you squirm on his lap as his calloused hand caresses your plushy thigh while the other lays on your notes. âcâmon, youâve got thisâ he whispers into your ear, and you clench around him. a low whine leaves your throat when he shifts you, and you feel the slight move of his big dick deep inside you.
he reads one of the questions, âexplain how merton's anomie theory explains crime and give an example of âinnovationâ.â you gulp and try to remember the answer. you know you know it, but you canât think properly right nos. âbabyâ he says, slightly harsh tone against your ear. âi⊠i dont-â you stutter and he lifts you to slam you back against his hips, and repeats a few times. your tears run down your cheeks, spilling over your notes as you grip your desk tightly. âhereâs the answer, learn it, or iâll fuck you even dumber than you already areâ he growls and nips your earlobe, squeezing your thigh and keeping you still. âkeiâ you whine, looking at him over your shoulder with your cheeks flushed and a pleading look in your eyes.
âshow me how much you want itâ he grunts, jerking up his hips again, making you arch your back and grind your hips against him. he lifts you and pushes his dick back inside you again, your walls hugging him tightly, sucking him in as if you never wanted him to pull out. he grabs your hips to keep you still, growling in your ear âdonât move. fucking earn itâ
tsukishima always tightens the jars just a little too much.
not in a mean way â not enough to frustrate you. just enough that, when your hands slip and you turn with a quiet, helpless look, heâs already reaching for it. already peeling it from your grasp like it was part of the plan.
which, of course, it always is.
he doesnât say anything. just opens it easily, hands it back, and shrugs like it was nothing. but you know the look he gets â that small, satisfied curl at the corner of his mouth. like he's been waiting for you to need him.
you let him have it. every time.
he does it with everything â the pasta sauce, the jam, even the tin of butter cookies that clicks shut a little too snugly after heâs had his share. itâs not just about the jars to him. itâs about the way he likes being the one you turn to, the one whoâs always there. quiet, reliable. smug in the way only someone completely yours can be.
and maybe you roll your eyes, maybe you sigh â but you still pass him the next one. every single time.
bestfriend!kei accidentally rats himself out for having a huge crush on you.
wc: 1.4k
usually, the air in tsukishimaâs room smells like expensive laundry detergent and the faint, lingering scent of old books, but today it was saturated with something far more lethal: the scent of your shampoo. it was a tactical assault on his senses. he sat at his desk, pretending to care about a history textbook, but his brain was busy cataloging the exact frequency of the fabric of your hoodie rubbing against his bean bag chair.
he was currently enduring a very specific kind of torture, one where he had to pretend that your presence didnât make his pulse do a frantic tap-dance against his ribs. it was exhausting. he deserved a medal, or perhaps a small kingdom, for the restraint he was showing by not simply collapsing at your feet and asking you to step on him.
âiâm heading out to the convenience store,â you announced, stretching your arms over your head. the movement caused your shirt to ride up a fraction of an inch, and tsukishima felt his soul temporarily leave his body through his tear ducts. âdo you want anything?â
he didnât even look up. if he looked up, he was compromised. the golden light of the afternoon was hitting your hair in a way that made him want to write a five-page thesis on the physics of light reflection.
âyeah,â he muttered, his voice a dry rasp that betrayed absolutely nothingâhe hoped. âyour affection. but whatever.â
the silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a small sedan. tsukishima froze. the words had slipped out like a rogue spy escaping a high-security prison. his heart was trying to punch its way through his sternum to find a more dignified owner.
âwhat?â you asked, tilting your head.
tsukishima finally turned, his face a masterpiece of practiced indifference, though his ears were glowing a shade of red usually reserved for emergency flares and fire trucks.
âwhat.â he repeated, deadpan.
âdid you just ask for my affection?â
âi asked for strawberry shortcake,â he lied, the falsehood so blatant it practically grew a nose. âclearly, the lack of sugar is making you hallucinate. itâs a tragic symptom of your deteriorating mental faculties. go buy your snacks and leave me to die in peace.â
âkei,â you said, stepping closer. you didnât call him âkeiâ often. usually, it was nicknames or just a sharp poke to the ribs. when you said his name like thatâsoft, like something just shared between you twoâit felt like a physical weight pressing against his lungs. âi heard you.â
tsukishima felt like a cornered animal, if that animal was six-foot-three, wore glasses, and was hopelessly in love with a girl who thought he was just a grumpy beanpole. he pushed his glasses up his nose, the plastic clicking against his skin. he wanted to vanish. he wanted to be a puddle. he wanted to be the very floorboards you were standing on so he could support the weight of your entire life.
âyour hearing is as questionable as your taste in movies,â he snapped, though the bite was gone. his hands were shoved so deep into his pockets he might have been touching his kneecaps.
you didnât back down. instead, you leaned into his space, your eyes shimmering with a mix of amusement and something that made his knees feel like they were made of overcooked noodles. âyouâre blushing.â
âitâs the lighting.â
âitâs four in the afternoon and weâre in the shade.â
âthe sun is reflecting off the neighborâs roof,â he countered, his brain scrambling for any logical explanation that didnât involve him admitting he would literally let you ruin his life if you asked nicely.
you reached out, your fingers grazing his forearm. the contact was electric. to tsukishima, it felt like being struck by lightning, except the lightning was warm and smelled like fruit. he felt a desperate, localized heat blooming wherever you touched him. he was a goner. he was a pathetic, shivering mess of a man disguised as a cynical middle blocker.
âif you wanted affection,â you whispered, moving even closer until he could see the tiny flecks of sparkles in your eyes, âyou could have just asked. you donât have to be a weirdo about it.â
âiâm not a weirdo,â he breathed, his height suddenly feeling like a disadvantage because he had to look down so far to see the person who held his entire cardiac rhythm in the palm of her hand. âiâm a person with standards. standards that youâre currently vibrating against.â
âshut up,â you laughed, and the sound was so bright it felt like a direct insult to every miserable thought heâd ever had.
before he could formulate a witty retort about your lack of decorum, you surged forward. you buried your face in the crook of his neck, your arms wrapping around his waist.
tsukishima stopped breathing. his nervous system went into a full-scale lockdown. he felt the soft pressure of your chest against his, the puff of your breath against his skin, and the world simply ceased to exist. there was no volleyball, no exams, no annoying teammatesâonly the weight of you.
his hands hovered in the air for a second, trembling like a victorian orphan in a blizzard, before he finally broke. he collapsed into the embrace, his long arms winding around you with a ferocity that bordered on primal. he tucked his chin over your head, squeezing you so tight he was worried he might actually merge with your atoms.
âyouâre so warm,â he murmured into your hair, his voice losing every ounce of its defensive edge. it was a vulnerable sound, a complete surrender. âitâs annoying. everything about you is an inconvenience to my peace of mind.â
âis that so?â you teased, muzzling into his sweater. âshould i let go?â
âif you let go, iâm filing a police report for emotional battery,â he threatened, though he was currently stroking the back of your head with a tenderness that could have melted a glacier.
he was so far gone. he was wandering in the desert of your attention and he never wanted to find an exit. the way you fit perfectly under his chin felt like a cosmic joke, a puzzle piece designed by a deity who specifically wanted to see tsukishima kei lose his entire mind.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence usually reserved for ancient artifacts. his expression was no longer bored or smug; it was tender. he looked at you like you were the only source of oxygen in a vacuum.
âi donât want anything from the store,â he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, honeyed register. âi was being literal. i want you to stay here and keep making me feel like my heart is going to explode. itâs a very interesting sensation for me. iâd like to study it for the next fifty to sixty years.â
you beamed at him, a smile so radiant it probably could have powered a small city for a month. âfifty years? thatâs a long time, tsukki.â
âiâm a very thorough student,â he whispered, leaning down.
when his lips finally met yours, it was a bit clumsy at firstâthe height difference was a logistical nightmareâbut then his hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you upward, and everything clicked. it tasted like strawberry lip balm and the kind of quiet, domestic forever that tsukishima had spent his whole life pretending he didnât want.
he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the texture of your soul. he kissed you with the bottled-up desperation of a thousand nights spent staring at his ceiling, wondering if you could hear his heart screaming through the walls.
when you finally broke for air, he kept his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closed. his glasses were slightly crooked, and his hair was a disaster from your fingers running through it. he looked human. he looked happy.
âforget the store,â you breathed, clutching the front of his shirt. âi think i have everything i need right here.â
tsukishima let out a huff of a laugh, a genuine, throat-deep sound that vibrated through both of your chests. he pulled you back into the circle of his arms, burying his face in your shoulder once more, determined to never let another inch of space come between you again.
the history textbook remained forgotten on the desk, its pages fluttering in the breeze, utterly useless compared to the lesson he was currently learning about the gravity of a girl who finally loved him back.
n: this was supposed to be a crackfic but i somehow turned it into a sweet fic.
Can I request a tsukishima x reader about him cleaning his glasses in front of you and he gets flustered since youâre staring at him with all lovingly. Just wanna give him a quick kiss without his glasses off, đ
5:32pm | k. tsukishima
content: established relationship, short drabble
word count: 281 words
a/n: sfws are my strength. i've written smut like one time when i was like 12 and i'm never doing it again
âyou know⊠iâve never seen you without your glasses before.â
tsukishima was cleaning his glasses on the hem of his shirt and glanced up when he heard your words. you were flat against your stomach as you lay across his bed with your right arm supporting you up and resting your chin on the palm of your hand.
you two were taking a deserved break after a long time of studying
âi've taken them off around you multiple times,â tsukishima responded. âyou just haven't noticed.â he teased.
you didn't blink twice at his teasing. you didn't even say anything else. you just stared at him, studying and taking in all of his features as a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips.
tsukishima squinted his eyes as he felt yours trailing over his face, feeling his ears starting to get a bit warm. âwhat?â he said
you sat up and scooted closer to him until your leg was pressed against his. you cupped his face and softly rubbed your thumbs on the indent his glasses left on his skin. his honey brown eyes gazed deeply into yours.
âyou're so handsomeâŠâ you mumbled lovingly.
tsukishima's breathed hitched and his heart skipped a beat as his grip on his glasses tightened. he quickly looked away and cleared his throat before putting his glasses back on and shoving his face into the textbook open on his bed.
âlet's get to studying again.â he said shakily.
the melody of your giggle rang through his ears and you sat back on your previous position to continue writing down your notes.
YOU CANT JUST SAY YOU HAVE A TSUKKI FIC THEN LEAVE US STARVING PLEASEEEE
tsukishima loves torturing you
enemies to lovers trope - tsukki x reader
áČđŒ pre note. LMFAO i was cooking nonnie!!!! cookin!! this many words takes time lol i hope you like reading as much i liked writing it
warnings. explicit nsfw. minors DNI
content. 5.6k words || rough sex || college au || touch starved!tsukki || overstim || early orgasms || missionary and prone bone || light choking || fem!recieving oral || tsukki is a munch || late communication || sweet!loser has had enough trope || rly good arguments || good girl isn't a saint || mean guy is a loser || enemies to lovers trope || lying and red flag behavior || goofy yams appearance
He fucks his hand to the thought of you for four nights leading up to his game. It isn't the first time he's done it, but the consistency is heavily fueled by recent events. The stuttering, the stumbling, the adorable uncertainty about him, the three consecutive times you check him out after he gives you little more than a handful of words.
You like him. That's a pornographic concept for somebody starved of affection. So, no, he doesn't last longer than a couple minutes.
Seeing you in class again doesn't add or subtract anything from the fantasy-- and that's the weird part. You must have been perfect that day. Maybe it was the little streak of pen on your face, the mark of himself visible on you.
You carry an obvious awareness of what he did to you for the remainder of the week. He's back to being staunchly ignored. He's a menace with that clickity-clackity pen but you're prepared with earbuds. His teasing grants zero reaction beyond some tension in your shoulder blades. You pack your things quicker than he can rise, flying out the door before he can get the satisfaction of watching, for any longer.
That's the beauty of it, though. You don't ask him to apologize.
It's why when he catches you, in the stands, Thursday evening, he sucks his teeth and doesn't acknowledge you right away.
He has the entire game to think about why you might have shown up.
His uniform fits him better than the usual baggy attire he sports to your 8 a.m. It's actually the first thing you notice; his broad shoulders and the way his back fills out the number on his jersey. He moves with ease; quickly, though- with explosive athleticism you wouldn't have been able to imagine him with on your own. In class, he seemed part-snail how little he moved, how slow his swagger was between the desks even when he was late.
Though you stare at him hard, you lose sight of him often because you're never looking at his number. It's 17, you learn, after nearly twenty minutes of studying how his body moves.
Eye-candy aside, the game lasts much longer than you're prepared for. They go to full sets, and everybody clearly knows the rules better than you do. You aren't sitting in a group, you're stuck on the end of the bleachers, holding yourself, and flinching every time the crowd erupts. The thought to leave crosses your mind many times.
And yet, you are steadfast at your post. You don't take the opportunity for one sole reason.
He needs to pay.
You wondered why the invite felt so exclusive for a while. It felt unnatural for that boy to invite anyone anywhere-- let alone just a classmate he liked to tease. You soon found that his kindness, indeed, was too good to be true. Your hopes had been raised and sufficiently smashed back down in a million pieces. You discovered the streak of ink across your face when you stopped by the restroom after your third class.
It took every bone in your body to keep yourself from screaming when you realized you walked around campus like that all morning- and it was his fault.
After sitting on it for a day, muted rage eventually stirred up a sick, unshakable, feeling of responsibility. You had allowed yourself believe he might have been a nice, maybe misunderstood, guy all along- and there you were, suffering for it.
You still are, seated, over it and over him, while everybody else raises to their feet to clap for their Sendai Frogs' victory.
There you remain until the crowd has dwindled to a few stragglers. Some workers with brooms and trash bags pass you, sparing unsure looks. You tap your fingers, legs crossed, chin up. You know that he saw you. You're not going to come groveling to him, beyond entertaining the offer to come here.
It takes far too long. You're tired, it's way past your bedtime, and you cancelled some plans for this, so a storm was ready for when he comes dawdling up the metal stairs.
Tsukishima has his hands in his pockets, a towel draped over his shoulder, and slides on instead of athletic shoes. He's still flushed, but not out of breath. You hate how hot he is-- and hesitate when you notice he's got different glasses on. You look at him. He looks back at you. You squint at him. He squints back at you.
A big, tired sigh-groan makes you tighten.
"Iiii thought you were mad at me-?" He jeers, leaning back on the railing with a nonchalant sniff. He crosses his feet and finds more interest in sliding his shoe on and off than your stiff, unrelenting stare.
"What would I be mad at you for?"
He blinks and tilts his head back at the speed, the efficiency, and clear animosity in your query.
"Jesus."
He clears his throat at your frown, unable to bounce anything off of you, and a little cornered despite the gigantic gymnasium that houses you both. Instead of answering your question, he tries to steer you away from the very reason you tolerated this night.
"Did you like the game?"
Your words are lightning fast. Zippy and hard. His linger, slow, lacking in apology and soaked in sarcasm.
"Why would you do something like that?"
"Hmm-mm-mm... Whyyy would I do something like that...?"
"Yes. Tell me why."
"Tch... Tch... Tch... I don't know? Maybe- ohhh, yeah-! Because it was funny? Christ."
"That kind of thing is funny to you?"
"Hm. What kind of thing are we talking about?"
"Hurting other people is funny to you?"
"Mmmnever said that."
"You hurt me. Many times. Because you thought it was funny."
"I'm so sorry that you feel that way."
The oh-so-done-with-this attitude he has is, truly, bad enough. But the tiny smile he wears through your back-and-forth, like he can't be bothered to even view your anger as real, is worse. You uncross your legs. Your hands grip the edge of the metal bench so tight your knuckles lighten.
"It was just a joke," He swats off your sincerity, all your emotion, like a pesky gnat.
You stand up and snap, really snap at him. You shout, "You made me look like an idiot!"
"Lighten up!" He laughs, exhausted, a hand slipping through his salty, wet locks. Hours after a tough game, days after late-night fantasizing, months of repressing a crush, and years of building destructive emotional habits wracked up to come out in a tired, too-casual confession.
"Damn, (Y/n)-! I was fucking flirting with you!"
A breath of air fills your lungs. You notice it, how breathing makes you pause, and you realize that you're standing pretty close to him. Like you would, or even could, fight him. He finds a similar pause and swallows the lump in his throat. The immediate weight of regret weighs his head down. He would've rather taken the punch than admit that, in hindsight.
He slides a hand down his jaw and sighs. Then, you watch him wipe his face with his towel and readjust against the railing.
It's clearly your turn to speak.
"I didn't... uh," You wipe your sweaty palms on your pant legs- heartbeat feeling a little weak in your chest. "Yeah, I didn't gather that. From, y'know. The way you are."
He doesn't look at you, but snorts, and chortles, at your particular phrasing. His laugh is terribly cute. You can really see how tired he is when you choose to lean on the railing next to him, instead.
"Thank you. Really, thank you for that, Aristotle."
"Fuck you," You chuckle, tired too.
He glances down to you with raised brows. There's almost a smile.
"Oh, yeah?"
It's no effort, really. He doesn't try to make you blush, but it happens anyway.
You don't take the bait because you're better than that.
"They're about to close," Tsukishima sighs.
He motions to the more anxious-looking workers, idling at the exits for the two of you to be done with your lovers' quarrel. You jump, wincing at how inconsiderate such a thing was.
You walk with him, a little behind, because you don't know your way around. You give the employees enough apology nods along the way to make up for his refusal to do the same. He leads you to an offshoot section, near the locker rooms, and close to an exit. You're at ease because you think this might be where you parked your car.
"We can keep talking, if you wanna-," He glances around your face, pausing, so he can savor the reaction for the rest of his offer, "Go back to my place."
You're nothing if not polite.
"Um..."
A little breath fills you up, and you look away as you consider the suggestion. He watches with a smirk as color tinges your features, and your hands don't know where to go. Such a pretty girl, with no idea what to do with yourself. He wants to be your dirty little mistake badly. He wants it to be weird next week.
"Actually-,"
He cuts your thinking, your almost-no maybe-yes off, with a very unconvincing recollection. He jerks his thumb to the locker rooms and says, "I need to shower first. Before we go."
"-Wait for me."
It's not a question because he already knows that you will. Before he abandons you to wait again, alone in the hallway, he leaves you with a quick peck to the temple and a cheeky, "Come join me if you get bored."
Your skin tingles in the aftermath of his kiss. You touch where he held your chin, then where his lips were, and stand still in shock. You look back, but he's already out of sight.
He calls out, a bit echo-y off the locker room tiles, "Or don't! It's whatever."
Of course you don't.
But, when he said 'his place' you thought he wouldn't be in student housing. Not that you could judge; that's what you were used to. He was living in a slightly better accommodations, but still has a bunkmate. It's much like your own dorm room, but a little off, uncanny, and he can tell you aren't digging the threat of an extra person.
"He's working tonight," He throws a nod to the bottom bed.
You lean against a desk, dizzy, and unsure if saying yes was the smart move.
You don't know what to call him. He feels familiar, but just short of comforting, in this foreign room. The scale of its -his- newness weighs on you, multiplied by the fact that you had been in new places all evening. You had been so angry about how he treated you for so long because you cared- but now that's resolved, kind of, so what is there left to address?
He isn't going to guide you. You grasp, desperately, at nothing.
"You..." You feel his pressure right away and know you won't be articulate, "Said... that- you were- um... flirting. This whole time."
His duffel bag thumps onto the floor, across the room.
"Yeah."
A missed beat. You meet his eyes, briefly, but shrink at the thought of his offer at the gym. As he nears you, your heart squeezes in anticipation, "Wh-y-?"
"Because you're cute, sweetheart," A chill whisper ghosts past your cheek. Bordering on condescending. He puts two hands on either side of you.
Bad news. Bad news. Bad news. He's a walking red flag, you remind yourself. You've never met anyone so downright mean in all your years-- but, did his actions signify that he was totally irredeemable?
You couldn't get behind that type of black and white thinking, as you spare a wide-eyed glance at his hungry face. He is deceivingly pretty.
He leans down to keep you pinned into the desk- you hope, but aren't sure, that it belongs to him. You shiver at his words, brace against his hold, and shy away from that sharp gaze. He's so impatient.
It begs the question- one that keeps racing through your mind- Could this be the only way he shows affection?
You have a feeling that if you pull away, he'll never reach for you again. That, if you don't look at him right, it's going to be over.
So, out of curiosity, and in your best attempt to be kind, you relax. Your muscles stop fighting his grip. You press into his front and meet his hard-working expression with a softer, easier one. You trust your gut one last time and pray he doesn't make you regret it.
You whisper back, "You think I'm cute?"
Tsukishima's attention is stolen by the way you feel against him. Skin on skin. Cloth on skin. Cloth on cloth, fingers edged under his shirt collar. The weight, the warmth, of your tummy on his. His palms just keep you there, no longer rushed in his pulling, and his jaw twitches at how you search him so openly.
"Tsk."
His false disinterest might have discouraged you, had he not been sporting a generous erection that he kept firm between your bodies.
You repeat, eyes unwavering, noting his sudden flightiness, "You think I'm cute?"
It cracks his thin confidence. He looks down and away, wincing, at your parting thighs. You're soft- sooo soft.
He's breathing harder than you, holding you firmer, lost for fractions of a snotty response. You're distracting. He can't think beyond how good you feel.
Then, your fingers splay up into his fluffy blond hair. He takes a big, loud inhale through his nose at the sensation and sigh-laughs the breath back out. You bite your lip, captured, by how much he enjoys it, and dip forward to try and look him in the eye.
"Because..." You find his eyes for a fleeting moment, "I think you're a little more than cute."
"Hm-mmn."
He pushes his head into your grasp, seething, at your nails, and the way your thighs squeeze him. So, he was proving to be all talk and zero bite. You enjoy the way he holds you in his gaze, how he ruts against you like he's never had pussy before.
You grip the roots of his hair, and smile, a bit giddy with power, "Why'd you take me back to your place if we're just going to talk?"
He laughs. His eyes roll back to life with a sobered groan, "Ohh, yeah. Y'got me."
His tone freezes you. It weakens your grip. You're shocked by how quick he can shake off your touch. It doesn't happen without effort, but he can. And that makes you a little embarrassed that you believed, even for a second, that he was an amateur.
Because he knows how to touch you. His fingers pry from the desk to find your hips. He wedges strong thumbs into the crease of your thighs and rocks you forward, making you grip onto his shoulders with a startled sound. You have to wrap your legs around him. He takes a breath and envelops you in his arms. His lips meet the side of your neck.
"Mm-ch--, That's better, yeah?"
You sigh at the mark he surely has left and the fact that you fell for another one of his tricks. You're getting pushed off-balance, but held, hugged, closer, where he wants you.
"Or..." He slips the bra strap off of your shoulder and pulls the hem of your shirt down, "Did you like me more when you thought you were in charge?"
The muddy mix of pain and pleasure from his rough kisses confuses your opinion of him. You gasp at his teeth, squirm at his roaming hands.
"I don't know if I even like you."
He's quick to respond. Just like your argument back at the gym.
"We've got all night for you to figure it out."
Now that you're visibly his- he takes your chin between his fingers. You wear a pout he knows wouldn't be as adorable if it wasn't so unmistakably yours.
You lean in first and kiss him, like you're not conflicted. Sweet, gentle, and forgiving; how he knows you to be. You want him to return your patience and understanding.
It's not his style.
He hums against your mouth, deepening, prying open, what little you give him. When he rocks his hips against you, you knock over a cup of pencils in the process of finding a better leveraged place for your palm.
"Shit," His snicker brings you apart for a moment as he cranes to watch a few clatter onto the floor.
"You should pick that up before he gets back."
You scoff at him. So this isn't his desk. His smile would also indicate that he was waiting for something snarky in return.
"I thought you said we had all night."
He seethes, rubs your thighs, and replays the last minute in his head, "Did I?"
"You did."
A rare moment of sincerity raises his brows- a nod, and he remembers aloud, "That's right. I did."
His hands run up to the waistband of your pants and he starts toying with the button, the zipper- his tongue wets his bottom lip.
"I lied."
You don't inch away from his touch or interrupt how he starts to unclothe you. He's testing the waters and you want to show him you can be calm. You can get down.
"He does work tonight," He reaffirms, with a soft peck to your temple, "But he'll be back around midnight."
That was a huge cushion of time. You share a look of understanding first, then a greedier, faster kiss.
He hums at the feeling of your skin as he dives his hands down your clothes to massage at your hips. The way he moves your body for you screams that he's already been fucking you in his mind for a long time.
"Mm," You twist your head away from his bombardment of kisses, so he directs them down the curve of your neck, "We should hurry, then."
Tsukishima pulls his shirt off the second you're done telling him yes. You grin at the sight and join him, rushing a trail of messy kisses and scratches down his body. As he pulls his last pant leg free from his foot, he throws an arm to the ceiling.
The top bunk? You blink.
You crane to take a better look at his bed and strip a little slower. You eye his bulge, but stay thinking about the weight limit on these beds. The rules in your room dictated that the smallest roommate gets the top bunk. It was safer and easier that way.
You summit the thing regardless, grateful that you know the trick of how to get up on your own-- because he doesn't have the ladder attachment that comes with the bed.
"Is your roommate taller than you?"
The way he climbs up after you is practiced, and reminiscent of how well he moved during that game. You want to tell him, somehow, that you thought he was really sexy, how he played tonight-- but you shake the desire off. There's no way he would let you compliment him without tearing you down.
"No."
He doesn't ask why, but you see that he's shuffling through all the possibilities as to why you'd be thinking about his roomie.
"Then-," You shift, hand on the ceiling, and pluck a pillow from under your back, "Why did you take the top bunk?"
"Because I wanted the top bunk." He answers.
His simple phrasing gives you enough insight to how he generally is. A casual bully to not just you, but anyone that can tolerate him. His body takes up so much barely-there space above you. The air gets heavy, sweeter, but thicker- and you hold your breath.
"Don't look at me like that," A hand slips between your closed knees, ultra gentle, but daunting in its bigness.
You shudder and let him part your thighs.
"Like wh-at?"
"Liiiiike," He sinks into the prone, breath hot but his mouth hotter as he licks a stripe up your clothed cunt. His fingertips hook under your panties, "I'm gonna eat you alive."
His cruel sense of humor doesn't make you laugh, but it does turn you on.
"You're-ha-h, not funny-," You struggle and sigh, trembly, as he pushes them to the side instead of wasting time to pull them off.
He's patient and slow for a while. He listens. He adjusts, when you flinch- he learns your body and studies you, like a game.
Long fingers bring you forward into his mouth. You keep your hands on top of his, heart fluttering at the sensation of his knuckles and the strength of grip.
You worry that you're not necessarily fresh- your morning shower was 7? hours ago. You are not shaved. It takes a minute, or ten of them, to relax.
"Mnn-hh," Open-mouthed, dripping with clear from the chin, he orders, "You a robot, or what? Pull my hair. Do something."
He's the most sour you've ever heard him get. You gasp at a bite to the plush of your trembly thigh.
"Ow-! You-h-Ah,"
He groans against your pussy, tongue swirling, messy, around your swollen clit since that's how you like it, apparently. Your expression of discomfort weighs on him, so he repeats slower.
"Gimme somethin' or I'll keep doin' it." Harsh. Muffled. But inarguably enthusiastic.
You've been vocal. He's just greedy and wants you to be his thoroughly broken-in good girl.
The problem is that you aren't. You're no wide-eyed virgin saint. And he's not the secretly-sweet ready-to-be-changed guy you want, either. He likes how mean he is. It's practiced. You're just each other's folly for now, and that has to be enough for the night.
Thankfully, any pretty boy willing to go that hard for you can get it.
You arch into him, hands slipping through his damp locks, a broken giggle on your tongue at the ridiculousness you've both tripped and fallen down into.
He likes biting you. You find this out the hard way. When you don't pull hard enough, or when you fuck his name up.
"Just-," He struggles to get his shins out of the bottom of the wood frame, because what you didn't get to see was half of his legs dangling from the bed. "Call me Tsukki." He's so long and lanky it's impossible to keep the grin off of your face, even more impressive that you manage not to laugh until he's back on top of you.
His glasses are foggy. You chortle at him.
"Tsukki, you- shoul-d-- hahaa-," You giggle at his deadpan expression, and fail to tease him because, again, he looks so silly.
When you're done, he slides them off of his face with one hand. He reaches above you, and tenderly places his glasses on one of the wooden bed posts.
You stare at them for seconds after he's done setting them aside. This might have added to how strong of an effect his new face gives you. Now, that was a volleyball player. He squints at you, amusement twitching up his lips, at how you flex against him. His bare, amber eyes are so severe and you can't seem to catch your breath.
"What?"
"N-othing," You wince at your voice crack.
He laughs at you and frees you both of the last of your clothes. Once again, it cannot be overstated how pretty his laugh is, even when it's at your expense.
He is all-too aware of why your thighs squeeze him harder, why your chest is rising and falling uneven, why your face is getting hotter. He's slow, and drunk on your slickness coating his cock, "Mm... Do I look... different?"
"Just a little bit better?" His teeth make an appearance this time as he slides his arms under the pillow, closer, looking down at you, "Ohh, c'mon, y'can't talk to me? Don't wanna laugh?"
"You're- ah, an asshole," You sigh, shaky, and needy at how he lines himself up with you.
His kisses are rough and ruttish on the side of your face now that there's nothing in the way. He shushes you, too, as if he hasn't dismissed you enough.
"Fu-ck," He's vocal as he buries himself into you, denying you space, denying you air, or humility, "Mmhh-ah,"
His hand takes the whole lower half of your face and twists it up, away, as he soaks up your gasping. He can feel that you're able to take him already, he can hear you love it-- inflating his ego, and of course, he can't let that go unspoken for.
"Feels good, yeah?" He taunts against your ear, cock jammed against your cervix.
He feels like the kind of hook-up you won't ever forget. So heavy as he weighs you down, grabbing you, holding you, needing you despite knowing next to nothing about you. His hands are sampling every inch of your sticky skin. He's rough and not so calculated anymore. You laugh, a breathless version of one, at least, and return what strength you could afford.
"You're- so- h-ah, cute," You admit between gasps, brows squeezed together, fingers buried in his fluffy blond hair.
He tries to roll his eyes, but it just doesn't work. His head is heavy in the crook of your shoulder, his sounds exaggerated because they're immediately in the shell of your ear.
Fullness- real, and slick, and burning hot, fills you: He utters broken and whiny phrases of how perfect you are, every time he bottoms out, and soon he's wrapping his arms around you again.
He never struck you as a hugger, not on the first night, and certainly not a clingy one at that.
"Mnh!" You squeak at his biting, nails digging lines down his broad back.
You think about how good he looked in his jersey again. It was practically foreplay. What was his number? Maybe you could look pictures up online.
"H-ah...Y-our g-ame--,"
Your words fail you again and you can feel his lips turn into that shitty smirk against yours.
You groan, frustrated, and lock your ankles around him. He's deeper, and it's wetter, it's louder. You think about who might live on the other side of the wall.
"Mn-nh!!" He pants, brow furrowed, at the gesture, "Careful...fuck, hah..."
Did 'careful' mean he was close? You don't have time to get proud about it because he's already pulling out and catching his breath, collecting his senses again.
"Turn around."
You breathe in tandem for a moment. At first, you don't move, because there is simply no room for traditional doggy. And, he looks like he belongs in a magazine, all twisted and muscled in the dim light with a bouncy, slick cock.
Then you remember there are variations.
You're stuffed with him already. You gasp and your pussy flexes hard around him as he reaches around to hold your neck.
"This okay?"
"Don't squeeze."
You hesitate before adding an ultra-soft, "Please."
He kisses the back of your head and readjusts his grip, substantially lighter.
Okay, maybe you do want him to squeeze. You don't test it, though - you don't know him. And you can't, because he's fucking all the words out of you again.
"Ah-h-!" You whine into his pillow- legs trembling- full body getting wrecked as he pushes his hips into yours.
You whine his nickname; easy consonants that spill pretty, quieted, against his bedsheets. The bed is not sturdy, you notice, as you egg him on with very little effort.
His lips are on your shoulder as he mutters, mostly to himself, "Yeah. Should've fucked you sooner."
You feel it running down your thighs, the sweat and juice all mixed together - it burns against the bites he left on you. There's one that probably won't heal for weeks, long after he's done with you.
He fucks you until you're a babbling, incoherent mess. He entertains you, too, teasing and picking apart your sounds.
"I know, ohh, I know," His groans and sighs fall over your skin, inspire a deeper arch in your spine, relax you and ease your fussing.
You're not typically so easy, but he's kept you on your toes for more surprising twists than an premature orgasm. You're full of him, crying, whining, and clawing at his sheets that smelled just like him as you cum hard, way too early.
"Fuuck, yeah. Good girl," His eyes are wide with surprise behind you.
You can't see it. You could've maybe deduced it from his tone, but can't hear him through the milky high you're swimming in. "You okay?" Is a bit facetious, at first.
It's for the best.
This was lovely, but you can't help but get lost in the emptiness the refractory period leaves you with.
Salt burns your eyes. He's still a bully. You had been so vulnerable, and for what? He lies, at almost every opportunity, until he's caught. He's insensitive. You weren't looking for one night stands anymore, but he has to make you bring the list back out.
You feel a hand zip off your neck, and all of his weight shifting after he pulls out.
"Hey," Tsukishima cranes to look at you, wetting his pillow with overstimulated tears, and you sniffle, confused, at the panic written all over him, "Are you okay?"
"Mhm," You blink the sting away but remain still, heavy, and a little sad, but you can't remember why.
He lightly strokes some hair from your face, "Was it the choking? Was it too hard?"
"No..."
'No,' Ghosts past his lips, and he's trying to think of what else he could've done to upset you. His shoulders droop a bit when he's got a long list of qualifying actions.
Could it be that he's actually fretting over you? He sells it well, thoroughly disheveled, because his hair has dried oddly and it's obvious he can't see well. You learn that every second you choose to not speak slowly, incrementally, kills him.
He is ultra-weary by the time you have a blanket wrapped around you and a bottle of water in your hand.
You didn't want his compassion to end. You liked holding him in limbo. If this was his punishment for months of torment, it was -overall- a miniscule price to pay.
Sitting on the edge of his mattress, your feet automatically swing back and forth. You take in the volleyball posters on every wall as he gets dressed, fails to find his fallen glasses, and cleans up most of his roommate's pencils you spilled earlier. You have a quiet sip of cold water and smell a fistful of his blanket. You glance to an empty spot on the wooden bedframe.
"I like your room." You break your silence with a hoarse, tiny declaration.
Tsukishima stills. He has to be very intentional about not sounding like a dick, for once. He slowly drops the last pencil in and adjusts the cup to where he thinks it was, "Yeah?"
From this angle, you notice he's still fully hard and struggle not to look a second time.
"Tsukki?"
That tone you take on beckons him toward you. It's honied, and domestic, and makes his guilt feel a like a ton that he drags behind him. He only has himself to blame for getting so attached.
You reach for him and take his face in your palms. He looks up at you, searching as hard as he can with blurry vision.
"I'm okay. I promise."
Absentminded swinging stills at his touch.
"And...sorry you didn't get yours," You're not really sorry, but you desperately want to address his situation downstairs, and overstay your welcome, if you can.
His head rests heavy on your bare thighs with a pained grin.
"I mean," His grip slides up the outside of your thigh, eyes following, as he fights the desire to be truthful. He grimaces through it for you, "I came in the shower before this, so..."
"At the gym?"
"...Yeah."
The two of your share a chuckle; yours is amused, his is late and stilted. His head gets weightier as he nuzzles his face between your thighs, sucking slow kisses on top of the old bitemarks. You sip on your water, lids low, and part your legs for him.
Seething, his hands make quick work of your modesty cover as he starts to lap, apologetic, at you.
There's a loud ch-thunk of a door lock being opened, followed quick by it sliding open.
It shoots a shared flinch through both of you. He only has time to smooth your blanket back down and wipe his chin before his roommate comes in.
"Yo," He announces himself, then looks up, "Ohh, shit."
He puts your little scene together quick by the amount of skin showing and the position. You stiffen with chills and pull the fuzziness tighter. Your stomach sinks with disbelief that it's already midnight.
In one smooth motion, he covers his eyes, catches the door before it even has a chance to close, and turns back into the hallway.
You can both hear him check his phone with a quiet Fuck just outside the door. Tsukishima's phone buzzes in his pocket with a storm of late texts.
He sighs. His face finds your lap again as he thinks about what he wants to do.
"I can go-"
"What? No," He looks up only to cut you off hard, absent-minded, deep in thought.
He's got the plan mapped out in the next few seconds, but is slow to part from your legs, groaning, "You have to get dressed, though. He's a total virgin." He sucks his teeth and adds, "Obviously."
You shift, giddy with excitement, at the invitation to stay.
áČđŒ post note. honestly @polodetti major shout out i wouldn't have finished this if you hadn't requested. guys. i didn't know i was capable of doing full fics anymore. also? rarely do i find i have brainrot of one particular character. hope you enjoy the latest tsukki posting!!!
no one could say your boyfriend â kei tsukishima â was the sweetest person they knew. infact, if you asked anyone, they'd say the exact opposite. arrogant, condescending, and unaffectionate. those were the words usually used to describe him. no way he'd be loving in a relationship.
though, what people didn't know was that he turned into a different person when you two were alone. around others, he often teased you for wanting to cling to his side. pretended he didn't want you near, and that you were supposedly the 'worlds clingiest lover.' that front worked on everyone but you.
whenever he came over, he whined over almost any loss of touch. whether it be something as simple as taking your leg off of his, or your lips leaving his 'too soon'. you'd stop raking your hands through his hair for a nanosecond, and his head was already spun to meet yours. with the biggest pout present ever, he asks, "what are you doing?"
you : âkei, it wasn't even a second.â
kei : ânot what i asked, put it back⊠pleaseâ
people were right. kei was still himself, obviously, arrogant. but they were wrong about him being unaffectionate. the snarky remarks were a coverup, and you didn't mind them, because at the end of the day it's the same guy that makes snarky remarks pleading for your touch.
the coverup definitely falters at times. catch him at the right time, and he's speaking so affectionately that you worry your boyfriend was replaced. still, even without the cover up faltering, he'd do anything you ask of him. he'll pretend he won't do it, but he'll do it the next second. he'll do whatever you ask â except leave you alone.
he follows you around like a puppy. going to pee? what a coincidence, he needed to go to the bathroom too. he can't wait either â it has to be right now, when you're already going.
you : âyou don't even need to pee!â
kei : âhow are you gonna tell me what i need to do?â
tsukishima follows behind you, and after swearing he had to go, he leans on the counter scrolling on his phone. you peeing isn't stopping him from being with you. right once you leave the bathroom, he's out too, but he just swore he needed to go.
he'll never admit what he does, and he doesn't have to, because it's clear as day. no amount of sarcasm or false arrogance will cover up the fact that tsukishima's smitten.
bye i hate this but i wanted it out of my drafts this instant. i've had this in my drafts for like over a month now. kinda funny how i just posted twice about clingy!shinsou and now i'm posting this. maybe it was meant to be idk
Your arms are linked around his neck. His big hands glide along your body, trying to grab and feel whatever he could.
His lips and yours meet in a messy kiss. Teeth clashing, saliva exchanging, tongues dancing. His lips were a little chapped but yours were so soft and sweet. Remnants of your flavored chapstick lacing your lips as he kisses it off.
He was so addicted, always chasing back for more. He groans when you move a little to adjust yourself, his hands gripping your hips.
âShit.â He mumbles.
Then heâs back to it.
Yet with more passion, youâre shuddering under his touch, his kisses, the way his tongue feels against yours.
His glasses were fogged, slightly lopsided. Occasionally heâd push them up but now.
He rips away from you, confusing you. Both of your lips are plump and red, panting. He grabs his glasses, throwing them on the couch.
âKei be careful you can break them-â He cuts you off with his lips, his tongue finding its home in your mouth once again. You whine in his mouth and he grins.
âThey were in the way.â He says against your lips, biting your bottom lip. A moan leaves you and his tongue swipes along the bite to try and soothe it.
âJust focus on this alright?â He says hushed.
His hand coming up behind your neck, pulling you into him as if you guys could get any closer.
âkei, do you ever think about how strange it is that we've never fought?â you ask, limbs tangled with his as you cuddle on his bed.
itâs 10:03 PM and youâre doing your best to fight against the chilling, icy atmosphere of tsukishimaâs room. for some reason, he likes to sleep like a vampire.
âdo you want to?â he offers with an arm wrapped around your shoulders. tsukki doesnât even open his eyes when he responds, too sleepy to entertain another one of your late night overthinking sessions.
âno,â you say calmly, âbut weâve been together for 7 months. we must either be like, the greatest couple of all time or the exact opposite.â
you feel his chest rise and deflate against your head as he lets an overly dramatic sigh.
you knew tsukishima kei wasnât one for pda. hell, it was one of the things you loved about him. he knew how to make you feel loved without having to scream it to the world.
like that one time on one of your first dates, when you had accidentally fallen asleep on the soft grass of the park while waiting for his weekend practice to end. you woke up with a hand massaging your scalp.
âhow long have you been waiting there?â you giggle, rising from your slumber as you rub your eyes awake. he pulls away, casually avoiding your gaze. âwhy didnât you wake me?â
kei only shrugs, âyou looked peaceful.â
or that other time you got sick for a week and couldnât make it to school, so he immediately visited you as soon as you got better and brought his backpack with him.
âi got two copies of all the homeworks due next week, so you donât have to ask the teachers for them.â he unpacks his notes and fishes out two pens from his bag before turning to you. âcome, iâll teach you everything you missed.â
your teachers praised you for how responsible you were, and told you how much they appreciated that you took the initiative to study.
yeah, you totally did that.
or like right now, and all the other nights youâve spent at his place. because unbeknownst to you, tsukishima kei sets up his bedroom every single time you visit. he tidies up, cleaning even spots that you would never think to look at. but most importantly, and tsukishima knows this routine by heart, he turns the a/c to the highest setting so youâd be forced to cuddle against him underneath his sheets.
âthe former,â is all replies with, and you scoff, rolling your eyes.
âbut seriously though. how lucky are we to never have fought even after seven months.â
tsukki sighs again, before reluctantly revealing, âwe donât fight because i make it a point to always agree with you.â
youâre taken aback by his words, sitting up slightly as you look him in the eyes, though his are still closed as he tries to focus on sleeping.
â...huh?â
âidiot,â he teases. maybe he thinks calling you names will cover up for how unbelievably sweet heâs being right now, âwhy would i want to argue with you?â he shifts, trying to subtly move his face away so you donât see him fully.
âbut i canât always have my way, you know. a relationship should be 50/50, right?â
ânot ours.â he presses your head back against his chest, and you hear his heartbeat fasten a little. âyouâre the boss.â
BONUS: âand youâve never paid in your life anyway. you donât believe in that 50/50 bullshit.â âhey!â âi donât even know what your wallet looks like.â
NOTE. for the resident tsukishima lover @marisolls !
âYou sure youâre not drunk?â
Is like asking Tsukishima if the sky is blue.
âTipsy.â
âTipsy,â you repeat, snorting. âIf you say so.â
âI am,â he tells you again. He doesnât remember how many times heâs said itâ
Because itâs true. He was tipsy. Not an incapable drunk. He knew his limits, and he was well aware that heâs always been lightweight, so itâs only responsible for him to just be a little drunk.
He feels your hand on his forehead, then on his cheek, probably to check his temperature. Maybe to check if he was actually still conscious and breathing. Tsukishima likes it, so he leans into your touch, murmuring something under his breath that even he did not understand.
âHm?â
âIâm home.â
âYou are,â you nod. âDid you have fun?â
He nods as well. âBeen a while.â
In the in-betweens of his consciousness, Tsukishima vaguely remembers you taking off his shoes, and now youâre helping him with his tie. The one that miraculously hasnât been made into a headbandâor worse, strangled him throughout his night escapade with old friends.
He reaches up, hands fumbling with yours in an attempt to help. He wants to help.Â
He wants to make life easier for you with his help.Â
âKei,â you scold him. âLet me do it, please?â
Andâ
And itâs not fair. So he says that, too.
âItâs not fair,â he huffs, relenting.
âWhatâs not fair?â
âThat youâre taking care of me.â
He hears you laugh, and he slumps back against the couch, huffing again.Â
âItâs not funny,â he murmurs. âIâm serious here.â
âWell, what do you want me to do? Leave you in the izakaya while Iâm peacefully sleeping without my husband beside me?â
The thought isnât too unpleasant for Tsukishima. Heâd rather have you hereâat home, well-restedâinstead of waiting for him
â...Maybe.â
You sigh, though thereâs no particular annoyance in your next words, Tsukishima hopes.
âThatâs stupid.â
And now that heâs thinking about it, yeah. Maybe that was stupid.
What kind of wife wouldnât worry for her husbandâs well-being while he was out? Youâre definitely not that kind.
His glasses slide slightly down his nose, and youâre quick to fix them without asking. He feels your fingers brush his cheek once again in the process.
Tsukishima paused.
ââŠHey,â he says.
âYes?â
âYouâre touching my face.â
You hum. âI am.â
He swallows. âOkay.â
You stood straighter and turned to the kitchen, probably for waterâyou always think ahead like thatâand Tsukishimaâs eyes followed you automatically. He reaches out without thinking and lightly catches the sleeve of your cardigan.
ââŠstay.â
âIâm not going anywhere,â you say easily.
His grip tightens just a little. âPromise?â
He knows how he probably looks right now. His cheeks are faintly flushed and his eyes are heavy-lidded but longing. Because itâs youâand Tsukishima is ok with looking like this because itâs only for you.
âI promise.â
âOkay,â he murmurs, relieved, and lets go. âI just wanted to check.â
When you returned, you sat beside him and held the glass to his lips. âDrink.â
He obeys, because apparently drunk him is very cooperative. When heâs done, he sighs and leans sideways, his shoulder bumping into yours. He doesnât move awayâsimply doesnât want to. Instead, he adjusts until his head rests against your shoulder, then adjusts again so this time his head rests somewhat uncomfortably on your neck.
He feels you still, then relaxes, one arm coming up to steady him. âYouâre very cuddly tonight,â you noted.
He made a negating sound, pressing closer to you. âThatâs not true.â
âIt is.â
âIâm only like this with you,â he says, like this is an important distinction that must be clarified immediately. âEveryone else is⊠a bother.â
You laughed. âIâm honored.â
âŠ
ââŠdid you know,â he starts, words careful despite the slur creeping in (heâs in a losing battle against sleep, but he remembers he still has to brush his teeth), âthat I think about you a lot?â
âI would hope so. Weâre married.â
âYes, butââ He frowns, clearly struggling to articulate whatever he wanted to say.Â
His hand lifts, fingers flexing like heâs trying to grab the right words out of the air. âLike⊠little things. During the day. Iâll see something stupidâlike a cat that looks judgmentalâand Iâll think, you would laugh at that. Or when Iâm annoyed, I think about how you make tea. You do that thing with the spoon.â
âThe thing with the spoon?â You tilt your head, intrigued.
âYou tap it twice,â he replies, nodding, very serious. âOn the rim. Every time. Even when you donât need to.â
ââŠI never noticed that.â
âI notice.â
He shifts on the couch, suddenly restless, hands fidgeting in your embrace. âIâm not good at saying things,â he continues, voice quieter now. âI know that. I think I sound stupid when I try. Or obvious. Or like Iâm saying something everyone already knows.â
âKeiâŠâ
âBut I love you,â he blurts out, too fast, tooâtoo not very tipsy of him. âLikeâreally love you. Not in the normal way. In the way where my chest feels weird when youâre tired, and I want to fix it, but I donât know how. In the way where I want to come home faster just because I know youâre here.â
He swallows, Adamâs apple bobbing.
âAnd sometimes I worry,â he admits. âThat I donât say it enough. That youâll think I donât feel it as much as I do.â
So this is what it felt like to hold your feelings on your sleeves and hope the other person wouldnât turn you away because youâre too much or too little.
âKei, I know.â
He pulls back and looks at you, startled. âYou do?â
You nod. âYou show it in your own way. A hundred little ways.â
His eyes sting, just a little. He blinks rapidly, scoffing weakly. Since when did he have the time to have tears glossing over his eyes?
âWow. Iâmââ He laughs once, breathy and embarrassed. âIâm way more emotional than I thought.â
âItâs kind of cute,â you tell him.
He huffs. How good you are with the words is just so⊠so right for him.
âDonât tell anyone.â
âYour secretâs safe.â
He hides his face on your shoulder. His voice comes muffled now. âYouâre really patient with me.â
âSomeone has to be.â
He knows that. That someone has to be, or else heâd maybe grow old and gray alone, with the world hating him or something.
Being really angry and Sylus pulling you down to the boxing ring. It's the most uncoordinated violence he's ever seen from you. And damn does he love it so much
Knocking him to the ground and pinning him down, but the anger has already sort of simmered down. He knows the fight has started to leave you, so he lets himself stay on the mat, hands holding your waist as he lets you catch your breath and your runaway emotions
Slowly coming down, until the anger fades into little sniffles. You're sweaty and yucky and gross, but you lay yourself over him anyway. Tuck your face in his neck while he wraps his arms around you, rubbing up and down your back with a low, rumbling hum. "Don't hold back, sweetie," he says for the second time since you've come home. "Don't fight yourself."
Smth smth crying until you're spent. Wiping the tears from your face. Sylus squeezing you tighter, catching your gaze with a soft smirk. "Do you concede?"
You huff, voice a little raw. "I'm pinning you. Do you concede?"
"But I've got you in a secure hold," he teases back, squeezing again until you're crushed up against him, until he finally squeezes a laugh out of you. He chuckles softly as he kisses your forehead. "Truce?"
When you spot Sylus leaning against his motorcycle, sunglasses on, waiting for you by the entrance of the building, you suddenly become very aware of yourself. Not your appearance, god knows Sylus has seen you in worse states.
No, itâs the fact that your male coworker leans in just a little too close, murmuring a joke that you laugh at without thinking.
You say your goodbye quickly, heading over to Sylus with confusion on your face.
âWhat are you doing here?â You lean a little close to him, making sure the variety of people ogling your Greek god of a boyfriend get the hint.
âYou wanted to try that restaurant down the street, yes?â Sylus smirks when he sees what youâre doing, hands finding your waist and fiddling with the buckles of your uniform.
âI am starvingâŠâ
âI assume all that laughing stirs quite the appetite.â Heâs teasing you, because of course. You shove him a little, only slightly pouting.
âWeâre just friends. I promise.â
âYou donât need to explain yourself, kitten. I understand.â Heâs smirking, but you can tell heâs being genuine.
âYouâreâŠnot jealous?â He huffs a laugh at your question, leaning down to brush his lips against yours.
âWhy should I be? Iâve known my treasure is desirable for quite some time. But as long as she chooses me, I have no reason to worry.â
You strain against the shibari that Zayne had tied you with, keeping you completely immobile as he focuses on more pressing matters.
"Fuck..." Zayne sighs, head tossed back as he slowly jerks off. It's a torturous punishment, truly, watching him pleasure himself with no way to help. Your mouth is practically watering at the sight.
"Zayne..." You whine from the head of the bed, tugging on the ropes once more. He glances up, but his brow raises when he realizes there's nothing wrong.
"I gave you a choice, didn't I?"
"When you said you were gonna tie me up you didn't say you would ignore me the whole time! I-I wanna help."
"You are helping." He notes, eyes running over your body. His hand starts to move again, slowly going up and down. He looks so sinful, his toned abdomen tensing as he gets closer.
"Z-Zayne." It comes out nearly like a moan and his jaw clenches at the sound. He loves when you say his name.
"Fine. You can help." Excitement explodes in your chest as he sits up, moving closer to you. Just his hand resting on your thigh makes you squirm in anticipation. He smirks, but holds back on teasing you as he slowly pushes his cock inside you.
You're so happy you could cry. He presses his lips to yours, slowly fucking you to give you time to adjust. You've been desperate this whole time, you can already feel your orgasm building and building and-
"Fuck!" Zayne sighs as he cums, head resting on your shoulder as your jaw drops in shock. You can feel the warm of his cum slipping out of you as he pulls out, your orgasm slipping away with it.
"N-no. No please Zayne that-that isn't fair please I-" He cuts off your begging with a kiss, one that's so sweet it almost feels like an apology. But he smirks when he pulls away, so you know it's not.
The screen door rattled in its frame, a loose screw buzzing against the aluminum as the late afternoon wind picked up. Outside, the sky was starting to turn gray but the kitchen still held the dry, baking heat of the day.
You stood by the sink, rinsing a bowl of strawberries, cold water splashing over your wrists. The hem of your white cotton sundressâthin and covered in tiny embroidered applesâbrushed against your thighs every time you shifted your weight.
Calebâs boots gave two heavy thuds on the porch before the door whined open. He smelled like sweat and gasoline, his throat coated in a fine layer of sawdust from the shed heâd been clearing out. He didn't say anything. He just dropped a heavy iron wrench onto the counter with a metallic thud that made the porcelain mugs rattle in the cupboard.
You turned your head, wiping your wet hands on the skirt of the dress. "The stormâs moving in fast. Did you get theâ"
He was already in your space. His hand, dark with grease stains around the knuckles, came down flat against the laminate counter right next to your hip. He leaned in, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder.
"â"August, three years ago. You wore a dress just like this one for one of Grandma's Sunday dinner. The weather was exactly like this."
"I remember. You barely said two words to me that day and spent the whole afternoon fixing her lawnmower."
"Because I couldn't trust myself to open my mouth," Caleb rasped, his chin brushing your shoulder, breath hot against your neck. "You sat on the porch swing. Every time you kicked your feet to keep it moving, the skirt would part, and I could see the soft skin on the inside of your knees. I was under that damn mower, covered in oil, with my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached for three days."
"Calebâ"
"I also spent hours imagining exactly how loud that fabric would rip if I caught you by the waist and pinned you against the screen door."
âYour breath hitched, a small, dry sound in the quiet house.
"That's the sound you made in my head, too."
Your chest rose and fell in a quick, shallow breath. The air between you felt thick, charged like the sky outside.
He didn't untie the small bow at the shoulder, he just pulled, exposing the curve of your breast to the air coming through the open windows.
A small gasp caught in your throat, your hands automatically coming up to touch his chest, your fingers bunching into his damp grey shirt.
Caleb didn't give you time to think. He hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you straight onto the counter.
He crowded between your knees, his heavy thighs forcing yours apart.
"I built these counters two inches higher than standard," he whispered, his mouth hovering over yours, his breath smelling faintly of the black coffee he'd had at noon. "You know why?"
You shook your head, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the heat of his groin pressed hard against yours.
"So I wouldn't have to bend down when I did this," he said, and then his mouth crashed into yours.
His kiss tasted of salt. He bit your lower lip just hard enough to make you whine into his mouth, his tongue taking up all the space, relentless and heavy. His hand slid down between your bodies, long fingers grouping the lace of your underwear and shoving it aside.
When his fingers found your bare skin you arched off the counter, your head hitting the wooden cabinet door behind you with a dull thud. You were already slick, the sound of his voice having done most of the work.
"Yeah," Caleb muttered against your lips, his thumb finding the small, swollen center of you and pressing down with a rhythmic friction that made your toes curl. "Let me hear you, baby"
"Caleb, the windowsâ" you choked out, your hands flying to his hair.
"Let them hear," he growled, his fingers sliding inside you, two of them stretching you wide, filling the ache until you were panting, your hips jerking against his hand in short, helpless motions. He didn't stop, his thumb circling your clit until your breath turned into broken stabs of sound.
When he felt you were getting close he pulled his fingers out with a wet slide, leaving you empty and shivering. Before you could complain, his hands were at his belt, the heavy brass buckle clinking as he yanked it free. He didn't take his jeans off, he just pulled his cock out and lined himself up against you.
A deep, slow thrust buried him completely inside you. Your breath left your lungs in a sharp cry, legs instantly locking around his waist, pulling him deeper as the first roll of thunder finally broke outside.
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Sleepy sex with Sylus in the middle of the night. You wake up warm all over, assuming itâs because of the literal furnace of a man beside you only to discover itâs him but even better. Sylus is having a wet dream, brows pinched and jaw slack as his chest heaves in an unsteady rhythm. One you recognize all too well, the only other dead giveaway is the visible bulge in the sheets over his groin.
You watch him for a little bit, memorize the way his face twitches and his hips roll up against the bedding. Searching for relief, searching for you. His own subconscious trying to recreate the physical pleasure his mind is conjuring. It makes your stomach flutter, heat surging straight between your thighs as you wonder what he could be dreaming about. What he could possibly be doing to you in his dreams, or what you could be doing to him. Either way, he looks so adorable and needy.
Not able to contain yourself, nor let him suffer for much longer. So you snuggle in closer, running your hand down the planes of his stomach and under the waistband of his boxers to wrap around his hard on. Gasping with him as he bucks into your hold, your nose nuzzling his pulse. Jerking him slowly while kissing on his neck, muttering sweet nothings as you try so carefully not to wake him.
Itâs no use, Sylus is too sharp even in sleep. Just as heâs about to cum, those crimson eyes flutter open and a hand shoots over the covers to stop you. âWaitâŠâ thick and groggy, you can feel your panties stick to your cunt as you squirm, peering up at him in the dark. â⊠I need to cum inside of you. Itâs the only way.â You could die happy.
Thatâs how you end up cradled in his arms, faces nuzzling the other, cock buried so deep inside of your warmth itâs hard to decipher where one begins and the other ends. Sylus somehow has staved off his orgasm in favor of rocking slowly, letting the pleasure melt his mind and body into the mattress. Letting it consume him, letting you consume him in his entirety. Everything he has to offer.
There's a few things about you that Sylus finds peculiar. One of which is your texting style.
'Show me that cawk'
Your text lights up his phone, and the longer he stares, the more confused he gets. What exactly were you asking of him?
After a quick google search, he manages a slight grasp on the scenario. A calendar check confirms his theory for the reason you're asking for such a thing, and with that in mind, he's happy to oblige.
One might feel awkward taking nude photos for the first time. But of course, such a thing doesn't apply to Sylus. It's almost too easy for him to find a good angle, mindful to also include a sinful shot of just his abs.
He also makes plenty of use out of the bottle of massage oil in the nightstand.
After taking a dozen or so photos, and one short video, he sends them with the caption 'Does this satisfy you?' and sits back. You read it almost immediately.
And then...nothing.
For five minutes, Sylus waits. Doubt starts to creep up just a little. Perhaps the pictures hadn't been satisfactory. He hadn't included his biceps. Maybe you were mad?
'Come over. Quickly. Please. Can't cum without you.'
He doesn't bother getting dressed, never more grateful for his ability to teleport easily into your bedroom. You'd been expecting him to do so given the way you nearly launch yourself at him, shoving him onto the bed and clambering on top of him.
"Did you like the pictures?" He murmurs into your mouth, fingers sliding into your panties and making you melt into him.
"Y-yeah. But-fuck-the real thing is s-so much better."
I love Sy's kissing animation in the home system cuz like
Imagine finally being together, having him over, and slowly getting more physically affectionate and comfortable with each other. He's just a bit awed when he's finally able to kiss you
Passing behind you in the kitchen to grab a mug, only to pause and turn your chin so he can kiss you over your shoulder
Folding laundry with you, snickering at your "granny panties" and superhero themed boxers. He's reaching into the basket for another shirt to fold, and realizes he's reaching right by you. So what if he feigns stretching just so he can put his face right in front of yours and coax you into kissing him before you push him away with a laugh?
It's like he remembers he's allowed. Allowed to touch you and hold you and kiss you. A man can get addicted
So some days he finds you around the house, and he just needs to satisfy his desires. Taking your hands in his to steal your attention. Leaning down to rub his nose against yours, until your eyelids grow a little heavier with your own desires. Smiling as he leans in, kissing you slow, savoring every second. He'll gladly stay here until the world crumbles around the both of you
Because the world doesn't matter as long as he can kiss you
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