#takesone

The first flashy thought that struck you was nasty. Was he-? No, you felt a pang of guilt for even starting to think of him like that. Nonono, Kenma didn't do that kind of thing. Kuroo would think it was funny to answer the phone while jerking off, but Kenma wasn't so impish.

Your fingers pinch your mic away from your mouth-- eyes screwed shut with a shaky exhale. It only now occurred to you that he was capable of naughty things. It was a silly oversight in retrospect. He was of the same demographic as the rest of his rowdy, often vulgar, team.

You still don't want to believe it. It's silly, familiar Kenma. He sat in this chair more than you. He preferred your set-up over his own and how your folks left you alone.

Some very brief, inconsequential memories seeped in from the back of your head. The weight and warmth of an arm, often forgotten around your shoulders. His chin atop your head while he helped you get through a level. A few extra seconds of a strong hug before he leaves.

Touching you wasn't a rare occurrence, but you were content believing that it was how he communicated when he used so little of his words.

A terribly pornographic giggle does you in.

You glance helplessly about your room. It's undisturbed, same as it was moments before, but you are in a very different space.

Sure, he's cute and cuddly and chummy, but that wasn't sufficient protection against this. He was a fully fleshed out human being with urges just like you. Possibly more of them, and worse. You bit your tongue.

"H-haha-- (Y/n), it's soo early."

He sniffles, another heavy sigh laced with a groan.

You're barely able to keep a squeak down. Your head pounded with dirty thoughts. Your face was hot, but you didn't want to move your headset to cool down because- well, the sound was so clear. It felt like he was right next to you. And you were still reeling in a blossoming discovery that you liked it.

He continued shifting and moving around on the other side. Despite practically knowing, you don't hang up. You cling to the possibility that either 1) that's just his sleepy voice, or 2) he wanted you to stay.

You swallow the wobble in the voice, "Are you... okay?"

"Mmmmhm..."

He doesn't sound sober.

But he isn't drunk. Not in the literal sense of the word-- he was drunk on something. Dreamy, unusual, and tough to figure out behind a phone.

Kenma dopamine-maxxed like this once he couldn't take shouldering the lie anymore. When he needed a total reset before he saw you next, especially when he planned to be near you for long periods of time.

A necessary hour-long indulgence of edging and denial all to rewire his brain, so he could come to you agreeable and dull. His imagination needed to be totally fried to talk to you, snuggled close and friendly.

You weren't supposed to be on tonight.

He wasn't supposed to answer.

You watched your avatar respawn and die in the same spot 12 times with wide and glassy eyes. You attempted to move it only once. The tiny thing continued to explode endlessly in silence.

You sigh, "Ohh-kay... well, um-"

He still strokes his cock, shameless, at your spiraling. You generally weren't so mousy but he doesn't mind.

"I'll let you go back to sleep. I'm- I'm so-rry for waking you up," You barely finish your crackly sentence, all but a whisper left in your lungs, "I-i'll see if... Kuro's... on."

His close-mouthed chuckle forces you to bite the back of your knuckles. He was loving this addictive and selfish desire to keep making you squirm.

"Mm'not sleeping."

You weren't clueless, but acting like it was easier for you than totally 'owning it.'

"What-," Your baited breath was not enough to fuel a full reply, "What are you doing, Kemma?"

"G-od--,"

He sputters at that nickname out of your mouth; his breathing sudden, and harsh.

"Sh-it, please-pl-ease," He gasps, the rest of his words low and gravelly, "Just stay on the phone."

"Oka-y," You tell yourself, mostly, behind your palm.

He laid his phone on his tacky chest so that he didn't have to hold it and reached for something else. He was forced to rotate between stroking himself a few times and having to let go, too close after 30 minutes of 'sweating this one out.'

His voice became slightly muffled, behind a shirt he stole from you, weeks ago.

"Y'can- ahh, mn- hang up'when-ever y'want..."

"But- h-ahh, yeah...I-I've been-," He couldn't get through more than a short breaths worth of words at any given time.

"Jerking it to this picture of you-- hahaa-Ha," His laughter sounded pained; it was as whiny as his other words, but a sign that he was unable to take himself seriously.

You, too, burst into a flurry of chuckles at his shameless admission. The picture you sent him earlier was for your snap streak. It had maybe an eighth of your face in it.

Your thumb hovered over the End Call button.

Things could get real messy between you. Your heart ached for the death of a simple friendship. A growing heat between your legs put up one hell of a struggle with your conscience. Sleep deprivation wasn't helping you make smart decisions, either.

You bit your thumb, eyes closing once again at the route you chose.

"Well, how close are you?"

links: my masterlist. more haikyuu. my side. my inbox.

notes. inspo was 'teenage soldier' by 2hollis (strooong recommend for the whiny vocal intro. i mean, it's basically softcore porn)

taglist. @thisiswhereishitpostalot @megapteraurelia

more of my kenma, if you're on a kick:

needy!kenma

kuroken sharing reader part one, part two, part three

The entire itinerary was an undertaking only suitable for you two to man.

"You said, uh- y'said Yamagata, right?" Your brow furrowed at his comment.

You already accounted for the stops the Yamanote line would take, plus transfers, extra plus the bathroom breaks they would all need at the least opportune time-- switching between urban and rural lines, where you have to wait for another hour if you miss one instead of the 15 minutes they were all used to.

You sat back at last, but it was to open your thermos and take a sip of your tea.

The weather had been downright frigid this season. Who the hell wanted to camp out in the cold? It'd be a miracle if it didn't snow.

Akaashi plucked one of your highlighters from Bokuto, who had begun playing with it the moment he spotted the thing unused on your book.

"He wants more 'manpower,' so he invited the Nekoma team."

Oh, goodness.

You nearly spit your tea out- you sputtered to choke it down and, after composing yourself, cleared your throat.

Akaashi mindlessly rolled it against his chapped lips, and muttered, "Wasn't a bad idea, really."

"Mm-hmmm..." Face burning, your mind racing, you had to ask at a bare whisper to save your voice.

"They said yes?"

"Oh, yeah--," Akaashi rattled off before Bokuto could take a breath, engaged again, "We got as far as the group chat. They've got about, uhh, let's see... seven now, that are in."

Seven? Was there a possibility that Kuroo let that many members of his team go, and not himself- the team captain? Your temples throbbed with the need to know.

Akaashi studied you, triumphant, at how you grew heavy with thought in an instant.

Bokuto was just excited to see you express anything other than total detachment.

He bit his lip, big hands sprawling over your fresh pen work as he leaned to inspect your face for more weakness.

"I can totally add you!"

"Mm-mm, nooo- no!"

You shook your head at him, but he was already possessed by the invisible unfurling of his big, adventurous senior trip-- he was looking past you with sparkling eyes.

"Aah-! Akaashi! Can you add her? Yes!! Now we can really get started! Don't you--"

He squinted, lips pursed in rare consideration. He recalled slowly, "You... said something about Nekoma before."

"Yeah, she likes the team."

"Right! Yes- yeah! Because-," He leaned once more on your desk, a big, sharp grin causing you to  back completely into your chair, "They're all so smart! That's right!"

Bokuto immediately began to take credit for the connection. It was shocking that he remembered your throw away comment so long ago.

"WOO!!"

He whooped loudly with his fists in the air, causing the entire classroom to go silent, and chugged, unbothered, out the door. He stopped short of leaving, though, and pointed right at your exasperated form still slumped into your palms.

"(Y/n), you're going."

His sing-songy voice down the hall kept both you and Akaashi staring at each other, tired.

"Eeeven if I have to draaaag youuuu theeeere!!"

The big double doors clanged shut, far away, and you gave a huge, defeated sigh.

"Fuck..."

Akaashi pulled up a chair. He leaned forward against the back, and put his crossed arms on the free space of your desk.

"You really gonna go?"

You scoffed, hands up, then slamming back into your lap, "I- I don't--,"

It was quiet for many seconds as you sat facing forward, eyes closed. You had to process it before giving him an answer.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

Akaashi made a settling noise. You peeked and you found him chewing on that highlighter, deep in more thought.

You swiped it. You chewed on that highlighter- it was bad enough that they were passing it back and forth.

"Stop that," You muttered.

He chuckled. He flipped through the folded corners of your textbook, and raised his brow at the smushed, somewhat illegible writing on your papers.

"He's such a dumbass..." You followed his eyeline and leaned on your knuckles.

Reminded again of the weather from the steam rising from your cup, you scoffed: "Okinawa? In January? God... You're kidding me."

"December," Akaashi corrected.

You looked up to his barely concealed smile. He was still flipping the corners of your textbook, all the margins containing some sort of scribbles of Kuroo's name.

"Wait-- next week?"

"Mmhm."

You and him had one week, no, not even-- six days, to plan a trip for-- you checked your phone-- 16 people.

"Akaashi," Your hand grabbed his busy fingers so he would stop all that noise.

"This is impossible. Tell him it's impossible."

He was too quiet. Too content. Moreso than his usual tolerance to Bokuto being the-way-that-he-is. You finally noticed that he was biting the inside of his cheek.

Then he looked up at your face. You knew right before he admitted it. The bell rang, breaking through some of his quiet words, but you didn't need a perfect confession.

"It was my idea-."

"Why?" You pressed before a proper beat.

He rose, returned the chair, and slung his bag over his shoulder.

"(Y/n), we're graduating soon," That expression he wore was one you had only seen a couple of times, and weren't prepared to handle right now, "We've got a few months."

Joining him, you were attempting to meet his severity, but lacked in every way possible because you still did not understand.

"Months." He repeated. Softer.

People were flowing in and out of the doors. He looked to the body traffic, then down at the floor.

"66 days and we're not seeing these guys again."

In days, that sounded pretty bad.

A little cold, and maybe not quite what he needed, you held yourself and shrugged. It wasn't wrong, just tasteless. The late bell was going to ring soon and you didn't want him to linger for his own good.

"Okay. I already said I'd go."

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part two here.

His uniform fits him better than the usual baggy attire he sports to your 8 a.m. It's actually the first thing you notice; his broad shoulders and the way his back fills out the number on his jersey. He moves with ease; quickly, though- with explosive athleticism you wouldn't have been able to imagine him with on your own. In class, he seemed part-snail how little he moved, how slow his swagger was between the desks even when he was late.

Though you stare at him hard, you lose sight of him often because you're never looking at his number. It's 17, you learn, after nearly twenty minutes of studying how his body moves.

Eye-candy aside, the game lasts much longer than you're prepared for. They go to full sets, and everybody clearly knows the rules better than you do. You aren't sitting in a group, you're stuck on the end of the bleachers, holding yourself, and flinching every time the crowd erupts. The thought to leave crosses your mind many times.

And yet, you are steadfast at your post. You don't take the opportunity for one sole reason.

He needs to pay.

You wondered why the invite felt so exclusive for a while. It felt unnatural for that boy to invite anyone anywhere-- let alone just a classmate he liked to tease. You soon found that his kindness, indeed, was too good to be true. Your hopes had been raised and sufficiently smashed back down in a million pieces. You discovered the streak of ink across your face when you stopped by the restroom after your third class.

It took every bone in your body to keep yourself from screaming when you realized you walked around campus like that all morning- and it was his fault.

After sitting on it for a day, muted rage eventually stirred up a sick, unshakable, feeling of responsibility. You had allowed yourself believe he might have been a nice, maybe misunderstood, guy all along- and there you were, suffering for it.

You still are, seated, over it and over him, while everybody else raises to their feet to clap for their Sendai Frogs' victory.

There you remain until the crowd has dwindled to a few stragglers. Some workers with brooms and trash bags pass you, sparing unsure looks. You tap your fingers, legs crossed, chin up. You know that he saw you. You're not going to come groveling to him, beyond entertaining the offer to come here.

It takes far too long. You're tired, it's way past your bedtime, and you cancelled some plans for this, so a storm was ready for when he comes dawdling up the metal stairs.

Tsukishima has his hands in his pockets, a towel draped over his shoulder, and slides on instead of athletic shoes. He's still flushed, but not out of breath. You hate how hot he is-- and hesitate when you notice he's got different glasses on. You look at him. He looks back at you. You squint at him. He squints back at you.

A big, tired sigh-groan makes you tighten.

"Iiii thought you were mad at me-?" He jeers, leaning back on the railing with a nonchalant sniff. He crosses his feet and finds more interest in sliding his shoe on and off than your stiff, unrelenting stare.

"What would I be mad at you for?"

He blinks and tilts his head back at the speed, the efficiency, and clear animosity in your query.

"Jesus."

He clears his throat at your frown, unable to bounce anything off of you, and a little cornered despite the gigantic gymnasium that houses you both. Instead of answering your question, he tries to steer you away from the very reason you tolerated this night.

"Did you like the game?"

Your words are lightning fast. Zippy and hard. His linger, slow, lacking in apology and soaked in sarcasm.

"Why would you do something like that?"

"Hmm-mm-mm... Whyyy would I do something like that...?"

"Yes. Tell me why."

"Tch... Tch... Tch... I don't know? Maybe- ohhh, yeah-! Because it was funny? Christ."

"That kind of thing is funny to you?"

"Hm. What kind of thing are we talking about?"

"Hurting other people is funny to you?"

"Mmmnever said that."

"You hurt me. Many times. Because you thought it was funny."

"I'm so sorry that you feel that way."

The oh-so-done-with-this attitude he has is, truly, bad enough. But the tiny smile he wears through your back-and-forth, like he can't be bothered to even view your anger as real, is worse. You uncross your legs. Your hands grip the edge of the metal bench so tight your knuckles lighten.

"It was just a joke," He swats off your sincerity, all your emotion, like a pesky gnat.

You stand up and snap, really snap at him. You shout, "You made me look like an idiot!"

"Lighten up!" He laughs, exhausted, a hand slipping through his salty, wet locks. Hours after a tough game, days after late-night fantasizing, months of repressing a crush, and years of building destructive emotional habits wracked up to come out in a tired, too-casual confession.

"Damn, (Y/n)-! I was fucking flirting with you!"

A breath of air fills your lungs. You notice it, how breathing makes you pause, and you realize that you're standing pretty close to him. Like you would, or even could, fight him. He finds a similar pause and swallows the lump in his throat. The immediate weight of regret weighs his head down. He would've rather taken the punch than admit that, in hindsight.

He slides a hand down his jaw and sighs. Then, you watch him wipe his face with his towel and readjust against the railing.

It's clearly your turn to speak.

"I didn't... uh," You wipe your sweaty palms on your pant legs- heartbeat feeling a little weak in your chest. "Yeah, I didn't gather that. From, y'know. The way you are."

He doesn't look at you, but snorts, and chortles, at your particular phrasing. His laugh is terribly cute. You can really see how tired he is when you choose to lean on the railing next to him, instead.

"Thank you. Really, thank you for that, Aristotle."

"Fuck you," You chuckle, tired too.

He glances down to you with raised brows. There's almost a smile.

"Oh, yeah?"

It's no effort, really. He doesn't try to make you blush, but it happens anyway.

You don't take the bait because you're better than that.

"They're about to close," Tsukishima sighs.

He motions to the more anxious-looking workers, idling at the exits for the two of you to be done with your lovers' quarrel. You jump, wincing at how inconsiderate such a thing was.

You walk with him, a little behind, because you don't know your way around. You give the employees enough apology nods along the way to make up for his refusal to do the same. He leads you to an offshoot section, near the locker rooms, and close to an exit. You're at ease because you think this might be where you parked your car.

"We can keep talking, if you wanna-," He glances around your face, pausing, so he can savor the reaction for the rest of his offer, "Go back to my place."

You're nothing if not polite.

"Um..."

A little breath fills you up, and you look away as you consider the suggestion. He watches with a smirk as color tinges your features, and your hands don't know where to go. Such a pretty girl, with no idea what to do with yourself. He wants to be your dirty little mistake badly. He wants it to be weird next week.

"Actually-,"

He cuts your thinking, your almost-no maybe-yes off, with a very unconvincing recollection. He jerks his thumb to the locker rooms and says, "I need to shower first. Before we go."

"-Wait for me."

It's not a question because he already knows that you will. Before he abandons you to wait again, alone in the hallway, he leaves you with a quick peck to the temple and a cheeky, "Come join me if you get bored."

Your skin tingles in the aftermath of his kiss. You touch where he held your chin, then where his lips were, and stand still in shock. You look back, but he's already out of sight.

He calls out, a bit echo-y off the locker room tiles, "Or don't! It's whatever."

Of course you don't.

But, when he said 'his place' you thought he wouldn't be in student housing. Not that you could judge; that's what you were used to. He was living in a slightly better accommodations, but still has a bunkmate. It's much like your own dorm room, but a little off, uncanny, and he can tell you aren't digging the threat of an extra person.

"He's working tonight," He throws a nod to the bottom bed.

You lean against a desk, dizzy, and unsure if saying yes was the smart move.

You don't know what to call him. He feels familiar, but just short of comforting, in this foreign room. The scale of its -his- newness weighs on you, multiplied by the fact that you had been in new places all evening. You had been so angry about how he treated you for so long because you cared- but now that's resolved, kind of, so what is there left to address?

He isn't going to guide you. You grasp, desperately, at nothing.

"You..." You feel his pressure right away and know you won't be articulate, "Said... that- you were- um... flirting. This whole time."

His duffel bag thumps onto the floor, across the room.

"Yeah."

A missed beat. You meet his eyes, briefly, but shrink at the thought of his offer at the gym. As he nears you, your heart squeezes in anticipation, "Wh-y-?"

"Because you're cute, sweetheart," A chill whisper ghosts past your cheek. Bordering on condescending. He puts two hands on either side of you.

Bad news. Bad news. Bad news. He's a walking red flag, you remind yourself. You've never met anyone so downright mean in all your years-- but, did his actions signify that he was totally irredeemable?

You couldn't get behind that type of black and white thinking, as you spare a wide-eyed glance at his hungry face. He is deceivingly pretty.

He leans down to keep you pinned into the desk- you hope, but aren't sure, that it belongs to him. You shiver at his words, brace against his hold, and shy away from that sharp gaze. He's so impatient.

It begs the question- one that keeps racing through your mind- Could this be the only way he shows affection?

You have a feeling that if you pull away, he'll never reach for you again. That, if you don't look at him right, it's going to be over.

So, out of curiosity, and in your best attempt to be kind, you relax. Your muscles stop fighting his grip. You press into his front and meet his hard-working expression with a softer, easier one. You trust your gut one last time and pray he doesn't make you regret it.

You whisper back, "You think I'm cute?"

Tsukishima's attention is stolen by the way you feel against him. Skin on skin. Cloth on skin. Cloth on cloth, fingers edged under his shirt collar. The weight, the warmth, of your tummy on his. His palms just keep you there, no longer rushed in his pulling, and his jaw twitches at how you search him so openly.

"Tsk."

His false disinterest might have discouraged you, had he not been sporting a generous erection that he kept firm between your bodies.

You repeat, eyes unwavering, noting his sudden flightiness, "You think I'm cute?"

It cracks his thin confidence. He looks down and away, wincing, at your parting thighs. You're soft- sooo soft.

He's breathing harder than you, holding you firmer, lost for fractions of a snotty response. You're distracting. He can't think beyond how good you feel.

Then, your fingers splay up into his fluffy blond hair. He takes a big, loud inhale through his nose at the sensation and sigh-laughs the breath back out. You bite your lip, captured, by how much he enjoys it, and dip forward to try and look him in the eye.

"Because..." You find his eyes for a fleeting moment, "I think you're a little more than cute."

"Hm-mmn."

He pushes his head into your grasp, seething, at your nails, and the way your thighs squeeze him. So, he was proving to be all talk and zero bite. You enjoy the way he holds you in his gaze, how he ruts against you like he's never had pussy before.

You grip the roots of his hair, and smile, a bit giddy with power, "Why'd you take me back to your place if we're just going to talk?"

He laughs. His eyes roll back to life with a sobered groan, "Ohh, yeah. Y'got me."

His tone freezes you. It weakens your grip. You're shocked by how quick he can shake off your touch. It doesn't happen without effort, but he can. And that makes you a little embarrassed that you believed, even for a second, that he was an amateur.

Because he knows how to touch you. His fingers pry from the desk to find your hips. He wedges strong thumbs into the crease of your thighs and rocks you forward, making you grip onto his shoulders with a startled sound. You have to wrap your legs around him. He takes a breath and envelops you in his arms. His lips meet the side of your neck.

"Mm-ch--, That's better, yeah?"

You sigh at the mark he surely has left and the fact that you fell for another one of his tricks. You're getting pushed off-balance, but held, hugged, closer, where he wants you.

"Or..." He slips the bra strap off of your shoulder and pulls the hem of your shirt down, "Did you like me more when you thought you were in charge?"

The muddy mix of pain and pleasure from his rough kisses confuses your opinion of him. You gasp at his teeth, squirm at his roaming hands.

"I don't know if I even like you."

He's quick to respond. Just like your argument back at the gym.

"We've got all night for you to figure it out."

Now that you're visibly his- he takes your chin between his fingers. You wear a pout he knows wouldn't be as adorable if it wasn't so unmistakably yours.

You lean in first and kiss him, like you're not conflicted. Sweet, gentle, and forgiving; how he knows you to be. You want him to return your patience and understanding.

It's not his style.

He hums against your mouth, deepening, prying open, what little you give him. When he rocks his hips against you, you knock over a cup of pencils in the process of finding a better leveraged place for your palm.

"Shit," His snicker brings you apart for a moment as he cranes to watch a few clatter onto the floor.

"You should pick that up before he gets back."

You scoff at him. So this isn't his desk. His smile would also indicate that he was waiting for something snarky in return.

"I thought you said we had all night."

He seethes, rubs your thighs, and replays the last minute in his head, "Did I?"

"You did."

A rare moment of sincerity raises his brows- a nod, and he remembers aloud, "That's right. I did."

His hands run up to the waistband of your pants and he starts toying with the button, the zipper- his tongue wets his bottom lip.

"I lied."

You don't inch away from his touch or interrupt how he starts to unclothe you. He's testing the waters and you want to show him you can be calm. You can get down.

"He does work tonight," He reaffirms, with a soft peck to your temple, "But he'll be back around midnight."

That was a huge cushion of time. You share a look of understanding first, then a greedier, faster kiss.

He hums at the feeling of your skin as he dives his hands down your clothes to massage at your hips. The way he moves your body for you screams that he's already been fucking you in his mind for a long time.

"Mm," You twist your head away from his bombardment of kisses, so he directs them down the curve of your neck, "We should hurry, then."

Tsukishima pulls his shirt off the second you're done telling him yes. You grin at the sight and join him, rushing a trail of messy kisses and scratches down his body. As he pulls his last pant leg free from his foot, he throws an arm to the ceiling.

The top bunk? You blink.

You crane to take a better look at his bed and strip a little slower. You eye his bulge, but stay thinking about the weight limit on these beds. The rules in your room dictated that the smallest roommate gets the top bunk. It was safer and easier that way.

You summit the thing regardless, grateful that you know the trick of how to get up on your own-- because he doesn't have the ladder attachment that comes with the bed.

"Is your roommate taller than you?"

The way he climbs up after you is practiced, and reminiscent of how well he moved during that game. You want to tell him, somehow, that you thought he was really sexy, how he played tonight-- but you shake the desire off. There's no way he would let you compliment him without tearing you down.

"No."

He doesn't ask why, but you see that he's shuffling through all the possibilities as to why you'd be thinking about his roomie.

"Then-," You shift, hand on the ceiling, and pluck a pillow from under your back, "Why did you take the top bunk?"

"Because I wanted the top bunk." He answers.

His simple phrasing gives you enough insight to how he generally is. A casual bully to not just you, but anyone that can tolerate him. His body takes up so much barely-there space above you. The air gets heavy, sweeter, but thicker- and you hold your breath.

"Don't look at me like that," A hand slips between your closed knees, ultra gentle, but daunting in its bigness.

You shudder and let him part your thighs.

"Like wh-at?"

"Liiiiike," He sinks into the prone, breath hot but his mouth hotter as he licks a stripe up your clothed cunt. His fingertips hook under your panties, "I'm gonna eat you alive."

His cruel sense of humor doesn't make you laugh, but it does turn you on.

"You're-ha-h, not funny-," You struggle and sigh, trembly, as he pushes them to the side instead of wasting time to pull them off.

He's patient and slow for a while. He listens. He adjusts, when you flinch- he learns your body and studies you, like a game.

Long fingers bring you forward into his mouth. You keep your hands on top of his, heart fluttering at the sensation of his knuckles and the strength of grip.

You worry that you're not necessarily fresh- your morning shower was 7? hours ago. You are not shaved. It takes a minute, or ten of them, to relax.

"Mnn-hh," Open-mouthed, dripping with clear from the chin, he orders, "You a robot, or what? Pull my hair. Do something."

He's the most sour you've ever heard him get. You gasp at a bite to the plush of your trembly thigh.

"Ow-! You-h-Ah,"

He groans against your pussy, tongue swirling, messy, around your swollen clit since that's how you like it, apparently. Your expression of discomfort weighs on him, so he repeats slower.

"Gimme somethin' or I'll keep doin' it." Harsh. Muffled. But inarguably enthusiastic.

You've been vocal. He's just greedy and wants you to be his thoroughly broken-in good girl.

The problem is that you aren't. You're no wide-eyed virgin saint. And he's not the secretly-sweet ready-to-be-changed guy you want, either. He likes how mean he is. It's practiced. You're just each other's folly for now, and that has to be enough for the night.

Thankfully, any pretty boy willing to go that hard for you can get it.

You arch into him, hands slipping through his damp locks, a broken giggle on your tongue at the ridiculousness you've both tripped and fallen down into.

He likes biting you. You find this out the hard way. When you don't pull hard enough, or when you fuck his name up.

"Just-," He struggles to get his shins out of the bottom of the wood frame, because what you didn't get to see was half of his legs dangling from the bed. "Call me Tsukki." He's so long and lanky it's impossible to keep the grin off of your face, even more impressive that you manage not to laugh until he's back on top of you.

His glasses are foggy. You chortle at him.

"Tsukki, you- shoul-d-- hahaa-," You giggle at his deadpan expression, and fail to tease him because, again, he looks so silly.

When you're done, he slides them off of his face with one hand. He reaches above you, and tenderly places his glasses on one of the wooden bed posts.

You stare at them for seconds after he's done setting them aside. This might have added to how strong of an effect his new face gives you. Now, that was a volleyball player. He squints at you, amusement twitching up his lips, at how you flex against him. His bare, amber eyes are so severe and you can't seem to catch your breath.

"What?"

"N-othing," You wince at your voice crack.

He laughs at you and frees you both of the last of your clothes. Once again, it cannot be overstated how pretty his laugh is, even when it's at your expense.

He is all-too aware of why your thighs squeeze him harder, why your chest is rising and falling uneven, why your face is getting hotter. He's slow, and drunk on your slickness coating his cock, "Mm... Do I look... different?"

"Just a little bit better?" His teeth make an appearance this time as he slides his arms under the pillow, closer, looking down at you, "Ohh, c'mon, y'can't talk to me? Don't wanna laugh?"

"You're- ah, an asshole," You sigh, shaky, and needy at how he lines himself up with you.

His kisses are rough and ruttish on the side of your face now that there's nothing in the way. He shushes you, too, as if he hasn't dismissed you enough.

"Fu-ck," He's vocal as he buries himself into you, denying you space, denying you air, or humility, "Mmhh-ah,"

His hand takes the whole lower half of your face and twists it up, away, as he soaks up your gasping. He can feel that you're able to take him already, he can hear you love it-- inflating his ego, and of course, he can't let that go unspoken for.

"Feels good, yeah?" He taunts against your ear, cock jammed against your cervix.

He feels like the kind of hook-up you won't ever forget. So heavy as he weighs you down, grabbing you, holding you, needing you despite knowing next to nothing about you. His hands are sampling every inch of your sticky skin. He's rough and not so calculated anymore. You laugh, a breathless version of one, at least, and return what strength you could afford.

"You're- so- h-ah, cute," You admit between gasps, brows squeezed together, fingers buried in his fluffy blond hair.

He tries to roll his eyes, but it just doesn't work. His head is heavy in the crook of your shoulder, his sounds exaggerated because they're immediately in the shell of your ear.

Fullness- real, and slick, and burning hot, fills you: He utters broken and whiny phrases of how perfect you are, every time he bottoms out, and soon he's wrapping his arms around you again.

He never struck you as a hugger, not on the first night, and certainly not a clingy one at that.

"Mnh!" You squeak at his biting, nails digging lines down his broad back.

You think about how good he looked in his jersey again. It was practically foreplay. What was his number? Maybe you could look pictures up online.

"H-ah...Y-our g-ame--,"

Your words fail you again and you can feel his lips turn into that shitty smirk against yours.

You groan, frustrated, and lock your ankles around him. He's deeper, and it's wetter, it's louder. You think about who might live on the other side of the wall.

"Mn-nh!!" He pants, brow furrowed, at the gesture, "Careful...fuck, hah..."

Did 'careful' mean he was close? You don't have time to get proud about it because he's already pulling out and catching his breath, collecting his senses again.

"Turn around."

You breathe in tandem for a moment. At first, you don't move, because there is simply no room for traditional doggy. And, he looks like he belongs in a magazine, all twisted and muscled in the dim light with a bouncy, slick cock.

Then you remember there are variations.

You're stuffed with him already. You gasp and your pussy flexes hard around him as he reaches around to hold your neck.

"This okay?"

"Don't squeeze."

You hesitate before adding an ultra-soft, "Please."

He kisses the back of your head and readjusts his grip, substantially lighter.

Okay, maybe you do want him to squeeze. You don't test it, though - you don't know him. And you can't, because he's fucking all the words out of you again.

"Ah-h-!" You whine into his pillow- legs trembling- full body getting wrecked as he pushes his hips into yours.

You whine his nickname; easy consonants that spill pretty, quieted, against his bedsheets. The bed is not sturdy, you notice, as you egg him on with very little effort.

His lips are on your shoulder as he mutters, mostly to himself, "Yeah. Should've fucked you sooner."

You feel it running down your thighs, the sweat and juice all mixed together - it burns against the bites he left on you. There's one that probably won't heal for weeks, long after he's done with you.

He fucks you until you're a babbling, incoherent mess. He entertains you, too, teasing and picking apart your sounds.

"I know, ohh, I know," His groans and sighs fall over your skin, inspire a deeper arch in your spine, relax you and ease your fussing.

You're not typically so easy, but he's kept you on your toes for more surprising twists than an premature orgasm. You're full of him, crying, whining, and clawing at his sheets that smelled just like him as you cum hard, way too early.

"Fuuck, yeah. Good girl," His eyes are wide with surprise behind you.

You can't see it. You could've maybe deduced it from his tone, but can't hear him through the milky high you're swimming in. "You okay?" Is a bit facetious, at first.

It's for the best.

This was lovely, but you can't help but get lost in the emptiness the refractory period leaves you with.

Salt burns your eyes. He's still a bully. You had been so vulnerable, and for what? He lies, at almost every opportunity, until he's caught. He's insensitive. You weren't looking for one night stands anymore, but he has to make you bring the list back out.

You feel a hand zip off your neck, and all of his weight shifting after he pulls out.

"Hey," Tsukishima cranes to look at you, wetting his pillow with overstimulated tears, and you sniffle, confused, at the panic written all over him, "Are you okay?"

"Mhm," You blink the sting away but remain still, heavy, and a little sad, but you can't remember why.

He lightly strokes some hair from your face, "Was it the choking? Was it too hard?"

"No..."

'No,' Ghosts past his lips, and he's trying to think of what else he could've done to upset you. His shoulders droop a bit when he's got a long list of qualifying actions.

Could it be that he's actually fretting over you? He sells it well, thoroughly disheveled, because his hair has dried oddly and it's obvious he can't see well. You learn that every second you choose to not speak slowly, incrementally, kills him.

He is ultra-weary by the time you have a blanket wrapped around you and a bottle of water in your hand.

You didn't want his compassion to end. You liked holding him in limbo. If this was his punishment for months of torment, it was -overall- a miniscule price to pay.

Sitting on the edge of his mattress, your feet automatically swing back and forth. You take in the volleyball posters on every wall as he gets dressed, fails to find his fallen glasses, and cleans up most of his roommate's pencils you spilled earlier. You have a quiet sip of cold water and smell a fistful of his blanket. You glance to an empty spot on the wooden bedframe.

"I like your room." You break your silence with a hoarse, tiny declaration.

Tsukishima stills. He has to be very intentional about not sounding like a dick, for once. He slowly drops the last pencil in and adjusts the cup to where he thinks it was, "Yeah?"

From this angle, you notice he's still fully hard and struggle not to look a second time.

"Tsukki?"

That tone you take on beckons him toward you. It's honied, and domestic, and makes his guilt feel a like a ton that he drags behind him. He only has himself to blame for getting so attached.

You reach for him and take his face in your palms. He looks up at you, searching as hard as he can with blurry vision.

"I'm okay. I promise."

Absentminded swinging stills at his touch.

"And...sorry you didn't get yours," You're not really sorry, but you desperately want to address his situation downstairs, and overstay your welcome, if you can.

His head rests heavy on your bare thighs with a pained grin.

"I mean," His grip slides up the outside of your thigh, eyes following, as he fights the desire to be truthful. He grimaces through it for you, "I came in the shower before this, so..."

"At the gym?"

"...Yeah."

The two of your share a chuckle; yours is amused, his is late and stilted. His head gets weightier as he nuzzles his face between your thighs, sucking slow kisses on top of the old bitemarks. You sip on your water, lids low, and part your legs for him.

Seething, his hands make quick work of your modesty cover as he starts to lap, apologetic, at you.

There's a loud ch-thunk of a door lock being opened, followed quick by it sliding open.

It shoots a shared flinch through both of you. He only has time to smooth your blanket back down and wipe his chin before his roommate comes in.

"Yo," He announces himself, then looks up, "Ohh, shit."

He puts your little scene together quick by the amount of skin showing and the position. You stiffen with chills and pull the fuzziness tighter. Your stomach sinks with disbelief that it's already midnight.

In one smooth motion, he covers his eyes, catches the door before it even has a chance to close, and turns back into the hallway.

You can both hear him check his phone with a quiet Fuck just outside the door. Tsukishima's phone buzzes in his pocket with a storm of late texts.

He sighs. His face finds your lap again as he thinks about what he wants to do.

"I can go-"

"What? No," He looks up only to cut you off hard, absent-minded, deep in thought.

He's got the plan mapped out in the next few seconds, but is slow to part from your legs, groaning, "You have to get dressed, though. He's a total virgin." He sucks his teeth and adds, "Obviously."

You shift, giddy with excitement, at the invitation to stay.

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my inbox.

taglist. @thisiswhereishitpostalot @megapteraurelia @polodetti @potatoeswishedit @saori-sins

Ი𐑼 post note. honestly @polodetti major shout out i wouldn't have finished this if you hadn't requested. guys. i didn't know i was capable of doing full fics anymore. also? rarely do i find i have brainrot of one particular character. hope you enjoy the latest tsukki posting!!!

It's an educated guess at its core, but it is true. You cock your head, deep in thought, at how Suna Rintarou wears a permanent pout-- it's not a bedroom thing, his face just looks like that. How Kita Shinsuke takes a lot of the guesswork out of why he texted you like a businessman over Snapchat- the guy practically is one. How Miya Osamu is bulkier than Miya Atsumu, like he stole more nutrients in the womb and it's followed them both till adulthood. How Ojiro Aran looks nowhere near as sugary-sweet as he was over text, with such a strong RBF.

With each one, more adrenaline tingles down your spine, flexes your fingers, makes your mind spin with increasingly bad ideas.

The match was arbitrary against the close-up shots and announcer player-analysis. They win by a hair, but you can't be bothered to care beyond how pretty they all looked. Breathless, braindead, and exhausted.

Flushed, and bent at the hips. Hands on slutty little waists. Hands on the knees really get you, because their shoulders make giant divots that you wanna just bury your face into. Shirts that get sweat-stuck to the skin. Hand towels coming away sopping and soggy.

It's enough to fuel your overactive imagination for weeks. You won't need to get your kicks for a while by texting anybody new, and you're satisfied having gotten to watch from a safe distance while on your way out of the stadium.

"(Your full government name)?" Some maniac calls after you.

Neither name do you go by, so it makes you whip your head all the way around to catch a glimpse of who your potential hitman was. You had a lot of enemies. It's not a baseless fear. Shit, nobody but your mom called you that- and she only did it angry.

"Wow."

The whisper ghosts from Kita's-- or, shinsuke.k's lips. Puppy dog eyes trail your meticulously crafted outfit and, you realize he's just a cutie with zero malicious intent. You decide to not shut him down immediately.

"I don't mean to be forward--," He smiles, hands enunciating his words well, "Ah- but man. You are very pretty in person."

It's, like, the most genuine compliment anybody has ever given you. All you can do is smile under your palm. His good boy persona was a bit boring over text, but it has its appeal as you stand before him and get to hear every thought that crosses his mind. Unlike the players that got you three times as wet, his honesty had some vintage charm to it.

"I'd love to get to know you- I figured you've been busy, and- that's totally valid," He laughs at how you ghosted him a week ago, trying to be disarming, but it only comes across as adorably needy, "But y'know, we're actually gonna be at The Boot tonight. You should join?"

He doesn't let the invite cool off before he softens it, "If you're not a party girl, I get you. It's not my scene."

Oh, you are going. Your teeth sharpen, eyes blacken, at the sheer mention of a night out. It was going to be a total massacre of broken and bloodied hearts. You had a slew of great pickings, too. Tall, tan, handsome volleyball players that couldn't stop sending sound-on videos and ab pictures just nights ago.

"You're sure it's okay?" You turn up the sweetness for a guy like Kita. He tries to be even more gentle with his wide eyes and tiny head shakes at each new word, practically slush in your palms. "I wouldn't want to get in the way of Guys' Night, y'know?"

"Nooo," He drawls. A grin takes over his jaw at the first sight of a smile on your face. He laughs at the soonest opportunity.

"No- They'd love you."

He doesn't know how right he is.

-

Your friend grabs your wrist before you zip out of the passenger seat.

"Call me. I'm not fucking around this time."

"Okayyy!" You whine, buzzed from a shooter you snuck in your purse already, and pawing at the glass as you watch three drop-dead gorgeous guys pass by the car. You're practically shivering in anticipation.

"Got your spray? Your charger? Oh- your little bracelet! Where is it?"

Your 'little bracelet' had a tracker, an alarm, and a direct emergency services line built in to a button. It was poorly designed and you didn't want to wear it because 1) it was an ugly accessory and 2) the button felt click-y and sensitive. The last thing you wanted while grinding up on some guy at the bar was to become a homing beacon for an Earthly invasion.

You flash your bare wrist with a pretty smile, "It's right here!"

"So can you please- let- me- out!"

Her concern is flattering and reassuring, but it dulls your sparkle and makes you very sad inside. You jiggle the car handle with your body weight this time, but the child locks are still on.

"(Y/n)."

You meet her eyes, a little resentful at first, but  it's incredibly shallow, so the negativity falls away almost immediately. She fixes your hair, and reminds you, forgetting to add any sternness:

"Please call me if you get into trouble."

A nod, a slow one, lets her know you understand. She unlocks the car and boom: you are released into the big, bad, wilderness.

Downtown is packed. The streets are filled with bodies on a warm Friday night and nobody bats a judgmental eye at your low-neck top and fashionable pants like they did at the game. You'd love to wear a skimpier dress, but you had no friends to keep your things safe. Your reliable habit of leaving things behind dictated that you needed pockets-- but you give a wistful sigh at a pretty girl passing by, ass on near-full display. You rub your back pockets and try to think of how to remedy this next time.

At least you could wear sneakers and dance longer. But- the desire to do so is fast and fading- because you don't spot Kita or his crew in line outside.

You are forty minutes late to when he said they would be there, but you see nothing wrong with your timing; nobody shows up on time to a college bar. The night is early-ish. You don't usually bother with that boring where-is-everybody-at stuff between 9 and 11. Everyone knows the party starts at a little before midnight.

As you join the thirty-deep line, you hug yourself and glance around wistfully. You want to drink, you want to dance, you want to check out those beautiful men. Standing against a brick wall alone is buns.

You're wondering if they've already moved on to a new bar, if unblocking and asking him would be desperate, or worse, get him too attached-- when you hear your not nickname again.

You force a smile, "Shin'!!"

"Oh my gosh- you're still in line? No wonder!"

"Yeahh," You pout, earning a friendly hug over the line tape. He smells so good that you squeeze him a little.

"Y-ou could've texted me," His voice breaks and he puffs his crisp collar. You give him a guilty smile, pretty enough to be let off the hook right away.

He guides you to the front door with a hand warming the small of your back. You get let in extra quick by a big, heavily tattooed doorman -no ID check and a smile- and can only look at Shinsuke in awe. What kind of connections did this guy have? Had you thoroughly underestimated him?

"What are you?" You giggle, "You a secret gang member or something?"

You have to squeeze by a big crowd of people at the front, and focus on keeping him in grabbing distance. You're brought closer by the loud music inside.

Shinsuke blushes at you, glancing about for his friends. "N-o, that's..." He groans, for a moment, embarrassed, and leans close to you, "That's my uncle!"

"Oh-!" You laugh. His admission makes leagues more sense, but does take away that enticing air of danger you crafted around him.

He still has a hand on your lower back when he shoots his other arm up, a face of recognition beyond the dancefloor crowd.

"'Samu!!"

"My friends are over by the bar," He shares, and dawns all of his attention back onto you, "Would you like to join?"

You love that he asks you one more time, and whatever the fuck that cologne is, because it's working hard for him.

All the excitement that had been bubbling under the surface spills out of you in an ultra-friendly chuckle.

"Is that even a question?"

Shinsuke takes a sharp inhale at the feeling of your hand in his- just to be guided easier between the gaps of the crowd- bites a sappy reply back, and pulls you towards the bar side.

Poor thing. As you find exactly who you're looking for-- one waving you in, one ordering a round of drinks, one with a solid arm around your waist, and two in a heated discussion-- you realize that you won't be calling your friend anytime soon.

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my inbox.

taglist. @thisiswhereishitpostalot @babybird-meena links. part two here.

Ი𐑼 post note. i've gotten a couple suggestions to do a collecting captains series, or like running through the crew type thing before. but i like this spin on it! it keeps me from having to write constant smut when i don't want to

starts off as intimate, but cannot be trusted. ATSUMU, bokuto, kenma, KYOUTANI, tsukki, nishinoya, oikawa, kuroo

"jesus, let's just fuck-- u-ghh-!" how could he possibly think about bathing? why would he? hot, slippery bodies slammed against each other, huffing in steam and licking up salty sweat and calling each others names out into an echoing chamber? how slick and sweet you were for him, how he had to support your weak and malleable body as he rams his insatiable hard-on into you? and when things seem like they've started to become civilized, it takes very little time for him to rinse you off, kiss you your owed affirmations, and warm you nice and slow into another -softer- round.

helpful daddy daydream. DAICHI, ushijima, akaashi, iwa, mattsun, SUNA, KITA, suga, sakusa

"need some help, babygirl?" he adjusts the shower head for you. his hands are sturdy and kneading your plush hips- a wordless request, a saucy gesture that tingles all down the side of your spine. he washes your hair, keeping his firm cock muscled against the small of your back. he knows your knots and your soft spots- the little places to spend extra care washing, that make you gasp and curl your fingers up against the tiled walls. it's only natural, then, that you start to beg for more.

extra -- silly, clumsy, nervous, or just plain rational? LEV, yamaguchi, kageyama, ASAHI, aone, tendou

he's worried about the water pressure and the space. the fact that you love it scalding hot and he doesn't want his skin burnt clean off. the height difference. what if you slip and fall? "how about we take this- a-ah-h," he clings to the glass as you take him in your hand, impatient and needy for all of it, never as worried with the specifics as he is, "to the bedroo-m?" a whine clips his useless suggestion. he knows he's not going anywhere. not until you've milked him dry, or the water gets cold.

taglist. @integers @thisiswhereishitpostalot @megapteraurelia

notes. kuroo once again could've been anywhere. if i missed your fav, lmk! i love replies and conversation! so please feel free to share your opinions!

links. my masterlist. requests open.

He gets around it anyway, "Maybe if (Y/n) knew how to use the zipper on her bag, she'd know what an investment is."

"Tsukki," Is Tadashi's resounding groan.

It's practically his catchphrase. You wish you could focus enough to count how many times he does that throughout the day, because you're sure 'Tsukki' would be his #1 most-spoken word.

Kei wore a grin you could hear better than you could see. And it was always audible when he teased.

Tadashi takes a seat first and you follow soon after. As you get settled, you accidentally place your palm atop his and you both pull away quick, warm, and unsure- until Kei also takes that side. He jams your body tight between the both of them and the adjustment is difficult.

"Ow-!!"

Your arms don't even have enough room; you have to hold them out in front. You put them to good use, slapping the blond's long legs.

"Hello?" You struggle, and grunt, and wiggle, and... he's unbothered. You're dealing less damage than a gnat.

"Whaaa-t?" He groans, "We've got more coming."

"So you can-?," Tadashi takes a breath and has to readjust, smushed against the wall. He tries to settle his nerves. It's unsuccessful as he snaps, "Can't you sit over there until they show up?"

They share a loaded glance over your head.

"Nahh." Kei readjusts and pushes an inconspicuously strong leg against you so he can enjoy more room, "Don't feel like it."

Your knees clack together and you shoulder him in return, digging into his ribs. He plucks his arm up and over your shared booth seat. It successfully babygirl's both you and Tadashi.

It's a tiring endeavor that you soon find isn't worth it, because he will not budge.

There were worse places to be, but Kei's bony elbow and the keys in Tadashi's pocket are something short of comfortable.

You point to a new drink advertisement on a folded, upright menu, "Y'think that's any good? Should I get it?"

"If you get it, I wanna try it," Tadashi comments, flipping through your textbook to find the chapter you stopped on in class today.

"'Scuse meee," You turn to Kei.

He's slouched back, arms half-crossed, scrolling his phone, his headphones already on.

You sigh through your nose.

The feeling on your palms pressing into his sweater, your knee sliding between his parted thighs, your breath breezing past the side of his face, makes him stiffen. He quickly readjusts his headphones. He sits up, eyes rapidly scouring you, pink tinging his pretty, slim features.

"Whaaat?" Your face is about four inches from his, and your other hand flies to his arm for stability as you wobble, "I said excuse me!"

All too quickly, you've stumbled out on the other side of him.

He mutters, "Dumbass..." And earns your cute little tongue stuck out at him, in return.

Amber eyes track your skip down the cafe to the counter-- how your skirt sways and all that peppy, simple energy. You do it again in line when you catch him watching you. Cute.

There's no hiding how long he looks over his shoulder at you, nor his explicit thoughts from Tadashi, who's busy burning holes into the side of his stupid, blond head.

"Tch," He rolls his eyes all the way into his skull when he finally sits forward in his seat again. He could feel the heat. There was hardly even a need to confirm it, anymore.

Everybody on the team. Everyone in their class (who cared enough) knew. You knew. Kei was not alone in peddling around for Tadashi to grow some balls and make a fucking move already. Afternoons of classmates: lingering in the door when, without fail, Tadashi would escort you to practice. Fellow teammates: pausing their conversations to get a glimpse of your hug as you parted ways to change. Kei: at his wit's end with these study sessions that bubbled, teeming, with opportunity, but reliably fizzled out into nothing.

There were many eyes on you, all the time, searching, scanning, for any signs of a confession happening. Selfish with the need to see it themselves but nonetheless supportive.

He spares his freckled friend, at last, a tiny look, "Relax. She's getting you a drink."

Tadashi is extra snappy. He's not just talking about the seasonal advertisement as he goes on to correct him:

"She's getting her own drink. I'll try it. You could also easily try it, Tsukki."

"Don't wanna try it." Kei mutters, arms crossing over his tingly chest again, "I want my own."

Tadashi shifts, exaggerated, and slaps an arm on the back of the booth, his whole body turned totally towards his friend. It's not like he would ever do anything, but intimidation was a rare thing on his usually mild temperament. Kei had been acting a bit like a toddler all day and Tadashi was returning it in his own way, sporting a tired-parent tone.

"Why don't you get up and get- your- own?"

Kei said nothing. But his icy stare said, quite clearly, 'I want yours.'

"'Scuse meee," You sing to Kei again.

He turns, slow, like it pains him, or is perhaps the most inconvenient favor he's ever done, by sticking his legs out in the aisle to let you through. If Tadashi wants to challenge him, Kei had an ego to protect and a point to prove.

There's an large, elaborate drink in your hands. You've got a bit of whipped cream on your chin already, and Kei -broody- misses his chance to bring it up as you feel for it and wipe your face clean.

It's a tight squeeze, still.

The outside of your thigh brushes his shoulder. Your skirt catches and lifts a little on the material.

You pay it no mind, but it's all Kei can do to collect himself before he resets. He lingers, seconds after you're seated, with his legs still in the aisle and his nose filled with the sweetness of your perfume. It's so easy.

He affixes his headphones, first, and turns to once again squish the two of you in. Harder this time. He ignores all ensuing complaints.

If only. Maybe his bouncing leg with speed this hellish torture up. Literally forcing you together.

It does succeed in making you lean into Tadashi. You can tell Kei is in a mood today and his uniform is scratchy on your bare leg.

The new order was better than your usual. You're extra satisfied. Less bummed about the prospect of spending time at the cafe today now that you've been somewhat compensated for the usually dry and fruitless effort of studying.

"Tada-shii-!! Mmm, it's soo good!" You hold the straw near to his lips, so that he has to sip it from your hands, "Here, try it- try!"

You play Keepaway when he reaches to hold it himself twice, flustered. They're both being sensitive and it makes you squint at him, calculating.

"Mm-mm, you'll drink too much of it..." You mumble, and press it closer, "Here."

His eyes bounce from the straw to your expectant face. He's drinking out of your hands with very little convincing; you're into it. It's kind of like feeding a small, timid animal. You bite back the giggly Good job and desire to coo at him like a bunny, or a cat.

Dark, thick, long eyelashes from this angle are so pretty. His complexion that was healthy. Sunkissed, athletic, and coated in an explosion of specks. Killer smile.

"I like your freckles..." Spills out, and makes him choke.

You forgot he doesn't.

"Sorry, sorry!"

You wince and yank out a bunch of napkins from the holder across the table. He has no choice but to accept your help and try to make a graceful recovery, but it's hard to come across as unaffected when now his lap is wet and your flippant comment is bouncing off the walls of his skull.

"Nice," Kei snorts, genuine laughter behind the back of his hand.

It is pretty funny, so you fail to hide your own giggles, and Tadashi gets all shy again.

What is truly funny is the two of you needing to exit the booth in order for him to get out, so he can clean up in the restroom. It's a clamber, a clumsy endeavor, with everyone stumbling out.

"It's okayyy!" You call to Tadashi. It doesn't help.

You don't have high hopes for the café soap, tap water, and electric hand dryer on his pants. He'll probably have to take them somewhere and live with the stain on his crotch for a few hours.

You share a rare look of amusement with Kei, because 1) you're often not left alone and 2) you often don't find the same things funny. This was a particularly odd exception.

You both dip your heads away. Small smiles and quiet giggles make Kei polite enough to clean up the mess you were responsible for.

"I got it."

He leans over you with no more words. He's lacking in his usual shittiness. He smells nice, but you push that all the way to the back of your mind and try to pretend like you never noticed.

The reach from his long limbs makes his position not a huge deal, but you're still warm at how he grips the wood right behind your head. You 'have' to stare at his arm while he carefully sops up the mess of your drink. You're partial to being a bit higher than him. Or, maybe it was the fact that he was doing you a favor. You don't care. You aren't in a rush to find out.

He acts like he doesn't feel your uneven breath flutter across his skin.

When you turn, because you can see him twitching, your eyes stop on his cleaning hand. He makes the napkins look very tiny.

"So big..." Falls from your lips.

He bites his cheek and looks away to hide how much he likes that. You're staring at his fingers, so his choice to take a second is nonconsequential.

Soon he's done and places all the napkins he used wadded up, back on the table to throw away later. He sits up, but doesn't turn away.

It's so easy. You are so. Easy.

Kei keeps his smile under his palm as he rests his elbow on the table, and flips his free hand palm-up, pressing the back of it into your lap as an offering.

"You've got a crush on him, don't you?"

You squirm, hesitant to take his touch and to answer his uncalled for, yet informed question. He can't help himself. You're too fun to tease.

"Do'y'want me to leave?"

"N-o..."

"Do'y'want me to tell him?"

"No," You're fidgeting just the right amount, toying with the tips of his fingers. He's got you where he wants you and he's where he wants to be.

You send a chill up through his arm as your touch skips across the lines in his palm. He shifts, nostrils flared.

It's not shy, he's not avoidant; it's just as conversational as everything else he's said today:

"Y'know I like you?"

See, Tadashi? It's so easy that even he can do it.

You pause. You're unsure what to do with that, and assume he's joking, until you feel his hand slide up into your hairline while you're busy searching his sincere expression. The 'Are you serious?' dies before it gets past your teeth.

His thumb is caressing the side of your face. It's a sensation that simplifies, dulls, everything else. With it, he gets you laser-focused on him.

Just the two of you. It rarely is this way, isn't it? Your heart is quickening and you truly look at him for the first time. He's got blond eyelashes. His glass are a bit crooked, when he presses his jaw into his hand like that. He's beautiful. He's not lying.

"Stop playing," You go to pull away, but he's rough with the angle to grip your roots and desire to keep you still. Just for a moment. He wouldn't hurt you, but he is selfish.

There's tension in the side of his face that you can see.

You like Kei. You want him around. You like the way he feels, right now.

But what you Really like is the fact that he's so direct.

"M'not joking. I do."

He knows he'll lose you eventually to his best friend.

You don't care much for quick-wittedness and sarcasm, or sick blocks, or the extra height he boasts about. You want- and deserve- somebody just as sweet as you.

Yet, for some reason, he can't roll over and let the Nice Guy win. On some level, he's certain that he's doing your future relationship a favor by making things rocky and interesting now.

Tadashi was fighting so much harder than he would've ever had to in order to win your affections.

"Tired of not saying it," He sighs.

His grip is soft, but your body feels drawn in, as if he's capable of generating a gravitational force. You don't realize that it's because you areleaning.

His eyes sink lower to your lips.

You want somebody to take your weight. Your heavy, beating heart. You had been stuck waiting around for a confession. Now you got one.

"You..." You run out of breath after just one word and your face flashes hot.

He's close.

You still don't wiggle away. You even hold your breath, and your lips are just barely sticking to one another before a heavy textbook slams onto the cafe table.

The awful shared flinch means his fingers get stuck and you're both left looking flushed, horribly guilty, and attempting to fish one of his adjustable rings from one messy lock of hair.

Kageyama's low, disgusted mutter: "Ugh... I didn't peg you for a pervert..."

The late company would've been a welcome sight three minutes ago, but all it does is throw a wrench into a track you didn't realize you were speeding down.

"Take that back, dumbass."

"Huh?? Like Hell I will! What were you doing?"

"None of your damn business, Tobio."

"Don't say my name like that!"

As those two get into it, you spiral in what was Tadashi's seat, fingertips pressing against your bottom lip. You're zoning out hard.

"Mm!" Hinata is helping himself to your drink across the table, "This is so good! Is this new?"

"Mhm..." You nod, dazed.

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my inbox.

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Ი𐑼 post note. had fun writing this one. these two are fun.