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When will they return from the war

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miya osamu wasn't disappointed often.

so if anybody asked you, you couldn't even describe his expression from memory. you'd shrug your shoulders and pity the person who was at the receiving end of the faint downturn of his mouth, the slight furrow of his dark eyebrows over eyes that held dullness you knew so rarely, heavy and cast away. averting your eyes, the image settling like a clear memory, you thought that you wish you wouldn't be able to paint a picture of it now.

"it's not fair," you mumble, and his fingers felt careful and soft around your hand, the pressure on your flesh a reminder that your skin was no longer yours, that it was a part of him and one he refused to give up, "you're always the one. why can't it be me too?"

the kitchen was quiet, the ticking noise of the clock like an echo swinging from your end to his, and his lips pressed together, a faint line that made you want to smooth it out quickly lest it burned itself on his features.

"i don't care about fairness if ya get hurt," his voice was rough like it was straining to sound kind, but that wasn't possible — you knew nothing but kindness in the way he existed, and you felt it when he sighed against your temple and when his hand smoothed out the tape on the curvature between thumb and finger, "why did ya even think you had to surprise me with anythin'?"

"because you always cook for me, and you slave away for hours here like it doesn't matter, and—" you could feel yourself get upset, chest tightening like it might force all the taste-testing up your throat and out in the world, escaping the small confines of the prison that was your heart, "—and i wanted to share some of the burden."

miya osamu wasn't confused often.

he took things he didn't understand with a shrug found in the curl of his mouth, in the mildly interested look permeating his eyes and a quiet willingness to wait it out, but now his eyebrows wandered up, and his lips parted as if you managed to steal his response from him. when he gathered his wits, it was with an exclamation of offence, "the hell are ya talkin' about, sweetheart?"

you refused to answer, and the callouses on his hand were like a love tap against your jaw when osamu cradled it, forcing you to look up, right into stormy grey, wild with the need to drill into your head how desperate he was to defend this part of him that he'd forever selfishly wear proudly, with the need to simply make you understand, "ya think takin' care of ya is a burden? it's a matter of pride. bein' able to say that i fed you well, that you're satisfied, fully, with food i made is somethin' i'll never let anyone take from me. not even you."

miya osamu was angry often.

at atsumu usually, granted. but you saw it often enough to recognise the passion crinkling around his eyes, the curl in his nose, the almost bared teeth behind the angry curve of his lips like he was ready to bite to prove his point to his brother, but what atsumu never would see is the little pleading frown right in between osamu's eyebrows when he looked down at you, the almost tremble in his hand as he brought your injured hand up to his mouth to place a token of his love onto your skin, the exhale that caressed your cheeks.

and miya osamu was relentless often; in the steadiness of his hand, in his quiet strength of affection, in how he poured his being into you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

TAGLIST | @takes1 ; @classicalelephant ; @pomigranit

inspired by slide #2 of @sodaneko's smau mine mine mine and therefore also dedicated to my best lovergirl (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

[yvqip]

boyfriend!sakusa kiyoomi who responds with sounds fun, when you tell him that you'll be out most of the weekend, that you probably won't be around much at home. who sends you a text the next day in the midst of enjoying time with your friends; a text that seemed like it itched with a refusal to admit, tinged with a subtle, pride-stained irritation of someone who misses you and resents you a little for making him feel it.

kiyoomi, "i organised your bookshelf. it was driving me crazy. you're missing book three of the gemma doyle trilogy, by the way."

and the smile spreading on your face is not one you could hold off, nor could you keep your fingers from flying over your phone to send something back.

you, "i told you it's not sorted alphabetically. and wow, how dare i not complete a book series. so very rude of me." you, "did you miss me?"

the pause feels like an eternity before the response trickles in, reluctant, seeking,

kiyoomi, "your fantasy section had two books filed under 'm' category even though it clearly starts with 'the'. yes, i missed you."

boyfriend!sakusa kiyoomi who plates his food carefully, moving with focused precision that's ingrained in each fibre of his being, like he couldn't exist without it. you're leaning on the edge of the counter, eyes sharp as you're watching him, one foot of yours, encased in a sock, grazes the floor and when he placed his plate down and turned to grab something from the sink—

you're quick as you snatch up his spoon and scoop a bit of his portion into the hollow of the metal, and you're just about to bite in, when his voice sounds out; baritone, low and calm, "don't."

you hold his gaze as you slowly open your mouth, defiantly; the way your lips close around the spoon with care and the way you pull it out just a little slowly. kiyoomi stares at you, a picture of dry disapproval painted on his features, but his eyes linger, just a second too long, betraying the spark of something sharper, more wanton, beneath the surface: irritation with a hint of amusement and the quiet ache of being completely, maddeningly charmed.

"that spoon's been in your mouth."

he says that but his body doesn't give when you slink closer to him, when your body flushes against his as you press a kiss to the corner of his elegantly curved lips, "so has this mouth."

he exhales through his nose, and to you, it was the sweet sound of surrender of someone who wants to stay annoyed but can't help the small tug of his heart.

"you're insufferable," he mutters, but he slides the plate an inch closer to you, "just don't mix the sections together."

boyfriend!sakusa kiyoomi who breaks the silence at night in the still room, both of you laying on the bed, flushed together, neither asleep and neither fully awake, just drawing breath together in the same space that has your sigh pass off as his and his limb an extension of yours; the faint spill of streetlight through the curtains.

you shift slightly under the covers and his fingers tighten for a moment as if almost scared to have you part from him, to have your body feel off his and exist on his own.

"when you're not around, i catch myself thinking in your voice."

you're sure he can feel and hear the smile in your voice, "what do i sound like?"

"unimpressed," he shrugs with one shoulder, and it moves your cheek a little, the soft shirt warm against your skin, the heat of his body trickling through the material to cradle your face, and he smelt like his own fragrance blend of essential oils and clean soap, calming, "you don't really care about what's going on up here — ah, let me finish."

you close your mouth with a grumble, and his fingers, slender and long and featherlight as they test the resilience of your flesh against the press of his hand, like he was prodding not just to feel you but like a test to see whether you'll stay put, whether you give in or whether you softly return back to him, "the disaster i create in my head. you believe it ridiculous, inconsequential. it makes me rethink it, too."

"am i usually right?"

his sharp nose travels along your hairline, his exhale quiet and resigned, "yeah. that's the problem."

you smile at the ceiling, and when your hand dances over his, he doesn't pull away. never does; doesn't say anything else either, just brushes his thumb over your skin, slow and steady.

boyfriend!sakusa kiyoomi who sounds a bit stiff when he compliments you on the dress that you're wearing, whose voice almost drowns out in the soft rustle of the fabric, that's how quiet he utters the words.

raised eyebrows, "that's rare praise coming from you."

kiyoomi shrugs, but his eyes are not straying away from you, drinking every atom of your being like if he blinked, you'd disappear, like he has to compete and win against the universe to keep you in his field of vision, in his hands, in his life, "i only say things that i mean."

and when you step closer, it's like he's a magnet, pulled towards you without thinking, leaning forward slightly, almost deciding to catch himself, his freckled hand twitching like he wants to reach out to you; his voice almost a whisper, like he's coming to the realisation himself, "and you're distracting."

"good. i like when i distract you."

his hand finds the hair on the base of your head, fingers threading through the strands as he pulls you close, his eyes studying your face like he's looking for permission that he has with every blink of your eyelids, and when he kisses you, it's with focused deliberateness, like he's committing to the feel of your mouth against his, like he's drawing a memory to keep in the pockets of his soul.

kiyoomi kisses like every draw of breath and every lick of tongue is intentional, a certain tension held in the curve of his arms like he's restraining himself out of sheer habit, but when his fingers find your jaw to angle your face, and his forehead lingers close to yours, it's with certainty that you've undone him, thoroughly.

TAGLIST | @sodaneko ; @takes1 ; @classicalelephant ; @pomigranit ;

[yvqip]

suguru is desperate, tonight.

in hindsight, you probably should have noticed all the ways he tried to clue you in on it. a touch that lingers longer than usual, warm palms resting at your hips instead of the small of your back. the cologne he only wears when he wants to get you hungry. he's too polite to say it outright, too contained to ask, but it's always obvious when you think back — his lips at the column of your throat this morning, the slightest whine to his voice before he got up. when you kissed him goodbye, still tasting bitter off the coffee he made you: a flickering, candle-lit heat to his gaze. 

tiny, tiny hints. that's his style. building up, and up.

crashing, the minute you stepped through the front door.

you could feel the tension in the air, in his body, the all-consuming desire in the low-curved smile on his lips, and of course you weren't unaffected by it. of course you were carried along, by the waves of his devotion when he kissed you welcome home — of course you were.

(what else is there to do, when you have a beautiful boy in the palm of your hand? nipping at your fingers, in search of scraps. breathing oxygen into your lungs.)

"baby…"

a voice like caramel, soothing to your ears. your brain is mush, so stuffed with cotton you barely hear it, too distracted by the wet, warm muscle of his tongue — the warmth of his body, his hands, careful not to crush you as he keeps you pushed against the couch. groaning, into your mouth.

needy. 

such a rare treat, for him to let you see it.

a weak, breathy whimper bubbles up your throat, spills into his own, his tongue gliding against yours and ghosting at the back of your teeth. he tastes like mint. it's a chain reaction, the moan that follows — your meek response only fuelling the depth of what he must be feeling. the closeness he's craving. even though you're already chest to chest, heartbeat kissing heartbeat, beating in rapid, thumping tune.

with the way he keeps trying to pull you closer, you'd think he wants you to slip between his ribs.

"god, i love you so much. god…"

suguru's voice is silicone, honeyed tongues and teeth, but now the rasp at the throat of it is all you can hear. your senses are overwhelmed, wrapped up in notes of amber, cradled by his scent — his warmth flowing into your body and keeping all coherent thoughts away from your brain. no thinking, only him. your big, gentle boyfriend, kissing you with enough reverence to pluck pearls from the bottom of a seabed. keeping his knee in between your thighs, his big palm at the back of your neck, to make sure you can't run from the love he's giving you.

(not that you'd ever want to.)

love you, you try to say, ultimately sputtering on something like a mewl. suguru only pulls away to whisper praise against your lips, then he's back to waltzing with your tongue. he isn't fast — isn't rough — only intense, in the gentlest of ways. mellow waters lapping at the skin of your ankles, dragging you into the sea; you're being coaxed underwater, having trouble keeping up with the slow, deep rhythm he's set, his tongue in no rush to explore your mouth. you're having trouble remembering the first letter of your name.

your response only makes him hold you closer. there's no space between your bodies, nowhere further for you to go, but he's desperate enough that he's trying, pulling you up into his lap and wrapping both his beefy arms around your waist. mwah, mwah, two sloppy pecks against your spit-swollen lips, before he pries them open again.

you feel a little like you're dying. like you already died, and went to heaven.

suguru must have wanted this, all day. must have been waiting. it must have been a struggle just to help you get your shoes off, to close the door behind you before swallowing you whole. squeezing your body, like a fidget toy — though the way he handles you couldn't be farther from it. he just wants to feel you. to feel your flesh, and bones, and heartbeat, your tongue down his throat.

your boyfriend wants you to eat him alive.

(before he does the same to you.)

big, warm palms settle at your ass, and you know he's hanging on by a thread because he actually squeezes down, gently, feels the fat fill the gaps between his fingers and robs more air from your lungs before giving it back — heavy, bated breaths shared between the two of you. a gasp pushes past your lips, and he drinks it down. like freshwater, like cherry-red wine, lapping up the last drops at the bottom of the glass. a man intoxicated. drunk on you, his fingers sneaking under the fabric of your shirt to feel your blood beat and rush under his palms. ba-dump, ba-dump. he feels, listens, rubs circles into your hip. you hold onto his shoulders, dig your nails into the fabric of his skin-tight sweater, feeling so doused in heat you fear your nerves will catch on fire. heat at your neck, at your cheeks, in between your thighs. he licks into your mouth, flames at your teeth.

(as a child, your mother told you the sun was a lion playing catch with the stars. 

you used to wonder what it would feel like to be eaten by it.)

it's dizzying. suguru's kisses are always intense — he's always intense — but it's not often you see him this visibly bothered. he keeps tugging you closer, closer still, little rocks against you, like he can't stomach the thought of you being anywhere else. his rhythm is getting sloppy, and your breaths are getting more sparse, bodies melting together like gum on a hot, scorching sidewalk in the precipice of summer—

chew, and spit. you can't think of anything else. nibbling at his bottom lip, just to stay afloat.

fortunately, suguru knows your body. 

a deep, steadying breath. he manages to pull away, his fingers shaky, deft thumbs rubbing circles into the skin of your thighs.

"s-suguru."

"sorry." his lips are swollen, slick and puffy, his eyes so lidded you wonder if he's really there. if he actually got drunk on your spit. they're hazy, so dark you feel that you're staring into a deep, deep sea, sinking helplessly towards the bottom. "i don't think… i can control myself, right now."

(you aren't doing much better. droopy-eyed, lips thoroughly abused, drool seeping out from the corner of your mouth — his or yours, you couldn't say. a swipe of your tongue, and it's gone.

suguru inhales, shakily.)

too tired to speak, you lift your hands to cup his cheeks. they're rosy, cherry blossoms in the breeze, the fuzzy skin of sun-warmed peaches. hot, under your touch. when you smooth your fingertips against them his eyes flutter shut. 

a blissed out breath flows from his parted lips.

"i think i'd die if i couldn't love you." the words are spoken with bated breath, as if he couldn't keep them lodged inside his throat, couldn't even try. when he opens his eyes again they shimmer like sheets of glass, leaves wet with morning dew. 

you don't think he's exaggerating.

"… c'mere," he sighs, running out of patience. "you're too far."

this time, he's more careful. beginning to feel sated, maybe.

one palm on the back of your head, the other on the small of your back. heavy, radiating heat, pouring from the tips of his fingers through the fabric of your shirt, your thighs wrapping themselves around his waist to offer him the same. arms around his neck. he hums into your mouth, appreciative. his tongue glides against the seam of your lips, until you part them for him; letting him kiss you how he likes.

slow, and steady. breathing you in, and out.

(like this, you feel less like two people and more like one construct. a mechanism. inhale, exhale, your chests rising and falling, the way dandelion seeds float up into the sky, the way pebbles sink and sink until they hit the bottom of the sea. 

you think you understand him, a little more than usual. you think you'd drop dead, too, if someone were to pry your limbs apart.)

"i love you," you say, rasping against his lips. 

ba-dump, ba-dump. his heartbeat says it back, before he gets a chance to. 

[yvqip]

casual gumi

[yvqip]

haikyuu characters and their colleges!

genre: haikyuu headcanons

chars: atsumu miya, hajime iwaizumi, kei tsukishima, keiji akaashi, kentaro kyotani, kiyoomi sakusa, koutaro bokuto, osamu miya, rintaro suna, tooru oikawa

notes: in honor of college decision day last week

𖤐 ATSUMU MIYA, louisiana state university

psychology major. says he picked psychology to “study bitches,” but when attachment theory came up in class, he got real quiet. said, “nah, that explains a lot,” and didn’t speak again the whole lecture.

his dorm’s a double, but his roommate’s always at his girlfriend’s place, so atsumu basically lives alone. there’s a yellow LSU flag thumbtacked to the wall, crooked. purple string lights he never turns off. there’s always a protein shaker on his desk and an air fryer on top of his mini fridge that he’s definitely not supposed to have.

only asian in a d9 sorority. line name: “hurricane.” loud, reckless, unforgettable. most likely omega psi phi w/ his unpredictable ass.

he’s got school spirit like it’s his job, bro. tailgates in body paint, posts “GEAUX TIGERS” every saturday, and cries when they lose. he’s a campus menace, but professors like him ’cause he participates with just enough charm to keep his grade alive.

would definitely fuck one of the basketball player's girlfriends on accident. wasn’t even his fault—she came onto him, but word got around fast. now any time someone says “bro don’t let your girl near atsumu,” it’s not even a joke. he laughs it off in public, but he definitely switches routes to avoid the gym hallway.

when he likes you, it shows up in acts of chaos. sneaking into your lecture just to pass you a note that says u miss me? or waiting outside your class with an iced drink, grinning like a golden retriever. he’s loud, but when you talk, he listens for real.

𖤐 HAJIME IWAIZUMI, university of florida

kinesiology major. in class, he’s focused, raises his hand. he’s not loud about being smart, because he isn’t—not really, he’s just a hard worker. makes the deans list once. kinda falters off after that. schools hard man.

he’s got a dorm in athlete housing, but it’s clean. bed made, shoes lined up, weights by the closet. he’s always up early, always in motion. jogs before class, stretches while microwaving rice.

he didn’t pledge a frat. didn’t need to. everyone already knows him. football players dap him up, med students ask for his notes. he’s the guy people trust to hold their drink at parties.

he’s got school spirit, but only for game days. wears his hoodie, shows up to cheer, but doesn’t scream in the stands. he’s not flashy about pride. this is mainly because he got too into betting on the basketball team freshman year during march madness and literally went so broke he couldn’t afford groceries for 2 weeks until his next paycheck (work study).

when he likes you, it’s in how he shows up. carrying your books when you’re tired. fixing the strap on your backpack. standing between you and the guy who got too close at a party.

eater eater eater eaterrrrr!! bro would eat coochie in a public bathroom if you asked. #sorrythatsnotverycollegerelated.

anywaysss iwaizumi’s love isn’t loud. it’s reliable. it’s strong hands (y’all and i’m talking strong) and a softer voice than you expected.

𖤐 KEI TSUKISHIMA, university of chicago

paleobiology major. please don’t ask me what that means guys.

tsukki’s dorm is cold. literally and emotionally. he shares a double with a music major who’s always practicing guitar, and he hates it. his desk is perfectly organized. his bed’s made military-style.

he despises greek life. his social circle is small: one lab partner, one sarcastic roommate, and the girl who sits next to him in ancient ecosystems. if i called him a loser would y’all be mad LMFAOOO? sorry he just gives very didn’t-take-full-advantage-of-the-college-experience-because-he-was-too-busy-trying-to-aura-farm vibes. or maybe he takes more advantage his 2nd or 3rd year. starts to drink. allows himself to loosen up and goes to parties.

his first ever hook-up is his 2nd or 3rd year and she’s an upperclassmen. rides him so well he tries to ask her out like 2 days later. obviously gets shut down and probably becomes a shell for like a month. probably inspired a hoe era from him, too. good job, girl.

he doesn’t do school spirit. doesn’t do pep rallies. doesn’t even wear the merch unless it’s raining even though he was a prick in high school about how he got into uchicago.

in class, he’s absurdly smart. the kind who corrects professors smart. it’s a combination of too much time on his hands to study and genuine passion for that dinosaur shit. people think he’s arrogant. he is. but he’s usually right. doesn’t get all a’s though because he’s such an asshole to profs.

𖤐 KEIJI AKAASHI, columbia university

english & philosophy double major. was definitely an asshole in ap lit during highschool and got a 4 and almost crashed out. also always makes sure to specify he goes to columbia in ny and not chicago because he’s a pretentious bitch.

he’s got a single in a brownstone-style dorm that smells like bergamot and old books. it’s quiet. floor lamp, clean desk, moleskin journals stacked neatly beside a bluetooth speaker always playing something soft.

he didn’t even think about rushing. greek life isn’t his thing. instead, he edits for the campus lit mag and drinks espresso with the creative writing kids in dark cafes.

he never wears school merch on campus but has two columbia hoodies he likes to wear at the airport incase any wealthy alumni decide to bless his pockets. also has a little keychain.

never misses class. started off showing up in fitted sweaters and long coats, always prepared, until the 2nd week hit him like a truck and he realized everyone was just as great as him. it’s been sweats and dark circles ever since.

his essays however are hauntingly good. he quotes philosophers mid-conversation and makes it sound like poetry.

was long-term fucking w/ this aspiring-director-art-hoe from nyu until his grade dropped to a whopping c and he found himself on the subway train visiting her and sending letters more than he found himself in the library. tries shrooms for the first and last time with her.

when he likes you, it’s not a confession. it’s a gradual, undeniable presence. he saves you a seat in lecture. he remembers your coffee order. he leaves a book for you with a note that says, thought of you on page 84.

𖤐 KENTARO KYOTANI, university of oregon

undeclared. he’s got a double dorm but sleeps alone because his roommate transferred out by october. his side’s a mess of black hoodies, tangled chargers, and a punching bag duct-taped to the wall. there’s an air freshener clipped to the vent, but it’s not doing much. his window’s always cracked for his vape smoke.

he doesn’t do frat shit. hates being told what to do. parties off-campus at athlete houses or with randoms he met at the rec center. there’s always a blunt in rotation, a shoe missing, someone jumping off the roof.

doesn’t own a single piece of duck gear, but you’ll catch him in the student section during football games, yelling his throat out.

he’s technically undeclared but hovering around a kinesiology degree because a counselor told him he could work in sports without writing essays. he acts like he doesn’t care, but when his grades dropped too low to play intramural, he got pissed. started showing up to class with a hoodie over his head, earbuds in, hood still up.

he’s got a stupid, stupid crush on one of the girls from the track team (i mean y’all have you SEEN the oregon track team). walks past the field “on accident” every day.

when he likes you, it’s not obvious. not at first. it’s letting you steal his hoodie without a word. it’s sending you a pic of his dinner with the caption “ate today.” it’s leaning back on two legs of his chair and looking at you instead of the professor.

definitely has beef w/ one of the frat brothers or some shit because his mouth is slick as shit!! there’s atleast 1 frat house that has him banned for life!!

𖤐 KIYOOMI SAKUSA, university of michigan

microbiology major. ok no glaze because i was just lowk on akaashi’s dick but this guy is brilliant. high GPA, terrifying in labs. he’s just one of those people that get the whole college thing. professors love him, classmates avoid him. knows when to ask the write questions, when to challenge the professor and when to kiss-up.

he’s got a single in the newest dorm building, top floor, near a fire exit so no one has to pass by his door. everything’s black, white, or navy. there’s sanitizer by the bed and lint rollers in every drawer.

he hates frats. thinks they’re germ farms. instead, he lowk keeps to himself besides maybe like one club or society related to his major. shows up to class early, sits far back, never shares pens. ALSO is at every single internship job-fair and finds it absolutely disgusting how many hands he has to shake and vaguely considers being broke the rest of his life.

he doesn’t care for school spirit but owns one michigan hoodie because his cousin got it for him. he only wears it when it’s clean.

but when he likes you? you know. he wipes your phone screen when you’re not looking. he texts, drink water. he lets you wear his hoodie home and doesn’t ask for it back. when you’re sick, he shows up with meds and soup and mumbles, “you’re annoying when you don’t take care of yourself.”

guys i’m gonna be honest i’m trying to figure out how i wanna characterize him still y’all gotta let me work through it.

𖤐 KOUTARO BOKUTO, university of alabama

communications major. whatever the fuck that means. he takes class seriously when he connects with the professor. when he doesn’t? he’s doodling mascots in the margins or texting in the groupchat about lunch. still pulls a B+ average on sheer charm and effort. fails like two classes though because charm can’t win em all. also takes badminton as an elective.

and LAWDDD them bama girls love him down!! if he was in any type of relationship leaving high school that is done by orientation week! and don’t let him put on a damn cowboy hat and some boots lord they finna fuck him right there in the stands @ the football game.

he’s in a triple dorm, and somehow all three of them actually get along. there’s a group chat called “THE BOYS” in all caps, a giant whiteboard on the wall with their gym schedules, and a disco light they use for impromptu room raves. it prolly smell like a little bit of shit in there though.

definitely one of those dudes walking barefoot in the communal bathrooms with his NASTY ASS. also takes unapologetic shits in there too.

bokuto pledged and thrived though!! he’s the social chair of his frat, known for making the best playlists and leading the most unhinged chants during rush. he’s the heart of game day, standing on coolers, shirt half-off, rallying strangers like it’s a religion.

definitely had some poor girl make him a frat cooler though. he’s so lovable it’s easy to get sucked into his orbit but girl.. he really is just like that w/ everyone.

BUT on a contrary note when he does stop being a campus whore and finally gets a crush.. it’s loud. when he likes you, it’s so loud. he makes you a friendship bracelet in your school colors. he shows up to walk you to class with two iced coffees and a grin so wide it makes you forget what you were mad about (probably him being a friendly ass bitch). you meet his frat brothers, his favorite professor, the gym receptionist, everyone. he introduces you like he’s proud, like he’s won something.

and when he gets drunk at a tailgate, he grabs your face and slurs, “i love you so much, it’s not even funny.” but in that lovebombing way dudes like to do. there’s probably like seven girls on campus by the time he graduates who he’s told he loves. he’s got a big heart, y’all it’s not even his fault he rlly believes it!!!

it’s never quiet with him. but the love’s loud in the best way. also i forgot he does manage to score a good ass internship through a job fair because he’s goated when it comes to talking his way into shit.

𖤐 OSAMU MIYA, university of georgia

culinary science & business major. in class, he’s quiet but respected. professors know his name. he’s never late, never flashy, just consistent. the kind of student who emails thank-you notes after a good semester (what a sweetheart). does has beef w/ one professor who doesn’t believe in a’s and his praying for her to croak.

osamu’s dorm is off-campus housing by junior year. a small one-bedroom with a balcony herb garden, cast iron skillet on the stove, and a shoe rack by the door that he actually uses. smells like garlic, rice, and comfort.

he skipped the frat route. never saw the point. he’s got a tight group of friends who show up to his pop-up food stand every friday without fail.

he doesn’t care about school spirit but owns two UGA hoodies that he wears on rotation. one has a grease stain he swears isn’t permanent.

when he likes you, he feeds you. always. he packs you lunch “just in case” even though you already ate. he asks about your allergies before your first date. he notices when you’re low energy and hands you a snack without saying anything. PREPARE TO END UP A FATASS.

he’s not romantic in the traditional way. he’s practical. steady. but one night, he leaves a note on your container lid that says, you looked pretty today. eat up.

on a hoe-ier note, he probably only gains like 3-4 bodies during college. much better than his brother who most likely ends up burnt by the time he pledges LMFAOOO #iykyk. osamu ends up settling down pretty quickly.

𖤐 RINTARO SUNA, arizona state university

film major. destined to be broke. a24 asshole. his parents probably convince him to add business in there atleast so their son doesn’t end up spending the next 60 years of his life at 7/11.

freshman year, he lives in a shared dorm, second floor, end of the hall. it’s basic as hell. blinds always shut, a fan in the window humming low, vape clouds hanging lazy in the air. one bed’s made perfectly, the other’s always a mess. his desk is cluttered with film cameras, empty yerba mate cans, and one lonely cactus he never waters.

BRO DOESN’T DO LAUNDRY. definitely a sniff test type of guy (yeah we see that shit stain buddy). but no LMFAOO it rlly does take him to like mid-way freshman year when he realizes the onion smell is him to turn it around 180°. gets rlly into cologne after that. yay improvement!!

he didn’t plan on rushing. at all. thought greek life was weird. he liked pulling up to parties where nobody knew his name. liked being the mystery with the good music. he always had the aux. always. people let him cut the line just to take over. does sometimes get too carried away w that slow shit. why are you playing frank ocean dawg you’re abt to make us cry?

but anyways sophomore year, when a couple of his close friends started pledging, they convinced him to come meet their frat. and surprisingly? he vibed with it. no toxic hazing. no fake shit. just a solid group of guys who threw good parties and respected boundaries. by junior year, he was living in the frat house top floor, corner room, two big windows he never opened, a record player spinning slow. he never wore the letters loud, never posted about it. but when people asked, he’d just shrug, “yeah, i’m in.”

he’s got a reputation. the chill guy who controls the aux like a god. discovered baby keem. was gatekeeping lucki until he blew up and now he’s listening to random underground that sounds like a samsung refrigerator. and gaslighting girls to the 1975 and pink pantheress.

don’t let him hit your pen or vape. this man is addicted. “i can quit whenever” ass!! will chief your shit AND chiefs the blunt too!!

anyways i’m hating too much so.. when he likes you, it starts in silence. he hands you the aux for ten minutes just to see what you’ll play. he saves you a seat on the roof during after-parties. he doesn’t kiss you in front of people, but when the night ends, you’re the one in his hoodie, laughing at nothing, walking back with him under campus lights.

also always has money on the game. friends w/ a couple of the basketball team and tell them he has money on that shit so they better not fuck up. you’ll catch him on the couch during march madness, hoodie up, phone in hand, whispering “don’t fuck this up, bro” like he’s coaching from the couch.

𖤐 TOORU OIKAWA, university of miami

sports management major & public relations minor. he’s a demon in class, but also kind irritating sometimes. talks just enough to sound smart, is saying absolutely NOTHING in the most amount of words possible on his discussion boards, and turns in perfect assignments at 11:58PM. also gives presentations that feel like TED talks.

he’s a little too polished first semester. too flirty with his professors. never seen in sweatpants. but all that shit crumbles second semester. he still looks presentable, but he’s in sweats and slides and basketball shorts way more often.

decorated the fuck out of his room. warm lighting, scented candles, beach towels. a mirror by the door for last looks before going out, and he always checks his hair twice. didn’t really like his roommate at first. fucked 2 girls on his bed (not at the same time.. or maybe at the same time shit who knows!) and then started to become cool w/ the guy so he never told him.

he didn’t pledge. says he’s “above that.” instead, he’s built a curated circle of beach volleyball guys, fashion majors, and business girlies who all adore him. a hoe, but not even that bad fr like he has good standards if that makes sense.

but when he likes you? all that polish starts to slip. he texts you good morning before he even opens his laptop. he lets you see him in glasses, hair messy, eyes tired. he brings you back souvenirs from break and writes notes in spanish on post-its (yes he’s a prick taking advanced spanish.)

[yvqip]

fave synths

[yvqip]

suna rintaro who responds with "that's crazy, i was thriving." when you tell him you miss him.

suna rintaro who leans close whilst you're talking, enough to fluster you and have your breath hitch, pretending like his hand isn't resting high on your thigh. he blinks passively, "what? i'm listening. keep on going."

suna rintaro who stares with the coldest look in his eyes when somebody throws shade at you, his voice sounding bored but you know him, know the sharpness in his tone, the concealed annoyance at somebody insulting you. though, once he shames that person away, he turns to you and directs that look at you, "anyway, you still suck. don't think you're hot shit now."

he keeps you close to him the rest of the evening, hand curled against your waist.

suna rintaro who pretends to break up with you over every little thing. the amount of times he slowly stands up when you steal his food?

"it's been a good run. i'll always remember you. kind of," only to snicker when you tug him back from his sleeves, allowing you to whine in his ear about how he's so mean as his hands settle on your neck, thumbs pressing down on your mouth. when he pulls your lower lip down to inspect your teeth, the quick peek of your tongue has his dick stirring.

he thinks he might just make you swallow his spit like that.

suna rintaro who doesn't like to leave hickeys where people can see them. he likes to do them on places that you'll feel, that are meant just for him — low on your ribs, behind your knees, near your hip bones.

suna rintaro who has his hands underneath your waistband, fucking in and out of you slowly, thumb ever-present on your swollen nub only to murmur, "you're shaking already? that's cute, baby. i haven't even done anything yet," sounding so composed, loves having you open wide and dripping wet on his lap, playing with you for his sake, "you sound so sweet when you're desperate, can't even think straight."

suna rintaro who withholds his touch until you've satisfied his ego, who makes you ask, not just once but over and over until your voice is shaking and your pride is beside his feet on the floor, "say please. again. again. hmm, yeah, one more time. that's not how you beg, baby. try again. prettier this time."

suna rintaro who replays your voice audios, breathy, wrecked, stuttering and moaning his name, at the most random of times; who loves to watch you grow embarrassed, who imitates you because putting you on the spot like that has his pants grow tight.

who enjoys recreating it even more, pushing your face into the bed sheets, who has you choke on your spit, "you're so loud. you want the whole building to know how much of a slut you are? how good i fuck you? nuh-uh, don't hide your face, let me see it."

suna rintaro, everybody.

TAGLIST | @sodaneko ; @takes1 ; @classicalelephant ; @pomigranit ; @sugacor3 ; @boktuoafterdark ; @reignpage (just gonna drag you along on this suna brainrot, don't mind meee)

[yvqip]

[yvqip]

need a part three for HIS FAVORITE TYPE OF SEX (haikyuu ver.) with sakusa im begging u on my knees with puppy eyes

ask n you shall receive angel face MWAHH

✦ — sakusa kiyoomi, controlled, possessive sex. he’s the type to keep his gloves on while he fingers you, watching every twitch and gasp with dark eyes. the type to fuck you slow and deep, holding your jaw and whispering, “look at me while i ruin you.” he’s obsessive about control—about your body, your pleasure, your focus. loves edging you until you’re crying, just so he can kiss your tears and say, “don’t run from it. take it.”

✦ — meian shugo, praise-heavy, body-worship sex. he’s the type to manhandle you with ease, lifting you like you weigh nothing, murmuring, “that’s it, baby. let me take care of you.” the type to go slow even when he’s balls-deep, grinding into you with all that strength but holding your hand like it’s precious. he fucks you like you’re a gift—like he can’t get enough of how you moan his name.

✦ — aran ojiro, teasing, rough but affectionate sex. he’s the type to grip your throat and call you pretty, to slap your ass just to hear you squeal, then coo, “you like that, huh?” he loves pulling noises out of you, talking you through every thrust with cocky little praises. he’ll make you laugh and beg in the same breath, fucking you hard while wiping your tears with a grin.

✦ — kita shinsuke, intimate, emotionally intense sex. type of sex where every kiss you makes you moan, where he whispers, “you’re mine,” like it’s a vow. the type to go slow—achingly slow—just to feel every flutter of your walls. he doesn’t just fuck, he connects, making sure you feel everything. he’ll hold you after like nothing else in the world matters but your heartbeat against his.

✦ — matsukawa issei, lazy sex with a mean streak. he’s the type to sit back and let you beg, to finger you while smirking, “that’s all it takes?” the type to fuck you deep while making you say please, over and over, until your voice breaks. he doesn’t need to raise his voice—he just looks at you, says “good girl,” and it ruins you.

✦ — kentro kyotani (mad dog), rough primal sex. he’s the type to grab you the second you’re alone, bend you over something and growl, “been thinkin’ ‘bout this all day.” the type to fuck you like he can’t help it—biting, panting, digging his nails into your hips. he gets lost in how desperate and filthy you are. uses you like he needs your body to breathe.

[yvqip]

This is your captain speaking and yeah we’re not landing. I just feel like we’ve got a really good thing up here and I don’t want to ruin it. This is my home and you are my people

[yvqip]

suna rintarou who counted down from 10, his long fingers cheeky as they rubbed your clit, his other hand dipping into your heat, seeking the one gummy spot inside you that had your back arching away from his chest and gasps to fill the room desperately.

"don't run away from me," his voice was raw, heated against your neck, teeth finding your pulse point to gently bite, his tongue sweeping over your sweaty skin.

suna's elbows dug into your legs as he flushed you closer towards his chest, keeping your legs spread apart, the squelches of your pussy obscene as he added another finger to stretch you out.

he hummed, throaty groan escaping him, "yeah, doing well, baby, six...five...four..."

your toes curled and pants fell from your lips, breath heavy, high-pitched moans and hiccups, his name a prayer on your tongue.

"...three...two....one..." and before your mind could comprehend to give in, his pace suddenly quickened, "give me another five, baby, five...c'mon, don't you dare cum yet."

a hard whine escaped you as you struggled to get out of his hold, but his elbows dug deeper, his arms caging you in, suna's sudden teeth burying in the curve where your neck met your shoulder keeping you in place.

you bucked against his hold, "ahhh, rin, w-wha— pl-please i ca-ha-hant.."

he licked over the bite mark, "yeah you can, baby, c'mon...four...easy, easy...three...mhmmm..."

suna kissed your neck, tongue drawing galaxies on your skin whilst murmuring praise, his hands brutally bringing you to the brink over and over as his fingers fucked into you, as he kept hitting the spot inside you that made your eyes roll back and your jaw slack.

"twoooo.....one and three quarters...one and a half—"

"yo-ou ba—ah-ssss— nghh i h-hate you."

suna spat in lieu of counting down more, the droplet sliding between your bare breasts down your sweaty abdomen, and his thumb reached up quickly to catch the dollop to rub your clit with, the palm of his hand slapping against your swollen, hot lips.

"shut up," he replied, and kissed your exposed throat when your head fall back against his shoulder, twitching in his arms from how overwhelmingly fast your orgasm was approaching, "one more second, pretty."

that one second turned into an enternity when he wouldn't let up, when your own hands scratched against his forearms and he played with your cunt like his very own toy, when you convulsed against him, your muscles tensing, pussy squeezing around his fingers.

TAGLIST | @takes1 @classicalelephant @sugacor3

[yvqip]

kenma loves how sweet you taste

it started off with him just rubbing your thigh, soft kisses, licking your cheek a bit. but now, he hums against you, lazy and pleased, fingers pressing into your thighs to keep you open. he wasn’t just doing it for you, he was doing it for himself.

“you’re so sweet,” he breathes, tongue sliding deep again. “like candy.”

gentle licks, then sharp flicks, then deep, slow sucks. he keeps changing it up, just to see how you react. all of your whines, gasps, moans just makes him hungrier.

kenma’s been between your thighs for what has to be over two hours now. he’s laid out on his stomach, arms looped tightly under your thighs to keep you in place, mouth locked to your core.

his lips are slick, his chin is soaked, and his eyes, half-lidded, golden, locked on yours— look dazed with want.

“you’re leaking,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your sensitive, swollen folds, tongue flicking out just to catch the drip sliding down.

every time you come, he rides the wave with you. never pulling back, never rushing. he flattens his tongue, dragging it slow and steady from bottom to top, then back again.

“you make such pretty noises,” he says, dipping his tongue inside this time, slow and filthy. his nose presses perfectly against your clit as he thrusts his tongue in and out.

you arch your back, thighs trembling around his head, and all that does is make him groan. low and deep.

“fuck. kenma— how are you still—”

“addicted,” he says simply, cutting you off with a long, lazy lick. “can’t stop.” he kisses your clit before wrapping his lips around it again and sucks.

he pace shifts. tongue deeper, faster, more intense now. you feel your high coming.

he keeps sucking, licking, driving you higher, until your legs are trembling uncontrollably and you’re sobbing his name, fingers yanking at his hair.

he pulls back. his lips are glossy, face a wet mess, eyes blown out with love. he licks his lips, like he’s chasing the last drops of you.

“fuck… you taste so sweet.”

[yvqip]

AND I'MMA MAKE HER TAPOUT! ☆

✦ f!reader, post timeskip, kenma is quite the horny fella, suggestive, explicit content.

KOZUME KENMA has insane stamina.

And he doesn't seem like it. Truly, he doesn't. After all, (and not to be stereotypical), but what could you expect of a twenty-two year old who's leisure time was spent playing 'vintage' video games and streaming it for thousands to see?

You definitely didn’t expect that right after those streams ended, he’d have you bent over his gaming desk, just inches away from a small Genshin Impact figurine. You turn around, your cheeks flushing a sweet, saccharine hue of scarlet as he cups your ass from behind, his hands firm and possessive.

The air is thick with tension, sexually charged, rather, as you feel his body heat radiating against you. Every breath you take is heavy with anticipation, and the way he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, sends a shiver down your spine. You can sense his desire, raw and palpable, and it makes your heart race. You’re completely at his mercy, craving every moment as he prepares to take you right there, the thrill of being so exposed only heightening the intensity between you.

No, Kenma is not just another boyfriend of yours you've had sex with. Kenma is an absolute fucking beast - and by the time you're on your third round, covered in his opalescent seed and dripping with perspiration (you're not sure who's it is), that very fact is made abundantly clear to you.

Kenma also isn’t shy about what he wants. He’d rather have you sitting on his face, completely lost in the taste of you. As he laps at your clit, he gets more and more pussy-drunk, his moans vibrating against the slick that covers his fave deliciously. Your muffled compliments only serve to fuel the desire within him, and he’s all in, ready to make you feel every bit of pleasure he can give. It’s raw, intense, and he’s determined to have you begging for more.

You're not exactly sure why he has such superhuman capabilities when it comes to sex. Perhaps, years of pulling all-nighters has finally translated into something good - that being the rather annoying ability to never get tired whilst he pounds his pretty, flushed tip into you, getting the angle just right, hitting you right where you want him.

No, actually. He hits it right where you need him. Because sex with Kenma has translated from something that started off with a few kisses into a ritual you're quite certain you can't live without.

You’d lose yourself in the heat of three rounds—four if the mood struck just right. Kenma would pause, a playful glint in his eyes as he reached for a bottle of strawberry-flavored lubricant from his side-table. With a teasing squirt, he coated your stomach, the slick, sweet substance glistening against your skin.

His fingers danced over you, massaging the lubricant in with a tantalizing pressure that sent electric shivers through your body. Each stroke was a delicious tease, trailing dangerously low, igniting a primal hunger within you. The air thickened with the scent of strawberries and coitus, as his touch turned your skin into a playground of pleasure, leaving you breathless and craving more.

The bottle spits its last, the slick gone, but you don’t stop - not until your body’s shaking, breath stuttering, chasing that high like it's the only thing that’s ever truly undone you. You’re soaked in heat, legs weak, stars bursting behind your eyes. And just when you're about to tapout, that voice cuts through - deep, filthy, smug - dragging out the words that ruin you - but make you crave it all over again.

"Just one more round, baby?"

[yvqip]

want || miya atsumu

pairing: third year atsumu (18) x f!reader

word count: 2,391

content: smut (hand job, groping), atsumu has so much love inside him

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦

“I was thinking we could go to my house after school…? My parents aren’t around this weekend.”

Atsumu watches you bite your lip, looking up at him in a way that might suggest something if he were smart enough in that moment to realize it.

Instead he cocks his head to the side, looking wary. “You mean, like, study at your house instead? Yeah, I think that’s fine. I can tell ‘samu and Rin during practice—“

He cuts himself off when he sees the vigorous shaking of your head. “Um, no, I meant just you and I. You know…?”

That same look that would suggest you’re hinting at something, if only he would let his mind wander that far.

“But the four of us always study together on Fridays. I know we’re dating now but we told them we wouldn’t start excluding them,” Atsumu starts again, frowning a little bit.

“Oh my god,” you sigh exasperatedly. “Atsumu, I mean that I want to take you to my house and show you my tits.”

Atsumu goes red, all the way up to the tips of his ears.

“Oh.”

“Does that sound okay with you?” you deadpan, crossing your arms. “Or should I run it by your brother?”

“Hah, no, I mean, yes! Yes, that sounds okay. It sounds great, no, amazing! Like, that sounds super!” he stammers, face feeling warmer by the second as his mind wanders. He’s told himself from the beginning that he wouldn’t let his thoughts stray there, at least not often, and especially not during the day, even when you are so close, smelling good and giggling and smiling all glossy lipped and—

He swallows thickly and gives you a sheepish smile when he realizes you are still looking at him expectantly, an amused twinkle in your eyes. “Um, I’ll tell them that you don’t feel like studying and, uh, we’re going on a date or something.”

Finally, you nod approvingly, leaning up to kiss his cheek (he refuses to take a breath until you’re a foot away again). “I’ll see you after practice,” you murmur, giving him that easy smile again that makes him nod whether he wants to or not. He stands there for another couple minutes, staring blankly ahead and grasping hard at the strap of his bag, before he can finally force his feet to take him to class.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑

The day crawls like a slug on sand, and yet passes in a blur, to the point that Atsumu doesn’t even realize practice is over until Osamu’s voice finally makes it into his fuzzy head and Atsumu realizes that his brother is staring over him, offering a hand to pull him off the floor with a questioning look.

“C’mon, man, what’s wrong with you?” he grumbles as Atsumu finally reaches up to pull himself off the floor.

“Just distracted. Friday, y’know?” he chuckles half heartedly and gives a small shrug, which Osamu mimics in return before walking ahead to help put things away.

Atsumu meets you outside half an hour later, watching as you lug a cello case over your shoulder, grumbling to yourself before shoving it into his hands.

He takes it with practiced ease and smiles at you, which finally lightens your expression once more. “How was practice?” you ask, your eyes sliding over his shoulder where you spot Osamu and Rintaro approaching, and you offer them a cheerful wave.

“It was fine. Was a little slow today,” Atsumu answers, just before Osamu cuts in.

“Oh, please, you were so distracted, I don’t think you know a thing that happened during practice today. So much for being captain,” Osamu snickers, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

Atsumu rolls his eyes and waves his hand dismissively but doesn’t miss the way you seem to smile to yourself as the four of you begin the walk home.

The boys leave you at your house first. Osamu and Rin say goodbye at the end of the walkway, whereas Atsumu walks you to the front door and helps you pull your cello inside. You smile at him graciously before cocking your head to the side. “Are you staying…?” you ask hesitantly.

“Uh, I’m gonna come back. I want to shower and I told them it was a date so it makes more sense that way, I think, but if you think I should—“ he begins, and you sigh softly before smushing your hand against his mouth.

“I like this. Always have, y’know, teasing you. But… you know that we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” you say slowly, giving him a wry smile.

Atsumu bats your hand away and forces himself to take a steadying breath. “I want to. I want to do whatever you want to do. I was… a little surprised this morning and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it… but in a good way. But I’m also being serious, I want to shower and I am going to come back and I’ll stay as late as you’ll have me and we can do… anything you want.”

Finally, you nod, and finally, a tinge of pink touches your cheeks, and finally, Atsumu doesn’t feel like he’s the only one flailing.

“Okay…” you say. “Let me know when you’re on your way back.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑

In the shower, Atsumu feels overwhelmed again, letting his mind race with possibilities and questions. Mostly, does he jerk off? Should he jerk off? He doesn’t even know how far you both are gonna go tonight, but he knows he’ll get hard. Is he supposed to be prepared to that extent? Will you think he’s overeager or expecting too much?

Then he thinks about the number of times you’ve pulled him into your practice room at school when he’s shown up to collect you, how you would sigh almost in relief before sealing your mouth against his and how you would drag your fingers over his knuckles, slide your palms against his and pull him closer. And when you would finally pull away, you’d smile, satisfied and yet not quite, and under his skin he’d feel a thrum, and whenever he would walk beside you those days, dragging your feet on the way back home, he knew you felt it too.

He doesn’t jerk off. Instead, he’s dry and dressed and out the door in a matter of minutes, feet taking him down the familiar way to your house. You open the door so quickly after he knocks that he almost thinks you were staring through the peephole waiting.

You kiss him as soon as the door is closed again and he feels your hands lace in his and hears you mumble something like I’m glad you came but none of it registers until you pull away and he sees that glimmering, anticipatory look in your eyes.

You pull him into your room, where he’s been a hundred times, but this time it looks so unfamiliar, maybe something like a cathedral or a castle or maybe even a shrine–anything that could be half as beautiful as the way you look sitting on top of your bed, peering expectantly up at him.

When he sits in front of you, legs folded under him the same way you’re sitting, you start to say something, “We don’t have–” But this time it’s him cutting you off with a shake of his head, cupping his hands around your face and pulling you into a kiss and he mumbles something like I want to and you melt into him. You sigh happily and it sounds like the flap of a bird’s wings, and he’s pulling you closer closer closer like you might fly away too. Your hands fist into the front of his shirt and you let him kiss you until neither of you can breathe, and then more after that, until you’re both panting and your lips are slick and none of it is enough anymore.

“I don’t…” Your voice breaks the relative silence and you’re smiling sheepishly at him. “…Want to go all the way, um, tonight,” you say, still leaning into him, and he nods along as you continue. “But I just wanted to do something.” He’s starting to wonder if this is all happening in his head, some too vivid wet dream because there’s no way you like him and you want him and he wants to kiss you again but instead he lets you speak. “Um, do you want… should I take my shirt off?” you ask and your voice is like the jingle of a fairy and he’s saying yes before he even realizes it.

You blush and smile and he watches as you let go of his shirt and bring your hands to the edge of your own and even a sliver of your skin is enough to make his head feel fuzzy. It’s not his fault that when you’re finally topless (this whole time you hadn’t been wearing a bra, he notes, thinking he might die), all he can do is stare. He stares a lot, and then some more, and a little more after that, until finally you’re glaring at him.

“If you’re not gonna do anything, I’m just gonna put my top back on–” you start to exclaim, and his eyes go wide and he shakes his head and reaches out to stop you, catching your wrists in his hands.

“I can touch you?” is all he manages to say.

“Well, duh!” you say, exasperated.

So he does. His hands release your wrists and you bring your hands down, placing them on your lap like you’re not sure what to do with them now, while you watch him bring his hands to your waist. It’s sloth slow, the drag of his hands up your torso, and your mind wanders again to whether he even wants to do this, while his mind wanders to how soft you are, how the peaks of your breasts are making his mouth water, how he knows he’s stiff in his movements and in his pants. When his hands finally cup the swell of your breasts, his mouth drops open a bit, and you flush, bite your lip. And when, finally, his thumbs caress your nipples, he almost moans at the same time you gasp. You’re as soft as a rabbit, and you’re twitching like one too as his touch becomes more confident. You miss seeing the awed look on his face when he leans in to kiss you again, and you arch into him, sighing.

“You’re hard.” You say it so matter of factly, a simple observation, like it doesn’t carry any weight at the moment, but then you blush and carry on, “Can I touch you?”

Yearning, desiring, wanting… You feel that towards him and he still can’t quite wrap his head around the fact, so it takes him a moment, just a sliver of a second, to nod, then to say it aloud, “Yes.”

You lean in impossibly closer, his hands are still kneading your breasts and he thinks you’re going to kiss him again, and you do, but only for a moment, before you’re looking down at the bulge in his pants and you’re snaking a hand across his lap. He swears his whole body jolts when your hand lands over the zipper of his pants, and you look at him with the same starry eyes that a scholar looks at a new discovery.

“You’ll tell me… if it feels good right? Or if it’s bad?” you ask quietly, biting your lip, and Atsumu can only nod, not trusting himself to speak and not quite believing that anything you do would feel bad anyways.

You give another experimental touch over his pants, like you’re familiarizing yourself, and then finally you tug at the zipper, fumble for a second with both hands at the button, and then struggle to shove his pants down his thighs.

The moment is surreal and Atsumu can still hardly believe he’s touching you while you’re touching him, his brain is too hazy to even think of feeling insecure, and your mutual want and curiosity and longing are so palpable that shame would be negligible anyways.

When it’s just his underwear shielding his hardness from your prying eyes, your gaze flickers back up to him and you smile, small, shy. “Can I see?” you whisper, and he gulps.

“Y-Yeah,” he stammers out a verbal response this time, and you beam blindingly and it feels like he’s standing on the beach, all salt and sweat and heat and sun, and then a breeze blows by, and your hand is wrapped around him, and it feels so good.

You’re staring too, probably in a more respectable manner than he’d been ogling you, but at least you’re taken aback too. And you speak again, in that same deadpan way, “It’s big,” and he’s red again.

He reminds himself that he still has two handfuls of your chest, and tries to preoccupy himself with that fact instead of the twitch of his cock in your hand as you give a slow stroke, but it’s a futile attempt. One of his hands squeezes your breast and you yelp. He apologizes and moves to pull his hands back but you use your free hand to stop him, to smile (please don’t stop smiling, he thinks), you are amused, and he smiles back sheepishly, keeps touching you.

He groans and grunts and shivers as you touch him. You tease a finger over the wet tip, you circle your fingers loosely around his girth, then your hands descends further, fully feeling him, you’re learning him, and you want this now and you’re going to want it again later and he knows that’s still true even when he comes fast and hard–thin, white ropes all over your hand–because you look at him enthralled and in love and he’s not even embarrassed. He cups your face and kisses you and you complain playfully against his mouth about getting something dirty, so reluctantly, he releases you.

When you come back a minute later with your hand clean, he’s tucked back into his pants, leaning back on his hands. You both grin this time, him a little brighter, a little more cunning, cocking his head to the side. “Your turn?” he asks.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦

talk to me about atsumu!