— come and see me for once... @moonaaara - Tumblr Blog

nizhspo

genre: haikyuu imagine, fluff, suggestive

pairing: atsumu miya x fem!reader

summary: late night drive w/ a stranger

notes: i am very proud of this and i love this nigga atsumu so fucking much

may 25th – 8:38 p.m.

lsu campus, baton rouge

you didn’t plan to leave your dorm tonight.

you were supposed to watch boondocks reruns on your laptop with a sheet mask half-melted to your chin, bask in your edible glow, and fall asleep with your fan on medium.

instead, you’re digging through the bottom of your half-empty drawer, ripping through loose socks, a tangled charger, and a half-torn syllabus from february, cursing every decision you’ve made this semester.

FLO: your period may start in 2 days!

you blinked at the screen like it betrayed you.

you had three tampons left. maybe two if the box is lying.

and the vending machine in the dorm lobby? broken. and even when it worked, it only ever stocked off-brand pads that felt like diapers.

“god,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. the edible has you all floaty and warm, but it’s no match for the rising dread of that first cramp creeping up when you’re unprepared.

you sit back on your bed, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, and pull open your floor groupchat.

you: anyone driving off campus tonight? i’ll buy you food

you: i just need to hit target real fast

you: please i’m desperate i will venmo you five dollars and my soul

nothing. just the “delivered” tag mocking you.

you sigh. stretch out on your mattress and stare at the ceiling fan. the air is thick. sticky. the edible is kicking in more now; your limbs feel slow, sunkissed. your mouth tastes like the cherry lollipop you popped earlier just to have something sweet.

then:

atsumu: i gotta drop smth off to my brother

atsumu: store on the way. u good w that?

you stare at his name for a second.

atsumu miya.

that boy from your psych class. two rows back. always lounging like the seat owes him something. black t-shirts. cocky grin. never takes notes but always manages to answer questions out loud like he already knew.

you’ve never actually spoken to him—maybe once, passing each other in the student union. maybe not even then.

but he knows your name. you know his.

you shoot back:

you: that’s perfect, thank uuuu i’ll meet you outside in like 5?

atsumu: bet

atsumu: i’ll be parked near the quad. black honda. lights on.

you hop up. tug on your purple and gold lsu sweats—the ones with the cracked logo at the thigh, and throw on a tank top. you debate a bra.

decide against it. too hot. too much effort. and it’s just a ride.

you grab your phone, keys, and a mini wallet and step out into the hallway.

outside, the air clings to your skin like honey. thick, warm, slow.

it’s not fully dark yet, but the sky’s sliding toward purple, soft strokes of peach and navy bleeding out behind the buildings. the year’s bleeding out too, really. campus feels like a half-finished thought. windows dark. dorm doors cracked but silent. the echo of summer just beginning to stretch her arms.

you’re standing on the curb and your tank top’s sticking to your back where it meets skin, the fabric of your shirt brushing your chest every time you move. your nipples perked the second you hit the hallway air, and now they’re brushing against the fabric with every breath. every step. your arms are crossed tight.

your phone buzzes in your palm.

atsumu: you see me?

the bass from his car gives him away long before the headlights do: low and rolling, some beat-heavy loop bleeding through the speaker system. not obnoxious, just… lived in. the kind of car that’s seen late-night drives before. fast food bags in the backseat. dusty sports duffels. a hoodie curled in the passenger side footwell like someone tossed it off mid-drive.

you spot him through the windshield, one arm hooked out the driver’s side, fingers tapping against the glass, phone glowing in his lap. he’s got on a black tee, soft and worn, that clings to his chest and shoulders like a second skin. his sweatpants are gray and low-slung. thick thighs spread in the seat. blonde strands blow with the breeze.

you pull the door open and climb in, closing it behind you with a soft thunk.

and immediately—

air-conditioning hits you like a gust. cold and hard and perfect. it’s blasting full speed from the dash vents, and your skin tightens under it. a visible shiver runs down your arms, across your chest.

“seatbelt,” he says, not looking.

you buckle up.

he does glance over then, just once, and the look in his eyes lingers. not in a gross way, just… aware.

he clocked it. your shirt. the way you crossed your arms. the sudden alertness in your posture. you look back at him with a little raise of your brow, daring him to say something.

he doesn’t. just turns the music down and rests one hand on the wheel.

“you good?”

his voice is low and easy, eyes flicking to yours just briefly before returning to the road. he doesn’t sound worried, just tuned in like he’s been watching your body language the whole time. his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, thumb tapping once against the leather grip.

“yeah,” you say. “just cold.” your arms tighten a little over your chest. your tank’s thin, and the AC’s been hitting the same spot on your collarbone for the last five minutes.

you tuck your chin slightly into your shoulder, trying not to look like you’re reacting too much, but your voice still comes out a little breathier than you meant.

“mhm. i can turn it down.”

his hand is already reaching for the dial, fingers brushing the silver knob, but he doesn’t move it until you answer.

“no, it’s fine. feels good.” you glance at him as you say it, your tone soft. honest. something about the cold air feels grounding. like it’s keeping you sharp even as everything else starts to feel slow and warm and easy.

a beat. the kind that hums thick with unsaid things.

“you high?” he asks, casual.

his mouth curves just slightly, like he already knows the answer. he keeps his eyes on the road, but his posture shifts, more relaxed now. like this version of you makes sense to him.

you snort. “a little.”

the confession slips out with a grin, half-embarrassed and half not. your voice lifts on the end, playful.

his mouth twitches. “thought so. your eyes are red.” he finally looks at you again. it’s quick, but his gaze lingers just a second longer than before. not judging. not teasing. just noticing. and the way he says it? like it’s a detail he’s been sitting on since you climbed in.

you glance at the mirror. they are. not bright-red, just rimmed pink, soft around the edges. like your bones have finally exhaled.

“edible,” you say. “i earned it.”

he nods. “finals?”

“last one on tuesday. stats. i hate it.”

“but you studied.”

you shrug. “enough to pass. figured i’d celebrate a little.”

“respect.” he taps the wheel. rolls the window down two inches.

and the music’s back, some local r&b station, static under the beat, bass rumbling low. the kind of song you don’t know the name of but already like. you hum without thinking, tapping your fingers on your knee.

he turns onto a side road, past the edge of campus. the lights thin out. you smell grill smoke in the distance—maybe someone barbecuing near the dorms. maybe a food truck tucked near the rec center. it’s the kind of night where everything feels close and far at the same time. stretched. golden. soft around the edges.

“you always ride like this?” you ask.

“like what?”

“music up. windows down. driving aimless.”

“you callin’ me aimless?”

“i’m callin’ you vibey.”

he laughs under his breath, glancing at you again.

“nah. i usually ride alone. but this ain’t bad.”

you sink into the seat more. let your head rest against the window. the glass is warm from earlier sun. the car smells like pine and something sweeter. his cologne, maybe. maybe lotion. you glance at his hands on the wheel. veiny. strong. knuckles dark from sun.

“where you from?” you ask.

“hyogo,” he says, grinning. “nah, i’m playin’. nola. me and my brother samu both.”

“so you stayed close.”

“scholarship made it worth it. and i like it here. feels familiar.”

“i get that.”

a pause. the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.

“you got any family out here?” he asks.

“my cousin. she’s in grad school up the road.”

“you like it here?”

“i like the food. i like the heat when it’s not suffocating.”

“but?”

“but it’s hard sometimes. feel like everyone here already knows each other, y’know?”

“yeah,” he says, after a moment. “i felt that way too, at first.”

you look at him. he looks at the road. the lines on his face are soft in the passing lights. like he’s thinking more than he’s saying.

you ride like that for a while. quiet. just the wind through the crack in the window and the occasional cough of static from the radio.

you pass target without realizing it.

he doesn’t turn in.

“wait—”

“i’mma hit samu’s first,” he says. “if that’s cool.”

you blink. “you were supposed to go after—”

“yeah, but i figured you weren’t in a rush. and i need to drop this off now before he leaves. won’t be long. five minutes max. you can stay in the car. i’ll leave the air running.”

you hesitate. you’re warm now. skin soft under the buzz.

he just nods, one hand loose on the wheel, his other fingers toying with the car’s AC dial like muscle memory.

the ride settles quiet again, not heavy, just full. full of the kind of silence that swells around two people still orbiting one another. you shift your weight slightly, arms crossed over your chest, chilly from the vent’s cold air but not asking to turn it down.

you pass gas stations and streetlights and the occasional beat-up sedan with no headlights on. the further you get from campus, the more the world softens: less concrete, more trees. more overgrown grass climbing fences. more sky above you, bruising deep with night.

you keep glancing at him in the low light.

the radio’s humming a 90s r&b loop now, a song you halfway know. his fingers drum on the wheel, a lazy rhythm, wrist flexing just enough to catch the veins on his arm. his nails are clean, cut short. the smell of him curls warm in your nose, faint cologne with a sharper edge of deodorant and skin.

not like he sprayed himself up, just like this is what he smells like after a day.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t fill space for the sake of it. just drives like he always does this. like driving late into southern dusk with a soft-eyed girl riding shotgun is routine.

“you sure your brother’s home?” you ask after a minute, eyes tracing the power lines out the window.

“yeah,” he says. “told me to bring his charger. left it in my room again.”

you smile. “he does that often?”

“every damn week.”

you laugh, then sigh, pressing your shoulder to the window.

he turns off the main road and coasts into a quiet neighborhood with narrow streets, older houses, cars parked half-up on lawns. porch lights glow dim gold. a sprinkler clicks on somewhere behind a fence.

when he finally pulls into a gravel driveway, you can hear it crunch under the tires.

“you can come in,” he says again, shifting into park. “or stay out here with the AC. i’ll leave the car on.”

you nod. “i’ll come in. i gotta pee anyway.”

his lips twitch up. “figured.”

you both climb out. the heat clings to you instantly, humid, heavy, like breath on your skin. the night smells like cut grass, faint barbecue, and the lingering burn of car rubber from someone doing too much up the street earlier.

he leads the way up the steps. knocks once, then turns the knob.

you walk in behind him, and the smell of the house hits you first. not bad, just lived in. clean floors, slightly burned incense, maybe a faint trace of jambalaya cooked earlier. you hear a tv on in another room, the sound low. footsteps.

“yo,” atsumu calls, voice deeper now.

a man appears around the corner, similar build, darker hair, towel slung around his neck like he just wiped off sweat, like he either just finished cooking or bench-pressing something in the living room.

he stops when he sees you.

dark eyes flick from you to atsumu, then back.

his expression doesn’t change much, but his eyebrow lifts. subtle. like he’s trying to figure out what exactly this is.

“this her?” he says, dry, low, like the words are exhaled more than spoken.

atsumu exhales a sharp breath, dramatic. “bro—she needed a ride to target.”

“mm.” osamu’s gaze lingers on you, not in a creepy way. just observant. assessing. he’s got that quiet, oldest-brother energy, like he’s already weighed three versions of this situation in his head and picked the chillest one to go with.

“bathroom’s down the hall,” he adds, eyes flicking away. “second door on the left.”

“thanks,” you say, stepping past.

the hallway’s narrow, the kind where your shoulders almost brush the walls. hardwood creaks a little under your feet. the air smells like clean laundry and whatever seasoning was left behind in the kitchen pan. you breathe in slow, skin prickling with the quiet intimacy of being in someone else’s home for the first time—barefoot echo of your steps, the soft hum of a fridge, low voices floating from the kitchen behind you.

you find the bathroom. close the door.

it’s small, but not cramped. blue towels, a little air freshener on the counter, toothpaste smeared near the sink like someone rushed out in the morning. you take a beat. wash your hands. splash water on your cheeks and look at yourself in the mirror.

your face is warm. cheeks a little pink. there’s a softness in your eyes, half from the edible, half from this night slowly unfolding like something out of a song you didn’t know you remembered.

you dry your hands on the towel, slow and quiet.

outside the door, you hear atsumu’s voice, low and smooth—then osamu again, louder this time.

“so… target?”

atsumu laughs. “she ran outta tampons, man. i’m bein’ a good samaritan.”

“that what we call it now?”

you stifle a grin, cheeks hotter now, and flush the toilet just so they know you heard. when you open the door, atsumu’s already near the front again, keys in hand, twirling them lazily around one finger. he glances over when you step into view.

“you ready?” he asks.

his voice is easy. nothing forced about it. he doesn’t ask why you took your time. doesn’t comment on the fact that you definitely heard his brother grilling him. just looks at you like you’re still in the middle of something. like the night’s only just started.

you nod. “yeah.”

he opens the door for you. steps out first.

the air outside has shifted. it’s still warm, still thick, but there’s a breeze now. soft and slow, brushing through the trees. you inhale deep. smell the moisture in it, the faint scent of something blooming. the sky’s ink-dark, scattered with stars above the treetops. somewhere in the distance, you hear a boom—low and muffled.

a firework going off early, maybe. or a backfiring truck. it doesn’t matter. it feels like summer.

you both climb back in the car, the seat warm from where you left it. the dashboard clock flashes 9:27. he shifts the car into reverse, rolls back down the driveway smooth as ever.

the silence that settles in the car this time isn’t awkward. it’s the kind that makes you want to fill it with a song. and like he’s reading your mind, atsumu leans forward, taps the radio.

“let’s see if this thing’s still got a good station…”

static. flip. flip.

then, something slow. smooth. bass-heavy.

break from toronto.

the beat creeps in like syrup, warm and low, just barely pushing at the edge of the speakers. the vocals hum through the air, wrapping around the cabin like a weighted blanket.

you smile. “you like this song?”

“who doesn’t?” he grins, one hand sliding across the wheel.

“valid.”

you glance out the window. the lights of baton rouge blur by in long, melted strokes. everything outside the car feels far away now—like the city’s paused for the night and let you have your own little pocket of air.

“you hungry?” he asks, voice still low.

you blink. turn to him. “kinda.”

“you want mcdonald’s or actual food?”

“damn. you just called mcdonald’s fake?”

“i called it what it is,” he smirks.

you snort, then shrug. “i could do actual food. if you’re down.”

“i know a spot. open late. drive-thru’s always fast.”

you nod.

he doesn’t ask if you’re in a rush. you don’t ask if he is either.

you reach target ten minutes later.

not the campus one that one’s always packed and picked over by five p.m.—but the quieter location off college drive, tucked behind an old smoothie king and a gym that never closes.

the lot’s mostly empty, just a few stray carts tilted sideways near the corral and a flickering overhead light buzzing above a cracked parking space. the red glow of the target sign reflects in the hood of his car when he pulls in and parks a little crooked, two spots from the front.

he leaves the engine running.

“i’ll come in,” he says, already pulling his keys from the ignition.

“you don’t have to.”

“i know.”

he slams the door shut with his hip and meets you on your side.

inside, the air hits colder than before, grocery store cold, all artificial chill and soft overhead music. your skin tightens again under your tank, goosebumps rising like clockwork. you cross your arms as you walk, hugging yourself loosely, your steps echoing faint on the polished tile.

“what aisle is it?” he asks.

“ten,” you say automatically, even though you could find it blindfolded.

he trails a little behind you, pushing one of those hand baskets even though you told him you didn’t need it. his sweats swish quiet with every step. you pass a woman in pajama pants and a bonnet, a couple holding hands in the cereal aisle, and a manager restocking the travel-size body washes near checkout.

when you reach the aisle, you pause at the end—just a second too long—and he clocks it.

you turn to him. “i’ll be quick.”

he shrugs. “take your time.”

he doesn’t say it weird. doesn’t make a face. just backs up a few steps and turns to browse whatever’s next to the shelf—vitamins, maybe. chapstick. you breathe in slow, trying to shake the self-conscious edge prickling up your spine.

you grab a box. the purple kind you like. stare at it for a beat. then grab another, because last time you ran out too fast.

“you good?” he calls over his shoulder.

“yeah.”

when you turn back, he’s got something in his hand—cherry lip balm, and he’s squinting at the ingredients like he’s reading for class.

“you putting that in the basket?”

“nah,” he says. “my lips are soft.”

you blink. smirk. “okay…”

he grins. “feel free to confirm later.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s creeping in too.

you make a quick loop, all of your items small enough to finish before you’re off campus for the semester: travel-sized face wash, trail mix, a pack of gum, and he follows you, basket swinging from two fingers. the radio in the store starts playing “love galore,” and you catch him nodding a little to the beat, mouthing words like it’s muscle memory.

something in your chest loosens. the buzz is still sitting behind your eyes, soft and sweet.

at checkout, he throws in a bottle of gatorade and a king-size twix bar.

“you want anything?” he asks.

you eye the impulse shelf. grab a mini bag of sour patch kids. he hums like it tells him something.

he pays without blinking.

you don’t argue. just thank him under your breath as you head back to the car.

outside, the air’s even heavier now. summer pressing down like a hand on the back of your neck. it smells like pavement and distant water. sprinklers, maybe, or the bayou miles off catching breeze.

the sky’s darker, but not starless. somewhere far, another firework cracks.

he unlocks the car. you both get in.

this time, you peel the seal on your sour patch before the AC even hits your face. he takes a swig of his gatorade, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and glances over.

“still hungry?” he asks.

you nod. “you said you knew a place.”

“yeah. it’s a little hood, but the food’s fire.”

you grin. “good.”

he puts the car in reverse. pulls out slow. flicks his blinker, even though there’s nobody around.

you reach the restaurant a few minutes later.

drive-thru only, tiny neon sign above the window that just says WINGS & THINGS. a guy in a tank top and durag leans out the pickup window with a cracked phone in one hand and a bored look on his face.

“they got the best lemon pepper in the city,” atsumu says.

you order honey hot and seasoned fries. he gets lemon pepper, extra crispy.

when the food’s ready, he pulls into a half-abandoned lot across the street, just enough light to see your hands, not enough to see your reflection in the rearview. the windows are halfway down. cicadas buzz. your thighs are sticking to the seat a little now, sweat blooming beneath your knees.

he opens your box for you. passes it over. his fingers graze yours.

you eat in silence for a minute. licking sauce from your knuckle. the sound of chewing, the smell of fried food, the slow exhale of r&b through the car’s speakers. his head leans back on the seat, jaw working, the muscles in his arm flexing every time he reaches for a fry.

you glance at him. catch him looking at you already.

he doesn’t look away.

the food’s gone. wrappers crumpled, boxes empty but oily at the edges, tossed into the bag and folded neatly under your seat.

your fingers are sticky, and your lips are warm from spice, and your body? your body feels lazy and loose and alive in that particular way you only get when the night’s turned golden and you don’t know when it happened.

the radio hasn’t been touched since “break from toronto.” it’s playing something slower now—brent faiyaz, maybe, or tinashe. you’re not even sure. it’s just bass and breath and melody curling up against your thigh.

“you wanna stay out a little longer?” atsumu asks, voice barely above the hum of the AC.

you turn your head. blink slow.

“what’d you have in mind?”

he lifts a shoulder, eyes on the windshield. “fireworks show up by the levee.”

you blink again. “those weren’t just random ones?”

he shakes his head. “nah. they do a lil unofficial memorial day thing. nothin’ major. just people pull up, park, and watch.”

your stomach flickers.

your lips part before you can overthink it. “yeah. i’m down.”

he nods. puts the car in drive.

you roll the window down farther this time. let the wind rush in, let it ripple through your tank, lift your baby hairs. the air’s warm again, still sticky, but not in a way that makes you want to run from it. more like it’s wrapping around you, holding you in place. the breeze smells like wet grass and river water. and smoke. distant smoke.

you look at atsumu. his jaw is clean-shaven. his hands steady on the wheel. there’s a sliver of sauce at the corner of his mouth.

you lick your thumb. lean in and wipe it away without thinking.

he stills.

just a beat.

then exhales, slow and shallow.

“thanks,” he says, voice tighter.

“you’re welcome.”

the music keeps playing. you keep looking out the window.

when he pulls up to the levee, you don’t expect the view.

the sky is open here. wide. it yawns above you in deep navy, dotted with low, scattered clouds and stars that actually show. there are maybe four other cars parked nearby, spaced out. people sitting on tailgates, folding chairs, hoods. someone has a speaker playing old drake a few spots over, and you hear the fizz of someone cracking a beer.

atsumu parks near the edge and turns off the engine. leaves the radio on.

and then?

he hops out. opens your door.

“you good up there?” he asks, nodding toward the hood.

you climb out. stretch.

“yeah. lemme just—”

“here.” he shrugs off his hoodie, the one he’d tossed in the back earlier, and hands it to you without hesitation. “it’s getting cold out here.”

you blink at him. then take it.

it’s warm in your hands, still holding the heat of his body, the weight of it heavier than you expected. you slip it over your head slow, the fabric soft against your arms, the neck wide enough to drape loose at the collar.

it smells like him. clean and sharp and familiar now, and the sleeves fall past your wrists.

you pull your knees up slightly, climb onto the hood, and lean back on your palms. the metal underneath is warm from the earlier drive, and the night air feels softer now, hugging your body through the layers.

you look out at the sky.

he climbs up beside you. not too close. just close enough.

for a while, nothing happens.

just the sound of crickets. muffled bass. the rustle of trees behind you.

and then a firework pops.

it’s not huge. not coordinated. but it cuts through the night sky in pink and gold and green, crackling above the trees. you both watch it rise. then another. a few kids cheer in the distance. someone whistles.

you laugh under your breath.

“it is kinda ghetto.”

“yeah,” he says, grinning. “but it’s kinda perfect.”

you look at him.

his leg is brushing yours now.

you don’t know who shifted. you don’t care.

another firework blooms overhead, blue this time, long trails behind it like brushstrokes on velvet sky.

you both look up, breath caught somewhere between chest and throat. you feel the boom in your ribs more than your ears. the kind of sound that sinks into you, low and grounding. it lights up his face in flashes: blue, then gold, then green again.

and god, he looks good like this. quiet. soft-eyed. like he’s letting the night wrap around him just like you are.

you don’t speak. neither of you do.

not for the whole show.

you just sit there on the hood of his car, knees brushing, fingers occasionally twitching toward each other like they forgot how to hold still. the fireworks crackle and whistle and bloom above you in every color. people cheer. a dog barks. someone blasts “march madness” from a bluetooth speaker two cars down. but it all feels far away. like it’s happening through a layer of cotton.

your buzz has mellowed now. everything’s warm. slow. syrupy.

your lips part without meaning to.

you stand, slow and stretching, arms overhead as the last firework sizzles out above the treeline. your hoodie rides up a little, tank clinging underneath, the hem of your sweats resting soft on your hips. the sky’s quieter now, and your chest feels full with the kind of silence that makes you want to keep moving.

“i could go for something sweet,” you say, voice quiet.

atsumu turns, eyebrows raised. “you still hungry?”

you shrug, sheepish. “not food-hungry. just like… dessert hungry.”

he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “girl, you’ve been hungry all night.”

you grin. “i’m a growing girl.”

“uh-huh.”

his eyes dip, slow and obvious, lingering at the curve of your hips as you shift your weight. his voice drops, smooth as syrup. “yeah, somethin’ back there definitely been growin’.”

you blink at him, laughing once through your nose, heat curling up your neck.

he smirks, already turning toward the car. “c’mon. i know a spot.”

he drives you down a road that doesn’t look like it leads anywhere, trees on both sides, no real lights, gravel crunching under the tires like bones. your phone has no bars. the GPS would’ve given up two turns ago. and then, just when you’re thinking he’s made a wrong turn—a single neon sign flickers to life up ahead.

mr. spoon’s shakes & sundaes.

the building’s barely bigger than a shed. there’s a sliding order window, a laminated menu, and one fluorescent light buzzing hard above the roof. it smells like waffle cones and summer air and cheap cleaning spray. the kind of place you can only find if someone shows it to you.

atsumu pulls up and parks close. shuts off the engine.

the girl at the window looks half-asleep, nails long and red, hair in a puffed-up bun. her eyes flick over you both, unimpressed, and she slides the window halfway open.

“hey. how can i help y’all tonight?”

you lean forward to read the menu, eyes trailing over names like banana bonanza and strawberry lightning bolt and death by chocolate. but the words are swimming a little.

your high’s not loud anymore, but it’s still there, curling around your brain like cotton. you tilt your head. squint.

atsumu watches you for a second.

then turns to the girl.

“we’ll take a double swirl, chocolate and vanilla. extra whipped cream. with the waffle stick.”

she raises a brow. “you sure?”

he nods. “positive.”

she disappears inside and you blink at him.

“you ordered for me?”

he grins. “yes. because you were standing there like the menu was written in spanish.”

“it was blurry!”

“mhm. and you were moving like that girl wasn’t gonna fight you if you didn’t pick in five seconds.”

you cover your mouth, laughing. “she did look mad.”

“she was mad. i saw her grip the edge of the counter.”

the girl returns with your milkshake—if you can even call it that. the cup is massive. layered with thick swirls of chocolate and vanilla ice cream, piled high with whipped cream, fudge drizzle, crushed cookies, and a single crooked waffle cone sticking out the top like a flag. there’s one long spoon and a straw stabbed right in the middle.

“y’all got five minutes. we closin’ now,” she says, already sliding the window shut again.

“appreciate you,” atsumu calls, handing her a bill. she doesn’t answer.

you both climb back onto the hood of the car, this time settling closer without thinking. he balances the shake between you, and you take the first bite, ice cream already melting down the sides, sticky sweet on your lips.

“god, this is good.”

“let me try,” he says.

you nod, holding the cup toward him. but when you go to pull off the lid, he stops you.

“what?” you ask.

“what—you got cooties or something?”

you blink. then scoff. “no.”

“then gimme the straw.”

you hesitate. something in your chest tightens—not nervous, not embarrassed. just… aware. the straw’s slick. your gloss is still on it. your breath, your taste. he leans in and sips slow, eyes on you the whole time.

your thighs press together instinctively.

he pulls back, licking whipped cream off his lip.

“damn,” he murmurs. “that is good.”

you’re not sure he’s talking about the milkshake.

the silence returns, but it’s different now. thicker. your knees are touching. your hip’s leaning into his. and when you glance down, his hand is resting near yours again. closer this time. deliberate.

you look at him and he’s already watching.

and when he finally leans in, you don’t stop him.

the kiss starts soft. softer than you expect. just lips, brushing. then again. then again, deeper.

his hand finds your waist. yours curls behind his neck.

and when he tilts his head, breath sliding hot against your mouth, you open up for him without thinking, tongue brushing his, slow and sweet. like the shake you’re both ignoring now. like the fireworks that lit the night but couldn’t touch this.

he kisses like he’s learning you. like he’s waited the whole night to taste what you’d pick if you had to choose between chocolate and vanilla.

and from the way he groans into your mouth, you’re guessing he’d pick you.

his lips are warm, soft but certain, like he knows exactly how close to hold you without crowding. your fingers are curled in the front of his shirt now, tugging just enough to keep him there, and he’s letting you—leaning into it, mouth moving against yours like it’s instinct. like it’s gravity.

you shift a little, thighs spreading just to anchor yourself to the hood. the milkshake is still balanced between you, but it’s sweating now, melting faster than either of you are keeping track of. your left hand presses to the side of his neck, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. he kisses you deeper for it.

and then—

plip.

cold drips onto the back of his hand. thick and sticky.

you both flinch.

you glance down.

a long stripe of whipped cream and vanilla is sliding down his knuckle, slow like honey. it’s glistening in the soft light, pooling near the curve of his wrist. your eyes trail it. so do his. and for a second, neither of you moves.

then your gaze flicks up. you lean in. slow. you don’t even think— you just part your lips and drag your tongue up the stripe of cream, a clean, warm swipe from wrist to knuckle. his breath hitches. sharp. the muscle in his jaw flexes, and his fingers twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

your mouth lifts off his hand, slow. a faint pop of suction in the quiet air.

you swallow, eyes half-lidded, and tilt your head just slightly.

he looks stunned. then he laughs once—low and hoarse, and grabs the cup with one hand, sets it down hard on the pavement without even checking if it’s upright.

his other hand’s still slick when it slides to your thigh.

and now? he doesn’t sit back down.

he drops off the hood in one smooth step and steps between your legs, close enough for the heat off him to roll straight into your skin. his hands come up, bracing your thighs, holding you open just wide enough. the air sticks to your neck. your breath’s already shallow.

“you got a habit of lickin’ things that don’t belong to you?” he asks, voice rough, eyes fixed on your mouth.

“i didn’t hear you complain,” you murmur.

he grins.

“i’m not complainin’.”

and then he kisses you again, deep this time, hotter than before. his hands drag slow up your sweats, thumbs stroking the insides like he’s marking territory. your whole body arches forward. your hands grab fistfuls of his shirt. his mouth opens against yours and you taste sugar and skin and something feral rising between your ribs.

he licks into your mouth like he’s chasing the last of the whipped cream.

the metal beneath you is warm through your sweats. the air smells like sugar and pavement and the sweat sitting in the bend of your elbow.

he looks up at you for a beat—really looks. lips pink, mouth slightly parted, pupils blown wide.

and then he leans in again.

his mouth catches yours hungrily, like the dam’s cracked. his hands continue to slide further up your thighs, gripping—not rough, just intentional. his thumbs brush the inside, higher and higher, like he’s testing what he can get away with. you shiver. briefly regret wearing sweatpants.

he kisses like he’s tasting something rich, slow licks into your mouth, tongue brushing yours, teeth just barely grazing your bottom lip. your hips roll without meaning to, just once, right against where he’s standing between your legs.

his breath catches. he presses in closer.

the heel of his hand lands against the hood on either side of your thigh now, boxing you in. your legs tighten around him instinctively. your tank shifts higher beneath his sweatshirt. you can feel your pulse in your neck.

he pulls back for a split second, and then mouths along your jaw, down to your neck. kisses there, slower. firmer. like he wants to memorize the curve of it. his breath fans hot over your skin.

“it’s so damn hot,” you murmur, voice breathy.

he huffs a grin against your collarbone. “so are you.”

your head tilts back when he finds the spot just under your ear—sucks there, gentle but deep. your fingers tighten in his shirt again. your thighs flex around him.

his hand slides up again. this time, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your hoodie. resting there. not rushing. not asking.

just waiting.

you press your mouth to his again before you can think better of it.

he groans—low, ragged. his hands slide up your waist now, warm palms beneath your hoodie, fingertips grazing the bare skin of your sides. you gasp into his mouth. he eats the sound.

his body is all heat, all pressure. his thigh brushes right between yours again and lingers. not grinding, not humping, just there. like a placeholder. like a promise.

he pulls back, just slightly, lips still grazing yours.

“you good?” he murmurs, voice rough.

you nod, dazed. “yeah.”

his hands pause. “you sure?”

your eyes open. you find his. something in your chest tightens. not with nerves, just with want.

“i’m sure.”

he kisses you again. slower now. deeper. your arms loop around his neck. your whole body is arching into him. he shifts closer, one hand bracing your lower back, the other cupping your jaw. he kisses like you’re a song he just discovered, like he wants to learn every note by heart.

and when he pulls back again, finally—finally, you’re both breathing hard. faces close. noses brushing. your lip’s kissed pink. your pulse is skipping.

“that milkshake,” he murmurs, eyes still locked on your mouth, “didn’t stand a chance.”

you giggle, quiet.

he smiles. not cocky. not smug. just soft.

and then he kisses the corner of your mouth— once, gentle.

like he wants this to keep going long after tonight ends.

#MHMMMMM #xio's recs

modernau!smoke & stack headcanons

➠ notes: when sinners is such a wonderful movie metaphorically, cinematically, and emotionally, that i start writing again. wow....

smoke. ⭑ he's a businessman that leaves your apartment for days at a time, but when it comes back to you, he's all elijah and no smoke. you're his peace, and when he hugs you, his arms snake around your lower back as he takes in your familiar scent.

⭑ he calls you his lady when he's outside. makes sure everyoneee knows y'all go together real bad.

⭑ he's normally so stoic, but when you're in his lap, he's incredibly unrestrained. gets kiss-drunk reallll easy. immediately flips your position to kiss you stupid too so you're grasping at him and rolling your hips closer to him. "girl, you a damn distraction. keepin' me away from my work... you miss me?"