genre: haikyuu imagine, smut
pairing: husband!osamu x fem!reader
warning: smut? idk lol
summary: in which your toddler gives you no alone time. so thank god for atsumu.
notes: ty to @oxytxn your headcanons inspired this lol
it starts the second the door shuts behind atsumu.
he barely gets a “don’t break anything!” out before your kid’s squeal echoes down the hallway and disappears into the elevator, leaving behind blessed, bone-deep silence.
you and osamu just… stand there. for a beat. in the soft, flickering light of the closed kitchen. warm from the rice cookers, the open oven, the lingering scent of soy and vinegar and ginger.
he leans back against the counter, exhaling like he’s been holding it all day. his eyes drag up your frame, slow, heavy-lidded, already dark with something you haven’t seen since before sleep regressions and preschool field trips.
you toe off your shoes and toss your hoodie over a chair, letting your hair fall loose. you’re still in leggings, still in the tank you wore under your apron. still wearing your wedding ring, catching the overhead light as you flex your fingers.
his gaze catches there.
“we got—what, two hours?” he asks, voice thick, rough from the day.
you nod. “if we’re lucky.”
he doesn’t move right away. just watches. something low and simmering under his skin. then, quietly, almost reverent, he says, “c’mere.”
you cross the room before the word’s even done leaving his mouth.
he pulls you between his legs, arms sliding around your waist, palms big and hot and grounding. his lips find your throat, slow and firm, like he’s re-learning the shape of your skin. like he’s starving.
“missed you today,” he murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone.
you hum. “you saw me six times.”
“yeah, but you weren’t sittin’ on my face any of ‘em.”
you laugh—sharp, surprised, and he grins against your skin like it was the joke and the truth.
“you want me to?” you ask, voice light, teasing. but your hands are already on his shoulders.
he tilts his head back, eyes flicking up at you. “need you to,” he says. like he means it.
you kiss him then: slow and deep, like the kind of kiss that always ends in ruined clothes and unwashed dishes. he groans into it, hands slipping lower, gripping your ass through your leggings like he wants to drag you over every inch of him.
“get up there,” you mutter against his mouth, nodding to the prep counter behind him. “lie back.”
his smirk is pure trouble as he obeys, climbing up with a grunt and lying flat, head tipped up against the wood, arms behind it like he’s ready for dessert.
you peel your leggings off in one smooth motion and climb up with him, straddling his chest, knees on either side of his ribs. his hands come to your thighs immediately, wide and sure, thumbs stroking the skin like he’s waited all damn week for this.
“you sure?” you ask, breath hitching.
“baby,” he says, already pulling you higher, “i asked. now lemme taste you.”
so you shift forward, slow, and settle onto his face.
and god.
his mouth is hot and greedy and shameless. his tongue moves like he’s got something to prove—like he wants to make up for the nights you were both too tired, the mornings interrupted by cartoons, the afternoons stolen by errands and orders and a toddler who climbs everything.
he groans like he’s the one getting wrecked. like this is all he needs in the world. his nose nudges your clit just right, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you steady.
“that’s it,” he mutters against you, voice muffled but still deep enough to make your stomach clench. “ride it, mama. don’t stop.”
you roll your hips instinctively, chasing every flick of his tongue, every sweet pulse of heat building low in your belly. the sweat from the day hasn’t even dried, and already your skin is damp again, sticky from the humid kitchen air and the way he’s worshipping you like it’s the only job he’s ever loved.
your hand goes to his hair, fisting it tight. your other braces on the counter.
“‘samu—fuck—don’t stop—”
he groans again, tongue flattening against you, and that’s it. you come with a full-body shudder, thighs trembling around his head, moaning his name like it’s all you’ve ever known how to say.
you try to lift off him after, but his hands won’t let you.
“nah, baby,” he says, voice wrecked. “not done yet.”
he licks you through it. keeps going until your back arches, until you whimper, until your hand slaps weakly against the countertop and you beg.
“okay,” you gasp. “okay, okay—”
you finally manage to crawl off, collapsing onto the counter beside him, panting, boneless, eyes fluttering shut for half a second.
he props himself up on one elbow and leans down to kiss you. it’s messy, tasting like sweat and salt and you.
“now,” he says, nipping at your bottom lip, “i’m gonna bend you over this counter.”
your legs don’t even shake anymore. they just give out.
you’ve got two hours.
and your husband?
he’s starving.
