pipopipo

"so... the party last night..."

"the party, indeed," atsumu smirks, "is this about a certain someone i saw you leave with last night?"

"yes, we slept together." kiyoomi says as calmly as possible, hoping to manage his friend's reaction (even though kiyoomi himself is freaking out internally).

"let's go!" atsumu fist pumps, "hell yeah, man, congratulations! it's about time! you've been crushing on her for forever; i was so close to just locking you two in a room myself—"

"that's not the point," kiyoomi groans.

don't get him wrong, it was definitely the best night of his life, but how does he explain to atsumu that he didn't want things to go like this? he had a whole timeline in his head—take you out on a few dates, kiss you in front of your apartment door, get you flowers and treats from your favorite bakery, go on a couple more dates, and then get into bed together (maybe on the same day that he properly asks you to be his girlfriend). he didn't want things to start with a drunken hookup.

"kiyoomi, hey, you still there?" atsumu says a lot gentler this time, seeing the worry on his friend's usually stoic face.

"i don't want a one-night stand, but i have no idea what she wants. and i'm... scared that that's what she wants."

atsumu has never heard kiyoomi admit his worries like this, not even when they were first recruited for the olympics and the excitement started transforming into nervousness. he knew that you mattered a lot to kiyoomi, and this just solidifies that.

"i mean, it doesn't have to be a one-night stand. you can just talk when she wakes up."

"that's true, but i—" kiyoomi hesitates. going to atsumu for advice was embarrassing enough, but admitting this next part is even worse. he's finally got the blonde to a more serious spot, and he knows his next admission will just bring back the teasing.

"hey, you're kind of starting to scare me," atsumu sighs, "please just spit it out."

kiyoomi says nothing. instead, he braces himself for what's to come.

kiyoomi turns the phone camera and atsumu sees to the hotel's dining room table overflowing with every single breakfast item on the room service menu. in addition to all that, there are even desserts and several cups of juice and coffee.

there's a beat of silence.

and then suddenly, atsumu is practically dying of laughter, "what the fuck, omiomi? what did you do?"

kiyoomi faces the phone back to him, his face a lot redder than a few minutes ago, "i panicked, okay? i figured—you don't have breakfast with your hookups, right?"

"this is breakfast for at least 10 people!"

"i wanted to make sure i got something she liked!"

"don't you already know what she likes?"

"well, i was worried she might be in the mood for something else!" he groans, rubbing his hand across his face. he moves the phone a bit so atsumu can't see how much he's stressing about this.

"she's going to think it's stupid. i just like her so much and i panicked and i just hope she had a good time last night and i feel like she won't take me seriously with this fucking spread but it's not like i can get rid of it and i have no idea if she'll even want to go out with me now and i—"

"just ask her," atsumu says.

"miya, she's asleep and—"

"did you have a good time last night?" atsumu practically shouts, somehow looking past kiyoomi through the phone screen.

"what—"

"a great time, actually," you say.

kiyoomi turns, seeing you leaning against the bedroom door behind him.

"but, i don't kiss and tell, so you should go back to bed," you make your way to kiyoomi, gently placing a hand on his arm, "'cause it looks like this guy and i have a lot to talk about."

atsumu gives a quick goodbye, winking at kiyoomi before hanging up. kiyoomi sets his phone down and turns to completely face you. your hair's still a little messy, you're wearing his shirt—oh wow, you look good in his shirt—and kiyoomi nearly forgets the situation he's in. before he can begin explaining himself, you speak up.

"yes, i've been up for a while. yes, i heard most of that conversation—i think atsumu forgets how loud he is—and," you move closer, wrapping your arms around his neck while his hands find your waist, "yes, i would love to go out with you."

when your words finally register, he feels a stupid grin spread across his face.

"yeah?"

"yeah," you smile up at him, "it's not every day that i get to wake up to a breakfast buffet."

you laugh at the way his cheeks turn pink before he buries his face in the crook of your neck, "did i at least get something you like?"

"well, i like you."

"not what i meant... but i like you, too." he says softly.

"so i've heard," you gently nudge him back so you can look at his face properly, "i believe you like me so much?" you grin.

come over

two words. always the same two words. no please, no apology, no acknowledgment that it was three in the morning and he had practice at six. no acknowledgment that he was supposed to be your boyfriend's best friend, his rock, the one person oikawa trusted implicitly when he was off in argentina chasing his stupid, beautiful dreams.

iwaizumi always came. he hated himself for it, you could see it in the set of his jaw when he climbed through your window because using the door felt too brazen, too real. he hated you for it too, sometimes, and that was part of why you did it.

"you look like shit," he said the first time, three months ago, when you'd shown up at his apartment with shaking hands and a request you couldn't quite voice. you'd just broken up with oikawa for the fourth time that month, some stupid fight about time zones and missed calls, and you'd gone to iwaizumi because you knew he'd be cruel about it. you knew he wouldn't coddle you. you knew he'd give you what you actually deserved.

"feel worse," you'd replied.

he'd stared at you for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable, his big arms crossed over his chest. iwaizumi had always scared you a little—he was rough edges and blunt force, honesty that cut like a blade, the opposite of oikawa's glittering charm. when you were with oikawa, you felt like a doll on a shelf, pretty and admired and utterly empty. when iwaizumi looked at you, you felt like meat. like something to be used up and thrown away.

"you're gonna regret this."

"i already do."

that had been enough. he'd grabbed you by the hair - not gently, not like oikawa's careful, worshipful touches and dragged you to his bedroom. he didn't kiss you. kissing was intimate, kissing was for people who loved each other, and you didn't want love. you wanted punishment. you wanted someone to hurt you in ways you couldn't hurt yourself, to fuck you until the guilt in your chest was drowned out by the pain between your legs, to make you bleed so you could stop feeling like you were already rotting from the inside.

iwaizumi delivered. he was rough. he took you apart with his hands and his teeth and his cock, and he never once told you you were pretty. he called you a slut, a whore, a fucking mess, and you came harder than you ever had with oikawa because it was true, it was all so true, and finally someone was treating you like the garbage you knew you were.

afterward, he wouldn't let you stay. "go home," he'd said, tossing your clothes at you while you trembled on his bed, your body a map of new hurts. "go home. cry in the shower. don't come back."

but you did. you always did.

---

the pattern became your religion.

oikawa would call, his voice bright and loving across thousands of miles, telling you about his new team, his new life, how much he missed you, how he couldn't wait to see you, how you were his perfect girl, his good girl, his everything. he'd send flowers and gifts and long, rambling texts about his day, and you'd smile and send heart emojis back while your stomach twisted with self-loathing because you knew.

you knew that in twelve hours, when the guilt got too heavy, you'd be texting iwaizumi again.

i need you.

i'm at the door.

answer.

he always answered. he hated you more every time, you could feel it in the way his grip tightened, the way he left marks that lasted longer, the way he stopped looking at your face and just used your body like a thing, an object, a hole to fuck his own anger into. he was rougher now, crueler, and you deserved it. you deserved every bruise, every tear, every time he pinned you down and made you say you were nothing, that you were worthless, that you didn't deserve oikawa's love.

"you're gonna ruin him," iwaizumi panted against your ear one night, his hand around your throat, his cock buried deep enough to hurt. "you're gonna break his fucking heart, and i'm gonna have to pick up the pieces."

"good," you gasped, tears streaming down your face, your nails digging crescents into his back. "let him see what i really am. let him—let him hate me. i want him to hate me."

"you want him to save you," iwaizumi snarled, thrusting harder, making you scream. "you want him to come home and forgive you, tell you it's okay, that you're still his perfect princess even though you're nothing but a bad person and that's not gonna happen. when he finds out and he will find out - he's gonna look at you like you're dead to him. is that what you want?"

"yes," you lied, coming apart around him, sobbing with the pleasure-pain of it. "yes, yes, fuck, yes-"

"liar," he spat, pulling out and flipping you over, forcing your face into the mattress. "you're such a fucking liar. you're gonna destroy everything because you can't stand being happy. because being loved by someone good makes you feel like shit, so you have to go find someone rotten to balance it out."

"shut up," you whimpered, your voice muffled.

"make me," he challenged, and then he was inside you again, relentless, punishing, and you couldn't speak anymore, couldn't think, could only take what he was giving you and pray that this time, this time, it would be enough to kill the part of you that kept wanting to live.

---

you started hurting yourself in other ways, too. little things. skipping meals. drinking too much. picking fights with oikawa over the phone, making him cry, making him doubt himself, making him wonder what he'd done wrong when the answer was nothing, he'd done nothing wrong, he was perfect and that was the problem.

"you seem different lately," oikawa said one night, his voice small and worried across the line. "are you... are you seeing someone else?"

your heart stopped. "what? no. no, tooru, i love you. i only love you."

"iwaizumi says you've been distant," he continued, and you felt ice in your veins. "he says you seem stressed. he says... he says i should come home. that you're not doing well alone."

"iwaizumi doesn't know anything about me," you said, your voice too sharp, too fast.

there was a pause. "since when?"

"since when what?"

"since when does my best friend not know anything about my girlfriend? he used to text me about you all the time, you know. 'check on her,' 'she's sad.' 'she's lonely.' he cared about you." oikawa's voice cracked. "what happened? did you two fight?"

you closed your eyes, remembering iwaizumi's mouth on your neck, his hands pinning your wrists, the way he whispered "i hate you" while he fucked you like he wanted to destroy you. "something like that," you whispered.

"i'm coming home," oikawa decided. "this week. i'm booking a flight. whatever's going on, we'll fix it. okay, baby? we'll fix it together."

"okay," you said, because what else could you say?

you called iwaizumi the minute you hung up. "he's coming back. this week."

"then this ends," iwaizumi said immediately, his voice flat. "we're done. i'm not- i won't keep doing this when he's here. i can't look him in the face and lie anymore."

"one more time," you begged, hating yourself, hating the desperation in your voice. "please, hajime. one more time. make it count. make it- make it so i can't walk. make it so i have to remember, even when he's touching me. please."

"you're sick," he said, but you could hear the way his breath hitched, the way he was already giving in. "you're fucking sick, and i'm sick for letting you- "

"please."

he was at your door in twenty minutes.

you didn't bother with pretense. you opened it wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt, your nipples hard against the thin fabric, your thighs already slick with anticipation and self loathing. he took one look at you and shoved you backward, kicking the door shut behind him, his mouth crashing down on yours with a violence that made your teeth ache.

"you're a fucking mess," he growled against your lips, his hands rough as they pushed up your shirt, pinching your nipples hard enough to make you cry out. "look at you. already desperate to be ruined."

"please," you whimpered, arching into his touch.

"shut up." he spun you around and bent you over the couch, shoving your face into the cushions. "don't fucking speak unless i tell you to."

his fingers were brutal, shoving into you without preamble, two then three, stretching you with a burn that made you sob. he finger fucked you like he hated you, his knuckles slamming against your cervix, his other hand gripping your hip so hard you knew you'd have bruises shaped like his fingers by morning.

"so fucking tight," he snarled, twisting his wrist, making you squirm. "you're gonna rip when i fuck you. good. i want you to hurt. i want you to remember who owns this cunt while you're kissing your perfect boyfriend."

"you don't own me!" you gasped out, the words barely audible.

he laughed, a cruel, broken sound, and slammed his fingers deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision white out. "don't i? whose cum is gonna be dripping out of you when you go to that airport, huh? whose marks are you gonna hide under your pretty dress?"

he pulled his fingers out and you felt empty, aching, your cunt clenching around nothing. he flipped you over, hauling you up like you weighed nothing, throwing you onto the coffee table. glass rattled. he grabbed your ankle and threw your leg over his shoulder, the stretch burning in your hamstring, your pussy exposed and vulnerable to him.

"look at me," he commanded, lining himself up.

you looked. his face was flushed, furious, beautiful in its rage. he was hard, thick, and he didn't ease in - he slammed into you in one brutal thrust that made you scream, your back arching off the table, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface.

"you're killing him," he panted, pulling out and thrusting back in harder, setting a punishing rhythm that made the table legs scrape against the floor. "you're killing me. you know that? you fucking know that?"

"shut up," you sobbed, tears streaming down your face, your leg trembling where it rested against his shoulder. "just - just fuck me. don't talk."

"no," he snarled, gripping your throat with one hand, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. "you don't get to silence me. not this time. you want to use me? fine. but you're gonna hear exactly what you are while i do it."

he fucked you harder, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, wet and obscene. you were so full it hurt, the angle making him hit your cervix with every thrust, a deep, aching pain that made you see stars.

"you're a whore," he spat, his hips snapping forward, his free hand digging into your thigh hard enough to bruise. "my whore. oikawa's whore. anyone's whore who makes you feel like shit. that's what gets you off, isn't it? being treated like garbage."

"then hurt me," you begged, your voice breaking. "hurt me more. please, hajime, hurt me—"

something in him snapped. he pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and whimpering, then flipped you over again, shoving you face down onto the table. he entered you from behind in one brutal thrust that made you scream into the wood, his hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back at a painful angle.

"you want pain?" he snarled, his voice barely human. "i'll give you pain. i'll give you so much fucking pain you'll never forget it."

he reached into his pocket with his free hand, and you heard the flick of a lighter, smelled the acrid scent of tobacco. he was smoking. he was fucking you raw and smoking a cigarette while he did it, and the image of it the casual cruelty, the way he looked like some kind of demon, sweat slicked and furious and perfect made your stomach clench with something dangerous.

he was so perfect for you. so perfectly wrong. oikawa was sunlight and iwaizumi was the burn, the scar, the permanent damage, and looking at him over your shoulder, his eyes dark and his jaw tight, smoke curling from his lips, you felt that sickening twist of love and hate and need that always brought you back to him.

"you look at me like that," he said quietly, his thrusts slowing, becoming deliberate, torturous, "and i almost believe you could love me. but you don't love anything. you just want to be destroyed."

he took a drag from the cigarette, the ember glowing red, and then he pressed it against your hip, right where oikawa would never see but you'd feel it every time you moved, every time you sat, every time you tried to pretend you were clean.

you screamed, your body bucking against his, your cunt clamping down on him so hard he groaned, his head falling back, his grip on your hair tightening.

"that's it," he panted, resuming his brutal pace, fucking you through the pain, the burn on your skin a brand, a reminder. "take it. take everything. i'm gonna fill you up, gonna make you drip with me for days. you're gonna go to that airport and you're gonna smile at him and you're gonna feel me running down your thighs and you're gonna know you're gonna fucking know that you're mine. that you were always mine. that you chose this."

"yes," you sobbed, the pain and pleasure blurring, your body trembling on the edge. "yes, i'm yours, i'm yours, please-"

"don't say that," he snarled, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing rhythm, his cock swelling inside you. "don't fucking say that to me. not when you're gonna leave. not when you're gonna go back to him."

"i'm sorry," you cried, your orgasm building, sharp and terrible, drawn from the pain and the degradation and the horrible, twisted intimacy of the moment. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry, I'm-"

"shut up," he groaned, burying himself deep, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing as he came, hot and thick, filling you until you felt overflow, until you were dripping around him, marked inside and out. "just - fuck - take it. take it all."

he stayed there for a moment, his forehead pressed to your back, his breathing ragged, the cigarette burned down to the filter where he'd dropped it on the floor. you could feel him softening inside you, feel the wetness spreading between your legs, feel the throb of the burn on your hip and the ache deep in your cunt where he'd been so brutal.

when he pulled out, it was messy, obscene, his cum dripping out of you immediately, running down your thighs, soaking into the fabric of the couch where you collapsed.

he didn't look at you as he dressed. he couldn't. you lay there, spread open, dripping with him, your body a canvas of his rage and your own destruction, and you knew, you knew with a certainty that made you want to die - that you would still be dripping with him in three days. that when you stood at that airport gate, smiling your perfect smile, hugging your perfect boyfriend, you would feel iwaizumi hajime leaking out of you, a secret sin, a permanent stain.

---

oikawa came home three days later. you met him at the airport with shaking hands and a smile that felt like glass. he looked beautiful, tired, his eyes lighting up when he saw you in that way that used to make you feel like the luckiest person alive.

you'd showered three times. four. you'd scrubbed until your skin was raw, but you could still feel it- the ache deep in your muscles, the tenderness between your legs, the phantom weight of iwaizumi's hands on your hips. you'd put on your prettiest dress, the white one oikawa loved, the one that made you look innocent and pure, and you'd stood in front of the mirror practicing your smile until your face hurt.

at the airport, you stood with your hands clasped in front of you, your thighs pressed together, feeling the slick reminder of your sin with every shift of your weight. you were sore. god, you were sore. sitting in the car had been torture, every bump in the road a reminder of how brutal he'd been, how thoroughly he'd marked you. you felt swollen, used, dirty.

oikawa came through the gates like a ray of sunlight, all golden hair and bright eyes and that smile that could stop your heart. he was beautiful. he was perfect. he was everything you didn't deserve.

"baby!" he called, dropping his bag, not caring who saw, not caring about anything but you.

you ran to him. your body screamed in protest - your hips, your thighs, that burn on your hip hidden under the fabric - but you ran anyway, throwing yourself into his arms. he caught you, spinning you around, his laugh bright and delighted and so fucking pure it made you want to vomit.

"i missed you," he breathed into your neck, his arms tight around you, his nose nuzzling against your pulse. "god, i missed you so much. you smell good. you smell like home."

"welcome back," you whispered, your voice barely steady.

he pulled back, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks with such gentleness it physically hurt. "have you been eating? you look tired. have you been taking care of yourself?"

"of course," you lied, smiling your practiced smile.

in the car, he held your hand, chattering about the flight, about argentina, about how he was never leaving you again, never, not for anything. you nodded and laughed at the right moments, but every time you shifted in your seat, you felt it- the ache, the wetness, the ghost of iwaizumi's cum still leaking out of you, soaking into your panties, a secret stain against your skin.

you clenched your thighs together and smiled wider.

at your apartment - the apartment he'd never seen, the one you'd moved into after he left, the one where you'd betrayed him in every room -he picked you up again the moment the door closed, carrying you bridal style to the bedroom like he couldn't wait another second to have you near him.

"tooru- " you started, panicked, your body too sore, too marked, too wrong for this.

"shh," he soothed, laying you down on the bed with such care, such reverence, that your eyes stung with tears. "let me love you. i've been waiting months to just - just touch you."

he climbed over you, but there was nothing rough about it. he was soft, gentle, his hands roaming your body with adoration rather than possession. he buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply, making a contented sound like a puppy, nuzzling against your skin with his nose, his lips pressing feather light kisses everywhere he could reach.

"you're so pretty," he mumbled, his voice muffled against your collarbone. "so soft. my pretty girl. my good girl."

you squeezed your eyes shut, your hands fisting in the sheets. good girl. you weren't a good girl. you were filth. you were trash. you were three days removed from being fucked raw by his best friend and you could still feel it, still feel the burn and the stretch and the wrongness inside you.

"ticklish?" he teased, his fingers dancing over your ribs, making you squirm despite yourself, despite the pain.

"stop-" you gasped, a laugh escaping you, tears streaming down your face that he mistook for joy.

"never," he grinned, that perfect, blinding grin, settling his weight over you carefully, carefully, always so careful not to hurt you. "i'm gonna tickle you every day. i'm gonna kiss you every hour. i'm gonna love you so much you'll get sick of me."

"never," you whispered, and it was the first true thing you'd said to him in months.

he propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes searching yours, so full of love it was blinding. "i love you," he said, simple and earnest and devastating. "i love you so much. i'm gonna marry you someday. i'm gonna give you everything. you know that, right?"

you nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with the weight of your deception.

he kissed you then, soft and sweet and unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours with a tenderness that made you want to scream. his hand slid down your side, your hip, and you flinched involuntarily, just a tiny movement when his fingers brushed over the cigarette burn hidden under your dress.

he didn't notice. or if he did, he thought it was just ticklishness, just playfulness. he smiled against your lips and moved his hand lower, cupping your thigh, squeezing gently.

"you feel warm," he murmured, kissing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. "are you okay? do you want to rest? we don't have to we can just cuddle. i just want to hold you."

"i'm okay," you lied, your voice trembling. "i just missed you. i just... i don't deserve you."

he pulled back, his brow furrowing, his expression so genuinely confused it broke something inside you. "what? of course you do. you deserve everything good in the world. you're my perfect girl. my everything."

he kissed your tears away, not knowing they were tears of guilt, of self-loathing, of the crushing weight of knowing that while he was holding you like you were precious, you were still dripping with his best friend's cum, still sore from another man's cock, still ruined in ways he couldn't see.

"let's just lay here," he whispered, rolling onto his side and pulling you against him, your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you like a shield. "let's just be together. i've got you now. i'm never letting go."

but for now, you let him hold you. you let him love you. you let him believe you were his perfect, innocent girl, and you cried silently into the pillow while he drifted off to sleep, his arms still tight around you, his trust complete, his heart in your hands, which were already stained with his best friend's cum and your own filth.

you probably didn't deserve him.

you definitely didn't.

but you were too selfish to let him go.

part two?

“how are you supposed to know it’s the right amount without a–”

he doesn’t interrupt you with words, just flicks his eyes up from his lap to look at you. he slides open the top drawer built into the desk, pulls out a little scale and places it on the ground where you have clear view of it.

you watch over the edge of the bed. he clicks at some buttons, makes sure it’s balanced, and then he sets the eighth bag down and the numbers flicker on the screen. five grams.

“he asked me for five, right?” megumi grins, picks the scale back up to put it away.

you make a face at him, though it was impressive.

“you should be a chemist, or something. or a mathematician.”

“i kinda want to be a vet. hang out with animals and shit."

“do you think you could eyeball the weight of, like, a dog?”

his chuckle of a response, no, i could definitely do a cat though, is interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

he likes to act as if he loathes inumaki, but you know he actually really likes him. his personality reminds you of yuji sometimes, always joking and trying to get under megumi’s skin. succeeding most times. there’s a special relationship between the ragebaiter and someone who is easily irritated by people.

megumi puts the phone on speaker, so mildly uncomfortable thanks to the heat in the room that he can’t even bear having it against his ear. something stirs in your belly at the way he says yo, the sight of his fingers snapping the bag closed.

“yoooooooooooo,” is inumaki’s response, and it really is that long and drawn out. you can see the exasperation making its way across megumi’s features already. your lips curl up in a smile at him.

megumi sighs, asks him, “are you outside?”

“not yet, i’m three away.” inumaki says, and then pauses. you can hear how he tries to hold back his laugh when he says “i just wanted to hear your voice”.

megumi squints at his phone. “you what?”

“can we just talk about the weather for a second? it’s hot as fuck today, no?”

megumi gives you a blank look, like he’s staring into a camera. you’re muffling your own laugh behind the palm of your hand.

“by the way,” inumaki continues, “can you turn that five into ten? i have your money, i bet on the knicks last night.”

“you need to get a job.” megumi deadpans. “text me when you’re outside.”

“i keep telling you to front me some weed, mimi, i’ll sell out in a day.”

“stop calling me mimi.” megumi clips, but there’s no real malice behind it. “you’re an idiot. i don’t even sell out in a day.”

inumaki’s laughing before the joke now, like he has something really funny lined up. “that’s because–”

but megumi’s tapping the red button to end the call, shaking his head. “he plays on my phone all day.”

you’re still giggling, laying back on the bed and trying to become one with the box fan.

“you guys have a really cute friendship.”

megumi is bagging up more weed, puts an extra gram in there for the knicks. the phone dings with a text not long after he’s done, so he stands up and shoves the bags in his pocket, crawls up onto the bed to hover over you.

he gives you a kiss, sticky and slow. tastes a little like orange soda and the blunt he shared with you earlier. one of your hands comes up to hold his face, all of your restraint going into lazily kissing him back so that you don’t try to relieve the tension between your legs against his knee.

it makes you forget for just a second that he even has to go downstairs. lost in the sound of your lips joining and coming apart, and then– ding again.

“i’ll be back.” he mutters, squeezes your thigh, and then his presence is totally lost when he stands back up and starts for the door. you’re one with the box fan again, laying completely still and trying to quell yourself with fresh air.

-

the door to his bedroom is opening and closing again before you know it, and you don’t look over immediately. you can hear him kicking his slides back off, feet padding to join you on the bed.

“you look like a starfish, all spread out like that.” he says, picks his phone up from the desk and silences it before anybody else decides to reach out to him.

“it’s hot.” you whine. “can you believe there are global warming deniers walking among us?”

“it is hot.” he agrees, but it doesn’t stop him from moving to be on you again, resting himself in between your legs so close that you can feel him weighing on your chest. your legs lock behind him instinctively even as you’re saying–

“gumi, get off, m’gonna suffocate,”

half of the heat in the room is probably just coming from your core where it’s flush against the front of his shorts. you can feel him in there, too, half hard and starting to twitch awake.

he wears a smile now, dips his head to kiss at the damp skin of your neck. you try to move your head to one side, embarrassed.

“i’m sweating so bad right now. it’s gross.”

megumi doesn’t seem phased, even darts his tongue out to take some more in. ignores your whine of protest.

“m’cleaning you up,” he says lowly, and it sounds like he’s only half joking.

you tilt your head so he can kiss along the base of your throat. “y-you’re disgusting..”

“i think you like it.”

he lets himself be the first one to move his hips, dick fully hard now and pulsing up against your covered clit. your insides feel like water bubbling over, a whole pot of it way past its rolling boil.

megumi keeps it consistent, paced drags of his hips up against your cunt. the press of your panties into the mound just gets deeper everytime, fabric stuck to your skin from the stickiness that’s building up.

his lips find a worthy spot on your neck for a hickey. he’s slurring into your skin, you smell really good.

“n-no i don’t..” you hitch, roll your hips once to try and meet him but it’s already too much somehow. “you’re just horny.”

“i’m horny ‘cuz you smell so good.”

you have to stop him before he gets too feral like this, gasping around the hand that comes to cradle your throat while he keeps pushing against you.

“w-we’re not dry humping, stupid, s’too hot for that. shorts off.”

he laughs, yes ma’am, and puts some space between you so he can do just that. you use the opportunity to get your own panties off. it’s only when his length springs out and commands your attention that you realize he was freeballing this whole time.

you don’t get the chance to mention it before he stands up at the edge of the bed. says come here, but then he’s pulling you down the mattress by your hips to meet him anyway. he pushes one of your knees up to your chest and you get the point, pulling the other one up yourself.

you take in a quick puff of air when you feel it, the soft drip of him letting some spit fall from his mouth and onto your clit. he uses a thumb to distribute it evenly, down over your entrance where the head of his dick waits patiently to breach.

you close your eyes with a soft moan. always feels so lewd when he does shit like that.

your hands slide up your thighs and under the cuff of your bent knees so you can keep your legs steady, pussy clenching around the air while he slides his dick between your folds a few times. more than a few times. he’s irritating you.

your empty threat, s-stop teasing– seriously- is met with you look so good like this. he’s not afraid of your wrath at all, pulls the hem of his tee up your body and tucks it under ur chin so he can palm at one of your boobs while he continues to irritate you.

you blink your eyes open to look at up at him, met with the furrow of his brows and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. he rubs over your nipple with his thumb, keeps up the slide of his length against you.. and then it catches on your entrance, makes you both hiss a little.

“megumi,” you whine, but it’s not necessary. he’s ready to stop being withholding.

his dick is stiff enough that he doesn’t even have to do much maneuvering, just has to push his hips forward some more and he’s making his way in. it’s unhurried at first, a subtle stretch inch-by-inch until there’s no more distance between your bodies. your nails are digging into your own skin, holding your thighs back faithfully.

your mouth opens in protest again, ready to tell him to just move already, and it stays open in heavy breaths as he starts to snap his hips forward. returns the fingers of his right hand to their rightful place, gently grabbing at your throat for leverage while he fills you out.

yes. he can go harder when he’s standing up straight like this, can use some of his weight more. the bedframe creaks lightly under you, headboard tapping the wall even though only one of you is actually on the bed.

megumi has his eyes set on where his dick splits you down the middle, watches how you squeeze around him, the white ring of slick that’s slowly starting to coat his shaft. it’s a sensory experience taking over the both of you, the slap of skin colliding every time he buries himself deep, pulls back a little, does it again.

“creaming all over me already,” he breathes, deep like he’s trying to keep his voice steady. “hm? what’s got you like this?”

your cheeks are heating up, if it’s even possible, your internal temperature running hotter with arousal. “that f-feels–aah– s’so good–”

your hands start to slide down from their original spot, hips bucking up to take more of him, and he lands a slap down on the underside of your thigh.

“shit— you know what i’m about to say.”

“gumi–”

hold them open.

so you do, of course you do, eyes rolling back closed. it’s more intense when you can’t see, when all you can do is feel how he’s stretching you, the press of his dick against every nerve of your walls. it’s too much. you have to open your eyes again, join him where he’s already staring down at you.

he has a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, holding you in his gaze. and maybe it’s just too much in general, because no relief is to be gained from how good he looks right now, how much you can see– the stretch of his arm from having his hand around your neck, the way his skin is glistening from the heat, his hair starting to hang over his eyes.

right, maybe it’s just too much in general.

“g-gumi– i– can’t–”

“yea you can. you’re about to cum, i feel it.” he dismisses, angles his hips a little to prove it. your moan echoes off the walls, shock spreading up to your head when he hits that spot inside you dead on.

it only takes a few more of those. long strokes into your cunt right against where you’re most sensitive. he takes your role from you, presses your legs back himself and hits it again, again until you’re seizing up around him.

it’s been heat from the start of the build-up, but then you feel this rush of cool, a total release. the air leaves your lungs in a long exhale, moan coming out broken and spent while he fucks you through it.

he lets his upper half come down to press you into the bed, panting into your ear. your legs can finally rest.. sort of. it’s easier to keep them up when they hang above his shoulders instead, and he’s caging them back with his chest.

“yeah, tighten up for me just like that. m’about to cum all in this pussy,” he promises, rests his open mouth against yours and licks his way around your tongue. if you weren’t still recovering from the one he just gave you, then you could’ve came again from the way he said it.

.

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