, richer edge.
Something that has the next words tumbling from your lips before you can stop them, “Did you think doing that was going to make me take you home and fuck you instead?”
Atsumu has the decency to flush, but he only further closes the gap between your bodies, his nose brushing against yours as he replies, “I hated how much you hated me. And I hated how much I still wanted you.”
“You’re an idiot, Miya.”
He laughs.
He laughs, and it’s a low, rich sound that dances down your spine and curls up low in your belly.
“Yeah, yer probably right,” he exhales, his breath hot against your lips. “I should probably find another tactic.”
“I’ve heard drunken hookups work wonders,” you sigh, voice tinged with sarcasm.
His free hand comes to rest on your other side, effectively caging you in. “I’d have to be a fuckin’ idiot to fumble the bag with you twice.”
“Who said I’m still interested?” you reply, putting an inch of space back between your mouths, if only for the sake of your own sanity.
Atsumu hums. “I do have eyes, ya know.”
You don’t miss a beat, “Maybe I’m secretly dating your brother, and I just objectively like the look of your face, as his twin. Like a natural, biological reaction.”
You glare at him. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
Atsumu smirks at your indignation. “You’re outta his league.”
“And what exactly is my league?”
“Some stupid, sweaty pro volleyball player whose got it pretty damn bad for ya, who would settle for a hate fuck at this point if that’s all ya wanna give him.”
You know Atsumu clocks the way your breath hitches in your throat, the slight widening of your pupils that you can’t disguise at the bald, shameless truth of his words.
The look on his face is so ridiculously endearing, you want to kiss it right off.
Pushing yourself upward with your palms, you sit up on the counter, and Atsumu shifts forward to stand between your legs.
“Osamu would kill us.”
His nose caresses yours again, and he rests one hand on the side of your face. “For doing something other than fightin’? He’d throw a party.”
“For turning Onigiri Miya into a house of ill repute.”
Atsumu chokes.
“But there’s just one little thing, Atsumu,” you continue.
“What’s that?” he asks carefully, each word a huff of warm air dancing across your mouth.
You exhale, shuddering at the feeling of Atsumu’s other hand idly tracing the exposed sliver of skin between your t-shirt and jeans. “Can you handle me?”
Atsumu’s thumb skirts across the bottom of your chin before he leans in, mouthing his next words against your lips, “Have I ever told you how hot it is when you’re mean to me?”
Your answering laugh is swallowed by a kiss, an all-consuming kiss that has you gasping into Atsumu’s mouth as he licks his way into yours.
There’s no preamble for the way Atsumu’s tongue dances across your own, the thorough way he tastes you—the groan that rumbles in his throat as you take his bottom lip between your teeth.
Kissing Atsumu Miya is like setting a wildfire loose in your chest, all the oxygen swallowed up by his greedy, hungry heat. Your nerves thrum, the vibration rattling to the tips of your toes, and you’re helpless to resist the urge to pull him closer.
The second one of your legs begins to hike up around Atsumu’s waist, he grabs both, urging you to wrap your thighs around him, and he groans into your mouth as you find yourself flush with the solid proof of his arousal.
“Ya have no fuckin’ clue how bad I’ve wanted you,” he murmurs, drawing a keening noise from your lips as he hotly mouths his way down the side of your neck.
On the court, Atsumu Miya is an indomitable force. He’s unwaveringly confident and effortlessly sure of himself as a setter, always in control.
The crowd falls quiet, the ball follows his trajectory.
It’s a practiced dance, and he’s the conductor.
But here, pressed up against the counter in his brother’s restaurant, with your fingers tangled in his hair and his warm, soft hands sliding up beneath your shirt to clutch your waist, there’s a lawless, frantic edge to him. For every precise, focused move—like a kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear that he somehow just knows will make you gasp, and the dizzying way he cups the back of your head when he kisses you deeper—you can feel the wild, barely-restrained desire in the unfiltered chorus of groans you’re not even sure he’s aware are falling past his lips.
It’s slipping—his control.
And you don’t want him to stop.
“Atsumu,” you whine into his mouth when he finally, finally slides a hand up under your bra, cupping your breast and teasing at your sensitive, pebbled nipple.
“Yeah?” he pants, kissing his way around the curve of your jaw, only pausing to help you in your endeavor to take off your shirt.
He wastes no time in unclipping your bra, his deft fingers making quick work of the clip, and his expression is nothing short of lustful reverence when he takes in the sight of your naked breasts before him.
“Fuck,” he murmurs quietly, taking a breast in each of his palms while he leans in to press a kiss to your sternum, and whatever you were going to say promptly exits your mind a beat later. Wet, hot heat engulfs your nipple, and you glance down, nearly choking on your own spit at the sight of Atsumu sucking on your breasts.
Rocking your hips into him, you let out a breathy whine at the feeling of his hard cock pressing into your cunt, the fabric of his athletic shorts doing nothing to hide his thick, throbbing insistence.
Atsumu moans against your tits, and the filthy, wet sound of him shamelessly lapping at them sends a fresh gush of arousal between your legs, your underwear now soaked with it. You reach between your bodies, doing your needy cunt no favors at all when you feel just how thick Atsumu is as you wrap your fingers around him.
“God, I’m gonna fuckin’ come if you keep doing that,” he lets out a low, ragged sound caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh.
“I’d rather you come somewhere else,” you tell him, pulling down his shorts and boxers to let his flushed, leaking shaft spring free.
Atsumu takes your face in both hands, kissing you hard and filthy as he unbuttons your pants, sliding them off along with your underwear and leaving both in a forgotten heap on the floor. And when you wrap your legs back around him and rub your slick folds down the length of his cock, you’re already dangerously close to coming from that alone, too.
He slides a finger into you, muttering a string of expletives under his breath when he feels the sopping squelch of how wet you already are for him. One digit soon becomes two pumping in and out of you, and while it’s still not enough to quell the greedy desperation he’s ignited, he’s barely begun rubbing circles into your aching clit when you’re already shaking in his arms and moaning in the throes of your climax.
And then he’s stroking himself, groaning softly, like he thinks this is what he has to do now to take care of his throbbing cock.
Like you’re satisfied already, as if you’ve somehow had your fill of him.
As if two fingers between your legs would ever be enough to encapsulate all that you want of Atsumu fucking Miya.
(And really, it’s a lot, quite frankly. Now that you’re finally ready to admit it to yourself.)
“Fuck me, Atsumu,” you plead.
He pauses, chest heaving, voice rough as he asks, “Are you sure?”
“Please,” you exhale against his lips, and his mouth slots against yours as he notches his shaft at your entrance and sinks his cock into you.
Still sensitive from your first orgasm, you’re reduced to moans and whimpers while he stretches you open as your entire body floods with pleasure, your mind hazy with desire. Once he bottoms out, you feel so full you want to cry. You want to keep your legs wrapped around his waist and cockwarm him all night. You want him to fuck you stupid. You want to ride his cock until you both can’t move.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs, hips rocking as he thrusts in and out of you, your walls fluttering with pleasure at the rhythmic push and drag. “Wanna take you home and do this again and again.”
“Me too,” you tell him, and you can feel the way his cock throbs inside of you at your admission, his fingertips tightening around your waist.
“Good, ‘cause I’m not gonna last much longer,” he admits, grinning against your mouth.
The pleasure is rapidly building up inside of you again, the filthy slide of Atsumu’s tongue in your mouth only further fanning the flames, one hand trailing back up to tease at your hard nipples.
And you want to tell him, “Same,” because you’re dangerously close to the edge already, years of studiously ignored desire all spilling over into a crazed, insatiable need that’s making your pussy throb.
But instead what you whine is, “Harder.”
Atsumu groans, the noise nearly as lewd as the continuous sound of his cock pumping in and out of your soaking wet cunt, the only warning that he heard you before he picks you up off of the counter, plunging right back into you the moment you’re lying flat on the floor.
With the ground beneath your bodies for purchase, Atsumu begins to roughly pound into you, the fingers of one hand tangling with your own as the other trails toward your clit.
You moan his name repeatedly, like some fucked up carnal prayer on the floor of Onigiri Miya, and as he rubs circles into your swollen clit and whispers your own name just as desperately, you come so hard everything goes white, every sensation in your body drowned out by the sheer downpour of pleasure that you’re uncontrollably shaking with. Atsumu follows suit a moment later, pulling out of you and furiously fisting his cock until hot, thick spurts of cum are splattering all over your chest, groaning as he watches his seed paint your tits.
And just because you’re fairly certain what it’ll do to him, you reach down and swipe a glob off of your nipple while you both try to catch your breath, holding eye contact with him as you lick the cum off of your finger and swallow it.
Atsumu’s lips part as he stares at you, eyes widening a little bit before he looks down at his cock, which is already twitching again with interest.
–
Later, when you’re both lying tangled in Atsumu’s sheets, his phone lights up on his nightstand—
Samu: congrats
Samu: there is literally a security camera in the shop
Samu: also you’re disgusting you own a whole fuckin apartment to fuck in
Samu: die slowly
coworker and salaryman!kuroo who makes you reconsider everything you once knew about yourself, every principle you've ever held, every personality trait that revealed itself through the many late-night birth chart readings you did with your friends in college.
because you used to think of yourself as a patient person -- never quick to anger, always reasonable to a fault. the epitome of self-control.
until you met kuroo, and you had to ask the cosmos how one human being could possibly irritate you this much, testing every strand of patience until it wore thin.
you felt somewhat guilty at the instant burst of dislike you felt at your first meeting, baffled at your disdain for this near-stranger.
that is, until he continued opening his mouth.
because whatever about the rest of his personality, once he's in the office, he just becomes ... that guy. the one who sucks up to the boss with levels of smarminess you once thought impossible, who always manages to grab the last blueberry muffin from the canteen before you can get there in time, who seems to time his elevator trips to perfectly coincide with yours, resulting in you being treated to the sound of him droning on his phone to his jock friends about some volleyball league they're all involved with.
you hate him. you hate him you hate him you hate him.
and at the corporate summer barbeque -- as excited as you were for it, the chance to unwind and bond with colleagues across all departments -- he only makes you detest him even more. whether bolstered by the warm weather or the singular class of prosecco you had with your burger, somehow, kuroo uses that unshakeable confidence and sharp tongue to guide you into bed with him. against your better judgement, he soon has you backed up against the wall of your apartment's elevator, moaning the name you used to spit out with venom and letting you take the lead as you guide him to your room.
you had hoped against hope you'd be immune to the charm but your defences crumbled once he pressed his lips to your jawline, teeth barely grazing the sensitive skin as he whispered the details of what he wanted to do to you, how he could spend hours buried between your legs, and how he's always liked you.
as insufferable as he is, you've found he has at least one talent you can't deny.
The beat of your pulse jumps just under your skin, inching faster and faster the longer he waits there, a hesitation away from touch. When you breathe, your ribs press against him, hot and shaking with absolute, undeniable life. It stirs something in him he long thought dead, something deeper than hunger, deeper than just want-
"Be gentle," you whisper, hands clutching on to the loose fabric of his shirt.
He is. You don't even flinch as the razor edge of his teeth first break skin. The tension doesn't melt from your muscles until he presses deeper and the chemicals in his saliva do their job. Your head rolls back into his awaiting hand as he swallows deep, drawing your lifeblood into him.
The taste of you melts across tongue. It's all encompassing, like the full palette bloom of citrus, thick and deep like the wine, with something on the back of his tongue he just can't place. Experience has taught him to drink slow, spare the victim, but today he's another mouthful deep before he can stop himself, groaning into your impossibly warm skin.
"Haah-" you exhale, spine curving as you process it all. "Haah, fuck-"
He's using the hand on the back of your neck to draw you closer now, then other clawing for a grip on your side. You aren't close enough suddenly; he needs to smushed against him and he manhandles you there, purely out of desperation. He's usually such a polite man when he feeds, but today he's sloppy, a trickle of you escaping his mouth and rolling down his chin. He slurps and lets it bubble in his mouth like he's a new born again, only one step above feral-
Pleasure sparks and build behind his eyes, hunger no closer to being quenched. Do you moan like this when someone fucks you? Do you shake like this for your lovers? Do you-
After a good half an hour of picking around his apartment -under the scraps of clothes left in the hall, between couch cushions, and on every countertop- you find your wallet sandwiched under his shoulder.
you spend the morning figuring out his coffee pot and petting his cat (who chirps and beeps when you feed him a little bit of dry food). The apartment is sparsely decorated, a couple of old books piles on the shelves. you pick at one-- a study book for some fucking test.
around noon, the man emerges, sheepish and still barely clothed, only briefs on. his little pet hops off of your lap and meeps it's way over to his owner, twirling between his legs as he walks.
"Are you waiting for this?" he holds your wallet out. there's an imprint of it on his skin, red and swollen.
"thanks," you say. he tosses it your way and it flops on the couch. "I would have left, but..."
"you made coffee; you can stay as long as you want." He pours himself a cup and downs half of it. Dark circles sit under his deep set eyes. All of his features are bold -dark hair, nose like a dolphins fin- except his subtle smile, just barely pulled up in the corners. There's a charm to him, one you certainly saw last night. "do you want a shower? wash the cat hair off of you?"
"It's not the cat hair I'm worried about," you say too quickly. he snorts at that before busying himself with feeding his pet. Pulling an open can from the fridge, he pops to food into a dish, then turns to his kettle.
"Are you heating up the cat food?"
"He likes it warm." It only takes a couple seconds for the dredge of water to heat up. He adds it on top of the food and sets it down-- and the cat in question digs in. "He's a sophisticated man."
You sip the last of your drink. The mug is stamped with some sort of pun - this lawyer is always appealing.
"What's his name?"
Your one night stand blanchs a bit at that. "Uh, well- Lumps."
You don't even get to ask the question.
"My ex named him." He's quick to say. "She's not in the picture, so you don't-- last night was okay from a moral aspect."
"Only okay?" you tease, despite yourself.
"From a moral aspect," he repeats. He takes a long drink, a satisfied gasp at the end. "Phenomenal from an everything else standpoint."
You don't leave until almost two hours later, post shower and draped in a shirt he says you can keep. He talked to you about the LSAT books, how he had to take it twice before he got a score he liked, and how much he likes the law before he asked about you. Against better judgment, you told him about life and work and everything in between: enough conversation for a second pot of coffee.
When the pot was drained and you were at the door, he hesitated.
"If you can ever think of an excuse to see me again," he said. "I would like that-- Lumps would too."
He was nice, and the sex was, in fact, phenomenal, but you weren't sure if you should let a random hook up progress that far.
"I think if we're meant to see each other again, the universe will make it happen."
He smiled, but you knew he wanted to roll his eyes. "What is this? A rom-com?"
You shrugged. "See you boys later."
He let you go, with just a little: "I hope."
It wasn't until halfway home that you realized your wallet was still sitting on the couch cushions on his apartment.
