THE GOOD HE SEEKS ⚝ miya twins x f.reader (part 4)
⤷ summary. you, the strange relationship you have with your older twin brothers, and the summer you see them again.
⤷ word count. 6.7k
⤷ warnings. MDNI, NONCON, explicit sexual content, incest, atsumu centered chapter, violence, brief mentions of death & suicide, self-loathing dialogue, mentions of blood, sexual content includes: masturbation, forced blowjob, rough penetrative sex, abusive language
⤷ a/n. sorry for the wait lol passed my exam, dealt with a fucking tsunami warning, recently discovered league of legends, had crazy stomach issues, ate shit in front of my local grocery store lolol idk wtf happened to me fr but pls be nice cs this is my first smut in awhile!! please excuse any typos and grammatical errors 😭 editing this shit was a pain in my ass
⤷ part 1 ⤷ part 2 ⤷ part 3 ⤷ part 5
Atsumu knows what it’s like to miss someone. He made an attempt to sleep on the first night in his new apartment and quickly felt unsettled at the realization that Osamu wouldn’t be in a bed across from him anymore. Sleep didn’t come easy that night, nor did any other night after that. It took him a full month of having his own bedroom for him to sleep properly again.
There are still moments where he wakes up in the morning expecting Osamu to be there. Sometimes he wakes up wanting him to be there. He hated admitting that he missed his brother, but he couldn’t lie and say that he didn’t either.
He unfortunately missed his mom at one point—or at least the mom they had before their dad started drinking himself to bitter destruction and death. There’s an image of a sweet, doting mother in fractured memories that leaves him wondering if she was ever really like that or if he blocked everything out to protect himself.
He doesn’t care to find out. They could burn together and it still wouldn’t matter to Atsumu. As long as Osamu is fine, then Atsumu would be fine, too.
He missed his friends, even the times they relentlessly teased him and called him out for his bullshit (he needed it). It was a normal occurrence to walk to practice with his teammates and end the day by going to the nearest convenience store afterwards for a much-needed snack. Those were simpler times, despite the bruises hiding underneath his jersey. The impact of a volleyball against his palm became enough to ease any lingering pain.
Missing someone doesn’t hurt Atsumu as much anymore. Sakusa is a good roommate, despite the stick up his ass and constant nagging (seriously, why does he need the apartment to be spotless every day?!). His teammates love his favorite sport as much as he does. Osamu is a train ride and a phone call away. He has a career that he loves and people who seem to sincerely care about him. He should feel complete. There shouldn’t be a strange emptiness in his chest that keeps him up at night.
But he lays aimlessly in the darkness of his bedroom, chest unfortunately void and desire burning in his throat. Boxes full of his childhood are pushed into the corners of his closet to collect dust. He spends most nights with his boxers shoved down his thick thighs, his chest rising and falling rapidly in choked breaths, hands wrapped desperately around his leaking cock, palms rubbed raw from the friction—because he misses you.
He actually misses you.
Atsumu, confident to the point of sickening narcissism, is somehow stuck in a never-ending cycle of missing you so bad that his cock hurts, to resenting you so much that he has to hit the gym an extra day so that he can swallow down the urge to kill himself or someone else.
Rinse. Repeat. For four years straight. He misses you and he can’t do a fucking thing about it. He’ll fuck his hand with desperation, cum all over himself with no regrets, and dream about the fear in your eyes until he wakes up with a craving to feel your neck in his hands again.
It would have been easier on him had you never existed at all, except he also can’t imagine a world where you’re not in it. His truth follows him because he chooses to keep it close. Your wrinkled picture, tucked in his wallet between a few stamp cards, sits in his back pocket and flashes him a smile of skewed teeth every time he pulls out his debit card.
⋆˚࿔
“We should go to Tokyo again for the off-season.” Bokuto’s voice catches the attention of everyone at the table. MSBY Black Jackals are huddled around the biggest table the hole-in-the-wall restaurant could provide to a couple of beefy athletes. Their shoulders touched as they squeezed themselves into the small space, hunched over their meals and stopping mid-bite to acknowledge Bokuto.
Atsumu is pushing his rice around his plate, huffing in mild irritation when he hears Tokyo. He enjoys city life and traveled for tournaments when he was younger, but his idea of a vacation does not include partying in another busy city. “We? Why’dya want all of us to go?”
“I wanna visit some old friends,” Bokuto smiles fondly, “And I know Yukie has been dying to go out again like the old days. It’d be fun if all of us go.” The outside hitter practically has hearts in his eyes, obviously romanticizing his childhood and young adulthood in his hometown before he had to move to Osaka.
“I was tryin’ to visit my brother down in Hyoga this summer,” the blond setter responds, “And I’m tired of seein’ yer faces everyda—”
“I wanna go!” Hinata interrupts Atsumu in excitement, mouth full of rice. Sakusa, who sits beside Hinata, almost chokes on his noodles at the pieces of rice flying out of the shortest one’s mouth. “I wanna see Skytree!”
Sakusa, visibly shocked and disgusted at the sight, swallows his noodles. “You always go to Skytree whenever we’re in Tokyo.”
“And you always take me even though you lived in Tokyo your whole life, so I don’t see the problem, Omi,” Hinata says, poking his tongue out at Sakusa with rice still in his mouth.
“Shoyo, close your mouth already. That’s fucking disgusting—”
After pinching his nose bridge in annoyance at the bickering, Atsumu turns to Bokuto again and asks, “Who the hell is Yukie again? Is she cute?”
“Yukie! My old manager. Don’t you remember her from the high school tournaments?” Bokuto is quick to whip his phone out and swipe through it. When he finally finds what he’s looking for, he shoves his phone in Atsumu’s face. Atsumu leans back slightly as he squints at the screen.
It’s an Instagram post—a pretty woman with auburn hair and heavy-lidded brown eyes smiling widely at the camera in a restaurant, dressed casually in a black top.
“Not sure if I recognize her,” Atsumu mutters to himself. Her thin arm is wrapped around the person sitting beside her, smiling just as wide as she is. He blinks once, then twice, at her friend.
Because she’s not just her friend—she’s you.
A version that he never met. A version he never thought existed because it eased his conscience when he believed you were somewhere just as miserable as he is, but you’re not miserable. You look like you’ve never had a hair out of place. Like life has always put you on the grass that was greener.
Happier. Healthier. A few years older. Skin glowing and eyes sparkling and smiling so genuinely—you. The same nose he used to poke when he was a kid and you were just an infant. A toothy grin that he barely recognizes if not for the photo you left. In his dreams, in his memories, in his wallet, and now presented right in front of his face like bait on Bokuto’s cracked iPhone 16 Pro Max.
“Jeez, you’re staring really hard,” Bokuto laughs, pulling his phone away to set it face down next to his plate. “She’s super pretty. Her roommate is a cutie, too, but I haven’t met her yet.”
Roommate. Bokuto’s friend’s roommate. The corner of his lip twitches. A mixture of anger and yearning is blooming in his groin as he shifts in his chair. There’s a sudden clamminess in his palms that he has to wipe off on his shorts.
“Hmm, I’m not sure. I think I recognize her,” he says, feigning ignorance. Her as in you.
“Ooh, you’re such a liar, Tsum-tsum,” Bokuto snickers, “If you’re interested in her, just let me know. She’s still single.”
Atsumu is quick to roll his eyes and grabs his fork, aggressively pointing it at his teammate. “Don’t fuckin’ start with me,” he threatens him, but his tone is more lighthearted than angry.
He’s not interested in Yukie at all. Yukie’s face is one that comes and goes. He could probably find hundreds of city girls who look like her. But you? He could never forget you. How could he ever forget his own blood? The same blood that rushes through his veins and ignites his entire body on fire and has his head throbbing. His cock strains uncomfortably against his thigh underneath his athletic shorts.
“Okay, okay! I was kidding, but we’ll have so much fun if we take a trip together this summer. I promiseee,” Bokuto pouts, pressing his hands together in front of his lips as if to beg. Sakusa physically cringes, looking incredulously at the gray-haired spiker.
After a few seconds of silence (and Bokuto staring at Atsumu with his big golden eyes silently pleading with him to agree), Atsumu sits up and straightens his aching back. He sighs loudly, "Well, when are we plannin’ on leavin’?”
“I knew you wouldn’t say no!” Bokuto exclaims, wrapping a muscular arm around Atsumu’s broad shoulders in a half-hug.
“So suddenly that means all of us are going,” Sakusa grumbles with a roll of his eyes. He blows out a bit of air to move a stray curl off his forehead.
Hinata cheers, “Yay! I get to go to the aquarium again!”
They all continue to eat and chatter while Atsumu’s thoughts begin to wander. You’ve been at an arm’s length this entire time—a friend of a friend of a friend—and he can’t believe that it was this easy to find out where you’ve been. He wasn’t even trying.
Atsumu had been suffering with what he had left of you. Maybe it was weird of him to fuck girls who had your hair color. Maybe his last girlfriend kind of looked like you and Osamu noticed it way before he did. Maybe his right arm was a little stronger because he liked to do ‘extra training’ at night to let off some steam when the thought of not knowing where you were or what you were doing was unbearable.
Now he knows where you’ve been. He knows that you’re happier. Without him. Without Osamu.
Just as he’s absentmindedly reaching for the last gyoza sitting on a plate in the middle of their table, Hinata is quick to snatch it up and stuff it right into his mouth. His cheeks instantly puff up comically to resemble a hamster.
“Ya little shit!” Atsumu barks at him. The table erupts in laughter with Bokuto slapping his knee and Sakusa holding back a smirk. Although the ghost of you lays heavy on his shoulders, he has to wipe the scowl off his face and play along. He needs to act normal for once.
⋆˚࿔
Atsumu lies down in bed that night, staring at the popcorn ceiling above him. Your face, much older but still you, haunts him, soothes him, calls out to him. His little sister, hidden in plain sight this whole time.
He’s breathing heavily again, heart beating erratically. His cock lays limp with ropes of white liquid splattered across his glistening abs. His phone is in his hand, your public Instagram account providing some light in his otherwise dark room. He switched to his private burner account, stalked your profile, and pulled his boxers down before he could even blink.
Memories were all he had left of you, but now he has something substantial. Something in the present where your timelines match up, planted under his fingertips even through a screen.
As his breathing evens out, he wipes his cum off his stomach with the spare shirt he has lying on the foot of his bed. Then he turns to his phone, exiting the Instagram app and going to his list of contacts. He scrolls through his contacts before tapping on Osamu’s picture. The phone rings three times before he picks up.
“What the hell are ya callin’ me this late for?” his twin snaps through the phone. Fatigue is evident in his tone, remnants of a tiring day on his feet.
Atsumu chuckles in response, switching hands so he could cover his eyes with his clean hand. “Follow me to Tokyo for the summer.” He can already see Osamu rolling his eyes, probably laying in the same position as he is, except most likely not as sweaty or sticky (and probably not with his dick out). The faint rustling of bedsheets is heard on the other end.
“Tokyo? I was gonna head up there after yer visit. How’d ya know that was part of the plan?”
“Ah, I just had a feelin’,” Atsumu humors him, rolling onto his side to prop his head on his palm. “Ya weren’t even gonna invite me? What were ya gonna do up there?”
“Got some business plans. Maybe play tourist for a bit,” Osamu responds.
“Perfect.” Atsumu is grinning as he sits up and rolls the stiffness out of his shoulders. “Let’s get an AirBNB together. Save some money.”
Osamu goes quiet for a moment, contemplative as always. “What happened with ya, ‘Tsumu?” he asks, almost accusatory.
Atsumu sucks in a deep breath.
“She’s there, ‘Samu.”
Three simple words that hold so much weight, that grow vines and wrap around Osamu’s lungs and squeeze until an exhale leaves him. Tense silence looms over them like a cloud, their hearts hammering in sync.
It’s unbelievable. Unreal. He could be lying. You disappeared four years ago. You left with what you could carry, with no intention of looking back. No goodbye. Nothing, except for an old photo shattered and grieved laying in a mess of what used to be your vanity. A photo that Osamu let his brother take because he knew he needed it more than he did.
He almost calls him a liar, but then he remembers that Atsumu doesn’t have a single deceptive bone in his body.
“...I’ll meet ya there then.”
⋆˚࿔
Burning. Everything is burning. From the sweltering summer air outside to your knees on hardwood flooring. Even your scar, perpetually etched into your knee no matter how hard you scrub at it in the shower, is ignited by friction.
Although your body recoils in disgust instinctively, you can’t pull away. Every time you attempt to move back for some air, you’re trapped by the concrete wall right behind your head. It’s a sick torture practice that you’ve never seen before—because Atsumu has your body pressed up against the wall with a mouth full of his cock, the head pressing cruelly against your throat. One of his hands is gripping your scalp; his other hand is wrapped around your jaw, forcing your mouth wide open so he can slide his length between your plush lips without you biting down on him.
You cough against his dick, letting your spit drip from your chin to your chest. The fabric of your shirt is torn open from your collar to just above your belly button. Your tits are popped out of your bra, which Atsumu reaches down every couple of minutes just to tug on your pebbled nipples. He lets out a hiss as your nails dig into his bare thighs—the only part of him that you can reach. The sharp pain doesn’t deter him, it only encourages him.
“Yeah, keep that fuckin’ mouth open,” he moans, “Look at me while I fuck yer mouth.” He lets go of your jaw for a mere second to slap your cheek with a tough palm.
You can’t look at him. It physically pains you to make eye contact with Atsumu, especially like this.
His eyes narrow at your shivering form. Your back is flush against the wall, trapped by his large frame. A growl leaves his throat as he retracts his hand to smack the side of your face with more force. “I said look at me.”
He pulls on your hair harder, yanking your head back so it’s easier for you to make eye contact with him. Pain shoots through your face and scalp, then there’s more drool and snot and everything in between. You look up at him, fear-stricken and broken, with his girthy cock still stuffing your mouth in a blur. His upper body is on full display—built from years of playing sports and fighting for his own freedom at home.
Sweet honey brown eyes mock you. At one point in your life, they were much kinder, but you can’t remember when anymore. Maybe he’s just always been this fucked up monster who poisons everything he touches. His roots might have always been rotten.
You wish he finished you off this time, lest you spend the next four years wishing that he did, just as you did the last four. But Atsumu knows better than anyone; how it is to feel so deeply, how criminal it is to do so, how helpless it leaves him as a man. He never wanted to kill you. He would rather die first than kill you with his bare hands.
“F-fuck—ya feel too good,” he stutters, throwing his head back as his hips falter. He pushes deeper into the back of your throat, letting you gag and sputter around him. Before he can finish inside your mouth, he suddenly pulls out, his cock hanging heavy in front of your lips. A line of spit attaches your bottom lip to his fat cock head.
He lets go of you. Your body drops on the floor in a heaping pile, forehead pressed against the wood. Whatever is left of your clothes is covered in spit and mucus. Dehumanized is an understatement for how you feel. Disgusted does not even come close. Tasting his sweat already has your stomach in knots, but imagining his sticky seed flooding your mouth turns you into an anxious mess as you dry heave on the floor.
“Why would you do this to me?” you cry, throat on the verge of collapsing on itself, “Why do you hate me so much?”
A finger lifts your chin up so your eyes meet his. His gaze is much softer, full of nostalgia, as he analyzes the streaks on your cheeks.
“Could never hate ya,” he mutters. Even your name is soft and sweet rolling off his tongue. “Ya just don’t understand how much ya hurt me and ‘Samu. I would’ve brought ya with me if ya asked, too.”
You shake your head. "I needed to be on my own. I had to get away. You know that.”
“Spoutin’ bullshit again,” he chuckles darkly, “I think Tokyo got to that damn head of yers. Whoever the fuck ya think ya are now, yer not that person. Ya never will be. The accent is gone but yer still the same.”
“But you’re wrong. I’m better. I’m actually a person now, nii-san. And look what you fucking did to me. I’m ugly,” you begin to sob, pulling away from him to bawl into your hands.
“Shh—shut up. Shut up.” Atsumu attempts to soothe you by wrapping his veiny arms around you, but he fails miserably as your tears seep into the skin of his arms. Softness was never his strength—that’s what Osamu is for. Osamu, who balances him out, calms his treacherous storm.
Osamu, who isn’t back from whatever lame meeting he’s in to share what Atsumu has laid out on the floor, but Atsumu is here and you’re here and all he wants to do is take take take until you can’t give him anymore. He’s selfish like that. If it wasn’t meant to be this way, then why was it so easy for him to have you like this?
“I’m ugly! I’m ugly because you made me like this!” you scream through wheezes and hiccups and the ugliest crying that Atsumu may have ever seen or heard. Despite the snot running down your nose, his cock is aching and he needs you or else he might actually die.
“You ruined me for everyone I’ll ever meet. I’m so disgusting—God, I fucking hate myself—” He picks you up off of the ground by your waist. You let out another scream as he throws you face down over the bed. A grip on your ankles pulls you towards him until your legs are dangling off the edge. The cool bedsheets against your saliva-covered chest send a chill through your burning body.
“Shut the fuck up! Shut up! Shut up!” Atsumu barks at you through your desperate babbling.
How he’d love to smother himself in the fat of your ass, press his nose into your crevices, so tempted to flip you over too just so he could see your tits bounce, but the stinging of the fresh cuts shaped like your nails on his thighs, arms, and face tell him that he doesn't have enough time to. He can’t even think properly with your incessant screaming.
You’re finally tangible, laying underneath his fingertips. He touches you as if he’s known you in this way his whole life. He can’t let you slip away again.
There’s a feral urge that rips through him, begs to taste you, put his mouth on you, on his sweet little sister, on your pussy until it weeps on his tongue. He wants to know what your warmth feels like wrapped around his cock. When he grabs your arms and holds them behind your back with one hand, he's one step closer to heaven.
He unbuttons your jeans skillfully with one hand, tears it away from your legs, and practically rips your panties off of your hips. Your body jerks with the force of the rip.
“No!” you gasp in horror, “Atsumu-nii!”
His mouth waters at your bare skin. His cock is jumping, so soft pressed against your ass. Another sob breaks through your clenched teeth—he shouldn’t be there. He should have never touched you or claimed your mouth. But you’re weak and life is just unfair.
Life is unfair when he pumps his cock with his calloused hand and presses the head of it against your folds to collect your juices. One hand is holding both your wrists in place behind your back. He lets his saliva drip past his lips to land on the vein along his shift.
Life is unfair when he finally sinks into your cunt and breaks through the tight rings of your walls inch by inch, pulling out slightly when there’s the tiniest bit of resistance only to push his cock in deeper. You cry and beg, a mixture of shock and pain and betrayal. He holds back from jamming his cock into you right away, even if his body deeply craves your warmth. It's the last semblance of self-control in his system because it’s the least he can do for you now. Your pussy clenches uncontrollably at the violent intrusion—you weren’t ready, you would have never been ready for him, for this.
Life is unfair when he bottoms out, his pubic bone hitting your ass, his cock big enough to feel like he’s stabbing through your guts and into your stomach. A raspy groan vibrates in his chest. Your mouth is parted as he makes a home inside you, his girth forcing your pussy to stretch beyond what it’s used to.
Life is unfair when he decides to intertwine his rotten roots with yours years after you changed the soil.
Life is unfair when you choose to water the roots anyway.
⋆˚࿔
The air is cold as it kisses your skin. Through the black silk curtains, between a small crack that reveals a mere inch of the world, the summer sunset is beautiful—a vibrant mixture of reds, oranges, and pinks painting the sky as the sun begins to dip lower in the horizon. The view makes it easier to get lost, eyes fixed on a sunset that you can’t touch.
“Please stop,” you weep hoarsely, “I’m sorry, nii-san.” Your hopeless pleas fall on deaf ears. You don’t know where your panties went, why the situation had to change. You don’t even know why you’re apologizing when you did nothing but be honest.
“Stop arguin’ with me already,” he bites back, an unmistakable shakiness in his tone, “When are ya gonna learn that runnin’ away does nothin’ good for ya?”
There’s blood underneath your fingernails. Blood oozing from the scratches on his face and arms. Blood from his thighs painting the backs of yours. Blood pouring from your chest out on the sheets, but it’s just your tears that form a puddle underneath your face.
Your toes barely brush against the floor, hips squirming in mid air from the adrenaline rush, but Atsumu’s grip is relentless. There’s a ringing in your ears that won’t go away no matter how hard you focus. Atsumu was strong, you already knew that, but to be this strong—you wish you weren’t in the position to find out, especially with his cock buried in your pussy.
Your arms are behind your back, held tightly by one of Atsumu’s stronger hands; another hand, while leaning over you, holds your head against the bed, securing you against him.
In between your legs, where your cunt disgracefully gushes and throbs, is where he should never find himself to be, yet he stays. And the feeling is euphoric—for him, at least, especially when he's wrapped in your warmth. Your pussy sucks him in, filled to the hilt and then emptied again until only the tip of his cock remains inside you. It’s a sharp, burning stretch that has tears pricking in the corners of your eyes. A burn that you’ve never experienced with anyone else, that feels like he’s carving his name along your walls with every stroke.
You tried to fight. You tried to run. You tried, you really tried, and you’re so tired of trying when fate mercilessly decides for you anyway.
After all these years, weakness still sinks its claws into you and consumes you. The illusion of a peaceful yet wild life in the city breaks along with your heart as you lay despaired. Another reminder of how cruelty seeps from each crack you try to patch up. Another fact of life, while you lay in a million tiny pieces that pierce through your skin.
“I missed ya,” Atsumu says with a bite of his lip, “God, did I miss ya.” He leans over to lick a stripe up your cheek, enjoying the saltiness of your tears. You gag at the feeling of his wet muscle.
“I missed ya so much. I didn’t know if I would ever see my baby sister again. Ya don’t fuckin’ understand what I went through.” He’s not gentle in his movements—he fucks you like you’ll turn into sand between his fingertips if he loosens his grip. He’s afraid that you’re just a hallucination, a ghost appearing from his pent up desire that burns so deeply under his skin, a pitiful mirage in his desert that he couldn’t reach.
But you’re real. He knows in the juices that coat his cock and upper thighs, leaking shamefully from your pussy, that he was always meant to see you again.
“I was surprised seein’ ya that night, all dolled up like that,” he chuckles, “I almost couldn’t recognize ya. But I see through ya easily.”
He continues to dissect you from the inside out. You let out a strained moan and bite your lip as the tip of his cock presses into your cervix meanly.
He’s big. So big it’s like he’s in your stomach and rearranging your organs with intentions of tearing you in two, of killing you so that you won’t live to tell a soul of what he’s doing to you. The tingling sensation in your jaw has yet to fade and you can't even breathe as he sheathes himself inside you with his balls creating friction on your clit.
“Still know how to cry,” he sneers, “Still my sister. Nothin’ will ever change that.”
You hate him.
You fucking hate him. Evil seeps from his body. Pollutes the air around him. Ruins everything he touches.
That’s why your heart has been so heavy, that’s why you can’t help it when your chest gets crushed by the weight of everything you’ve had to carry—you are you, your brothers are your brothers, but your heart pumps the same blood that runs through their veins. Your genetics could be put under a microscope and the results would show no difference.
His chest that brushes against your back, a heartbeat that resembles your own and beats in the same erratic cadence. Brother and sister. Incomplete without Atsumu’s second, but a feeling of fullness regardless. Because he has you. In his calloused hands that tighten their grip around you to keep you from running. In your body that he violates and sinks his teeth into. In your pussy that leaves his cock drunk with selfish desire for more and more and more.
Blood can’t be deceived. Apples that fell from the same tree. Cut from the same cloth. Where is Osamu? Where is Osamu?
If there was a hell on earth, it’s right here—in your indecency drenched in salt and sin—damned as the youngest Miya sibling. Damned to be underneath the oldest, taking him in as if he belonged inside you, as if the so-called greatness he was destined for was in your warmth this whole time.
Every sound forced out of your battered lungs is swallowed in one final attempt to fight against him. Because eventually the burn fades away and suddenly Atsumu feels…strange. There’s less resistance when his hips meet yours. A soft spot deep in your cunt pulses when he hits it, your walls clenching involuntarily as he groans. “God, yer gushin’, baby. Leakin’ all over me,” he rasps from behind you.
Wetness drips down your thighs in a syrupy mess. He feels good. The stretch feels good. The vein running up his shaft and his heavy balls smacking against you and the swollen head feels so good.
He feels so fucking good that you might vomit from how he has your body twitching. How your cunt sucks him in and begs for him to stay inside. How you feel that tightening in your pelvis that you can’t hold back. This shouldn’t feel good.
The slick noises coming from your pussy echo throughout the room. His musky cologne is stuck on the sheets. The feeling of his thick cock invading your womb has your entire body trembling with need. This is where you exist. This is where you burn. You’re gonna be sick. You’re gonna be sick.
“Atsumu-nii,” you beg meekly, stuffing your face further into the mattress. You grit your teeth in agony as the pleasure creeps up your spine.
But just as your pussy starts to flutter and weep around him, his rhythm falters to a standstill. The pause in his movements has more tears springing in the corners of your eyes as desperation simmers in your core.
His cock is left twitching inside you and the only thing you can hear is his heavy breathing. You turn your head to the side to look at him in confusion through your peripheral vision, where he’s looking down the valley of your back. His countenance is blank, almost tranquil and appearing lost in thought, until he finally meets your gaze and the corners of his lips curl into a cruel smirk. A vile cackle reverberates through the stillness.
“Guess ya missed me, too,” he breathes, warmth blooming in his chest.
The confusion slips away and turns into humiliation when you realize his hands are neither on your neck nor your wrists anymore—they grip the fat of your ass instead, dull nails digging into your skin and pulling you towards him. Your back is arched to meet his hips, welcoming him in your sacred space. The stickiness on the back of your thighs fixes you to his skin.
Your hands are right where he left them. He had already let go of you and the only thing you did was let him split your pussy in two.
“N-no. I didn’t—you—,” you choke, “Stop—just stop. Please.” You attempt to lift yourself off of the bed, finally moving your weak arms, but they give out and your chest meets the mattress once again. Your body shakes uncontrollably. Your chest is so heavy that you struggle to get back up. You should have died four years ago. You should have. You can’t die here—you can’t leave your body here with him.
“It’s okay,” Atsumu hushes you, “I got ya. Always have and always will.” A large hand smooths over your back and nestles between your shoulder blades to push you down.
You call out to him again. His cock twitches. He pulls his hips back and you feel so empty that you let out a cry in shame, satiated only when he rolls his hips and fills you back up with his length. He removes his hand from your back and reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing at the swollen nub in unforgiving circles to make you wriggle in his grasp.
“Never gonna let ya go after this. No one else can have ya like this ever again,” he promises. His laugh cuts through the air as your hips jerk against his unforgiving fingers. You gnaw at your lip until you taste blood on your tongue. His length strokes every inch of your fluttering walls and pounds at your cervix.
“Just cum already,” you beg through choked gasps, “Please.”
He shakes his head from behind you, a sadistic expression permanently etched on his devastatingly handsome face. “Yer cummin’ first. I’m not fillin’ ya up until ya squirt on my dick.”
His response forces more ugly tears and wretched sobs to pour out of you. You manage to get yourself on your elbows for some leverage, to pull away from his feral rhythm, but Atsumu thrusts a little harder and your mouth parts with a gurgled moan and your hand fists the sheets with white knuckles instead and you collapse with your pride completely broken because he feels too fucking good.
You cry into the sheets, voice muffled by the fabric but loud enough for Atsumu to hear you. “I can’t. I can’t do it.”
“Do it. I know yer achin’ for it,” Atsumu cooes, voice dripping with sugar. He leaves your poor nub alone to reach up and thread his fingers through your hair. A screech escapes you as he pulls you up by your scalp, your neck straining against his hold. You turn your head as much as you can and face his light blond hair and honey eyes. His irises are blown out, delirious with lust and desire, lids heavy. He’s too far gone, muscles swelling and veins popping out as he ravages you from the inside out like a hungry beast. You’re sure that you’re no better. Every noise around you has faded to static except for your dripping cunt and skin slapping against skin.
His hot breath washes over your neck, sending chills throughout your body. His rhythm never stops—his thrusts only hit harder and deeper. Drool seeps out from the corner of your mouth as you hold onto the bedsheets for dear life.
“Cum for me, baby. Yer mine now,” he whispers against your ear.
You choke on your spit. “I hat—”
Atsumu sinks his teeth into the delicate skin of your neck. You scream and scream until your voice cracks and wavers into desperate wheezes. Your throat finally collapses, completely sore and raw from Atsumu’s thick cock pounding into your esophagus earlier and your endless bawling.
It’s a hot and guilty orgasm that he forces out of you. Your entire body tenses and shakes as the knot in your stomach unravels and soaks Atsumu’s lower half with sweet nectar. Your eyes roll into the back of your skull, blinded by white-hot pleasure. He continues his assault, gripping you tighter with one hand when your pussy clenches around him and sucks him deeper in your core, fucking you mercilessly through your climax.
“Fuck,” he hisses, “Squeezin’ me so tight. Fuck.” Your name tumbles from his lips with a groan. Everything is wetter. Warmer. Your legs are covered in wetness. The floor where your toes brush against is slippery. Your clit is throbbing. It burns, but the burn doesn’t hurt anymore, as if you're merely floating through a summer’s breeze.
Atsumu lets go of your aching scalp. Your head drops to the sheets with sweat running down your temple. His fingers move back to dig into your hips, sure to leave bruises, and he thrusts his throbbing length sloppily against your cervix. He stills a few seconds later, letting ropes of white liquid flood your pussy until it leaks, his dick twitching as he finishes. You cringe as his cum slowly runs down the curve of your mound.
When he pulls out, large droplets of his cum erupt from your folds, coating your sore, quivering thighs and landing in a little puddle in the space between your feet, mixing with your fresh juices.
Your nerves are humming in relief. Finally, you let out a shaky exhale. Fatigue washes over you in waves. Atsumu’s hands caress your burning skin, from the supple flesh of your ass to the curve of your back.
The three words are teetering on swollen bloody lips—you want to say it so bad, remind him, the reason he had choked you out years and years ago—but you can’t bring yourself to when his gentle touch leaves you shuddering. So, you settle in the confines of your brain, where the only person who could judge you is yourself, where you might call it safe.
It’s that little girl still inside you, who still has a cool pink bike, who doesn’t know the feeling of hands around her throat, who smiles and whispers it for you because she knows you can’t anymore.
It’s also that little girl who looks up at the door of the bedroom, eyes meeting familiar gray ones. The same eyes that saved you four years ago.
You hate that he’s seeing you in such a vulnerable state . Your pussy is still trembling. Your fluids are in a puddle below you and it’s mortifying, but he’s here, and that’s all that matters right now. Too late, but here nonetheless.
“Osamu-nii,” you whimper pathetically, reaching towards the door this time. Your heart is beating against your ribcage, banging on your bones, begging, begging.
Atsumu turns to face his twin, not one bit embarrassed with his aching cock still twitching with desire to sink into you one more time.
“‘Samu," Atsumu acknowledges him with a lazy smile.
Osamu is glued to his spot in the doorway. His natural hair is reminiscent of childhood, that stretch of time where their similarities were a mild inconvenience. Goosebumps appear on your skin when he doesn’t look away from you, but you want him to see you. To really see you. If he has any kindness in his twisted heart to give you, at least this once.
His outline stands out against the shadows of the room. Despite his time working in his own restaurant, his build is like Atsumu’s—broad shoulders and large muscles bulging from his black tank top, veins that run along his arms as proof of his dedication in both the kitchen and the gym—yet there’s a subtle softness in his stomach that juxtaposes with Atsumu’s harsh lines.
You can’t look away from him; the missing twin who had yet to show his face all summer but who also made sure to make your favorite onigiri so Yukie could bring it home to you.
You.
You, four years later, with remnants of Atsumu swimming in your guts. Atsumu, four years later, glowing with sweat and your slick. Osamu, four years later, standing in silence as he scrutinizes the scene before him.
Four years later. You thought you were better. You were getting better, yet what ends up being left of you is wilted roots in poor soil. You don't even know who you are anymore. Who could you have been if Atsumu never laid a finger on you? Who could you have been if your brothers didn't take turns ripping your heart out of your fucking chest?
Osamu rubs the exhaustion out of his eyes. “‘Tsumu, what the fuck?”
tags. @ariangelofsatan @verwelkendepapawers @venhuza
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