Dawn

Oikawa sighs. He’s not annoyed, not by you. Never by you. He already knew this was coming, from the way your hand slipped from his grasp during the cab ride to the airport and your glazy eyes whenever you stole a glance at him. From the small wobble of your bottom lip and the crescent shaped marks you dig into the heels of your hand. 

“Don’t give me that now, sweet girl,” he murmurs and taps your chin, begging you to look at him. He sounds defeated, the usual chirp of his voice dying on his tongue like a broken record. There’s no use in putting up a mask in front of you; not when you can see right through him as if he was made of glass. 

When you refuse to do so, his hand wraps around your wrist, dragging you in a quieter corner of the airport. He’s caging you in between the wall and his broad figure and for a moment it’s like you’re both seventeen again and stealing kisses behind the club room before volleyball training starts. 

But you’re not teenagers anymore and all the love notes you exchanged in class sit in a box under your bed, together with a bunch of old boarding passes and wrapping paper from Argentine candy that Oikawa pushed between your lips before kissing you the first night you visited him on the other side of the world. 

“You’re always leaving,” you repeat and this time around your voice cracks as loud as your heart does. Your fingers twist into the front of his shirt, your head falling against his chest in defeat. Oikawa sighs a second time, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, pressing a few kisses to the sliver of skin there. 

“I’m always coming back to you, too,” he murmurs, knowing his solace is as hollow as your eyes when you glance back up at him. He thinks about the small velvet box that sits in his nightstand drawer back home, about the ring he got for you before he left for Argentina after high school. Sometimes he’s not even sure anymore if you’d say yes if he asked you now, or if it would only bring more tears to your eyes. 

Because in the end, he’s always the one leaving. 

“I hate loving you,” you murmur against his lips when you kiss him farewell, small hiccups making your hands on his cheeks tremble. Your kisses taste like salt and that one summer when nothing hurt. “Every time you take a piece of my heart with you and you never give it back.”

Oikawa wraps his arms tighter around you and kisses you back softly. He’s afraid either of you will shatter otherwise. 

“I’ll bring it back, if you’ll wait for me one more time?”, he rasps and draws your hand to his lips, kissing the back of it. His thumb rubs absentmindedly over your ring finger, and you cry a little harder, knowing you’d rather ruin your already bleeding heart some more than ever saying your final goodbye.

After all, it’s always been him and you, laying in the wild grass by the riverbank after school, cloud gazing and pinky promises and kisses that tasted like cherry cola. For one summer, you didn’t feel any pain when loving Tōru and maybe, if you hold onto it long enough, you can go back to how things once were. 

Maybe one day, you can love without swallowing shards again, without tearing yourself apart to make room for the absence of him, without looking at the sea and wishing it would take you. You could go back to how things were, and you’d realize he didn’t break all of his promises; he was just gone for a little while but he came back for you, right? You’d wake up like from a bad dream, and he’d be next to you, brushing your hair from your face and telling you that it’s all okay now, that he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere. 

You kiss him goodbye and the sweet taste of a lie lingers longer than he does.

a/n: did you know that i'm an oikawa kisser uwu

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“You,” Sakusa replies truthfully, his voice a little strangled. His fingers on your thighs dig a little tighter in your flesh, leaving crescent moon shaped marks there. You smirk at him, a lit cigarette dangling from between your lips, and his heart rattles in his chest. 

His skin burns up when you cup his cheek, little fires everywhere when your fingers trace his cheekbones and his jaw. It’s like you’re studying him from up close, now that you have him in a position like this. As if you waited for a chance to do so. You lift up his chin and inch a little closer to him till you’re fully seated on top of his thighs. A queen on her rightful throne. 

“Me?”

The way you cock your head to the side. Your eyes looking him up and down, shameless. Your lips wrapping around your cigarette, lipstick marks on it. Sakusa briefly wonders what it would feel like to be the one covered in your marks and he pushes the thought aside before he does something he’ll regret. As if having you in his lap and his fingers slipped under the hem of your dress isn’t a formula for disaster already. 

“Open your mouth.”

Sakusa does as you say; obediently and willingly. He’d let you ruin him, he thinks, and when he hears you giggle again he’s convinced that he’s going to die before he ever gets to taste you. The fingers holding his chin brush idly over his bottom lip when you tilt his head back, hovering above him. The flickering light behind you gives you a broken halo. 

When you spit in his mouth, Sakusa doesn’t even need to be told to swallow. A low moan rumbles in his chest and his fingers cupping your thighs squeeze tighter, an almost bruising grip on you. His lips part again, his tongue poking out slightly to show you that he took everything you gave him, and the satisfied smile on your lips widens. 

“Good boy,” you murmur, but don’t let go of his chin. 

Instead you take a long drag of your cigarette, eyes fluttering shut. You’re so close, Sakusa could count your lashes if he wanted to–if he wasn’t too distracted by your body pressing against his, and his fingertips against the supple skin of the inside of your thighs, inching up painfully slowly to where you’re dripping already. 

When you open your eyes again, Sakusa already knows what to do. His head dips back slightly, pupils dilating as they’re fixated on you. Little wisps of smoke escape your lips when you lean over him again, your gaze never leaving him. It makes him feel bare, stripped of every layer he accumulated so carefully. 

Your lips connect with his, the taste of cigarettes and you on his tongue. He lets his mouth fall agape as you breathe the smoke between his lips, your free hand now tangling in his dark curls, pulling them slightly. It’s not a lot of smoke, like you’re testing the waters how far you can push him. As if he wasn’t already a panting, trembling mess underneath you. 

Your tongues slide together, lazily kissing till he slowly exhales the smoke again. His breath is a little strangled, not from the cigarette but from you. 

You and your smudged lipstick in his lap, straddling him with all the naturalness of the world. You and your flimsy dress, one strap slipping down your shoulder and none of you bothering to adjust it again. You and your chest heaving with every breath, every laughter, every inhale of your cigarette. 

“You’re killing me,” he whispers, his head falling against your shoulder, taking a deep breath in. Your fingers brush over the back of his neck, pulling him closer and Sakusa takes it as an invitation to kiss from your shoulder to your collarbone, his teeth grazing your skin slightly with each kiss. He wants to devour you, now that he has you. His, all his. No one else ever gets to have you like this. 

You laugh again quietly, taking another drag of your cigarette before flicking it away, and he thinks that surely this must be some kind of circle of hell. Having you seated in his lap like this, your legs wrapped around him, a damp patch in his linen pants where you’re pressed against him. Whatever is left of his self-control is slowly slipping with every new inch he explores of you.

Your lips once again searching for his, idly blowing another mouthful of smoke into his lungs. He swallows it greedily. Everything you offer him, he takes, and takes, and takes, till you left your mark on his entire being.

“You’re so good for me, Omi.” 

Something inside of him– Cracks. Breaks. Shatters.

His fingers around your thighs tighten impossibly, lifting you up with ease and suddenly you’re pinned underneath him. In this dimly lit stairwell, at this dead hour of the night, your laughter echoes from all walls till it fades into hungry moans, till your legs around his shoulders tremble, till his name rolling off your tongue sounds like a broken prayer. 

Sakusa kisses you bruisingly, and now it’s his turn to give, and give, and give, till what's yours is also his and you remember the shape of him for more than just a night. 

Forever, maybe. He’ll make sure of it.