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you're convinced kuroo is the most irritating man on earth, and you've held this belief for almost ten years now. seeing him again truly cements that as gospel in your mind. (or— a present for @whenandfromanotherworld <3 merry summer exchange friend i hope you enjoy!
KUROO TETSURO X FEM!READER | time skip canon, meet ugly (ish), childhood educator!reader, beach episode!, grudges & misunderstandings (reader knows grudges. kuroo was annoying in high school and she decided that was his fatal flaw), a minor comment of sexual harassment (kuroo cannot connect brain to mouth), kenma helps literally no one here
word count: 6.4k
hi from marcel: it's finally here the summer event of the century !!! merry lalemas to those who celebrate and a very heartfelt thankyou to my lale @sodaneko for hosting, its been a blast <3
it is already too hot to be forgiving.
that’s the first thing.
the second thing is that kenma is a liar.
you realise both of these things about thirty seconds after stepping off the bus and onto the beach, one hand shielding your eyes, the other gripping the tote bag full of sunscreen, spare hair ties, electrolyte packets, and the sheer amount of snacks you only bring when you’ve worked with children long enough to understand that peace is always one apple pouch away from collapse.
the beach stretches out bright and hot in front of you. white sand, blue water, screaming cicadas somewhere in the trees behind the promenade. the sun is already sitting high over everything, turning the metal legs of the event tents hot enough to make you worry for every little exploratory hand.
there are banners everywhere.
msby black jackals junior beach volleyball day!
there are flags. sponsor logos. folding tables. stacks of tiny yellow pinnies. volleyball nets set up in neat rows across the sand. a table full of iceboxes. an expensive-looking camera crew crouched near the registration tent. three children already chasing each other in circles around a traffic cone while a volunteer in a sun visor begs them to “use walking feet, please.”
you inhale through your nose.
salt. sunscreen. hot plastic. wet sand.
summer.
horrible, beautiful, summer.
your phone buzzes.
kenma balls: where r u
you look up from the message and see him immediately, which is irritating because you were hoping to pretend you didn’t.
he is under the biggest tent, folded into a chair like someone has placed a spoiled cat in human clothing. sunglasses on. handheld fan angled at his face. iced drink in one hand. expression flat.
and, clipped into his hair, holding back the little pieces at his neck, is a claw clip.
your claw clip.
the translucent tortoiseshell one you spent fifteen minutes looking for this morning.
your eyes narrow.
kenma sees you seeing it.
he lowers his drink half an inch.
you point at your own hair.
he points at the sun.
you mouth, thief.
he mouths back, hot.
you are halfway to him, ready to begin a legal proceeding, when a voice comes from your left.
“hey, you must be one of kenma’s people.”
it is a man’s voice. easy. bright. amused at its own existence.
your whole body has a reaction before your brain catches up.
not fear. not even anger yet.
recognition.
an old, ancient, high school-shaped irritation wakes up somewhere behind your ribs, stretches like a cat, and digs its claws in.
you turn.
kuroo tetsurou is standing at the volunteer table with a clipboard in one hand and a black jackals lanyard around his neck. he is taller than you remember. broader, too. not in the showy pro-athlete way the people behind him are, but in a neat, adult way that irritates you further.
his hair is still stupid.
that is the comfort.
it sticks up in that impossible arrangement, like he rolled directly out of bed ten years ago and never quite left bedhead territory. the summer humidity has made it worse. there’s a curl at his temple. his sunglasses are pushed into it. his polo shirt is crisp in the official-event way, sleeves hugging his upper arms. his smile is big, bright, practiced.
you hate that he looks good.
you hate worse that he looks friendly.
“one of kenma’s.. people?” you repeat.
his smile widens, because apparently he has not developed survival instincts with age.
“yeah!” he says. “he said he had someone great with kids coming. figured that was you.”
there is a pause where a lesser man might sense danger.
kuroo tetsurou, historically, has never been a lesser man. he has always been worse.
“did he,” you say.
“he also said you’d probably be late.”
you look at the watch on your wrist. “i’m eight minutes early?”
“kenma rounds everything down.”
you stare at him.
he grins at you.
you stare harder.
the grin starts to flicker at the edges.
“sorry,” he says, after one second too long. “rough morning?”
“not until recently.”
“wow.” he lifts his eyebrows. “okay. strong opener.”
“you would know.”
his head tilts.
it is small. barely anything. but you see the moment something catches in him. your face. your voice. the shape of your expression. some old filing cabinet in his brain creaking open ever so slowly.
“sorry,” he says. “do we know each other?”
the laugh leaves you before you can stop it.
it is not a nice laugh.
kuroo’s smile falls another fraction.
“wow,” you say.
“from—?”
“we went to high school together. i managed the volleyball team.”
his face does something fantastic.
it does not fully collapse. kuroo tetsurou is too socially trained now for full collapse. but the charm drains from it in a thin, satisfying line, leaving behind something much younger. something suddenly seventeen and very aware of the fact that he may have walked blindly into danger.
“oh,” he says.
you nod once. “yeah. oh.”
his mouth opens.
closes.
opens again.
nothing good comes out.
“i—”
“careful,” you say.
he winces.
excellent.
behind him, one of the msby staff calls for more clipboards. somewhere to your right, a child begins crying because another child has described seaweed as “ocean hair.” the wind snaps one of the sponsor banners so sharply it sounds like applause.
kuroo shifts the clipboard against his chest.
“i.. didn’t recognise you!” he says, trying to rally.
“clearly.”
“you look...” he starts.
you lift a hand.
he stops immediately.
your smile is sweet enough to rot teeth. “finish that sentence with courage, kuroo.”
his eyes flick over you.
it is quick.
a half-second too quick to be intentional and a half-second too late to be excusable.
because yes, fine, you are not seventeen anymore. you are twenty-seven and sweaty and wearing shorts over a swimsuit because it is a beach event and you dressed practically, thank you. you have sunscreen gloss on your collarbones, salt frizz already starting around your hairline, and the loose volunteer shirt kenma promised would be “oversized” sitting in a way that is neither professional nor your problem.
kuroo’s gaze snaps back to your face.
then he says, “i don’t remember those from high school.”
the world goes very quiet.
not actually.
the children are still screaming. the ocean is still slamming softly into shore. someone is testing a microphone and producing the ugliest feedback known to mankind.
but between you and kuroo, silence drops like a fucking piano.
his eyes widen.
your smile vanishes.
“tattoos,” he says instantly.
you blink at him.
“i meant tattoos.”
“that i don’t have.”
“piercings?”
“you’re getting colder.”
“hair.. cut..?”
“you are so lucky,” you say, very calmly, “that there are children around right now.”
kuroo’s face visibly goes through every stage of ego death.
“right,” he says. “yep. no. that was—”
“ugly?”
“horrific.”
“career-ending?”
“potentially. if you report me.”
“do you often sexually harass volunteers before registration opens, or am i special?”
“you are special,” he says, then visibly hates himself for it. “not in that way. i mean— jesus. no. i mean, i am so sorry.”
you hold out your hand.
he looks at it.
you flick your fingers toward the clipboard.
“i’m here to work, not watch you burst into flames.”
“right.” he gives you the clipboard too fast, like it might bite him. “of course. yes. welcome. thanks for coming.”
“don’t thank me yet.”
“fair.”
“don’t thank me ever, maybe.”
“also fair.”
you glance down at the paper. “where do you need me?”
the question comes out practical. clean. neutral. you are, unfortunately, good at your job.
kuroo seems to seize the lifeline with both hands.
“group three,” he says. “ages six to eight. beginner net. you’ll be with another volunteer and one of the players will rotate through for demos.”
“which player?”
“bokuto for the first hour.”
you look up.
kuroo is watching you carefully now, charm leashed tight, like even his personality has been put in timeout.
“bokuto koutarou?” you ask.
“yeah.”
you think of thirty six-to-eight-year-olds and one famous volleyball player with the emotional volume of a parade.
“you’re putting bokuto with beginners?”
“he’s great with kids.”
“he is a kid.”
“that’s why.”
you hate that this makes sense.
you hand the clipboard back and turn toward the tent, because if you keep looking at kuroo, you will either bite his head off or acknowledge that he looks good sunlit, and both outcomes feel embarrassing.
kenma is still in the chair.
kenma is still wearing your claw clip.
kenma is still watching you with the dead-eyed patience of someone waiting for a game cut-scene to end.
you stop in front of him.
“you,” you say.
“me,” he agrees.
“you didn’t tell me kuroo would be here.”
kenma blinks once. slowly.
“yes i did.”
“no you did not, you little liar.”
“huh... i was so sure i did.”
“kenma.”
“you came anyway.”
“kenma.”
he takes a sip of his drink.
the fan whirs against his face.
“you’re blocking my air.”
you reach for the claw clip.
he leans away.
you stare at him.
he stares back.
“give it to me.”
“no.”
“kozume kenma.”
“you left it in my car.”
“so you stole it?”
“borrowed.”
“you have three strands of hair.”
“they were touching my neck, i hate being sweaty.”
“i’m going to bury you in this sand.”
“after the event,” he says. “i paid a lot for this.”
you exhale through your nose and look back toward kuroo.
he is talking to a staff member now, gesturing with his clipboard, all competent shoulders and apology tucked behind his teeth. from here, he looks like someone trustworthy. someone who says excuse me in crowded train stations and knows how to organise a fundraiser. someone who did not once spend an entire lunch period in high school narrating a volleyball match between two pigeons outside the window until three girls at the next table were crying laughing and you wanted to staple his mouth shut.
kenma follows your gaze.
“he forgot you,” he says.
you look down at him.
“he forgot me.”
kenma’s mouth twitches.
“that’s bad.”
“thank you.”
“for him.”
“kenma.”
“what?” he says. “you look scary.”
“good.”
“he likes scary.”
you point at him. “do not start.”
“i didn’t.”
“you thought it.”
“thinking is a private activity.”
“not when you look smug.”
“this is my regular face.”
“your regular face looks like a rich cat judging poor people.”
“thank you.”
before you can answer, a small body slams into the back of your legs.
you steady yourself and turn.
a little girl in a yellow sun hat looks up at you with tears in her eyes and a tube of sunscreen clutched in both hands.
“sensei,” she says, with the immediate trust of a child who has decided you are in charge, “my brother said if i put this on my arms the sand will stick and i’ll turn into a croquette!”
you crouch.
“okay,” you say seriously. “first of all, your brother has a powerful imagination.”
she sniffles.
“second, sunscreen does not turn people into croquettes.”
“promise?”
“promise. and if it did, i would have turned into one years ago.”
her eyes go huge.
“you use sunscreen?”
“every day.”
“even when it’s cloudy?”
“even when it’s cloudy.”
she considers this, then shoves the tube at you. “can you do my back?”
“absolutely.”
you glance up at kenma.
he has retreated into his drink.
“useless,” you tell him.
“sponsor,” he corrects.
“useless moneybags.”
the morning becomes chaos almost immediately.
good chaos, mostly. beach-event chaos. children in hats and rash guards, parents hovering with cameras, athletes arriving to polite applause that turns into full shrieking when bokuto jogs across the sand waving with both arms like he is greeting every soul at the gates of heaven.
your group loves him instantly.
of course they do.
he drops to one knee to introduce himself, then lets six children compare the size of their hands to his. one little boy asks if his hair is “born like that.” bokuto says yes with complete confidence. another child asks if volleyballs hurt when they hit your face. bokuto looks very serious and says, “sometimes.”
they adore him.
you manage them.
you tie shoelaces. you reapply sunscreen. you redirect arguments. you explain, twelve times, that sand is not for throwing. you untangle one child’s fingers from the net. you convince another that no, they are not “bad at volleyball,” they are simply six and have been alive for less time than some houseplants.
and kuroo keeps appearing.
he does not hover. not exactly. he is busy, genuinely. there are parents to charm, staff to wrangle, athletes to cue, timing to manage. he moves through the event with the sharp ease of someone who spent adolescence thinking three plays ahead and unfortunately found a job where that is useful.
but he appears.
at the water station, when your group’s cooler runs out of ice.
beside net two, when a parent gets a little too invested in correcting their daughter’s footwork.
near the shade tent, when one of your kids starts crying because the whistle is too loud.
he appears, and he helps.
quietly, sometimes.
which is annoying.
the first time, you are crouched in the sand with a boy named ren, who has folded himself into a small, trembling shape beside the cooler. his hands are over his ears. his team is still practicing behind you, the whistles and cheering and thump of volleyballs turning the air sharp.
“too loud?” you ask gently.
ren nods without looking up.
“okay. we can stay here.”
you are reaching into your bag for the little packet of spare foam earplugs you keep because children are unpredictable and the world is worse, when a shadow falls over both of you.
you look up, ready to flay someone alive if they tell you he needs to “get back in the game”.
kuroo stands there with two unopened water bottles and a towel over his shoulder.
he looks at ren.
then at you.
then he steps back out of the immediate space, lowering himself onto his heels a few feet away instead of looming.
“hey,” he says, voice softer than you’ve heard it all day. “ren, right?”
ren peeks at him through his fingers.
kuroo points toward the far end of the beach. “you see that guy over there? the one doing jumping jacks like he’s being attacked by bees?”
ren looks.
bokuto is, in fact, doing something close to jumping jacks while four children copy him badly.
ren’s mouth twitches.
“that’s bokuto-san,” kuroo says solemnly. “he’s very brave, but he has never once defeated a whistle. whistles are his natural enemy.”
ren blinks.
“so what we’re doing right now is tactical. we’re not taking a break. we’re gathering… intelligence!”
ren lowers his hands a little. “on whistles?”
“on whistles,” kuroo confirms.
you stare at him.
he does not look at you.
he just sets one water bottle in the sand near ren and slides the towel beside it, not too close, not forcing.
“when you’re ready,” he says, “you can be our official quiet-court inspector. very important role. mostly involves telling me if i’m being too loud.”
ren looks at you.
you nod. “i think he needs supervision.”
ren takes the water.
kuroo’s mouth curves.
the horrible thing is that it works.
of course it works.
by the time you get ren settled with earplugs and a job counting successful serves from the shade, kuroo has stood and gone back to the main tent without asking for praise.
you watch him go.
you hate him.
you hate him because that was good.
you hate him because you were prepared for smug asshole and got balanced human being instead.
you hate him because his polo shirt is sticking between his shoulder blades now, and you notice that too.
“sensei,” ren says.
you look down.
“is that guy your meanie?”
you pause.
“sure,” you say.
ren nods, accepting this. “he gave me water.”
“meanies can still help us stay safe on sunny days.”
“oh.”
“remember that.”
by lunch, you are hot enough to become obnoxious about shade.
the kids sit in clusters under the tent, eating rice balls and fruit jelly packets, still vibrating with energy. bokuto is surrounded by at least twelve of them and appears to be telling a story with sound effects. hinata has arrived at some point and is now playing a game that involves letting children serve balls at him while he dives dramatically into the sand, to enormous acclaim. atsumu is teaching two boys how to trash talk with “sportsmanship,” which appears to be going terribly.
sakusa stands under a neighbouring tent with a towel over his head and a glare so nasty you wonder if it’s directed at you.
you collapse into the chair beside kenma.
“i need you to know,” you say, “that your event is a nightmare.”
kenma does not look up from his phone. “successful nightmare.”
“i have sand everywhere.”
“don’t tell me that.”
“your demon is being nice.”
kenma pauses.
then he looks at you.
slowly.
“sorry?”
“kuroo,” you say, accusingly.
“oh.” kenma goes back to his phone. “yeah.”
“don’t yeah me. why is he being nice?”
“because he’s nice?”
you stare.
kenma shrugs. the claw clip glints in his hair.
“annoying also,” he says.
“i remember annoying.”
“people can be both.”
“no. i need him to pick one.”
“sounds like a you problem.”
“kenma.”
“what exactly do you want me to do?”
“explain why he forgot me.”
“he was stupid?”
“that’s it?”
kenma lifts one shoulder. “he was seventeen.”
“i was seventeen. i remembered him.”
“you hold stupid grudges longer.”
“thank you.”
“not a compliment. you really need to learn to let things go.”
“i’m taking it as a compliment, just so you know.”
kenma makes a faint sound that might be a laugh if someone less committed to misery were doing it.
then he looks past you.
“incoming.”
you close your eyes.
“no.”
“yes.”
“make him leave.”
“you leave.”
kuroo drops into the empty chair on kenma’s other side with a groan so theatrical several children glance over.
kenma immediately says, “no.”
kuroo leans back, spreading his knees, clipboard balanced on one thigh. “i haven’t said anything.”
“you breathed.”
“totally normal human function.”
“do it somewhere else.”
“you wound me.”
“good.”
you do not look at kuroo.
you can feel him looking at you.
that is worse.
“how’s group three?” he asks.
you sip your drink.
“alive.”
“excellent metric.”
“ren is now official quiet-court inspector.”
“promotion already? kid works fast.”
you glance at him.
he is smiling, but it is smaller now. less performance. there is sand stuck to his forearm and a red mark high on his cheek where the sun has gotten through whatever sunscreen he rushed through this morning.
you look away. “you have sunscreen in your eye.”
he blinks. “do i?”
“or you’re winking at me badly.”
“could be both.”
“don’t.”
“right.”
kenma’s thumbs tap at his phone screen. “this is painful.”
“he started it,” you say.
kuroo sits forward. “i apologised.”
“for today.”
“and generally!”
“generally doesn’t cover a decade of emotional damages.”
his eyebrows lift. “a decade?”
you face him fully.
bad idea.
he is too close. not too close in a way that is actionable. just close enough that you can see the sweat at his hairline and the place where one stupid strand of hair is stuck to his temple. close enough to see the exact moment he realises he has walked into another trap.
“yes,” you say. “a decade.”
“okay,” he says carefully. “what did i do in high school?”
kenma mutters, “don’t ask that, it’s all stupid and you’ll set her off.”
you smile.
kuroo’s face tightens.
“you narrated a pigeon fight.”
his mouth opens.
you hold up a finger, then go on to use that hand to list his offenses.
(that— in hindsight— were just painfully annoying when you were in high school, and now that you’re almost thirty are absolutely irrelevant and frankly odd for you to hold onto.
but you're on a roll now, might as well lay it all out and feel a little vindicated.)
“you blocked the vending machine for seven minutes trying to guess which drink yaku would pick if he were a ghost.”
“that was a valid hypothetical.”
“you told lev he could improve his receives by ‘listening to the ball’s feelings,’ and he believed you.”
kuroo presses his lips together.
“you spent one entire culture festival wearing cat ears and saying ‘nya’ to girls who walked past your class booth.”
kenma says, without looking up, “i told him not to.”
“you did not,” kuroo says.
“i thought it.”
you lean forward. “you once asked me if the book i was reading was ‘for fun or for suffering,’ and when i said both to get you to go away, you said, ‘oh, so like volleyball.’”
kuroo goes still.
there it is.
something lands.
not full memory. not yet. but a flash. a click. a door opening.
“wait,” he says.
you stop.
his eyes narrow slightly, focused now. searching your face in a way that makes your stomach do something stupid and hot and unwelcome.
“library stairs,” he says.
you blink.
kenma stops tapping his phone.
kuroo points at you. “you sat on the library stairs during lunch because the actual library was too crowded.”
you say nothing. he looks more certain. “you always had those little bread things from the bakery by the station.”
your throat tightens with surprise so fast it annoys you.
“melon pan,” he says.
you stare at him. kuroo smiles, but it is not triumphant. it is soft with recognition and a little ashamed.
“you used to save the crusty edge pieces for the stray cat behind the gym.”
kenma says, “oh.”
you turn on him. “oh?”
he holds up his hands without looking away from his phone. “nothing.”
kuroo is still watching you.
you feel too seen suddenly. too specifically remembered after spending the whole morning furious that you weren’t. you were ready for forgetting. you had armour for forgetting. you do not know what to do with this.
so you go mean.
“so you remembered the cat.”
he winces. “i’m remembering more.”
“congratulations. do you want a sticker?”
“kind of.”
“i give those to children.”
“i can work with that.”
“you are exhausting.”
“i’m told.”
“by who?”
“currently? you.”
kenma stands abruptly.
you and kuroo both look up.
“i’m moving,” kenma says.
“why?”
“because this is making me sweat in a worse way.”
“kenma,” you snap.
“not like that.” he takes his drink, his fan, and your claw clip, because he is evil. “you’re both stressing me out. don’t follow me.”
he walks away toward the far tent, where sakusa immediately shifts one step farther into the shade like kenma is bringing contagion.
you stare after him. “he still has my claw clip.”
kuroo looks at kenma’s retreating figure.
“looks good on him.”
you turn slowly. he freezes.
“wrong audience?” he guesses.
“astoundingly.”
the afternoon is worse.
not because the event goes badly. it doesn’t. it goes infuriatingly well.
the children learn. mostly. they chase balls, scream for popsicles, take turns badly, celebrate every serve that makes it over the net like an olympic medal. bokuto cries once because a little girl tells him she wants to be strong like him. hinata gets buried in sand up to his chest during the break and declares it a team-building exercise. atsumu is banned from teaching motivational slogans after one child yells “crush their spirit!” during a beginner match.
you are sun-drunk and sticky and tired, but the kids are happy.
and kuroo keeps catching your eye across the sand.
at first it is accidental.
then it becomes less accidental.
you catch him laughing when you convince a crying child that jellyfish are not ghosts.
he catches you laughing when he lets a group of seven-year-olds design a “serious professional play” that involves everyone spinning once before the serve.
you catch him reapplying sunscreen while reading from his clipboard, which should not be attractive because multitasking is not flirting.
he catches you tying your hair up and looks away so hard that it becomes obvious he was looking.
you pretend not to notice.
you notice anyway.
around three, the heat breaks just enough for a breeze to come off the water. the wet sand cools under your feet near the edge of the courts, and for the first time all day, the air feels less like a punishment.
you are filling paper cups from one of the water coolers when kuroo appears beside you.
“need help?”
“from you specifically?”
“i can send bokuto.”
you glance over.
bokuto is currently being shown a dead crab by three children. “absolutely not.”
kuroo starts filling cups beside you.
for a while, neither of you says anything.
it is almost peaceful.
then he says, “i really am sorry.”
you keep your eyes on the cups. “you’re going to have to narrow that down.”
“for not recognising you.”
the cooler gurgles. you set another cup in the tray.
“mm.”
“and for the... comment earlier.”
“the boob comment?”
he makes a strangled noise. “do you have to call it that?”
“that is what it was.”
“i was trying very hard to re-brand it.”
“don’t.”
“right.” he exhales. “for the boob comment.”
you press your lips together.
he hears the laugh before you can bury it. his head turns.
you glare at the cups. “that was not a laugh.”
“never said it was.”
you pass him a stack of cups. he takes them. his fingers brush yours.
nothing happens. except something does.
something small and stupid and electric in the damp heat. the kind of nothing that makes you aware of your own pulse.
you pull your hand back first. he does not comment.
“i was a nightmare in high school,” he says.
you snort.
“you’re supposed to say no.”
“i’m not a liar.”
“good to know.”
“you were loud,” you say. “and… everywhere.”
“yeah.”
“like an announcement system with hair.”
he laughs.
you glance at him.
his laughter is different now than it was when he was seventeen. still big, still ugly around the edges, but warmer. easier in his body. like he no longer needs every person in a room to hear him to know he exists.
“that’s fair,” he says.
“i know.”
“i don’t think i forgot you because you were forgettable.”
you pause.
he keeps looking at the cups.
“i think i forgot a lot of things because i was busy being the loudest person in every room.”
the breeze moves between you.
a banner snaps in the distance. some kid shrieks bokuto-san. the ocean rushes in and out with indifferent rhythm.
you hate him a little less.
just a little.
which is unforgivable.
“you still have the hair,” you say.
his mouth twitches.
“yeah?”
“so don’t get too evolved.”
he looks at you. “wouldn’t dream of it.”
you both carry the water back to the kids.
and because the universe is a comedic institution, because no moment of softness can go unpunished, one of the little girls looks between you and kuroo and says, “are you two married?”
you stop walking.
kuroo stops beside you.
the tray of cups wobbles dangerously in his hands.
you look at the child. she looks back, expression open and curious.
“no,” you say.
at the exact same time, kuroo says, “not yet.”
your head turns.
slowly.
he closes his eyes.
“i panicked,” he says.
“you panicked into marriage?”
“apparently.”
the child gasps. “so you are?”
“no,” you say.
“not yet,” another child whispers.
“do not start a rumour,” you tell them.
kuroo’s shoulders begin to shake.
you point at him without looking. “don’t laugh.”
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
“quietly.”
“that’s new for you.”
he loses the fight. the laugh breaks out of him, bright and delighted, and the children immediately start laughing too because children love nothing more than an adult losing control of the bit.
you should be annoyed.
you are annoyed.
you are also, traitorously, laughing. only a little. but kuroo sees it. of course he sees it.
his smile catches on it like sunlight.
“there it is,” he says.
you recover immediately. “heatstroke.”
“sure.”
“dehydration.”
“drink water.”
“don’t tell me what to do.”
“wouldn’t dream of it.”
“you just did.”
“professionally.”
you take one of the cups from his tray and drink it while glaring at him.
he grins.
“good job,” he says.
“i will pour this on you.”
“also hydration.”
“you are the least charming man i’ve ever met.”
“i’ve been told. you know—”
“finish that sentence and i’ll tell everyone here what you did at culture festival.”
he shuts his mouth. you smile.
“learning.”
the closing ceremony is loose and loud.every child gets a little certificate, a sticker sheet, and an msby drawstring bag. the athletes line up for photos. parents clap. bokuto looks seconds away from adopting half the group. atsumu signs one kid’s hat and then has to sign twenty-seven more. sakusa uses hand sanitiser with a deep focus after every high five. hinata crouches for every photo so the smallest kids feel tall.
you stand off to the side with kenma, finally drinking something cold enough to hurt your teeth.
he still has your claw clip.
you have given up for now, which is not the same thing as forgiveness.
kuroo is near the banner, directing foot traffic with his clipboard. his voice carries across the sand, familiar and ridiculous.
“certificates first, photos second! if anyone has lost a sandal, we have a growing sandal community under the registration table!”
you glance at kenma. “he’s still annoying.”
kenma hums. “but?”
you kick sand lightly toward his foot.
he moves it without looking.
“no but.”
“sure, except you’ve been looking at him.”
“he’s tall. he’s in the way.”
“mhm.”
“and loud.”
“mmmhm.”
“and your fault.”
kenma finally looks up from his phone. his face is flushed from the heat, hair twisted up messily in your stolen claw clip, expression bored enough to be cruel.
“you like him,” he says.
“i do not.”
“he likes you.”
“he likes bothering me.”
“same thing, for him.”
you look back at kuroo. he is crouched now, listening seriously while ren explains something to him with both hands. probably quiet-court inspector business. kuroo nods like it matters. like this tiny sunburned boy is briefing him on national security.
your chest does something inconvenient.
“he was terrible in high school,” you say.
kenma blinks.
“was he?”
you glare at him.
“yes.”
“or was he just near you and annoying?”
“that counts.”
“you really need to learn to let things go. like, seriously.”
“kenma.”
“i’m just saying.”
“do not use therapy voice on me while wearing stolen property.”
he reaches up and touches the claw clip. “it’s mine now.”
“i’ll kill you.”
“after the event,” he says again.
kuroo appears then, as if summoned by irritation.
“good news,” he says, dropping into the shade beside you both. “no children were lost.”
you sip your drink.
kuroo looks at you.
you refuse to look back.
“group three loved you,” he says.
“because i am lovable.”
“apparently.”
“don’t sound surprised.”
“i’m not.” he smiles a little. “you’re very good with them.”
you do look at him then, because that one lands too sincerely to ignore.
his expression is open. tired. sun-reddened. hair worse than ever. clipboard tucked under one arm. there is a smear of blue popsicle on his wrist that he has not noticed.
“i know,” you say, because deflection is cheaper than vulnerability.
his smile widens. “confident.”
“it’s my job.”
“scary.”
“necessary.”
“cute.”
you stare.
kenma whispers, “mistake.”
kuroo’s eyes flick to him. “noted.”
“too late,” kenma says.
you set your drink down very carefully.
“tetsurou.”
his whole face does something stupid.
not big. not dramatic.
just a quick little brightness, there and gone.
but you see it.
kenma sees it too, because he makes a gagging sound into his straw.
kuroo clears his throat. “yeah?”
“when a woman tells you you are one bad sentence from sleeping on the ocean floor,” you say, “believe her.”
“that’s fair.”
“and stop smiling like that.”
“like what?”
“like you’re being rewarded.”
“aren’t i?”
“no.”
“you used my name again.”
“because it makes the threat more personal.”
“still counts.”
kenma stands. again.
you both look at him.
he says, “i’m going home.”
“we’re not done,” kuroo says.
“i am.”
“there’s cleanup!”
“i paid people.”
“you sponsored a charity event, not a monarchy.”
kenma points his fan at him. “you clean.”
then he points at you. “you come with me or stay and flirt. decide fast.”
“i am not flirting!”
“sure.”
“stop saying sure.”
“stop lying.”
kuroo looks delighted.
kenma starts walking away. with your claw clip.
“kenma!” you shout.
he lifts one hand without turning around. “come get it.”
you lunge after him. he speeds up by approximately half a step, which for kenma is basically sprinting.
you chase him across the sand, cursing under your breath, while he drifts toward the parking lot with the serene determination of a man committing petty theft in broad daylight.
behind you, kuroo laughs.
“don’t encourage this!” you yell over your shoulder.
“i’m not!” he calls back. “i’m enjoying you!”
you stop so abruptly that a child almost bumps into you.
you turn. kuroo freezes. several nearby parents pretend not to listen. one msby staff member looks intensely at a stack of cones. atsumu, unfortunately, absolutely hears and turns his head like a dog spotting meat.
“you’re what?” you ask.
kuroo’s smile turns strained. “enjoying,” he says carefully, “your dynamic with kenma.”
atsumu coughs something that sounds suspiciously like “pussy.”
you point at him.
“you,” you say, “are in time-out.”
atsumu’s mouth drops open. “me?”
“yes.”
“i don’t even know ya!”
“and yet you’ve disappointed me.”
bokuto gasps from behind him. “atsumu, apologise.”
“for what?”
“for disappointing sensei!”
the children pick it up immediately.
“apologise! apologise! apologise!”
atsumu looks at kuroo in horror. kuroo is laughing too hard to help him.
you look back at kenma.
he is still walking.
still wearing your claw clip.
still absolutely unbothered.
you do not catch him before he reaches the paved promenade, mostly because you are barefoot and the pavement is certainly a deathtrap. he stops just past the edge, turns, and finally removes the claw clip from his hair.
his hair falls around his face in sweaty little pieces. he holds the clip out.
you step carefully onto the cooler strip of shaded pavement and snatch it from him.
“thief.”
“you’re welcome.”
“for what?”
he looks over your shoulder.
you do not turn.
you know.
you can feel kuroo behind you, not close, but coming. sand-heavy steps, easy and unhurried.
kenma’s face does something almost fond, which is awful.
“you were bored,” he says.
you clutch the claw clip. “i was peaceful.”
“you were bored.”
“i hate when you make observations.”
“then stop being obvious.”
kuroo stops a few feet away.
“everything okay?” he asks.
“no,” you say.
“yes,” kenma says in tandem.
kuroo looks between you.
“cool.”
kenma slides his sunglasses down from his hair onto his face.
“take her home,” he says.
you turn on him. “excuse me?”
kuroo straightens. “me?”
“she’ll complain less if she’s fed.”
“i am standing right here.”
kenma ignores you. “there’s a place by the station with cold soba.”
kuroo’s eyes move to you.
not smug now, but careful. interested.
“are you hungry?” he asks.
you are. damn it.
you are also tired, sun-warmed, sticky with salt, and holding your reclaimed claw clip like a trophy. you have sand in your shoes and sunscreen in your eyes and a decade-old grudge that has somehow become less structurally sound since naming your annoyances.
kuroo waits.
which is perhaps the worst thing he could do.
he does not joke. does not push. does not grin like he already knows the answer.
he just waits.
like he’s learned something.
you hate that too.
you look at kenma. kenma has already taken out his phone.
“you’re coming,” you say.
“no.”
“kenma.”
“i have plans.”
“your plans are going home and sitting in the dark.”
“yes.”
“come eat.”
“no.”
“i’ll give you your claw clip privileges back.”
“it’s your claw clip.”
“i’ll buy you coffee.”
kenma pauses.
you narrow your eyes.
kuroo says, very softly, “dangerous offer.”
kenma looks at him.
then at you.
then back at his phone.
“fine,” he says. “but i’m not sitting between you two.”
“there is no us two,” you snap.
“sure.”
kuroo wisely says nothing.
you start walking toward the station, clipping your hair up as you go. kenma drifts ahead, already emotionally leaving the conversation. kuroo falls into step beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.
almost.
not quite.
the late afternoon sun sits gold over the water now, turning the beach behind you into something softer than it deserves. kids are still laughing in the distance. the event crew is packing up. msby banners ripple in the sea breeze.
for a minute, nobody says anything.then kuroo glances at you.
“for what it’s worth,” he says, “i do remember the book now.”
you keep walking. “what book?”
“the one on the library stairs. for fun and suffering. was frankenstein.”
he does not remember the book. you do not look at him.
“it was anna karenina.”
“close enough. but that tracks.”
“does it?”
“yeah.” he smiles. “you had the face of someone about to argue with a train.”
you choke on a laugh. he turns to you instantly.
“that one counted.”
“no.”
“absolutely counted.”
“heatstroke.”
“we’re in the shade.”
“delayed heatstroke.”
“tragic. should we get you cold soba?”
“should you stop talking?”
“probably.”
you glance at him.
he is smiling again.
but this time, somehow, it does not make you want to kill him.
not entirely.
“you’re still the least charming man i’ve ever met,” you tell him.
kuroo tetsurou looks ahead, toward kenma’s retreating back and the station beyond, and his grin goes crooked.
just letting everyone know that im not gonna be around on tumblr anymore after lales summer event (← that you should check out btw) finishes! ive been feeling out of place pretty well everywhere and noticed i started writing for approval rather than enjoyment, and writing is my absolute love so thats had me pretty disappointed in myself lately. ive also experienced some pretty significant loss in the last couple weeks, notably one being that my big brother passed away and ive been dealing with that on top of feelings of inferiority and kind of imposter syndrome.
im very grateful for all the friends ive made here in my almost six years on tumblr lol but im very much so done with this website as a whole and you will not see me around here anymore— though this account will stay up as an archive! should you wish to keep hanging out with me ill throw my discord/instagram at whoever wants it.
♡ TAGS ; Femdom, Reader Implied to Have a Vagina, Feminization, Feminizing Language for Sanji (clit in place of dick, pussy in place of hole etc.) , Nipple Play, Lingerie / Cross-Dressing, Handjobs, Sanji-Centric Smut, Pegging Implication, No Major Spoilers, Post-Timeskip 18+
♡ WC ; 2.3k
♡ A/N ; my first op piece being sanji femdom for the sole reason i want to torture @foreveragape lmao. the influence of having a friend u love to torment fr.
happy pride to all bisexuals and freaky women i love you my people.
♡ SYNOPSIS ; Sanji surrenders himself so much easier when he's being your girl.
“You’re so pretty, sweetheart,” You murmur soft against the tender skin of his neck. “A real pretty pink under there, aren’t you?”
Sanji whines—deflated, something inside his ribcage is pushing gently pushed out. A soft, needy noise into the open air, his head leaning back against your shoulder. You watch his throat bob, musing a little at the contrast of what’s in front of you. A sharp jaw line lined with dark blonde and brown hairs. His jaw slightly gritted, furrowed brows. He rolls his hips up high and you push them back down gently, with your thumb pressed into his either side of his hip.
“Be a good girl and be patient,” You hum, ever gentle. “Just get nice and wet for me first, okay? I’ll tease your clit as much as you want, but you have to wait,”
He sobs a little into you, and you feel your heart flutter. You cup a hand under his jaw, petting it softly, staring down at his body from where your chin is perched on his shoulder. Sanji does slow for this. The restlessness that seems to agonize him settles at the way your fingers linger on his skin. The touch soothes him down to his base needs, even silent whines tamped down as he breathes in and out so carefully.
It stirs you to watch him fold like this. Your adoration for Sanji always reaches it’s peak when you touch him. Always giving, generous, serviceable—loyal like loved dogs are. With all the need to keep you safe like a hound and all the spoiled habits of a puppy.
You slide both hands underneath his arms and slide them all the way into the open buttons of his collared shit. His double-breasted jacket lies open with a thin dress shirt underneath, material fit for warmer weather. The light blue color makes the texture of of the lingerie every so slightly visible from under it.
The bralette you’ve chosen for Sanji is white. A sheer, ribbon-like material makes the square bralette, one without a plunge that shows off the flatness of his chest. Dotted with bows and lined with lace, as it hugs the bottom of Sanji’s pecs every so slightly. Sanji’s face is covered by his hands as you admire him with it on.
He’s filled out over the two years you were apart, at least for you to see it fill the unlined bralette ever so slightly. You slip your hands underneath the cups, palms gently running over his hardened nipples. He gasps quietly and a laugh bubbles out of you—somewhere between cruel and adoring. A sense of elation overwhelms you as you round your hands up and squeeze. There’s a slight weight, barely enough to fill your palms. Sanji shivers a little in your lap, keening.
“Flat chested girls are cute too. Such a pretty girl.” You offer, knowingly, delighted by Sanji’s immediate reaction. “Aren’t you?”
He can’t bring himself to say yes, but you can see it all the same. The way it washes over him from head to toe, that sense of euphoria that threatens to leave him completely boneless.
Sanji, by all accounts, is the best man you know. He’s good in all the ways that matter. Generous, considerate, and so believing in the superiority of every woman he knows. Your authority and Sanji’s service for you never feel at odds when you’re together. He alway takes good care of you, better than anyone man or woman. To be a man for Sanji has high expectations, and Sanji seeks to exceed every single one.
For all of his playful charm, deep down you know better that Sanji always believes himself a little unworthy. Even after everything, and all of this time. You’ve always had to talk him out of deifying you, but it all runs so deep in him. A belief in the holiness of you, and the burdensome belief of born sinc.
But the ways in which you are like God, is how you’re made in the image of mankind, selfish and primal. Each time you touch him you try to remind him of that—that your appetite comes from inside of you, Sanji turns away. Becomes bashful and disbelieving in the very idea that each offering at the altar is appreciated so wholly.
Letting Sanji be your girl is like tethering him back to Earthliness alongside you. A great equalizer that allows him to take as much as you can give. Step beyond himself to receive the affection he needs so desperately, that he soaks up like a sponge. It makes giving himself up something to bask in for just one moment.
Sanji warbles a little, his voice light. More airy than you usually get to hear it. Your fingers tease and toy with his nipples without constraint, crooning at him each time he lets his voice out for you.
“Does that feel good baby?”
“Yes.” Sanji replies simply, rutting his hips again ever so slightly. “Yes, feels so—“
You flick your thumb over them, feeling them harden further under your touch. Sanji is sensitive everywhere , but it took you some effort to make him feel it there. The reminder of his own efforts to please bring you inexplicable joy. You find yourself reaping your efforts often, regardless of what role you play for the evning.
When you touch them, something in Sanji unfolds itself in front of you like a love letter; an open invitation to take him further—into where you wish. A place you’ve primed for no reason other than wanting to make him feel as good as he can. His spine goes loose at even the slightest brush now, floating as his weight falls into your lap. Eyes shut close, breathing uneven. It overwhelms him, always, without any theatre.
But as your girl, it makes him dizzy. It makes him wet and needy. Makes him ache and shiver. This kind of desire acts like a kind of cradling for him, a haziness, an undeniable proof of what he isn’t and what he couldn’t possibly be. No necessity for anything other than to be your one and only girl, something he longs for in a way he could never voice.
“Lots of girls feel it here,” You say empathetically, rolling one softly with your thumb as his voice becomes louder and louder. Desire welling up inside of him, curling around his ribcage. “Don’t be so embarrassed,”
Sanji’s protest comes genuine, a sense of upset to his words and all too sincere. On the very edge of letting go but still on the precipice. Just needing one more push before he can embody what you expect from him. “I’m trying,”
Your laughter flows easily at his discontent. “That so? I’m sorry, baby. Should I help you?”
Sanji doesn’t say anything back to you, frowning a little in a way that endears you something awful. You pinch him lightly.
“Use your words, sweet girl.”
“Yes,” Sanji whines, so ashamed and so turned on that pre-cum leaks out onto his slacks. “I really don’t know what to do with myself,”
You recognize the honesty, putting it all to pause for a brief moment. You put your mouth next to his ear while still toying with his nipples, tongue caressing along the outer and inner. His whole body trembles, arousal suddenly spiking and spilling out of him—his loud moaning echoing. “Just let me have you, Sanji. Don’t think so hard. Just be good and listen to me. Can you do that?”
Sanji makes another face of conflict before finally yielding, his expression turning towards you desperately. You kiss him deeply then, opening the seam of his mouth with your tongue so you can kiss him like trying to swallow him whole. A kiss like the eucharist. Sanji moans slightly into your mouth when you do. You break apart from him, the tip of your nose brushing his.
“Good girl,”
Embarrassment soaks back into him, but it’s different now. A pleasant sort of shyness, cute and coquettish that makes you grin as he wrestles with it. So quickly, his whole body flushes a gorgeous color. A shade of pomelo, ripe with need. He goes pink to the tips of his ears, down the line of his shoulders, the slight bump of his chest.
“Let’s move this,” You say, pushing the bottom end of the bralette up just past his nipples until it sits folded, sliding both palms down his abdomen. “There you are,”
With his chest bare, you move your fingers carefully onto his belt. Undoing the zipper and buttons and pushing them down. Sanji lifts his hips for you with immediate obedience, helping you keep his slacks in place at the middle of his bare thighs.
He gasps at the sight of what lays beneath. Under the neat black fabric of his slacks is the sheer, lacy white of Sanji’s underwear. Boyshort panties with trimmed ruffles, sheer enough to see everything that’s barely hidden. It’s completely obscene in a way that makes both you and Sanji reel. You smile sweetly looking at. The rounded tip of Sanji’s cock spilling pre into the lace turning it almost transparent. Highlighting the shape of it, the length and size. Big and useless, standing completely straight. The tip of his cock is a shade of pink dark enough to look red. A furious color making him stick out even.
The tented material of his panties make it so there’s nowhere for him to hide.
From there you can see everything. The neatly trimmed hair over his cock, and the small happy trail on the smooth, pale expanse of his stomach. His length ulsating as he waits for more with such shallow breaths.
“Oh, baby,” You murmur lovingly. “You’re needy, huh? It’s throbbing. Haven’t even touched you.”
Sanji just nods, making you coo in sympathy. You creep your hands onto the inside of the stretched lace, still not touching his cock as you rest both palms on his pelvis, a hand on either side. You press your tits further into his back to get the proper angle. Wrapped around him completely with no room to run from your touc.
“You’re a good girl, baby.” You say lowly, placing your hands closer and closer to his cock. “How do good girls get what they need?”
Sanji fumbles, some part of him intrinsically knowing the answer, which makes him bashful beyond measure. “Using their…words,”
“So, what does my pretty girl need from me? What should I do with her?”
“Please touch me.” He begs with ease. You shake your head.”Please,”
“Touch you where?”
Red blooms all down his skin. You can tell the exact moment it occurs to him what you mean, a noise of uncertainty following the thought. Your shoulder shake with silent laughter as you watch him wrestle with it. Want always wins out in the end, both of his hands gripping into the bedsheets as he grits the word out with every last shred of his conscious.
“Please touch my clit,”
You moan, pleased. “Atta girl,”
The pitiful whine that leaves his mouth as soon as you touch his cock urges you into motion. Your poor baby. You circle your palm over the head of his cock, wetting it. Once, twice, three times—pressing your thumb tender into the slit. With your hand now soaked with pre-cum, you wrap a fist around the base of his shaft, holding it tight.
Sanji gasps, throwing his head back as his body shudders in your arms. A laugh crosses your lips at how loud he’s being. Your other hand squeezes his tits for him making Sanji melt.
You waste no time in bringing him close to the edge, delighting in the way he’s let himself go to the feeling. With your fist firm around the base of his cock, you move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion. You let yourself linger at the tip, rubbing it around in the small circle of your close hand before bring it back down to stroke him. You can feel his cock twitch endlessly under your expert touch, moaning as he resists bucking himself into your first. Sanji hates ruining his own pleasure that way
His chest rises and falls, mouth fallen open as you watch him take each stroke. He moans incoherently, losing his voice somewhere inside of him as he grips onto the sheets and pants. So wanting for you always, the whole figure of his body wracking with oncoming pleasure.
His cock leaks a little on each stroke, pre-cum now a steady stream as you bring him closer and closer to the edge.
“Oh, oh, please, please, please,”
“You wanna cum, pretty girl? Gonna be good and cum for me?”
Sanji thrusts up into your hands involuntary, desperate as he nods. Muttering incoherently as he pulses, body gone completely taut with anticipation. His stomach tenses hard, and then in motion you watch everything in his body just begin to unwind.
Faster, the room fills with a wet, filthy noise. “Fuck. Yes, yes, yes,”
“Go on. Cum for me, sweet girl. Show me,”
With another few strokes Sanji spills into your hands. Your fingers go sticky with thick ropes of white cum, stroking feverishly even as Sanji keeps cumming. You squeeze every last drop of it out until he has to beg you instead to stop instead, which you finally do.
Sanji breathes heavily as he lays in your arms in the post-orgasm glow, trying to catch his breath as you kiss all over his neck and shoulders. His usual comes back to him after a beat, soft and worn, and oh-so utterly grateful it makes your core ache with desire.
“Thank you,” He says, voice smile.
You smile at him tenderly, nosing at his neck and jaw. “Of course sweet girl…but I didn’t say we were finished yet, did I?”
Sanji makes a garbled noise. “Sorry?”
You grin sharply.
“It’s alright, baby. I know. You need something to fill your pussy with right?” You say, cuddling into him, smiling gently as you see Sanji already starting to get hard again. “I’ve got you,”
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It's hard not to notice how Iwaizumi gets flustered when Mattsun brings up cock warming. You have to know what he's thinking about.
HAJIME IWAIZUMI X FEM!READER | roommates to lovers, smut (mdni), cock warming, fingering, piv, light choking, creampie, praise, casual hookups, 3.8k words. | Read on A03.
"Have you ever tried it?"
Iwaizumi glances up. You're lounging on the couch, wearing your favourite sleep set. The one he secretly hates, because the straps have a tendency to slide off your shoulders when you're unaware.
"Tried what?"
Your lips curl into a grin. Mattsun and Makki left less than ten minutes ago, and you're already smiling like you're up to no good. Sometimes Iwaizumi secretly wishes you had a third roommate. Maybe that would create some needed space, maybe it could soothe some of the electric tension between you. He's not sure he understands the inexplicable change between you that's been growing these last couple of months, but he doesn't want to ruin your friendship.
And at the end of the day, he knows he doesn't actually want a third roommate. He likes that he's the one who gets to see you sleepy and slow in the morning, cranky in the evening. That he gets to cook you meals when you're too tired to do it yourself. He doesn't want to share any of it.
"You know," you say, grin turning wicked. Iwaizumi rakes his brain, trying to figure out what you're talking about. He runs through the things you talked about, Mattsun and the funeral home, Makki being unemployed and broke, Oikawa's game last week, something about your shitty ex-boyfriend—
Oh.
The new girl Mattsun has been hooking up with.
"Cock warming," you say, giggling. Like you're reading his mind, realising exactly what he's thinking right now. He knows you saw. Saw the way his cheeks grew flushed at the conversation. Saw the way he avoided eye contact, while Makki was too distracted with teasing Mattsun.
"There's no way it can be that good," he'd said. Mattsun had leaned back against the couch and smiled lazily, the way he always does, the way Iwaizumi knows makes girls fawn over him.
Iwaizumi hadn't added anything to the conversation, hoping to stay clear of any suspicion. Apparently, that wasn't enough, because when he'd looked at you, you were already looking back. Smiling, in that way that meant your mind was going a thousand miles per hour. Planning. Scheming.
Your tiny tank top slipping off your shoulder all the while.
"Hajiii," you sing-song. His eyes dart towards his bedroom, hoping to escape, and you notice, your eyes narrowing at him. "C'mere,"
You pat the spot next to you on the couch as you sit up. He obliges, because what else can he do? When you're sitting there, hair slightly dishevelled from when Makki ruffled it on his way out, looking so, so sweet.
"Wanna try it?"
Your voice is syrupy sweet, dripping honey and temptation. You're halfway crawling into his lap, one of your hands placed on his thigh. Iwaizumi swallows.
"We shouldn't," he says, and it makes you pout, pushing further. You lean in, and he can smell your perfume now, something sweet and flowery.
You're always flirting with him, but this. This is something different, something heavier. There's no deniable plausibility here, no light teasing.
Iwaizumi will admit that he's always secretly basked in the affection you'd reward him. He's used to girls fawning over Oikawa, or making out with Mattsun at parties, or going on dates with Makki. But you. You've always danced around him, making him feel special. Lightheaded.
"Hajime," you pout, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Why not?"
He swallows again, throat feeling dry. Why not?
You're fully straddling him now, sinking into his lap.
Why not?
Wrapping your arms around your neck, you're looking down at him, still smiling.
"Have you ever tried it?" you whisper, while you play with the hairs at the back of his neck. Poor Iwaizumi has to hold back a groan as he closes his eyes.
"No."
"Do you wanna?"
You know you're being bold. But you've been holding back for so long. Who can blame you for finally breaking when you've been watching him squirm around all night?
"It could be fun. We could put on a movie or something," you say, and you grind your hips into his experimentally. Your grin widens when you feel that he's already half hard. His hands fly to your hips, holding you still as he takes a deep breath.
You can see the turmoil in his brown eyes, feel the storm rising in him.
"Okay," he says, releasing your hips.
The look on your face is victorious, and you move your hands down, squeezing his shoulders in excitement.
"I pick the movie," he manages to bite out, and you nod eagerly, hands flying down to the waistband of his shorts.
"Sure, Haji, whatever you want," you murmur, focused on the new objective at hand. Iwaizumi grabs your hands, placing them behind your back. You look down at him, frowning. Finally gaining some footing, Iwaizumi tuts at you, shaking his head.
"Let me pick a movie first," he murmurs. He keeps your hands where they are, with one big hand on your wrists, while he leans over you, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table. He leans back on the couch again, casually opening Netflix. You stare, dumbly, waiting for the next instruction.
The thing you've always liked about Iwaizumi is that he doesn't let you get away with any of your antics. With Oikawa, it's a constant game of who'll back down first, of who can get away with the most. Mattsun is largely unaffected apart from the times when he'll tag along to help you torment the others. Makki is so easy to tease that it's not even funny.
When it comes to Iwaizumi, he's steady. It's always annoyed you a bit. When he's with Oikawa, it's like it's second nature for him to get riled up. But as soon as it comes to you, he's like a rock. He never lets your antics reach him. Not even the outrageous sleep sets you'll wear or the innocent cuddling when you're having sleepovers.
It's fun.
But now that he's finally given in, you don't know what to do.
"Go grab your blanket," Iwaizumi murmurs into your ear. It takes a few seconds before you spring into action, shuffling towards your bedroom. You quickly grab it, before checking yourself in your mirror before you head back to the living room.
Your face feels hot, and you fix your hair.
This is Hajime. Your Hajime. The guy you've known since you were fifteen, the guy who used to buy you sodas from the vending machine before class and save you from Oikawa's relentless teasing all the time. The guy you moved in with three years ago when you moved to Tokyo.
Because it's cheaper. And easier. And it's nice to have a friend in the apartment, to rant to and cook dinner with.
The guy you've been flirting with for as long as you can remember. Under the guise that it's friendly. And fun. And that there's definitely nothing more to it.
"Did you fall in there?"
"No!"
You pad back into the living room, blanket wrapped around you. Iwaizumi has already picked a movie. You think it's a comedy, judging by the look of it. He raises a brow at you, and you smile as you make your way back to the couch.
"Hi," you say, and he smiles back, patting his thigh.
"C'mere," he says, echoing your own words from earlier, and you oblige instantly, this time settling with your back against his chest. He lets you get comfortable, and you pull the blanket over you. The movie is already starting, but you're not paying attention.
Not when Iwaizumi smells so good.
"Why are you so nervous all of a sudden?" he asks, and one of his hands finds your hip underneath the blanket, making soothing circles with his thumb.
"I'm not nervous," you protest, and you feel him chuckle beneath you, clearly not believing you.
"Right."
A beat.
"We don't have to do this if you don't want to."
He's giving you an out. A last chance to take it back, to not change your friendship into whatever this is. But even then, you know this has been a long time coming. You'd be an idiot to try to stop it.
"No, I want to," you say.
"We can just watch the movie."
"Hajime."
There's a warning in your tone, telling him not to worry anymore. You feel him relaxing, finally, and he grunts, settling into the couch at last. His hand not on your hip roams your side, before he settles on your tit, squeezing your soft skin.
"Okay, baby."
He flicks your nipple through the fabric of your top, and you gasp, squirming. You feel the bulge beneath your ass, and it makes you a little dizzy to know you have this effect on him.
You try to focus on the movie. A girl is screaming at her roommate, throwing things at her. There's a weird-looking dog. Iwaizumi's hand on your hip dips underneath the waistband of your shorts.
"Proper stretching is important," he says, cupping your pussy over your panties. "To prevent injury."
It makes you giggle, the way he speaks like you're one of his athletes. He keeps playing with your nipple while he thumbs your clit with his other hand, applying dull stimulation. You gasp softly, spreading your legs to give him more access.
You don't need to look behind you to know he's smiling. Especially when he dips his fingers into your underwear, stroking your folds and finding you soaking already. He spreads your arousal over your folds, still not giving you any real relief.
The roommates are in their principal's office. She's telling some other story, something about a real nightmare roomie.
"Did you seriously pick a movie about bad roommates?" you ask, and Iwaizumi presses his lips to your throat, planting a wet kiss there.
"It seemed appropriate."
"Excuse me, I am not a bad room— Oh,"
You're interrupted when he presses a finger inside you, testing the waters. When you melt into his embrace, he adds another finger, slowly working you open. It's easy when you're already so aroused, feeling like you've been ready ever since you saw his reaction to your friends discussing cock warming hours ago.
"You sure?"
"Uh-huh," you answer, too distracted to form proper words. He curls his fingers, and your mouth falls open in a quiet moan.
"Not even when you wear these shirts," He pulls your shirt down, as if making a point, exposing your tits to the cold air of your living room. "Constantly one bad move away from flashing me?"
"I'd say that's just philanthropy,"
He laughs, surprised. Moving your hair to the side, he kisses your throat again.
The main character in the movie is at a summer camp now. Desperately trying to make friends and failing.
Iwaizumi adds a third finger, and you squirm, getting used to the pressure. He palms your clit to help you, and you bite your lip. Even through your shorts and the blanket, you can hear the sounds of how wet you are, as he keeps a steady pace.
"Hajime," you gasp, feeling your orgasm already building. Iwaizumi seems to feel it too, with the way your warm walls flutter around his fingers. He removes his fingers from your pussy, bringing them to his mouth and tasting. He hums at the taste.
You watch over your shoulder, mouth agape. He grins, though his cheeks are flushed, betraying his otherwise calm demeanour. He plays with the waistband of your shorts.
"Take these off."
With his help, you shimmy off both your shorts and underwear, leaving you wearing nothing but a tank top and your fuzzy socks. Iwaizumi guides you forward with a hand on your back, so he can pull his cock out of his pants with the other.
You go to look over your shoulder, wanting to see, but he grabs your chin and points you towards the TV instead. The girl in the movie has made a friend now, and they're rooming together.
You hear the slick sounds of him stroking his cock, and then he taps your ass. With a pout, you straddle his legs properly and sit up so he can position himself at your entrance.
He slowly guides you back on his cock, and you whine at the stretch, still watching the movie, despite being unsure what the plot even is. The girl is angry because her roomie is messy, you're pretty sure. Your vision swims, and you find it hard to focus on anything at all.
"Ease up, baby," Iwaizumi bites out, and you try your best to relax as you sink down further.
Iwaizumi is big. Big and thick, and when your ass finally meets the back of his thighs again, it feels like he's in your throat. He makes you lean back, and you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut. He holds you tight by your hips, keeping your squirming to a minimum as you get used to the intrusion.
Finally, you feel like your pussy is getting used to the fullness, and you relax slightly, leaning entirely on his chest. He rubs soothing circles in your hips, resting his head on your shoulder.
"Good girl,"
He laughs when you clench, as he wraps his arms around you. You feel dizzy, warm all over. A light sweat is starting to form on your forehead, and you grip his arm.
The girls in the movie are at a party, all of them wearing a white top and a pair of jeans. Iwaizumi laughs into your ear, deep and warm.
"They look just like one of Mattsun's girlfriends," he states, and you slap his arm.
"Don't talk about Mattsun's girls when your dick is inside of me," you bite back, and he presses down on your stomach in response, making you moan out.
"You have Mattsun's girl to thank for this, don't you?" he teases, and you roll your eyes. When you don't say anything back, he hums, and you both settle into a comfortable silence.
It lasts about five minutes.
The main character is talking a guy, who you think might be her love interest, in a kitchen.
You can't focus.
It's too hard. It feels like all of your nerve endings are on fire, your pussy growing more and more sensitive with each agonising minute that passes.
You want him to move. To fuck you.
Iwaizumi has the patience of a saint. Maybe it's from the years of diligent volleyball practice every day after school, maybe it's from constantly keeping your three other best friends behaviour in check.
Whatever it is, it's certainly going to be your downfall.
He keeps you still in his lap, the only torturous friction you get being when he laughs at the movie. The movie that's really not that funny.
"Haji," you ask, with trembling lips.
When he doesn't reply, you squirm. That makes him take a deep breath, and he squeezes you in warning when you clench down on him.
"It's too much," you complain. Your mind is swimming, eyes going glassy. The only thing you can think about is getting fucked.
Preferably hard.
"You're being so good," he replies. He rocks into you slightly, making you whine. "You can keep being nice for me, right?"
"No," you say, shaking your head.
"This was your idea." Iwaizumi chuckles. His breath feels hot on your throat, only making your mind even fuzzier.
"I changed my mind."
"We can stop if you want to."
The hands on your hips start to push you away.
"No, please, no, no, no,—" you panic, digging your hands into his thighs as you lean back in his lap. The slight friction makes you moan, squeezing your eyes shut.
"But you changed your mind?" he asks. His voice is teasing, but there's a slight strain there.
Looking over your shoulder, you meet his gaze, batting your eyelashes the way that always works with Makki when you want to steal his snacks. Iwaizumi smiles, taking in the pout on your lips, the pretty way your brows furrow.
You look so cute.
So cute, he wants to squeeze you.
"Hajime,"
There's a lilt to your voice, a saccharine sweetness. The one Iwaizumi has always had a weakness for, even if you don't notice it yourself.
"Yeah?" he breathes. He nods, and you nod along, mirroring him.
"We could do something else instead," you say. He feels you clench down again. Your pussy is so hot and wet, it makes him groan. He thinks he'd do anything you asked of him right now.
The movie is long forgotten now. You're unsure if the roommates are still even friends at this point.
"What do you wanna do?" he asks, and when you lean down to kiss him, he moans, leaning into the kiss. He grabs your chin, angling you so he can kiss you better, moaning into your mouth.
The angle is slightly uncomfortable, and you pull away with a pout, like it's somehow Iwaizumi's fault. He groans, head falling back, when you sit up, his cock leaving your warmth with a slick sound.
You turn around so you're facing him, promptly sitting down in his lap again. It makes you both moan again when he reenters your slick heat. You run your fingers through his hair, tugging on the short locks.
"How are you gonna watch the movie now?" Iwaizumi smiles, taking you in. He must admit, it's better this way. When he can see your every expression, the way you're panting slightly. His gaze drops down to where you're connected. The sight makes his jaw slack, and he can't help but bring his thumb down to your clit, circling the bud slowly.
"I'm watching something more fun."
Your voice is whiny, but you're smiling. You grind your hips into his hand, and he feels you clench when the tip of his cock hits somewhere deep inside you.
"Is that so?"
"You're very handsome, Hajime,"
"That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Iwaizumi says, breathless. You're gathering speed now, but you're still just grinding against him. It's a sweet kinda torture, the way he can feel your pussy pulsing around him, yet you're barely moving.
"That's not true," you object. You kiss him again, only a peck, letting him chase you. "I tell you nice things all the time."
"You question my patience all the time," he responds. He tangles his hand in your hair, holding you still as he ghosts his lips over yours. Your breaths mingle, and you moan into his mouth.
"Like right now, you mean?" you ask, and he nods, before he kisses you again. Firmly.
It's nice. It's nice to run your fingers through his hair and hear his little groans when you tuck hard enough. It's nice how warm and big his hand is on the back of your head. It's nice to feel the firm and steady pulse of his cock inside of you, lighting up all your sensitive nerve endings.
Iwaizumi is nice.
He's more than nice, but your head feels empty, unable to find another word, filled with nothing but the feeling of Iwaizumi's tongue against your own, as he kisses you silly.
"Fuck me, Haji," you whisper when he pulls away for air, and he chuckles, shaking his head.
"You're the one who wanted to change activities," he replies. "You do it,"
He leans back and pats your thighs. You glare.
"I'm the one who suggested movie night in the first place."
Iwaizumi raises a brow at you.
"Movie night?" he teases. You nod, attempting to be the picture perfect of innocence. "This is your version of movie night?"
He motions to where he's still buried inside of you. Where you're dripping, staining his joggers. Hopefully, you haven't stained the couch. Yet.
"Yes."
"Well, I picked the movie. So it's your turn to pick something now"
Something akin to determination washes over your expression. You put your hands on his chest, and slowly you start going up and down. You moan in unison, and your brow pinches as you start to ride him.
The slick sound fills your living room, and you pant, your thighs already beginning to burn. Iwaizumi notices. Because of course he does.
"Your form is—"
"Do not comment on my form," you cut him off, digging your nails into his chest.
"I was gonna tell you it's good." His eyes drop down to your tits, and the smug look on his face is worse than any comment. It only fuels your fire. You ignore the ache, doubling down as you start to ride him harder. You move your hands up, wrapping them around his neck. You don't press, just keep them there, and his jaw falls slack, eyes going lidded.
"Fuck," he says, nodding. He puts his hand over one of yours, and he moans when you press down lightly on his throat. You feel him twitch inside you, and it makes you smile.
"Haji, you gonna come, ah, just from me choking you?" you tease and, he laughs, voice soft, like he's out of breath.
"I'm gonna come from how good you look bouncing on my cock like that," he replies, without missing a beat, and the admission makes you falter. He whines when your knee slips, and before you can think, his hands are on your hips, guiding you up and down.
He does it like it's nothing, muscles tensing deliciously with each push and pull. You collapse onto his chest, moving your hands to his shoulders. He doesn't seem to take notice, too focused on the way you're clenching around his cock.
It doesn't take long for you to feel your orgasm start to build like that, not when he's hitting all the right spots, while telling you how pretty you look taking him. You barely get to warn him before it creeps up on you, making your toes curl as warm pleasure burns through you.
He moans, voice turning pitchy as he follows right after you, pulling you flush against him as he finishes inside, filling your cunt to the brim. It makes you whimper, and you rest your head on his chest. Your eyelids feel heavy as you both take a few minutes to collect yourselves. You listen to the way Iwaizumi's heartbeat slows as he comes down.
He runs his hands up and down your back, occasionally pressing into sore spots.
"You have a muscle knot here," he eventually says, pressing into a spot right between your shoulder blades. You yelp, twitching in his lap. Cum spills out from your sore pussy, dripping down his balls. "Are you doing the exercises I taught you?"
"Hajime!" you scold, getting off his lap. You grab your panties from somewhere on the floor, putting them on and stomping towards your room. Iwaizumi watches the way the insides of your thighs glisten with his cum.
"I was just asking," he says, putting his still half-hard cock back in his pants as he follows you. "Also, you should really go pee—"
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generally i do not gaf about people purposefully ignoring an "mdni" on writing cause like . i was just a teenager too like i get it it's like a fence in the middle of an open field. but i Do think it's weird to be so brazen about faking your age in the comments of a post talking about it being irritating for writers who don't want you in their space because it makes their online experience more comfortable.
i think if you deliberately go out of your way to disregard and disrespect someone's boundaries you're annoying as fuck. anyway
matsukawa likes an audience, you like being listened to, and iwaizumi really should have hung up. (or— matsukawa answers the phone mid-shift at the pussy eating factory. iwaizumi stays on the line.)
MATSUKAWA ISSEI X FEM!READER ft. IWAIZUMI HAJIME | timeskip, friends with benefits (mattsun and reader use each purely for their bodies), smut, exhibitionism/voyeurism, phone sex, dubious consent in the beginning, third party listening, oral sex f receiving, fingering, vaginal sex, dirty talk, size kink, multiple orgasms, creampie, implied masturbation
word count: 3.7k
hi from marcel: my demons. MY DEMONS. @swordsteel picked iwa so he is here...... title from an mcr lyric (can you guess which ill give you a kiss)
it starts stupidly, like most good things do.
because everything with matsukawa issei starts stupidly.
he is between your thighs, hair mussed from your hands, mouth warm and lazy against you like he’s got nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. which is a lie. he had somewhere to be. he had told the boys he might meet up later, maybe, if he “felt like being social.”
you had known exactly what that meant.
so did he.
so did makki, probably, given the string of texts sitting unread on his lock screen.
you’re already half-melted into the mattress, one knee hooked over his shoulder, fingers twisted in the sheets because issei is being unfair about it. not rushed. not even particularly mean yet. just focused in that loose, maddening way he has, like he’s barely trying and still knows exactly how to make your spine turn to warm water.
his phone starts buzzing on the bed.
you glance over.
iwaizumi.
your stomach flips before issei even lifts his head.
he feels it.
of course he feels it.
his eyes flick up to yours from between your thighs, dark and amused.
“no,” you whisper, already smiling because you are a liar and a freak.
his mouth curves.
the phone keeps buzzing.
issei wipes his thumb slowly over the inside of your thigh, watching your face like he’s waiting for the part where you tell him not to.
you don’t.
so he reaches for his phone.
“issei,” you hiss, but there’s no heat in it. no real warning.
he answers with his mouth still shiny.
“yo.”
you slap both hands over your face.
because unlike makki, iwaizumi doesn’t immediately start laughing.
there’s just... a pause.
then hajime’s voice, low and normal and totally unaware of the crime scene he has stepped into. “you busy?”
issei looks directly at you.
you shake your head at him in horror and delight.
he licks his lips.
“little bit.”
“then why’d you answer?”
“’cause you called. i’m polite, iwa.”
“you sound weird.”
issei hums, and his thumb slides back over you, slow enough to make your legs tense.
you bite down on your knuckle.
“do i?”
another pause.
oh, hajime knows now.
you can hear the exact second he knows. the silence changes shape. gets heavier. more aware.
“... matsukawa.”
“yeah?”
“are you fucking around right now?”
issei’s smile is lazy and lethal.
“technically, my mouth’s occupied.”
you make the worst sound into your hand.
hajime goes dead silent.
not scandalised loud like oikawa. not delighted loud like makki.
silent.
issei’s brows lift like he’s fascinated.
then, with the calm of a man setting down a drink, he taps speaker and lays the phone flat on your stomach.
the cool edge of it makes you twitch.
you choke on a laugh, which turns into a gasp when he slides two fingers back into you, slow and deliberate.
“oh my god,” you breathe.
the phone is right there. resting on your stomach, speaker up, close enough that every little broken sound you make has nowhere to hide.
issei looks too pleased with himself.
“iwa,” he says casually, as if he is not knuckle-deep and watching your hips start to lift. “you still there?”
no answer.
issei’s fingers curl.
your back arches.
“hajime,” issei sings, awful and soft. “don’t be rude.”
“i’m here,” iwaizumi says, voice tight.
there it is.
not hanging up. not telling him to stop. not even pretending hard enough to hate this.
issei’s grin goes slow.
“yeah?” he murmurs. “you wanna be?”
the silence after that is fucking insane.
you stare at issei, wide-eyed, breath catching in little pieces as he keeps touching you. he’s not even going down on you anymore. he’s just watching. sitting between your legs with his cheek against your thigh, fingers moving steadily, gaze flicking between your face and the phone on your stomach like this is some kind of casual group activity.
“i asked you something,” issei says.
hajime exhales through his nose.
“... if she’s okay with it.”
your whole body tenses.
issei’s fingers pause.
not stop, exactly. just slow.
his eyes come to yours, humour gone thin for half a second. the real question underneath it.
you nod.
he waits.
“yeah,” you whisper. “i’m okay with it.”
issei’s smile comes back, softer first.
then worse.
“you hear that?”
“i heard,” hajime says.
his voice sounds different now. lower. rougher around the edges.
god help you.
issei kisses the inside of your knee. “good. then stay quiet if you’re gonna be shy about it.”
“fuck off,” hajime says, but it has no bite.
“mm. that isn’t very nice, hajime.”
you laugh, breathless, and issei rewards it by dragging his fingers just right.
your laugh snaps into a moan.
hajime makes a sound.
tiny. barely there.
but it is a sound.
issei hears it.
of course he does.
“oh?” he says.
“don’t.”
“didn’t say anything.”
“you were about to.”
“i was just thinking.”
“do that privately.”
issei’s fingers slow, and you whine before you can stop yourself.
he looks down at you with mock pity.
“see what you did? distracted me.”
“issei,” you complain.
“yeah, baby?”
he says it so casually. so warm. like he isn’t turning you into a trembling mess with his best friend listening.
“don’t stop.”
iwaizumi’s breath catches audibly.
issei’s eyes darken.
“bossy.”
“you’re being annoying.”
“i’m being generous.” his gaze flicks to the phone. “aren’t i, iwa?”
hajime says nothing.
issei laughs quietly.
“still there?”
“yeah.”
“quiet.”
“yeah.”
“you jerking off, boy scout?”
the silence is immediate and catastrophic.
your eyes go huge.
“issei.”
“what?” he asks, innocent as a knife. “it’s a question.”
hajime’s voice comes back strangled. “you’re a fucking asshole.”
“that wasn’t a no.”
“jesus christ.”
“that wasn’t either.”
you are going to die.
you are actually going to die in this bed because matsukawa issei cannot behave for five consecutive minutes and iwaizumi hajime apparently has a closet pervert streak big enough to qualify as a second apartment.
issei leans down and kisses you, right above where his fingers are still moving.
soft. terrible.
then he speaks, not to you this time.
“she’s so wet,” he says, conversationally. “you should feel this.”
your face burns so hot you think you might pass out.
hajime swears under his breath.
issei watches your reaction like he loves it.
“she likes when i talk about her,” he continues, still lazy, still cruelly calm. “acts embarrassed, but she gets tighter every time.”
you shake your head.
his fingers curl again.
your hips jerk.
“liar,” he murmurs to you.
“i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
“i might.”
“you’d miss me.”
“i’d miss your dick.”
“same thing.”
hajime makes another sound then, partly a laugh, half a curse. like he can’t believe he is hearing this. like he cannot believe he is not hanging up.
issei’s smile sharpens.
“there you go,” he says. “knew you were alive.”
“shut up.”
“nah. iwa, she’s trying so hard not to make noise.”
“don’t drag me into it.”
“you’re on speaker on her stomach. you dragged yourself in.”
“that was you.”
“you could hang up.”
nothing.
issei hums.
“thought so.”
then he lowers his mouth back to you.
and if the fingering was bad, this is worse.
because now he is showing off.
not in a clumsy way. not obvious and exaggerated. issei is too smooth for that, too confident in the exact way that makes him irritating. he just settles back between your thighs and eats you out like he knows hajime is listening to every wet sound, every shaky breath, every broken little syllable of his name you fail to swallow.
your hand flies into his hair.
the phone shifts on your stomach as you arch.
“careful,” issei murmurs against you, and the vibration makes your legs tremble. “don’t drop him.”
“i’m going to kill you,” you gasp.
“after?”
“maybe.”
he laughs into you.
hajime says nothing.
but he is breathing.
that’s the thing that gets you. the quiet on the other end isn’t empty anymore. it’s full of him. tense and controlled and too present. you can imagine him sitting somewhere with his jaw clenched, phone in one hand, the other maybe—
you whimper.
issei’s eyes flick up.
“oh, what was that?”
“shut up.”
“you thinking about him?”
you try to close your thighs, which is a mistake because his shoulders are there and he just spreads you open again.
“don’t hide now.”
“issei.”
“answer.”
your pulse is in your throat. “maybe.”
hajime curses.
issei grins against you.
“cute.”
then he stops talking and gets serious.
which is how you know you’re fucked.
he knows exactly how to pull you apart when he wants to. knows when to tease and when to shut up, when to give you pressure, when to back off just enough that your body chases him. his hands lock around your thighs, his mouth gets precise, and everything narrows down to heat and breath and the weight of the phone rising and falling with your stomach.
you come with hajime listening.
it’s not graceful.
it never is with issei when he’s showing off.
your back arches, one hand in his hair, the other clutching at the sheets, and the sound that leaves you is loud enough that you hear hajime inhale sharply through the speaker. issei doesn’t let up until you’re squirming, thighs trembling against his cheeks, voice breaking around a too-much little sob.
then he lifts his head.
slowly.
mouth wet.
eyes dark.
“good?” he asks.
you nod weakly.
“words.”
“i’m good.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
he pats your thigh once.
“great.”
then he grabs your hips and yanks you down the bed.
you squeal.
actually squeal.
because you’re overstimulated and boneless and he moves you like you weigh nothing, dragging you to the edge so suddenly that the phone nearly slides off your stomach. you catch it with one clumsy hand, laughing breathlessly even while your whole body is still shaking.
on speaker, hajime makes the craziest fucking sound.
not a full moan.
not a word.
just this punched-out, involuntary thing that tells on him so badly the room goes still for half a second.
issei freezes.
then looks at the phone.
then at you.
his smile becomes a war crime.
“iwa.”
“don’t.”
“that was cute.”
“don’t.”
“you liked that?”
“fuck you.”
“i’ll pencil you in.”
you laugh again, helpless, and hajime sounds like he might be suffering psychic damage.
issei stands at the end of the bed.
and yeah.
yeah, you forget how to speak for a second.
because he is tall. tall in that loose, lanky way that hides the sheer size of him until he is standing over you with your hips in his hands and his hair falling into his eyes. he drags you to the very edge, lifts your ass like it’s nothing, adjusts you until your legs are hooked just right.
the angle alone makes your stomach flip.
then he lays his cock over your lower stomach.
just rests there.
heavy and hard and obscene against your skin.
you stare down.
he does too.
“issei,” you breathe.
“i know.”
he loves this.
loves seeing it. loves the visual of how deep he’ll reach, how far up your body he can mark the promise of it before he even gets inside. it makes him smug in the worst way, quiet and satisfied and absolutely aware of what it does to you.
his thumb strokes your hip.
“look at that,” he murmurs.
hajime is dead silent.
issei tilts his head toward the phone.
“wish you were looking, iwa?”
“don’t be mean,” you manage.
“shame. i’m so good at it.”
hajime’s voice is rough when he says, “you’re evil.”
“little bit.”
“more than a little.”
“you’re still here.”
another pause.
then hajime says, very low, “yeah.”
oh.
oh, that gets everyone.
even issei’s expression flickers for a second, amusement giving way to something hotter. he looks down at you, brows raised like, you hearing this?
you nod, dazed.
“yeah,” issei says softly. “he is.”
then he slides into you.
you lose your breath.
fully.
it’s so deep at that angle that your hands fly to his wrists, nails digging in as he holds you up to meet him. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. just a stunned little gasp that cracks at the edges when he bottoms out.
issei’s jaw tightens.
“fuck.”
hajime mutters something under his breath that you don’t catch.
issei catches it.
“what was that?”
“nothing.”
“liar.”
“keep going.”
the words are clipped. controlled. almost angry.
they make you clench so hard issei groans.
“oh, she liked that.”
“stop narrating everything,” hajime says.
“no.”
then he starts moving.
slow at first, because the angle is insane and because you are still sensitive from his mouth. deep, measured thrusts that push the air out of you every time, his hands firm under your ass, lifting you to meet him like he’s using your body exactly how he wants and making sure it ruins you properly.
the phone is still on you, slid down now to stick to the sweaty skin just below your tits.
you can feel the vibration of hajime’s breathing through the case.
it is obscene.
it is ridiculous.
it is so hot you almost can’t stand it.
issei talks through everything.
of course he does.
he tells you how good you feel, how tight, how pretty you look trying to take him like this. tells hajime how your face changes when he gets deep enough. how your thighs shake. how you get louder when you forget to be embarrassed.
and hajime just listens.
quiet.
too quiet.
until issei pushes.
“say something, iwa.”
“no.”
“why not?”
“because you’re already insufferable.”
“she wants to hear you.”
your eyes fly to his.
issei grins.
“you do.”
“i—”
he thrusts deep, and your words scatter.
“see?”
hajime’s voice is rough. “she okay?”
the question punches right through all the heat.
because it’s hajime, of course it is. repressed pervert or not, he still sounds like himself. grounded. careful. checking, even with his voice strained.
you swallow, breathless.
“yeah. i’m okay.”
“you sure?”
“yeah.”
issei’s expression softens for the smallest second.
then he ruins it by saying, “hear that? she’s okay. you can keep jerking off now, boy scout.”
“mattsun,” hajime snaps.
you make a sound that is half laugh, half moan.
issei’s grin comes back full force.
“there we go.”
“you’re going to hell.”
“probably. wanna come with?”
“not answering that.”
you are absolutely dissolving.
every thrust punches up into that deep, impossible place that makes your legs go useless. issei’s hands hold you steady, thumbs digging into the soft of your hips. your head tips back against the mattress, one hand fisted in the sheet, the other pressed weakly over the phone like you can somehow hide the sounds and keep hajime close at the same time.
issei notices.
“don’t cover him.”
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
“you’re annoying.”
“you love it.”
“you’re too deep.”
his hips slow immediately.
“too deep bad?”
you shake your head fast.
“no. good. just— fuck!”
“more words.”
“good,” you gasp. “it’s good.”
“yeah?” his voice goes warm and filthy. “you want more?”
you nod.
“say it.”
“more.”
hajime exhales sharply.
issei’s eyes glitter.
“oh, he liked that one.”
“i hate both of you,” you breathe.
“liar.”
then he gives you more.
not faster. deeper. meaner in that careful way that has your body going loose and desperate beneath him. the whole bed shifts with it, rhythm steady, your ass lifted in his hands, his cock hitting so deep that your vision goes blurry.
and then he says it.because he knows exactly when to.
“wanna come for iwa?”
you whine.
“yeah?” he asks, voice low. “wanna come while he jerks off to the sound of you getting fucked like this?”
hajime makes a strangled noise.
“issei.”
“what?”
“you’re— fuck.”
issei laughs, breathless and dark. you nod before you can think better of it.
issei’s gaze snaps back to you.
“please,” you whisper.
his hands tighten.
“please what?”
“make me come.”
“who for?”
you are gone. truly gone. no dignity. no shame. just heat and pressure and hajime’s breathing through the speaker.
“for haji.”
the silence after that is violent.
then hajime groans. low. wrecked. utterly ruined.
issei’s composure almost cracks.
almost.
“fuck,” he mutters. “good girl.”
he shifts one hand, keeping you lifted with the other, and gets his thumb on your clit.
that’s it. that’s the end of you.
the angle, the pressure, the phone, hajime’s barely contained sounds, issei’s voice talking you through it like he has all the time in the world. it all collapses at once.
you come hard enough that your voice breaks. hard enough that your whole body shakes in his hands, hips jerking uselessly as he keeps you exactly where he wants you. issei talks you through the entire thing, filthy and soft, telling you there you go, that’s it, let him hear you, while hajime swears on the other end like he’s trying not to fall apart too loudly.
issei follows not long after.
he holds you tight, thrusts going uneven, head tipping back with a groan that would be embarrassing if he were capable of shame. he comes deep, still standing at the edge of the bed, hands locked around you like he’s anchoring himself through it.
for a few seconds, no one says anything.
you are wrecked.
hajime is silent.
issei is breathing hard, staring down at where he’s still inside you with a lazy, satisfied look that makes you want to kick him if your legs worked.
then hajime says, flat and disbelieving, “are you fucking serious?”
issei doesn’t miss a beat. “nah. her name isn’t serious.”
hajime hangs up. immediately. the room goes dead quiet.
then you burst into exhausted laughter.
issei looks down at the phone, then at you, completely calm.
“rude.”
“you are the worst person alive.”
“he asked.”
“you are insane.”
“yeah.” he finally eases you back onto the bed with surprising gentleness, one hand sliding under your thigh so you don’t jolt too hard. “you good?”
you blink up at him, sweaty and ruined and still trying to recover from the fact that iwaizumi hajime just got dragged into this ecosystem and absolutely did not leave.
“yeah,” you mumble. “i’m good.”
“yeah?”
“mhm.”
“nice.”
he pulls out carefully, and you make a tiny miserable sound because everything is too much now. he kisses your knee like he’s apologising, which is offensive because he is not sorry.
then he grabs his phone.
you squint at him. “what are you doing?”
“checking if he blocked me.”
“did he?”
a pause. “no.”
“coward.”
“right?”
the phone buzzes once in his hand.
issei reads it and smiles.
“what?”
“iwa says he hates me.”
“you deserve it.”
“he also says to never call him again.”
“you answered his call.”
“i’ll remind him later.”
“don’t.”
“i won’t.”
“you absolutely will.”
“probably.”
you groan and cover your face.
issei tosses the phone aside and pats your thigh.
“okay. shower.”
“don’t boss me around after ruining my life.”
“you’re gross.”
your eyes snap open. “it’s your fault.”
“yeah.” he shrugs, shameless. “still gross.”
“i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
“i hate your friends.”
“no, you don’t.”
you stare at him and he grins.
“especially not haji.”
you grab a pillow and throw it at him. he catches it against his chest, laughing, then leans down to kiss your forehead like he has any right to be sweet after all of that.
“come on,” he says. “shower before makki finds out and the group chat becomes unlivable ’cause we left him out.”
a cult classic back from the dead (or— love, dinner, and other things best served warm.)
MIYA OSAMU X GN!READER X SUNA RINTAROU | afab reader, timeskip, established relationship, polyamory, domestic smut, oral sex afab receiving, disinterested reader (bro just wants to play pokemon), exhibitionism/voyeurism (light), food as a love language
word count: 4.1k
hi from marcel: guess who’s baaaaaack :p happy day to those who knew her, happy day to those meeting her now. happy pride month @bowtiepasta i love you
osamu’s keys jingle in the door at a quarter past six.
it’s more signal than sound at this point. the low metallic clatter, the soft scrape of the lock, the door sticking for half a second because the frame swells when it rains. you know the rhythm of him coming home the same way you know the rhythm of his knife on a cutting board, the way he sighs before he complains, the way he always toes his shoes off just slightly crooked no matter how many times he swears he doesn’t.
rintarou doesn’t even pause.
his mouth stays between your thighs, lazy and persistent, tongue moving like he has nowhere else to be and no concept of urgency beyond the one he’s building under your skin. his hands are heavy where they press into your hips, thumbs hooked just beneath the waistband of your underwear where he’s moved them out of his way instead of taking them off properly. one of your knees is bent over the back of the couch. the other foot is planted on the cushion near his ribs, toes curling every time he does something particularly evil.
your switch is balanced on your stomach.
barely.
the pokémon battle music warbles tinny and bright over the slick, messy sounds rintarou keeps making, completely unbothered by the fact that he is, technically, making it impossible for you to win. the screen wobbles every time your stomach jumps. your thumb keeps missing the right button.
“’m home,” osamu calls, voice rough from the day.
his bag hits the counter with a dull thud.
you blink at the game, trying to remember what type match-up you’re in the middle of, and lift one hand in the vaguest possible greeting.
“hi, ‘samu.”
your voice comes out too even. too casual. you’re proud of that for about half a second, until rintarou shifts his mouth and your heel digs hard into the couch.
osamu rounds the corner into the living room still in his work clothes, dark shirt clinging at the shoulders, sleeves shoved up just enough to show the strong line of his forearms. he looks tired in the way he usually does after a day at the shop— shoulders a little low, hair slightly flattened from his cap, expression set into that resting bluntness that makes strangers think he’s annoyed even when he’s just thinking about rice.
then he sees you.
then he sees rin.
and his mouth curves.
not surprised. not scandalised. not even particularly slowed down by it.
just that warm, crooked grin that means he’s home, and the house is exactly as stupid as he left it.
“figures,” he says.
you barely glance away from your switch. “missed you too.”
“didn’t say i didn’t.”
he crosses the floor, stepping around rintarou’s long legs like this is an obstacle he expects to find in his living room. rin’s hair brushes your inner thigh when he turns his head a fraction, acknowledging osamu’s presence with nothing but a pleased hum into you.
your body jolts.
the switch nearly slips.
osamu catches it with one hand before it can slide off your stomach.
“careful,” he says, amused.
“he’s cheating.”
rin’s eyes flick up. slow. bored. shiny-mouthed.
he does not stop.
osamu leans over the back of the couch and kisses you.
it’s easy. familiar. one hand braced on the cushion beside your head, the other still holding your switch safely against your stomach like he’s saving both your dignity and your game. he kisses you like he just got home from work and you’re his favourite part of the apartment. no hesitation, no self-consciousness, no particular concern for the fact that rintarou’s face is still buried between your legs.
you smile into it, breath hitching when rin’s teeth catch just enough to make you twitch.
brat.
osamu pulls back an inch, brows lifting because he feels the gasp against his mouth.
“good day?” you ask, like nothing happened.
he looks down at rin.
rin looks up through his lashes and blinks once, slow as a cat.
osamu snorts. “same old. lunch rush was stupid. atsumu called twice t’complain about rice balls he didn’t even buy.”
“tragic.”
“devastatin’.” osamu’s gaze drags back to you, taking in the switch, your flushed face, the way your thighs keep trying to close around rintarou’s head and rin keeps holding them open. “rin been good t’ya?”
rin hums again, mouth full.
the vibration goes straight through you. you bite the inside of your cheek and whack the top of his head lightly with the edge of your switch.
“define good.”
osamu’s hand settles at the back of rin’s neck.
it’s casual, almost absent. his fingers slip beneath the hair at rintarou’s nape, thumb stroking once over the warm skin there. affectionate. possessive, but not sharp about it. the kind of touch that says he knows exactly where both of you belong.
rin’s shoulders loosen under it.
your stomach flips.
osamu notices that too, because osamu notices everything useful and pretends not to.
“ya eatin’,” he says, fingers tightening slightly at rin’s neck, “or just playin’ with yer food?”
rin lifts his mouth only enough to mutter, “both.”
his breath is hot against you.
you make an undignified sound and glare down at him.
osamu laughs under his breath. “yeah, sounds right.”
then he straightens like the matter is settled and heads toward the kitchen, already unbuttoning his cuffs.
“what d’you two want for dinner? i got chicken thawed. was thinkin’ karaage unless yer both gonna be useless and make me order somethin’.”
“karaage’s good,” you say immediately.
rin’s hand slides up to your stomach, palm pressing there to keep you still when he goes back in with more focus. your hips jump anyway.
“rice?” you add, voice thinning slightly.
osamu opens the fridge. “gotta make a fresh pot.”
“aren’t we out?”
“bought more yesterday.”
“because i reminded you.”
“because ya nagged me.”
“same thing.”
“not even close.”
you grin at the ceiling and try to choose a move in your battle. the screen is a blur of colours and tiny pixel violence. rintarou chooses that exact second to drag his tongue slow and flat, and your thumb hits the wrong command.
“fuck.”
“language,” osamu says automatically, reaching for the ginger.
“i’m losing!”
“to rin or the game?”
“both.”
rin’s laugh is muffled and unbearably smug.
osamu rinses his hands at the sink, then starts moving through the kitchen with the kind of competence that always makes you a little stupid to watch. cutting board dragged down. knife selected. rice measured and washed in a bowl with three quick, practised turns of his wrist. he does everything like his body remembers before his brain has to, like cooking is just another language he speaks when he’s too tired for words.
the apartment fills with small, domestic sounds.
water running.
rice shifting in the pot.
the clean knock of knife against board.
rin’s mouth.
your own breathing, becoming harder to keep level.
that’s the thing that always gets you about the three of you. not the fact that rin is eating you out on the couch while osamu starts dinner ten feet away. it’s the normalcy. the way these things sit beside each other without fighting for space. the way osamu can ask about dinner while rintarou’s tongue makes your thighs tremble. the way rin can be completely indecent and still lean into osamu’s hand like he’s being petted.
it should feel absurd.
it does feel absurd.
it also feels like home.
“spicy mayo or plain?” osamu asks, glancing up from where he’s slicing ginger.
you try to answer.
rintarou, because he is evil, sucks your clit into his mouth at exactly the wrong moment.
your voice catches hard.
“uh—” you swallow, fingers clenching around the switch. “plain. plain’s good.”
rin’s eyes flick up.
he looks pleased with himself.
osamu points the knife in his direction without even looking. “rinnie.”
rin pauses.
barely.
“don’t make ’em useless before i finish cookin’.”
rin lifts his mouth, chin shiny, expression flat. “you gave me twenty minutes.”
“i gave ya a warnin’.”
“sounds like a deadline.”
“sounds like yer gonna get dragged off the couch by yer shirt if ya don’t behave.”
rin’s mouth curves.
you groan. “don’t threaten him with something fun.”
osamu’s laugh is low and easy. “yer both impossible.”
“you love us.”
rin kisses your inner thigh with exaggerated sweetness.
you nudge his forehead with your knee. “don’t start acting cute now.”
“i’m always cute.”
“you’re a parasite.”
“favourite parasite.”
“most expensive parasite maybe,” osamu mutters from the kitchen.
rin looks smug enough that you would kick him if you trusted your legs.
osamu tosses the sliced ginger into a bowl, then starts working on the marinade. soy sauce, sake, a little grated garlic. he eyeballs every measurement because he’s good enough to get away with it. you watch him for a second over the top of your switch, his hair falling forward as he leans over the counter.
“cucumber?” he asks.
“yes.”
“salad or just sliced?”
“just cucumber and vinegar.”
“how d’ya want it?”
“thin,” you say immediately. “not your usual brick chunks.”
osamu pauses with the knife halfway to the board.
slowly, he looks at you.
“brick chunks?”
“you heard me.”
“they’re good chunky. more crunch.”
“they’re better thinner, soaks up the vinegar better than your stupid big chunks.”
rin snorts against your thigh.
you point down at him without looking. “don’t even.”
rin nips you.
you gasp and bap his forehead with two fingers.
“less teeth.”
“you like teeth.”
“i like appropriate teeth.”
“define appropriate.”
“not during menu planning.”
osamu is grinning now, knife moving through cucumber in neat, thin slices just to prove a point. “bossy thing.”
“thank you for listening.”
“didn’t say i was listenin’. just didn’t wanna hear ya complain through dinner.”
“because you love me.”
“because i love quiet.”
rin lifts his head. “wrong person to love, then.”
you kick him gently in the ribs.
he catches your ankle and kisses it before going back down.
it’s unfair how quickly the banter turns into heat again. one second you’re laughing about cucumbers, the next rin’s tongue is flat and unhurried, his lip ring catching just slightly, cool metal dragging over a nerve-bright place that makes your stomach jump under the switch.
your breath breaks.
the pokémon battle music keeps playing.
you lose.
badly.
“no,” you whisper, devastated and breathless.
osamu glances over. “game?”
“rin made me lose.”
rin, mouth still against you, makes a sound that is very clearly not an apology.
you drop the switch onto the cushion beside you before it can become collateral damage. your fingers slide into his hair instead, not sure if you’re pushing him away or pulling him closer. he looks up only long enough to catch his breath, lips slick, eyes half-lidded, expression lazily cocky in the exact way that makes you want to ruin his life.
“need something?” he asks.
his voice is rough.
you thumb his forehead.
“a new boyfriend.”
rin smiles. “which one?”
“you.”
“harsh.”
“less teeth.”
“heard you the first time.”
“then why are you still doing it?”
“because you sound cute when you complain.”
osamu’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “he’s right.”
betrayal.
you turn your head to glare toward the kitchen, but osamu isn’t looking at you. he’s coating chicken in potato starch, expression completely neutral except for the dimple trying to show near the corner of his mouth.
“i’m being bullied.”
“ya started it.”
“i am literally vulnerable.”
“yer playing pokémon while gettin’ head.”
rin laughs again, then shuts you up with his mouth.
the problem with rintarou is that he looks lazy until he decides not to be.
most people mistake the slow blink and slouched posture for a lack of intensity. they see him sprawled on couches, hood up, phone in hand, thumbs moving over a screen, and assume he is half-asleep through life. you know better. osamu knows better. rintarou is lazy only when he doesn’t care.
when he does care, he’s relentless.
and rintarou cares very deeply about getting his mouth on you.
he holds your hips down when you start squirming. he follows every little shift, every attempt to roll away from the pressure once it starts tipping from good into too much. his hands spread wide over your thighs, keeping you open, keeping you there, his tongue slow and precise and mean with knowledge.
“rin,” you breathe.
no response.
“rintarou.”
his eyes flick up.
that’s all.
osamu turns on the burner. oil starts warming in the pan with a low, patient shimmer.
“rin,” he calls, not looking away from the stove. “set the table when yer done.”
rin lifts his head, mouth shiny, hair a mess from your hands. “busy.”
“then stop bein’ busy.”
“no promises.”
“don’t tire ’em out before dinner, asshole.”
rin looks up at you.
you are flushed, thighs trembling, one hand braced on the couch, the other still tangled in his hair like you’re going to personally remove him from your body by force.
his smile goes soft around the edges in a way that somehow makes him look worse.
then he says, “they’re fine.”
you wheeze. “i’m not fine.”
“dramatic.”
you make a half-hearted attempt to shove at his forehead.
he does not move.
at all.
it’s actually offensive.
“rintarou,” you warn, but there’s not enough air in your lungs to make it land.
he hums and doubles down.
the oil pops softly in the kitchen.
osamu makes a thoughtful noise. “y’want lemon too?”
“yes,” you gasp immediately, then swear because rin looks pleased that you managed to answer while falling apart.
“both lemon and mayo?”
“both. please.”
“polite.”
“barely.”
rin’s fingers dig into your hips.
your back arches off the couch.
“rin, holy fuck, i’m gonna come—”
he ignores you.
of course he ignores you.
not because he doesn’t hear. because he hears perfectly and decides that your warning is useful only as encouragement. his mouth gets firmer, less lazy, tongue and lips working with the horrible confidence of someone who knows exactly where you are.
you try to pull him off by his hair.
he groans.
wrong choice.
“oh my god,” you gasp, and the sound comes out almost like a laugh because the whole situation is ridiculous. osamu is frying chicken. the rice cooker clicks into its low hum. you are coming apart on the couch because suna rintarou has decided dinner can wait.
“rin—”
your orgasm hits before you finish saying his name.
it rolls through you hot and heavy, legs locking around his shoulders, fingers tightening hard in his hair. rin holds you through it with both arms around your thighs, mouth still working, slower now but not stopping, not even close enough to stopping. your whole body jolts with oversensitivity.
“wait,” you gasp. “wait, wait—”
he does not wait.
you try again, palm landing on his forehead like you’re playing whack-a-mole with the world’s most stubborn man.
“rintarou, i swear—”
“rinnie.”
osamu’s voice cuts through the room.
not loud.
not harsh.
just firm enough that rintarou finally stops.
he lifts his head with the world’s most offended expression, mouth slick, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes narrowed like osamu has interrupted an important scientific process.
osamu stands in the archway between kitchen and living room, tea towel thrown over one shoulder, arms folded. the smell of frying chicken follows him into the room, rich and warm.
“off,” he says.
rin blinks.
“now.”
rin’s mouth opens.
osamu points at him. “don’t.”
rin closes it.
you laugh weakly, still twitching. “thank you.”
“want ya t’walk, not crawl, to the dinner table,” osamu says, stepping closer.
rin mutters, “crawling is fine.”
“for you, maybe.”
osamu grabs the scruff of rin’s shirt and hauls him back like a misbehaving cat.
rin goes, but not with dignity. never with dignity. his expression is pure petulance, mouth pouty, hair wrecked from your hands. he looks like he’s been dragged away from a meal he personally hunted.
“i wasn’t done.”
you lift one shaking leg and gently press your foot to his shoulder. “i was. i was so done.”
“you came.”
“and then i was done.”
“sounds fake.”
“you’re fake.”
“good one.”
“i’m recovering.”
osamu looks between you both, unimpressed and fond in equal measure. then he hooks a thumb toward the hallway while heading back into the kitchen.
“go wash yer face. and don’t touch anythin’.”
rin stands slowly.
so slowly.
then, instead of going to the bathroom, he wanders directly into the kitchen.
osamu sees him coming and sighs.
“rintarou.”
rin doesn’t answer.
he steps right into osamu’s space, catches him by the front of his shirt, and kisses him.
filthy.
open-mouthed.
absolutely flavoured by you.
osamu scowls into it, but he does not shove him away. his hand comes up automatically to rin’s jaw, fingers pressing there for half a second like he’s either going to push him back or keep him close. it ends up being both.
you watch from the couch, boneless and dazed, thighs still trembling.
your stomach flips all over again.
osamu breaks the kiss first, eyes narrowed, mouth wet.
“yer fuckin’ gross.”
rin’s smile is small and satisfied.
“you like it.”
osamu wipes at his mouth with the back of his wrist, still scowling. “bathroom. now.”
rin pecks him once more, quick and smug, then finally disappears down the hall.
osamu watches him go.
then looks at you.
“don’t encourage him.”
“i literally hit him.”
“he likes that.”
osamu disappears and returns a moment later with a glass of water. he sets it on the coffee table, then crouches in front of you, big hands warm on your knees.
“drink.”
you take it with both hands because you are not entirely sure your fingers work otherwise.
he watches you drink, then reaches down and carefully fixes your underwear back into place. it’s such a practical gesture that it should not make your chest warm, but it does. he smooths the fabric over your hip, then pats you there firmly when you twitch.
like a dad with a dog.
“gonna be okay for dinner?”
you laugh into your glass. “if i can walk.”
“good. yer settin’ the table.”
“i just almost died.”
“and i cooked.”
“rin almost killed me, make him set the table.”
“rin’s gonna wash the dishes if he keeps actin’ up.”
from the bathroom, rin calls, “heard that.”
osamu doesn’t look away from you. “good.”
you smile despite yourself.
his face softens in that small way he rarely announces. his thumb brushes over the outside of your knee, once, then again.
“y’good?” he asks, quieter.
you nod.
“yeah. good.”
his mouth tips into a crooked little smile. “yeah?”
you lean forward and kiss him.
it’s softer than the kiss he gave you when he came home. less casual. more thank you. his hand comes up to the back of your neck, holding you there for one slow breath before he pulls away.
“water,” he reminds you.
“bossy.”
rin comes back with his face clean and his hair damp around the temples, like he has done the bare minimum required of him and expects applause. he flops onto the couch beside you, heavy and boneless, immediately leaning into your side. his phone appears in his hand from nowhere.
you nudge his shoulder.
he nudges back.
you nudge harder.
he looks over, expression blank.
“what?”
“asshole.”
“i just made you come, be appreciative.”
“you were told to stop.”
“eventually.”
you narrow your eyes.
rin’s thumb moves over his phone screen, but his shoulder presses more firmly against yours. apology by weight. it’s one of his languages.
you accept it by putting your leg over his lap and letting him rest his cold hand on your ankle.
osamu returns to the kitchen before the chicken burns, muttering something about living with animals.
dinner is loud in the way your dinners usually are.
not volume, exactly. more texture. oil-crisped karaage piled on a plate in the middle of the table, steam rising from fresh rice, cucumber sliced thin because osamu listens even when he complains. the lemon wedges are arranged too neatly for someone who pretends he doesn’t care about presentation. spicy mayo sits in a small bowl near rin, plain mayo near you, because osamu remembers where both of you reach without having to ask.
rin presses his cold toes against your calf under the table.
you kick him.
he does it again.
osamu, without looking up from his bowl, says, “feet to yerself.”
rin says, “wasn’t me.”
“ya got the toes of a corpse. i know it was you.”
you nearly choke on your rice.
rin’s mouth twitches.
osamu slides you a piece of chicken from the plate, one of the crispier ones, without saying anything. then a second piece. your favourite kind. golden at the edges, still steaming. he does it automatically, like feeding you is part of his own meal.
you glance at him.
he doesn’t look up.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“eat.”
rin leans closer, stage-whispering, “he loves you.”
“i know.”
osamu points his chopsticks at rin. “i love quiet too. never get that.”
“you’d be bored.”
“wouldn’t know. never tried it.”
rin steals cucumber from your plate.
you steal chicken from his.
osamu steals both from the serving plate and pretends not to see any of it.
by the time dinner is done, your body has settled into that warm, loose ache of being fed after being wrecked. rin is slouched so low in his chair he might become liquid. osamu is stacking plates with the long-suffering air of a man who claims he does all the work and secretly prefers it that way.
“i’ll wash,” you say.
osamu looks at you. “ya sure yer legs work?”
“mostly.”
rin’s eyes flick to your thighs.
you point at him. “don’t.”
“didn’t say anything.”
“your face did.”
“face is innocent.”
“face is irritating me.”
osamu snorts.
you do the dishes because osamu cooked, and because the apartment feels best like this: rin sprawled in the living room with his phone, osamu moving around behind you putting leftovers away, your hands in warm soapy water, rice cooker still clicking as it cools.
halfway through rinsing a bowl, osamu comes up behind you.
not quietly. never that quietly. you know his steps, feel him before he touches you. still, your breath catches when his body presses along your back, broad and warm, his hands settling on either side of the sink to cage you in without trapping you.
his chin dips near your shoulder.
“ya not tired out yet?”
your eyes close for a second.
behind you, he smells like oil and ginger and clean sweat. like the shop. like home. his voice sits low against your ear, easy enough to pass as teasing if you want it to.
you don’t.
you shake your head, leaning back into him with a soft, contented sigh.
“not yet.”
from the living room, without missing a beat, rin calls, “will be.”
osamu laughs against your shoulder.
low.
promising.
your hands pause in the dishwater.
rin appears in the doorway, phone hanging loose from one hand, eyes half-lidded and bright with the kind of interest that means he has absolutely recovered his energy and learned nothing from being hauled away earlier.
osamu’s mouth brushes the side of your neck.
“finish the dishes,” he says.
“bossy,” you whisper.
“ya like bossy,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it.
rin leans against the doorframe.
“i’ll dry.”
you and osamu both look at him.
rin blinks.
“what?”
“you?” osamu says.
“dry?”
“suspicious.”
rin shrugs. “want them done faster.”
you laugh, warmth sliding low in your stomach all over again.
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katsuki has spent months lying about bruises, broken windows, and web fluid in the laundry. unfortunately for him, the suit looks good enough that forgiveness might have to wait until morning. (or— spider-man is sleeping on the couch, but first you make him model the suit.)
SPIDER-MAN!BAKUGOU KATSUKI X FEM!READER | spider-man au, established relationship, kidfic (kind of), dad!bakugou, post secret identity reveal, domestic fluff, light angst, katsuki is a liar but he is trying, suggestive, sexual tension, objectification as a love language, implied breeding kink (they talk abt making another one).
word count: 3.2k
hi from marcel: hi um please accept this humble offering sorry for being a fucking deadbeat omg
you wait until aiya has been asleep for twenty-seven minutes.
not twenty. not fifteen. twenty-seven, because fifteen is still a gamble and twenty is when she likes to trick you into thinking she’s down properly before making one offended little noise through the baby monitor and dragging you both back into the nursery like tiny, gummy royalty.
the apartment is dim after that. not silent, because nowhere with a baby is ever silent anymore. there’s the low hum of the monitor on your nightstand, the occasional shift of the washing machine somewhere down the hall, the distant traffic sliding wet over the street outside. katsuki’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth, shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, hair flattened from the shower in a way that makes him look younger and grumpier than he has any right to.
you’re sitting on the bed, cross-legged, watching him through the open door.
he catches your eye in the mirror and immediately narrows his.
toothbrush still in his mouth, he says, “what.”
you smile.
his suspicion doubles. “don’t smile like that.”
“like what?”
“like you’re about to ask for some weird shit.”
“put the suit on.”
he stops brushing.
you can actually see the words register. they move across his face in stages: confusion, disbelief, offense, and then the horrible, dawning realization that you are dead serious.
he spits into the sink. “no.”
“you didn't even think about it.”
“you said put the suit on.”
“yeah.”
“so, no.”
“katsuki.”
“absolutely fuckin’ not.”
you tilt your head at him, still smiling sweetly, and it is cheap. it is shameless. it works anyway, because his shoulders tense like he’s bracing himself for impact.
“baby,” you say.
he points the toothbrush at you. “don’t.”
“i just want to see it.”
“you’ve seen it.”
“not on purpose.”
“you saw it yesterday.”
“you were bleeding yesterday.”
“yeah, and?”
“and i was busy being mad.”
“you’re always busy bein’ mad lately.”
“because you’re spider-man.”
“keep your voice down,” he hisses, glancing toward the hallway like aiya— in her six month old glory— is going to rise from her crib and report him to the authorities.
you grin wider. “put the suit on.”
“why?”
you blink at him.
he stares back.
a second passes.
another.
then his mouth drops open just slightly, like he has finally, belatedly, realised that the woman who had his child is, in fact, still capable of wanting him so badly it becomes everyone’s problem.
“no,” he says again, weaker this time.
“yes.”
“it’s not—” he drags a hand down his face. “it’s not for that.”
“i know.”
“it’s work gear.”
“i know.”
“it’s dirty.”
“is it dirty right now?”
“no.”
“then put it on.”
“you’re fuckin’ unbelievable.”
“please?”
he groans like you’ve asked him to jump into traffic. which is rich, honestly, considering his usual hobby.
but he goes.
because he is impossible and stubborn and a liar and currently still on thin ice with you, but he is also whipped down to the marrow. you hear him open the narrow cupboard in the hallway. the quiet scrape of the false back he thought you didn’t notice after you found out. a zipper. fabric. muttering.
“stupid,” he says from the hall.
“love you.”
you settle back against the pillows, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh too loudly and wake the baby. the monitor crackles once, just static, and both of you freeze out of habit.
nothing.
then katsuki appears in the doorway.
and you forget every single thing you were about to say.
because it is one thing to know.
it is another thing entirely to see him standing there in your bedroom, mask off, hair a mess from tugging it on, the suit sealed up to his throat and clinging to every brutal, familiar line of him.
it’s not shiny. not exactly. more matte, more practical, dark red and black with webbing worked into the fabric, reinforced at the shoulders and ribs. there are seams you never would’ve noticed on the news. small armored panels along his forearms. the faint outline of hidden web cartridges at his wrists. a tear near his thigh that’s been repaired messily by hand, probably his, because he never lets anyone touch his things unless they’re you or aiya, and even then he complains the whole time.
your eyes drop.
his hands immediately move in front of his crotch.
“nope.”
you blink back up at him. “what are you doing?”
“what’re you doin’?”
“looking.”
“yeah. stop.”
“no.”
“baby.”
“move your hands, boy.”
his face goes red so fast it’s actually beautiful.
“fuck off.”
“katsuki.”
“no.”
you sit up straighter, interest sharpening. “are you embarrassed?”
“i’m annoyed.”
“you’re covering yourself.”
“because you’re lookin’ at me like that!”
“like i love you?”
“like you wanna eat me.”
“also love.”
“not helpin’.”
you crawl to the edge of the bed on your knees, and his gaze dips before he can stop it. you’re only in one of his old shirts and underwear, hair still loose from your shower, skin warm from the lamp beside the bed. you know exactly what you look like. you know he knows. he swallows like he hates that you know.
“turn around,” you say.
“jesus christ.”
“turn.”
“no.”
“i had your baby.”
he glares. “you can’t use that for everythin’.”
“watch me.”
“that’s manipulation.”
“that’s motherhood.”
he shuts his eyes for a second, jaw working, then turns around with the stiff, humiliated dignity of a man being led to execution.
you make a sound.
you really don’t mean to.
it’s small. barely anything. just a little breath punched out of you because the suit is tight over his back and tighter over his thighs, and his ass is, frankly, a public safety hazard.
his head snaps around. “don’t.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you made a noise.”
“i have lungs.”
“you have problems.”
“yes. one of them is standing in my room dressed like japan’s sluttiest arachnid.”
he turns back so fast you almost laugh. “never say that again.”
“spider-suki.”
“no.”
“spider-man.”
“no.”
“daddy long legs.”
“fuck no.”
he’s trying so hard to be irritated that it wraps all the way around into adorable. his hands are back in front of himself, shoulders hunched, mouth in that pout he pretends is a scowl. and the worst part is, you know him too well. you can see the exact second embarrassment gives way to want. the way his breathing changes. the way his eyes keep catching on your mouth. the way he shifts his weight like he thinks it’ll hide what the suit is already starting to make painfully obvious.
you smile.
his eyes narrow. “don’t.”
“move your hands.”
“no.”
“let me see.”
“it looks stupid.”
“i’ll be the judge of that.”
“i don’t usually have a fuckin’ boner in the suit.”
“i’m not laughing.”
you press your lips together.
he points at you immediately. “don’t laugh.”
“you are. i should web your mouth shut.”
you light up. “can you?”
“wrong thing to say to you. forget i said it.”
“move your hands.”
“you’re evil.”
“yeah.”
he does.
not all at once. not confidently. he drags his hands away like he’s physically suffering for it, eyes cutting to the ceiling, cheeks red, mouth pulled into a miserable little line.
and you look.
because of course you do.
because that is your boyfriend. the father of your child. the man who washes bottles at two in the morning and warms your cold hands under his shirt and comes home bruised and lies badly and loves you so hard he almost ruins it trying to keep you safe.
and he is standing in front of you in a suit that leaves very little to the imagination.
your throat goes dry.
“oh,” you say softly.
he groans. “see? stupid.”
“not the word i was going to use.”
“don’t get poetic about my dick. i will leave.”
“no, you won’t.”
he doesn’t.
you reach for him, and he comes closer immediately, helpless as gravity. one step. then another. until he’s standing between your knees at the edge of the bed, still tense, still trying to hold on to the last scraps of dignity while you run your fingers over his waist.
the material is warm from his body.
that surprises you.
you thought it would feel colder. more removed from him somehow. like a costume. like a wall between what he does out there and what he is in here.
but it isn’t.
under your hands, it’s just katsuki.
your katsuki.
the hard plane of his stomach under your palm. the hitch in his breath when your fingers press into the seam at his hip. the little twitch in his jaw when you look up at him through your lashes.
“i should’ve known,” you murmur.
the teasing leaves his face. “what?”
you slide both hands around him, palms flattening against his back, feeling him stiffen at the tenderness of it. “i know your body too well.”
his gaze drops to you.
you trace one of the repaired seams near his ribs. “this one. you came home with a bruise here and told me you fell at the gym.”
“i did fall.”
“off a building?”
he says nothing. you touch his shoulder. “and here. you said you pulled something boxing.”
“kind of did.”
“fighting crime is not boxing.”
“close enough.”
“you’re so stupid.”
his mouth softens. “yeah.”
“and i’m still mad.”
“i know.”
“furious, actually.”
“i know.”
“but also...” your fingers hook into the suit at his waist. “you look really good.”
his eyes flick away like he can’t bear that.
which is absurd, because katsuki is not shy. he is loud in every room he enters. he argues with microwaves. he threatens furniture when he stubs his toe. he walks around shirtless in summer like he was built specifically to ruin your life and feels smug when he catches you looking.
but this is different.
this is the secret part of him.
this is the body you know wrapped in the life he hid.
so when your hands keep moving, slower now, reverent despite yourself, his mouth opens on a breath that doesn’t become words.
“baby,” he says eventually, very low.
“hm?”
“you gotta stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“why?”
“because i’m tryin’ to be good.”
the room seems to shrink around you.
the baby monitor hums on the nightstand. somewhere outside, a car passes over wet pavement. the whole city keeps moving, completely unaware that spider-man is standing in your bedroom, asking for mercy from the mother of his child.
you lean forward and press your mouth to his stomach through the suit.
his hand flies to the back of your head.
not pushing. not holding you there.
just touching. like he has to anchor himself to you by touch alone.
“fuck,” he whispers.
you look up. “take it off.”
his thumb drags once over your hair. “thought you wanted it on.”
“i wanted to look.”
“yeah?”
“now i’m done looking.”
that does it.
something in him changes. not loud. not sudden. just a shift, like a lock turning.
his hand slides from your hair to your jaw, tipping your face up. his eyes are dark and soft and still a little scared around the edges, because this is new. not you wanting him. not him wanting you. that part is old as breathing.
this is you wanting all of him now that you know.
the liar. the hero. the idiot on the couch. the man in the suit. the father who catches aiya before she falls, sometimes before she even starts to tip.
“say it proper,” he murmurs.
you smile. “i want you.”
he kisses you.
it is not gentle for long. it starts that way, maybe. a brush, a question, his mouth warm and mint-clean from the bathroom. but then your fingers pull at the sealed edge of the suit and his control snaps with an almost audible thing, his hand bracing on the mattress beside your thigh, the other cupping your face as he bends over you.
you pull him closer until he has to climb onto the bed, one knee sinking into the sheets, the suit creaking softly with the movement.
“zipper’s in the back.”
then he stops.
you blink up at him. “what?”
you stare.
he stares back, already humiliated. then you burst into the quietest, most violent laugh of your life.
“don’t,” he hisses.
you clap a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking.
“it’s not funny.”
“spider-man can’t get naked.”
“i can get naked.”
“not alone, apparently.”
“it’s a security design.”
“you need mommy to unzip you?”
his eyes flash. “careful.”
your laugh cuts off into something else.
he notices. of course he notices. his head tilts, just a little, interest sharpening like a blade.
“oh?” he says.
“shut up.”
“that do somethin’ for you?”
“you’re literally stuck in your superhero onesie.”
“and you’re still wet about it.”
you kick at him. he catches your ankle easily, grinning now, finally getting some of his footing back.
“turn around.”
“bossy.”
“turn around before aiya wakes up and ruins your life.”
that gets him moving.
he sits on the edge of the bed with his back to you, and you kneel behind him. the suit is even better up close, which is unfair. there are tiny scratches in the black patterning, a place near the nape that’s been torn and resewn, the faint smell of clean fabric and him. you find the hidden zipper between his shoulder blades and drag it down slowly.
too slowly, apparently, because his head drops forward.
“baby.”
“what?”
“don’t tease.”
you press a kiss to the back of his neck.
he goes quiet.
for all his strength, he is so easy there. so vulnerable when you touch the places he cannot watch you touch. your mouth at his neck, your hands on his shoulders, peeling the suit down inch by inch until his skin is bare under your palms.
you stop at the edge of a bruise blooming yellow near his ribs.
your chest tightens.
“katsuki.”
“old one.”
“how old?”
“couple days.”
“you didn’t tell me.”
“didn’t tell you a lotta shit.”
“that is not charming honesty.”
“wasn’t tryin’ to be.”
you kiss the bruise anyway. soft. once.
his breath catches.
“you’re still on the couch after this,” you whisper against his skin.
he huffs. “figured.”
“for a week.”
“three days.”
“five.”
“four.”
“six for negotiating.”
he turns his head, glaring over his shoulder. “that’s not how that works.”
“it is in my house.”
“our house.”
“my house until i forgive you.”
his mouth twitches. “mean ass woman.”
“lying ass spider.”
he twists suddenly, pulling you forward with one arm, and you squeak before remembering to be quiet. the two of you freeze, eyes shooting to the baby monitor.
static. nothing else.
katsuki whispers, “you’re gonna wake her up.”
“you just manhandled me.”
“me?”
“yeah, you.”
“quietly.”
“you’re so annoying.”
“you love me.”
“maybe a little.”
he kisses you again, smiling into it this time, and the suit gets lost somewhere around his waist, then his thighs, then the floor. there’s a clumsy, stifled struggle with one ankle that nearly makes you laugh again until he bites your shoulder through his own shirt and mutters, “one sound and i’m puttin’ it back on.”
“threatening me with a good time.”
“you’re insane.”
“you knew that before.”
“knew it before i knocked you up, too.”
heat blooms low in your stomach. his eyes catch it.
your hand tightens around his bicep. “should do it again.”
for a second, the whole room goes still.
not because he doesn’t understand.
because he does.
because aiya is asleep down the hall, and your body remembers her. the ache, the weight, the long nights, the softness of her head under your chin, the impossible terror of loving something that small. it remembers katsuki kneeling beside the bed with a newborn tucked against his bare chest, whispering promises to both of you like he could scare the world into behaving if he growled hard enough.
his hand spreads over your stomach.
careful. reverent.
“yeah?” he says, voice rough.
you nod.
he bends until his forehead rests against yours. “you sure?”
“i’m sure.”
“not just because you’re freakin’ out over the suit?”
“that is a factor.”
he snorts.
you smile, sliding your arms around his neck. “but no. not just that.”
his thumb strokes once, slow, over your stomach.
“aiya’s gonna be pissed.”
“aiya’s six months old.”
“she’s possessive.”
“she gets that from you.”
“damn right.”
you kiss him before he can say anything else stupid, and he follows you down into the bed with an instinct that feels older than the secret, older than the suit, older than the hurt still waiting for both of you in the morning.
for now, he is warm and heavy over you, bare skin against bare skin, one hand braced carefully near your head like he still thinks he might crush you after all these years. you pull him closer anyway. you always do.
“couch tomorrow,” you whisper against his mouth.
“yeah, yeah.”
“and we’re still talking.”
“yeah.”
“and you’re teaching me how the web thingy works.”
“absolutely not.”
“katsuki.”
“fine.”
“and i’m putting the suit on once.”
his head lifts.
you blink innocently.
“no,” he says.
“yes.”
“no.”
“it’s only fair.”
“you wearin’ that suit is how we end up with an army of brats.”
you gasp. “so you agree.”
“i agree you’re awful.”
the baby monitor crackles.
both of you freeze again, half tangled, half laughing, entirely caught.
aiya sighs.
katsuki lowers his forehead to your shoulder in silent, desperate prayer.
you bite your lip so hard you almost hurt yourself.
after a long moment, he whispers, “still asleep.”
“spider-sense?”
“dad sense.”
you soften before you can stop yourself. he feels it. lifts his head. the grin is gone now, replaced with something quieter. something open and tired and so painfully full of love that you almost hate him for making you feel it while you’re still furious.
“i’m sorry,” he says.
no defence. no excuse.
just that.you touch his cheek.
“i know.”
“i’ll tell you everythin’.”
“you better.”
“everythin’.”
you hold him there, fingers sliding into his hair, the city outside wet and glowing and alive around you. somewhere in it, there are rooftops he knows better than streets. alleys where he has bled alone. people he has saved without you knowing. versions of him you are only just beginning to meet.
but this version is yours.
in your bed. in your arms. warm, embarrassed, breathing hard against your throat.
“katsuki?”
“hm?”
“make another baby with me.”
he goes still for one heartbeat.
then his mouth finds yours again, and this time there is nothing funny about it.
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