#tsukki

the two of you hadn't seen each other in weeks, his game schedule keeping the two of you apart practically all of august. so when his birthday rolled around, it'd been the first time seeing your boyfriend in a month.

you missed him, to say the least. his teammates had planned this huge thing for kei's 21st, renting out a museum for the night, and inviting all of their friends.

however, after five shots, several glances across the room, and almost everyone attempting to steal the birthday boy for a chat, it took you less than ten minutes to end up fully naked, in a headlock.

your teeth sunk onto his bicep while his hips snapped again, hitting that sensitive spot your fingers could only venture to out of desperation. your mascara had stained his shirt, splotches of black ink terrorizing his deftones t-shirt.

"please! kei!" you cried.

"hmph," he whimpered, lip caught between his teeth. "need you full of me."

"p-please ngh- h-happy birthday kei!" you moaned shamelessly.

"nghh–pathetic. you thought i would pull out when you sound like this?" he grunts out.

his hand fumbled grabbing at the coat rack as he rocked into you. it's a miracle no one's heard you yet. the two of you had royally fucked up whatever this room was. papers, cups, and whatever else was on the table fell victim to tsuki's hands as he swiped everything off.

and then there was the coat rack and lamp. trying to compose himself with you under him while balancing only seemed to make the destruction worse.

"look at me." he groaned, using his other hand to tilt your head towards him.

and yet, you still couldn't focus. your eyes stayed glued to the one-sided window you stayed pressed against. his laugh was low and breathless.

"stay there then," he scoffed. "i want you to see who you belong to."

you cried out, a strangled moan that you couldn't bite down for anymore slipped out. "aah, kei – please, no–no don't pull out!"

"you said happy birthday didn't you? then you better take it."

"every,"

plap

"fucking"

plap

"drop."

he spilled inside with a final, ragged thrust. you screamed, biting down onto his hand as you clenched your thighs together, trying to keep him as deep as possible.

his lips met the side of your head, pressing a kiss to your hair.

"shit–look at this mess you made. can't even let me have a clean birthday, huh?" he chuckled, cum dripped down your thigh.

when the two of you stilled, your face was buried in his shoulder. black streaks staining his skin, his shirt, his neck – everything.

ruined.

just the way he wanted you.

happy fucking birthday.

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!!!