haikyuu +

“A-haha.. O-of course!” the former stammers, “Don’t make it sound so easy though.. It’s cool you think I deserve this sponsorship, plus the fact that I finally have something to rub in that king’s face, heh! But…”

You shift on the futon and curl to your side, eyes crinkling fondly in recognition of the voice - the perkier half of Karasuno’s duo. He’ll be going overseas soon, last you’d heard, and briefly, you consider pulling on some clothes and coming out to greet him.

But they seem barely within earshot now, voices shrunken further away (somewhere near the foyer, you gauge). You hear the front door creak open - distant laughs and murmurs of farewell being exchanged - before finally closing with a thud.

Resigned and half-dazed, you scramble to your feet, clad in only an underwear while clutching on to a blanket that didn’t do much to cover your front - as if it mattered. There wasn’t much left to cover when these walls have seen every nook and cranny of you.

Footsteps echo from down the hallway. You peek out the bedroom door and wait for him to appear at the end of the corridor, within the narrow view of his living room - tatami mats and kotetsu and all.

Against the backdrop of wood and bamboo, the only modern touch was the large globe pendant hanging from the ceiling as lighting. And adding to that, him, in his too-large hoodie and baggy cargo pants rustling with every drag of his bare feet, looking like the poster boy for domesticity and weekends at home.

Clumps of black and bleached tips slipped from his bun and framed his face with languid grace, and your fingers twitch in memory of running through them.

“So.. Shouyo was here,” you pipe, watching him stifle a yawn into his palm.

“Yeah.. Just left actually.”

“And you couldn’t bother waking me up?” you pout, “I could’ve said hi..”

He gives you a once-over, smiling. “In that?”

“Ha-ha, funny. I would’ve put something on if you’d called me.”

He hums in humor, coming to a stop in front of you. Kozume Kenma has grown a few inches taller since high school, a few degrees warmer towards everyone else. With both hands pocketed, he smiles, a few stretches too wry. “And which of us would have explained to him what you’re doing here this early?”

The question - reminder - comes out like a flick on the forehead, a soundless oh escaping your lips before closing to a thin line.

No one knew about this - whatever the kids called it these days - not Kuroo, not anyone from the team.

You wouldn’t call it hiding, not on purpose at least. The opportunity to bring it up just never came around. Funny enough, neither did the will to keep it a one-time thing.

Some nights, when you’re both too spent for another round, when he sits on the floor cross-legged with his hands on the controller, occasionally combing through your hair as you lay on his lap - you think you both know why, yet prefer to prolong the vagueness of it all.

When you don’t answer, Kenma mindlessly takes a stray tuft of hair from your temple and tucks it behind your ear, fingers lingering idly. “Your clothes are still in the laundry. Were you gonna wear mine?”

You open your mouth to say something but find the words stuck in your throat. You gag them out. “Maybe. Would that be a problem?”

“Hmm, not really, no.” Then tilting his head slightly, lowering his hand to the patch of skin below your jaw, “Makes me wonder though.. how he’d react if he saw these.”

You draw your brows together in question before flinching, shuddering at his touch. Feeling a sore sensation on your neck, on the crevice of your shoulder. The stinging, almost tangible memory of lips and teeth digging into your flesh. Your face feels warm all of a sudden.

“You’re always leaving them where it’s seen,” you manage weakly.

“Do I..?” he leans forward, just enough to press a kiss to your skin opposite where his fingers flirted. An unbidden shiver swims its way down your spine. “You never try to stop me.”

I couldn’t even if I tried.

At the feel of his lips trailing along the soft edges of your face, of the tips of his hair tickling your skin, a crawling ache settles below your waist, between your thighs. Clenching and unclenching. Your knees accidentally bump into his and you’re sure he’s caught on. He always does.

Always had been sharp at reading body language and yours was something he read fluently. Every movement and response, every lack thereof, every blush and avoidance of eye contact. Every morning when you’ve woken up in the mood and press your face onto his back and he’d know just what you wanted from him. But then—

“You weren’t there this morning..” You kiss the words solemnly onto his cheek, fingers going loose around the blanket, letting it splash soundlessly onto your ankles as if a barrier had melted.

“Sorry.” His only response before taking your bottom lip between his, appending a knee between your legs. He presses a thigh against you - right where you needed him - and listens to the broken tune of sharp inhales. A silent plea for more.

You rub yourself hard against him, hot, wet - enough to feel the dampness seep through the layers and onto his skin. His fingers gravitate towards the junction and, unthinkingly, slip inside the thin fabric. At the contact, you tear your lips from his and nestle your head into the crook of his neck where his scent from last night clung. You think it might be your scent but you aren’t so sure.

“What time’s your first steam..”

“I could spare a couple more minutes.” He laughs, beckoning you into the room. “C’mon.”

The door slides shut behind him.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃