"oh, jussst gonna say my thanks. that's all." you tease, flicking your glance up to him, reaching to touch the cloth from his boxers.

"baaaby, but we're gonna be late—" he takes about .00002 split seconds to think about what he's even saying, shaking away his own ridiculous interruption, before it comes to a screeching halt, "—but actually, wait, yeah don't stop." his low naughty laugh resounds huskily, falling to your ears.

you've spit on his thick dick and once he’s pumped full, warm and hard, by your wet palm, he still hasn't noticed what you have in mind. not wanting to put your mouth around him just yet is intended, keeping that part best for last.

there's a question mark written over his face as you begin to unroll the fruit roll-up, and he nearly bellows a not-so-subtle whine. "are—are you teasing me, honey!!?" he protests, in a bit of a disgruntled huff, "i thought you were gonna—i just mean, can't it wait? you eating that?—"

the slap of the thin colorful strip hitting his moist cock, jacketed around the circumference, wrapping his girth up with your purposeful hands then swallowed up by a sloppy coating of spit from your hungry mouth shuts him up right quick.

"sh-shit, o-oh!" he gently grabs hold of your scalp, "mm, FUCK, baby, yes—forgive me, i—ok—i’m—" he tries to steady his wording, not ever quite getting there, only finding the next few words, "i—i fucking LOVE YOU."

fruity bursts of flavor slide over your tongue, slide back and forth with your lips encasing the sticky-sleekness across his candied cock. bokuto's thighs twitch and spasm, fucking your face so sweetly, as you work to suck the actual sweet off of him, layer by thin layer, ‘till it's finished and dissolved down to nothing but the taste of his own familiar and scrumptous cock.

when you are through, he pumps your mouth full of now-extra-sweet cum, the taste of a swirly blend of transferred sugar. both of your heady pleasured moans match each other as bokuto releases himself, thanking you dearly along a string of his curses for your fun little game, all in the cool air of the room on this autumnal halloween evening.

and the night has only yet begun.

closed!: send me an hq, tokyo rev, aot, or jjk character + a candy and i'll tell you what costume they'd wear & write a small blurb with the candy of choice

“Kei...” you giggle, through a faint moan.

Gradually your lids open, finding that the passionate eyes of a wolf now stare back at you with fervor, inspired as one could ever be, and you are the moonlight his wolf is howling for.

A shadow of a grin is alight on his face, but those irises of deep amber tell of a more earnest dedication for you, a craving to claim.

All that it takes is for you to even remotely, subtly, catch his drift, with your face falling just enough to match his tantalized expression, in order to send his arm sailing over the table. It lashes against everything above it, all items thrown off, while you’re caught in his throw of your biddable body over the wooden surface, with the satisfying slam of your ass down onto it. The clinks and clanks of kitchenware and utensils hit the floor as he briskly flings off your panties from underneath your dress.

His knees hit the floor.

He unbuttons the top of his biker uniform.

“Wanna keep you for life,” he murmurs, discarding his shirt, “and I want everyone to know just how I made you mine.”

He lowers a breathy chuckle that vibrates against your bare pussy before coating it with a slick lick through your folds that drip, indulgently eating you out like he didn’t just finish indulging in a full on meal.

A first orgasm is pulled from you with expertise, unfaltered skill from his delighted face plastered against your cunt of sweetness; a strong grip pressing down on your shaky thighs, keeping them nice and open, a mouth sucking, drenching you. Baji’s long dark strands tickle against the skin on your legs with every wavy lap of his tongue streaking wet between them, his knees happily grooved against the floor.

The back of his arm wipes across his wicked smile when he’s through, rising to tug the rest of your clothing up over your head alongside his own, save for a single article—a hair band that readily snaps back his shiny obsidian mane, up and tidied, out and away from his face, gearing himself up to give you one of the finest fucks you could ever receive.

His naked body is beautiful; standing over you, with every lined ridge of his frame defined so exquisitely, that the sharpness feels like a contoured equivalent of thorny peaks across every stem of a rose bush; and his velvet skin: the soft petals to your greeting touch when he begins to slink himself towards you.

Scattered fabric strewn alongside kitchenware littering the tile ground can be seen everywhere from his climb over your exposed limbs, your exposed everything.

Needing to take take take you, and devour, comes over him, so he’s gathering up your pooled juices to lube his entire length and girth to a sticky slip. It has you trembling beneath, a tell of your need to be greatly filled by him.

Making sure to kiss you deeply just before and just as he drives himself far far up into your body, you’re aware, is Baji’s way. The feel of chiseled divots from his abs and pecks sliding across your torso, your tits, with every one of his rocks and grinds up inside you, turns your mind into a spinning top.

Baji’s tongue softens at the very tip to meet just under your nipple, stroking it upward into a kitten lick. On quick wolfish instinct, his careful teeth cage around it lightly, easy-tempered, into the skin. Down, down, teasingly slow, his jaw begins to clamp together, pressing in on it millimeter by thrilling millimeter alongside simultaneous flicks and glides of his tongue across your supple bud; surrounding it completely with inescapable pleasure from between his soft bite.

He looks on in amusement over to the hissed whimper slashing across your face. Your voice flares out an, ‘unnh, pleeeease’ from the rousingly edged splendor and right then, he opts to release your sensitive nub, only to lick it back up into his mouth.

Lips latch on to it, playful, suck it swollen, his mouth alternating patterns of little vibratory suckles and pulsations over it, drawing blood up to the surface of your nipple. It spurs your body into overdrive, stimulating you gloriously to squirt, groan, then keen—feeling your tight ring of muscle fill up with cream, surrounding the slow sweet pumps of Baji’s cock.

When mercy is finally shown from his detaching mouth, the sensation of concentrated blood flowing back down into your tit entirely unwinds your body—nerves come apart, and you arch with a severely thrilling shudder.

You take in a long and sharp exhilarated inhale at the still yielding of his movements, his sweaty and considerate pause waiting in patience for your body to re-regulate. “Just for your practice, baby...wanna prep these nipples up real nice,” he coos sing-songy, a clever grin pulling at his cheek, rolling the other nipple between his fingers, “...‘cause y'know, they’re bound to get more sore than that when you’re feeding my pups.”

Arms that could take down hundreds of men in one go lift your back off the table so that you sit at the edge, perfectly nestled up to meet the indentation of his toothy grin against your warm neck. Flashy canines glint in the light, pointy and prominent, scraping gently over the throbbing of your pulse point. A visible shiver breaks loose across your upper body and his previous pace picks up, back to slamming wonderfully into your lower.

He nips down, two sharp pricks lightly digging, and with each moment that passes from his teeth sinking into your flesh, continues the sink of his cock deeper, changing up the rhythm in favor of harder, dead-set, pounding. Bone-chilling warmth ignites and circulates throughout your body freely.

With your head craned to one side, colors leave your eyes to a rolling black out, unabashedly whining, moaning, from how sublime it all truly is, “Keiii...Oh-god, Keiii…yess-s-s...”

Baji exhales a gentle, but firm instruction, “I want you to cum.” The clutching of your cunt speaks volumes to fulfill his stern desires. “Then- I’m gonna fuck you full of my cum n’ make you a mommy for me—mn? How does that sound?”

It sounds like the loud clap of your legs locking, never-faster, to a tight grip around his waist in approval. It’s the sound of you losing all sense-of-self when your head falls back and your throat is hitching with voiced strings of ‘yes, daddy-d-daddy—fuck, please fill me up”, exposing the bare column of your neck, perfectly laid-out for him, to do what he has told you to—coming, and cumming, completely undone at the seams.

His thrusting cock is cleansed over with the warm milky gush of your walls twitching around him, striking such a vivid fiery urgency in his core that he cannot bear to not bite down and wrap his mouth onto your permissive neck. Baji sucks over your flesh that thrums with adrenaline through his groans and slurped pulsations on a spot so sensitive on you, little dark-plum welts raising on your skin.

Everything that could ever be pure and good about this world courses vibrantly under your skin, has your toes curling and hips gyrating in such blinding motions of pleasure, causing him to snap, at last. And snap to combust he does to your beautifully desperate echoes, “Need you, n-need your baby—y—Kei-! Need youuu—,” milking his seed for all that he’s worth with your openly committable core.

. . . Light as feather falling, you both melt into one another for a moment afterward, until he’s moving to melt his mouth onto yours, kissing you in between heavy breaths and words, “Baby...I’m gonna...mm...stay inside you until...I’m soft...ahn?”

You’ve hugged around him tighter.

⟴

Baji says ‘it’s beautiful’ once he’s withdrawn himself and is running a pad of his first finger up and down the pearly-white leaking of your joined seep, a perfect mix of you both, collecting in the line of your pretty slit. “Ah—but, keep your legs up. Knees back. Don’t want any part of me to spill out.”

A quick upturned swivel of his wrist then faces the ceiling and a second finger joins the first. He raises his line of sight to your eyes, shooting you a smile so feisty with the exact timing of his firm press inward to slide his seed far back inside you. It squishes upward with such fullness he’s able to watch it induce the drop of your loose jaw, falling with an open inhale of elation and slight overstimulation.

Your light touch reaches for his wrist from that hand, caressing, endearingly.

His saucy stare stays sealed to your sight, grinning triumphantly with a foxy little furrow of the brow when his dusky voice proudly asserts over you:

“Baby’s all mine.”

“So, don’t be silly.” You wink, twirling away.

Uh huh, thought you were clever with that one.

A saucy rise of the shoulder to meet your wink is a show, steering the dilemma right out of sight from those “faults” of yours he is always so ready to see from his critical eyes.

But you’ve shrugged him off, so he has no choice other than to mirror you, accept it and move on. Unfortunately for him, he can’t actually control you.

Not to mention, he has to get his head in the game. The new game in his life that is no longer volleyball, but a successful music career. He’s elated to be playing a special gig with his band tonight. They’re even set out to debut some new songs, songs with taste, rock n’ roll music of class.

And everything was going just classy, everything shaping up to be real grand, until during the performance when he catches a fateful ordeal to the contrary.

It happens in the middle of his live show.

Semi is confidently rocking out to a song you have both come to share as a personal favorite from his band, during which he will always look out into the audience to reach for your eyes. The music is beginning to escalate to the best part of the song: a bridge section with his killer guitar solo—the very one where he’ll finally lock onto your pretty face to hold a fun and intimate moment with you.

Unfortunately this time, he is instead locking onto the sight of a most maddening occurrence happening to you.

Some loser has a hand on your bare waist, his other arm around it, pulling you in close to whisper something in your ear, and it must’ve been funny, because now you’re giggling.

Your crinkled nose from a little laugh shows. You’re enjoying yourself and it isn’t from the sound of Semi’s badass solo, or the song you both love, but from hearing some dead-meat-walking’s joke.

And as if things couldn’t seem to just be the worst already, there’s a second loser, standing behind you, a beer glass in hand with the slow tilt of his body, an even slower dip of his head, to really get a good look at what’s underneath that super mini skirt you’re sporting. His most filthy eyebrow is arched in such a way that Semi can tell he is definitely, vividly, visualizing all the ways in which he’d put you under him within his bed.

Dead-meat-walking #1 and #2, all at once, is too much, and a thinning string of composure he is hoping to cling on to is just about ready to snap; not unlike the actual strings of metal beneath his shredding fingertips which he’s meant to be wielding to perfect musical execution.

He forces himself to blink back the rage, reflexively catching himself just in time to not flub the solo, or the rest of the set, steadying his professionalism on stage as much as possible. Clearly, being in high stress situations all those years on a top-tier volleyball team has him trained to handle himself quite well when it comes time to perform, especially under pressure.

That is until the end of the show, and his dark boots are stomp stomp stomping down the backstage corridor towards the band’s personal green room.

He turns into view in the open doorway, seeing the usual friends of friends of the band scattered around, some music industry folk or groupies of the like. They all hang about, either on expensive velvety-sleek couches drinking the complimentary booze and chowing down the free food from Semi’s artist rider or leaning against walls lined with pristine vinyl records, award placards and vintage photographs of previously successful musical acts. All of them, buzzily chattering away, await the return of Semi’s band to congratulate tonight’s already acclaimed performance, and then there’s you.

You again, engaged in conversation with yet another guy. Although this guy is someone he has no reasonable reason to be worried about, since Semi even recruited him as a roadie, having been good friends since their youth, still, being seated next to you on the armrest of the sofa, indignantly digs at Semi’s gut. Everyone knows, when he gets like this, toed over that line of possession for you, there’s not a lot of rationality to be had. Besides, it’s already been one too many things tonight.

So he tells everyone to fuck off.

Somewhat politely.

“Everyone out. I need to get changed.” He sounds impatient, callously motioning in the direction of the door. “Rest of the band is still out in the venue talking with our manager, but they’ll all be back to gather up soon—thanks for coming, but I need the room.” The crowd shuffles out and the door slams. The second it hits the doorframe, closed-shut, Semi is whirling around to face you with the swift removal of his leather jacket, flinging it towards whatever surface is convenient and he stands tall, looks even taller than usual.

He could currently stand at 50 feet tall as far as you’re concerned with what a strict stare down he’s got placed on you, even if you are now standing up. It’s sharp and darkly ominous, cold anger, embers of fury dancing across the stiff ice of his expression—not a word from him yet, only striking his hands to hip.

Your face goes blank—dumb, if Semi does say so himself—when you open up your trap to ask an innocent, “...What?”

He holds his tongue a few more seconds hoping it will click for you in the wake of his silence, or until he can formulate the calm and exacting-enough words together from under the brooding weight of his frustration.

“So—did you enjoy proving me right?” He asks, shifting his weight.

“What?” You don’t catch his meaning.

“How could you do this? At my show no less?”

“What’re—?”

“ ‘What-what-what’ ?” he mimics, “Is that the only word you know?” He presses the distance between you, approaching a little closer from across the room.

“Eita, can—” urging him to arrive at his point, rather than continuing to try coercing it out of you, knowing it must have to do with his all too recognizable jealousy, “...just- tell me what’s up…”

“Oh you wanna be dumb right now?” He joins you in standing over the middle of the large elaborate persian rug in the center of the room, lined up with the gorgeous leather couch. The closer he gets and the more piercing the look he sends you becomes, surprisingly the more tickled you seem to be getting on the mound between your legs.

He must’ve seen that one meaningless moment from earlier, you now figure—shit.

“Hey, so uh, you’re mine, right, babe?” he reasons, snarkily, “I mean that’s the deal here if I’m not mistaken, y’know, or so I thought.”

“Of course, Eita, we’re each others’—”

“Each others’?” he interrupts, wryly. “Right. Speaking of ‘us’, I almost royally fucked up our song while I caught what was goin’ on in the crowd. That cool with you?” A harder glare, a closer step from him and it takes everything in your power not to rub your thighs together.

“I'm- no, of course not! I blew him off anyway. You know I did.” A tone of apology coats your denial.

He’s quiet up to your ear now, lips ghosting right over the shell, “Well, it seemed to mee—e, like you were pretty chill with it…” a single accusatory finger runs faintly down one of your cheeks.

Both of his hands then clasp around your bare waist, the very spot on you that piece-of-shit once had his vile touch. “Your slutty idea of clothing make you forget who you belong to or something?”

Light hands eerily run up your back, “Maybe you need a reminder. I can set your memory straight right here.” Semi’s grip flows back down onto your waist, a little tighter—maybe if he squeezes firm enough, the more it will clear away any others’ energetic mark left on you, purify the stains of every single wretched eye and goddamned touch that dared to encroach upon your skin tonight.

“I-I swear, baby, I didn't know he was gonna do that...” It’s a pouty refute.

He motions quickly to squish between your cheeks with his thumb and index, pushing your lips out plump.

“Because you don’t think, don’t know how to listen,” his hold makes tiny vibrations on your face to emphasize his assertive scowling points, “like when I told you that I knew it, how you were gonna get unwarranted attention that I don’t like, attention my girl shouldn't be getting.”

He pulls your face into a ravaged kiss within his grasp.

“E-eita!” You attempt to say at the incoming of his lips, a trace of an apologetic whimper, startled by his fresh intensity, but regardless, leaning into him with welcome.

“You want attention that bad?” His palms both place flat up against your ribs, sliding them up lightning fast to catch the hem from that too-short shirt of yours, lifting it to frame the fabric over your breasts. “Baby’s that desperate for attention....” his reach behind your back to attack your strapless bra comes next, “...that you gotta dress like a bimbo?”

The lacy piece is gone with a snap by the unclasping from his nimble fingers, whipping it across the room, all while his eyes never leave the punishing daggers he has speared into yours.

He’s gotten your tits freed, cool air conditioning shriveling up your nipples, giving him grounds to rub them to warmth.

“Tell me. How is such a smart girl so dumb sometimes?” He leans his head forward, sucking in your bottom lip, still latching his open eyes on your hazy look, darting his glare between each of your pupils, as if searching for something through his subdued outrage.

He pops off your lip slowly with the sound of gentle suction, asking lowly, “Is it just to piss me off?”

“No, baby, I really just wanted to look cute for your show,” your voice is like a little doe, “support you, be a good partner, just have fun with it.”

By the time you’d answered him, he already had a firm grip pushing up on the fat of a single tit into an accentuated squish, quite pointedly, making them poke out, exaggerating your vulnerable nipple.

“Oh yeah, it’s real ‘cute’ when you let other guys touch what’s fucking mine.” His head ducks to lick a lone stripe up and across your hardened bud from within his hand. You whimper, quivering with heat, “G-god, Eita—” Your hand flies to his hair, tugging it gently from what his wicked tongue wills on you.

“—Such a ‘good’ girlfriend when this ass,” clapping a cheek from underneath your skirt, jiggling the flesh with a petty shake of his hand, “the one that belongs to me is being eyed-up by some shithead whose dumb jokes she’s laughing at.”

He doesn’t waste another second in gripping tight around the other breast, replicating his actions from your prior tit. Goosebumps span across your skin, from his dedicated licks and sucks on your nipple, and you quake, moaning with irrefutable desire.

“Tell me, baby…” his hands let go, dipping beneath your skirt to hook spiteful fingers into the thin strings on either side of your thong, “What exactly was so fucking funny?—” Off goes your thong without a second thought, ripped down in a flash to your ankles—and now your nipples aren’t the only part of your body that’s exposed to the cool air anymore. “—Huh?”

You startle with a tiny hiccup, then a mewling sigh, clinging your wanting fingers onto the back of his neck.

“Was it some big joke that your pretty but senseless ass was parading around for everyone to gawk at?—” And your skirt is the last piece to go, torn and tossed off faster than a world-class chef’s salad.

“Like you’re even up for consideration?”

You’re all but left with the top bunched up over your breasts and he shuffles your steps backward. You gasp, then shudder excitedly when his body and hard denting cock gets thrown over your body, onto the stylish Luxury-Chesterfield couch.

“Well, you’re not,” he sneers, making it absolutely clear, rummaging with his own pants, pulling them off proper, “you’re not just some goddamn silver platter up for offer—”

Your hand feels starved to feel him, needing to wrap fingers readily around his unforgiving cock, tip raging with precum, pumping it to fullness with a palm you’d licked wet.

“—You’re a golden one, and the platter is mine.”

Even through your current thrill, you find your eyes are rolling at him like a little laugh, because jesus, even now he’s writing lyrics.

But any silliness is pried right out of your mind when he leans in to meld his mouth over yours, sloppy and vulgar and direct, while slapping the sticky head of his cock against your clit. “If you wanna act dumb, I’ll fuck you till you’re stupid around my cock, hm, baby? As usual.”

You release a hungry approving groan, running hands up along his arms that brace over you, a way of soothing your pounding heart, your matched impatient and pounding pussy, because, fuck, you want it. You want it so bad. There’s a pause in his kiss, so he can assert, “And there’s still people down that hallway, they can all hear, too, can remind everyone here while we’re at it just who you belong to.”

And he does just that when you’re spreading your bare cunt out for him, legs far and wide across the couch, when he shoves his cock up into your throbbing and outpouring slit with equally matched rhythm and talent that of his phenomenal musicianship, harder and fiercer by the minute. “Whadd’you think, baby? Think anyone else can fuck you this good?”

Semi’s hips whip forward, fitting into you with such exactitude with every snap—precisely how a stage amp's tiny slot perfectly takes in the metal end of an electric guitar cable, he envisions, made for one another. His impassioned performance on your body has your throat tight and stretched back, wailing and wailing for more.

“This pussy is fucking mine, sweetheart, remember?” He reaches down to swipe around your slimy clit, an electrifying touch of intoxicating circles over it.

You’re gurgling serenely with a little nod, eyes hooded like they’ve begun to lose any semblance of the room around you.

“Say it. Who do you belong to?” Abruptly, he muscles you around from your back into a whirl over his lap, wanting you mounted up like a blubbering princess to this throne-like seated position. It emulates an act of regal superiority, as though he’s decreed this placement of your lax body as the preferential better angle, knowing he’ll get to watch how the entire perception of the world leaves your eyes, completely; little by little, as it nearly always does when you’re drowsily bouncing and hiccuping from the harsh hits of his cock to your cervix.

“Look at me, pretty baby,” his hand hooks onto your chin, “aw, barely knows where she is anymore, huh?” He teasingly belittles, fucking you deeper. “Gonna listen to me next time?”

You are beyond cock-drunk.

When you don’t answer, he halts his movement to a still. The whine that rises out of your chest is a tormented plea, imploring him to give it back, inadvertently flopping your frame down into his shoulder at the loss.

“Say what you want, I wanna hear it—you’re capable of at least doing that, aren’t yah, babe?”

Dreamily squirming and wriggling your damp waist over his locked in dick, frowning with laboured breaths, you muster the humiliatingly precious beg.

“Fuck me s-senseless, Eita. Do it. C’mon,” You’re nearly crying it, with a sweatily desperate scrunch of your face, moisture filling up your lash line, “F-fuck me, please-! Fuck me senseless.”

“There it is,” he grips aggressively onto your hips, “knew you had it in you.” Your lower body is secured for him, set into place, so he can pound you up into the next dimension. “Good, baby. Maybe the right amount of my cock will knock that brain around enough to actually fuck some sense back into you.”

⟴

The last thing that can be heard resounding down the hallway that evening is the echo of Semi Eita’s name, euphorically wailed, when the rest of the band makes their way towards that backstage room.

A voice comments on the scene from behind them, “Whoa—nice. Tryin’a get me something like that.”

It’s the first handsy loser, dead-meat-walking #1, to be exact.

Speaking of which, he reckons, “Uh, hey, man,” #1 treks over to the band members to inquire, “you guys happen to see that one girl around, y’know, with the sweet outfit on: crop top, tight ass skirt? Think I saw her come here earlier.”

“Oh, she’s definitely coming—you’re hearing her right now, buddy.” Says the bassist.

The guy flinches, discouragingly, eyes narrowing down the hallway, face dropped and pretty peeved, “That’s her?—She’s...Semi’s—”

“Yep.” The drummer responds, raising an entertained brow in the same direction over to that closed door your voice is currently blaring out from, before chuckling amusingly.

“Holy shit, Eita.”

⁂

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