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aceilora · 1 year ago

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summary: your relationship with aventurine and veritas was easy, a haven of comfort and care - it was one that started gradually but quickly became an integral part in your life. despite your anxities and worries about what people would think about being in a relationship with both of them, you couldn't imagine a life without them

a/n: i haven't written anything in two years :') this is just 1.4k non-coherent word vomit from 3am - i was listening to emei's don't know about the world and it just created this fluffy image in my brain that i needed to get out. i didn't bother proofreading this lol also please don't expect any more or consistent writing, idk how to write anymore

“hey baby, how was work?” aventurine wrapped his arms around you, leaning down to kiss you gently. you inhaled his familiar scent, instantly feeling like you were at home. he swayed back and forth with you for a bit before letting you go, opening the car door for you. “i missed you.”

“i was only gone for a couple of hours.”

“i still missed you.” he gave you a grin before starting the car, driving off to your usual groceries store. it was a routine that you’d gotten used to, one that so effortlessly made you feel safe and loved. aventurine would pick you up from work, you’d get anything you needed from the store before heading home to veritas and your three critters. you’d have dinner together, talk about your day and have a cozy night.

when you thought about it, you still didn’t quite understand how your relationship came to be. the three of you met at uni and quickly formed an inseparable, unlikely trio. though aventurine and veritas had always been very close despite their frequent bickering, you felt like you just kind of stumbled into this. you felt confusing at first, after all, you harboured feelings for both of them. one kiss had led to another, led to dates and more. it was a relief to know that they felt the same. neither of you had really talked about it as it just gradually grew into what it was now.

it started with you staying at aventurine’s large penthouse apartment more and more frequently until he finally asked you to move in. then one day, as you were building furniture for your shared bedroom, veritas brought home the three critters. seemingly he had felt pity upon encountering them and couldn’t separate them whatsoever, so he just took them all home. and there it was, your little family.

you knew you loved them as they did you. but recently, you’d noticed the stares of strangers and in particular your co-workers more. heard some whisperings about your unconventional relationship and it bugged you, even if you tried not to pay attention to it. it was slowly nagging on your soul and heart, making you question the relationship. was it really that odd? or frowned upon? could you really stay in this relationship, grow old and happy together?

“i booked a spa weekend for us at the end of the month!” aventurine’s rambling interrupted your trail of thoughts. he seemed excited as he always was whenever he could spoil you and veritas. “it was about time, both of you have been way too busy. i miss having my two loves all to myself.”

you snorted, taking his hand in yours. the way he incessantly spoiled you had made you uncomfortable at first until you realized that it was one of the ways he liked to express his love. he was happy being able to provide his loved ones with anything they could ask for, so that they would never have to worry about anything ever again. you lifted his hand to press a kiss against it. “i look forward to it.”

as you entered the apartment with aventurine, you were greeted by a rather calm and comfortable atmosphere. soft music was playing and when you rounded the corner, you could see veritas sitting on his armchair with his legs propped on the ottoman. the critters were sitting around him, staring at the book in his hands as if they could read as well. it was an adorable sight, the way their heads moved along with veritas’ hand movements whenever he flipped a page, the way he pet them every now and then. you wished you could secretly snap a photo without him noticing but he always did. then he would scowl and disappear from the frame, grumbling about hating having his photos taken. you never told him that you liked the way his cheeks slightly reddened whenever you did this.

“we’re back,” you called out, placing the bags on the counter before opening your arms and catching a critter that was hopping over to you. it made happy noises as you pet it gently. aventurine put the groceries away, turning slightly to peck veritas’ cheek as he padded over to you. “thought we could make some casserole.”

“we? you mean i cook and you watch,” veritas raised his eyebrows at aventurine.

he pouted, feigning outrage. “babe, i would never dare to! besides, i know you don’t mind.” he wrapped his arms around veritas, waddling around with him as he watched him cook. veritas would never admit to it but you could tell that he enjoyed himself by the way he leaned to the side to peck aventurine’s lips or absentmindedly held his hands whenever he was monitoring the food. you prepared the critters’ food, smiling as they crowded around you and mewled hungrily. veritas would lean over to spoon feed you every now and then, asking for your opinion on the meal before he finished preparing it.

after dinner, you spent your evening cuddled between veritas and aventurine as you watched your tv shows together before heading to bed.

aventurine was still showering when you crawled into bed with veritas, yawning tiredly. he propped himself up on his elbow, regarding you with an inquisitive look. “what’s wrong?” he asked pointedly, the kind of tone he used when he meant business and didn’t want any kind of dodging. you knew you couldn’t lie to him, he would see right through you. your first instinct was to say “nothing” but from the corner of your eyes, you could see him raising his eyebrows.

“i’ve just been noticing the looks we get when we’re out together. people stare or give judgemental looks, you know?” you started to explain, fidgeting anxiously. just thinking about this issue made your stomach churn. “then i heard some of my co-workers talk about us, saying judgemental things… some of it was kind of hurtful too.”

you glanced at him, suddenly feeling ashamed that you were even questioning anything. you knew that veritas and aventurine sincerely loved you and cared about you. “honestly, it made me question our relationship. if we can really grow old together like this or if it’s doomed to fail. whether it’s right for me to be with you.”

veritas looked at you as if you just said something unfathomably stupid. “there’s no reason to question what other people are saying. it’s your life to live, is it not?” he retorts and you can tell there’s a sigh in him that wants to escape. “are you happy? with this?” he gestures vaguely between you two and aventurine who just came out of the bathroom and joined you two in bed. “with us?”

“yes? of course i am,” you replied. aventurine glanced between you, trying to figure out what the conversation was about as he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer to him.

“then don’t question it. your happiness is all that matters. why pay any mind to fools that have nothing better to do than talk about you behind your back?” veritas pulled the covers up and gave everyone a quick kiss before reaching out to turn off the lights. his words made you feel more at ease, slowly melting any doubts and anxieties you had been feeling the past few weeks.

“who hurt you? do i have to make someone disappear?” aventurine asked yawning, placing his head on veritas’ chest. “i love you, always have, always will. what goes on in our relationship is none of their business. i think we’re a good team, aren’t we?”

you knew home was with them - they made you feel safe, loved and comfortable. you couldn’t imagine coming home to only one of them, it wouldn’t feel complete. you liked coming home to aventurine showing you little souvenirs he had brought from his business trips, seeing him play with the critters and the way his eyes lit up with a competitive gleam whenever you tried out new video games together. you liked when veritas sat with you and explained whatever new findings or research he was working on, his well contained enjoyment of being able to share it with you. the way he wrapped his arms around you and placed his chin on your head when he opened up to you and was vulnerable, as best as he could. you knew he didn’t like to be but was willing to in his own way. and you were grateful, for both of them.

when you watched veritas and aventurine bicker about who was hogging the blanket again, leaving the other cold, you knew you wouldn’t change a thing about this relationship for anything in the world. you loved them, with all your heart. there was nothing else you needed from this world - you were happy.

#GUESS WHOS BACK #BACK AGAIN #it’s like you never left #how does she do it?#who knows #but idc it was too good #maybe i also want to be a little sandwich #also you managed to make me soft for characters i don’t really like #so i’m also kinda mad #but shhhh #honkai star rail #her #ratio #aventurine

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aceilora · 2 years ago

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Open-Minded | Chapter 2: Dress

Pairing: Kuroo Tetsurou/Reader

Summary: Wherein Kuroo Tetsurou cannot seem to get it up for anyone but you. Luck has it that you meet again. Wires crossing—I mean—fates crossing and all that.

Words: 7454

Tags: Casual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Drinking, Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vague Depiction of a Blowjob, Post-Timeskip Haikyuu, Weddings (not reader’s), One Night Stands, Friendship, Misuse of Mirrors, Slight Sadism, Unsafe Sex, Light Praise Kink

A/N: Lmao this only took months, nbd. The banner is also from last year!!! HECK!

Thank you to @strawberrystepmom @touyangel @foreversaes. This one is for u @cu-teppei

If u find any mistakes, my dms and ask box are open. I would be forever grateful.

Links: Ao3 | Chapter 1 [COMPLETE]

You do regret looking him up. Because there’s nothing there. His name was mentioned once in an article that dated about ten years back but that’s pretty much it.

So when you chanced a call some couple of days later, you weren’t really surprised at the, "We're sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service," you received on the other end.

There's an ache in your chest that you ignore, trying not to feel bitter and berating yourself for feeling like a lovesick puppy over nothing. Over some guy who might not even exist. But you have physical proof, if not the ache between your legs after your evening together, then the business card you've yet to throw away sitting on top of your dresser.

He's no hallucination, so there’s no need to sour a fond memory, which is all he will be now.

"Uh.."

Kuroo’s chest is flushed when he looks down, "Huh? What's wrong?"

"Look, I don't mind a challenge but isn't this a bit much?" Underneath the fabric of his flayed open pants is his cock, lying limp and lifeless.

The woman in front of him stands up, "is it whiskey dick?"

"Uh…no," he scrambles to pull up his pants, "I had one drink." And the woman looks at him with raised eyebrows.

"First, you won't let me kiss you and then this," she buttons up her shirt and straightens out her skirt. Kuroo tries to reach out but she flicks his hand away, "Sleep it off. And thanks for the company," she slides on bright red heels and leaves a couple of thousand yen on the chest by the door, "you're a good talker at the very least."

Then the door shuts.

Kuroo groans into his palms. Sitting up to get clothed. He was reluctant to already stay at a random dingy love hotel anyway.

He'll just head home to sleep it off.

"How many times has it been? Four? Six?" Kenma swirls around his seat, a new one by the looks of it with plastic wrapping still on the joints of the expensive gaming chair. He looks bored out of his wits, fresh out of a 10-hour endurance stream to get to the highest rank of some shooter game.

"Don't—"

"There was the girl from the department store," Yaku recounts, "then the bar," another finger lifts from his closed fist, "the new receptionist at your office building—"

"If you weren't here for vacation," Kuroo buries himself into a pillow, "I'd have kicked you out."

"This is Kenma's house," Yaku mockingly answers at the threat.

"Exactly," Kenma replies, chewing on the aglet of his hoodie.

It wasn't necessarily his fault. He was trying. Since the unfortunate night that he met this stranger who left him with nothing, he's been having a hard time. Hard, for lack of a better word.

It was getting colder.

The days are shorter.

He's not gonna dwell on things that would make him feel, well, bad.

Seasonal depression, was it? He just doesn’t want to focus on it. Period.

"How's your phone doing, by the way?"

"He just bought a new one. Repairs won't fix the busted thing," Kenma dutifully answers for him. Nothing can be recovered aside from contacts and files saved on cloud storage.

"Give me your new number then," Yaku hands the other man his phone, empty contact already named as 'bedhead,' "I still can't believe that it got fucked up that bad."

Kenma nods, "It was wrong to hand Shouyo your phone."

There’s a headache forming behind his eyeballs, "I didn't know the kid had a strong enough reflex to punt my phone into the sun."

"And towards the sidewalk," Kenma whispers.

"Aaaaaand under the wheel of a truck," Yaku imitates a spike.

Kuroo tries to ignore the memory of Taketora's voice guffawing, saying that Hinata Shouyo basically isekai'd it.

"There, you're in my contacts again," he declares and Yaku snatches his phone back along with Kuroo's new one, swiping down his saved numbers.

"Man you're boring," the shorter man scrolls a little more, "it's either us or family or work on here."

"Give that back," he grabs but the other man is swift, turning away.

"None of the girls gave you their number? Don’t expect them to call?" He chuckles, "Don’t want to call them back?"

That stops him. He…never really left them his number in the first place, which says a lot when it’s second-nature to someone like him. And look, he was expecting someone to call but, well, there’s nothing he can do about that now.

He ignores the sinking feeling.

And if he's being honest, he's been doing a lot of ignoring things lately.

Kenma looks up from his screen, making him pause, “Have you printed new business cards yet?”

You've been cordially invited to the wedding of—

"They really pushed through it, huh?"

Please RSVP on or before—

"They said her dad threatened him."

"With a gun?"

"With a sword."

"Damn. For real?"

Your presence at our wedding is present enough but if we are honored with a gift from you, a monetary gift will be very much appreciated.

"Ugh. Wedding money."

"You don't have to, you know," you answer back to your colleague, lounging in the 'recreational smoking area' of your floor. Nothing recreational about all of that smoke though.

"It's tradition," replies another. "Though I'm sure they don't expect us to hand in more than what’s custom."

So it was true that your other co-worker—well, ex-co-worker after being forced to quit due to her 'risky pregnancy'—and the dude from sales have been getting it on.

You've all just been handed out an invitation. Elaborate and bordering on gaudy with fancy-looking script on textured paper. Something you'd expect from people who have resources and connections.

If you were another person you'd say that she's a lucky girl. But you can't even handle yourself right now, let alone a husband and kids. So this entire affair sounds like a nightmare.

“Guess we have to go shop for clothes,” your co-worker blows smoke into the air. And you think a part of your soul escapes at the sigh you make at her words.

You rummage through a third set of an outdated cocktail dress, “This won’t do.”

The party calls for formal wear. And all you’ve got are dresses from when you actually attended parties in your teens. Like your grandmother’s birthday. Or that freshman orientation from university. It’s a wonder how you haven’t thrown them away. Though maybe it’s because you haven’t grown much since then thinking that maybe you can wear the garments again.

Nope.

Just as you’re putting the frilly and pastel and empire cut garments into a box for donation, your phone vibrates. A barrage of messages in a group chat on a spontaneous schedule to go shopping the following weekend.

You quickly type out a reply and mentally count the budget you'd need.

Dress, shoes, wedding money.

Enough. There’s enough. Enough is okay, right?

Contrary to your co-workers’ exasperated complaints about their sudden participation at the wedding, they seemed excited to shop for clothes, ignoring the price tag and all.

You were co-workers with the girl—and friends if you stretch it. Beyond her personal drama, you have worked together for years. It’s only fair to find a piece of joy in it.

It’s at your fifth store when they stopped chattering about work drama and delved more seriously at your current concern. They’ve already gotten their dresses but you just can’t seem to decide.

“It’s an investment.”

You stare at the nice silk piece being held up.

“A classic is something you can wear again.”

Then at another green lacy number being shoved to the side.

“Or to attract wanted attention,” they both look to you, knowingly because they saw how you disappeared during the closing ceremonies. It doesn’t take a genius to get what happened. But you’re not going to entertain that thought for now. You’re not going to mince the nitty gritty details about how that evening had included the sexiest and unsexiest moments of your entire life. Simultaneously.

Legs aching from the long walk and standing too much, your patience is wearing a little thin. You snatch the dress one is stretching out towards you, “Not if you drink yourself to sleep first.” It’s a low jab but all she does is make an ugly cackle, shooing you away.

The dress is a nice red one. The bodice gathered into thin stripes and not too constricting by the looks of it with the skirt reaching the floor, with maybe a bit of alteration needed. You rub the fabric between your fingers, “It’s layered chiffon,” the clerk explains while rubbing the satin fabric underneath, “a good find.”

The price tag, albeit not cheap, is still less pricey than what the other two have bought.

Still, you try it on. And it’s nice, convenient for the zipper on the side instead of the back, and you like the way it drapes on your chest and how it flows down. The sleeves are soft and off-shoulder, skin showing underneath a layer of translucent cloth. It has long thin straps for some creative styling on the waist, and you reckon you'd need to ask for advice on that one.

Overall it looks innocent, conservative enough for a wedding. But with a hint of a promise, a tease on the sleeve and the bodice. The gathered fabrics look flattering. It makes you feel good.

You walk out of the fitting room genuinely smiling for the first time today.

"She'll take it," one decides for you and when you send her a look she adds, "come on, I'm hungry and you like it so buy the damn thing."

"We've tried like ten dresses already," one yawns, "and this looks the best on you." Like you're wearing it and not it wearing you.

It's reaching late afternoon, as well, and you want to get home to catch up on chores before the week starts anew. Not needing much convincing to spend more time dallying otherwise, you return and change back into your clothes. The clerk guides you on how to style the straps, like a bow that can hug your waist or neck, something you can decide later.

In less exciting facets of the day, you pay for the dress in credit installments. Six months.

Cool.

Adults are just kids with plastic cards, after all.

You also pick up a shawl to cover up if it gets cold at the venue.

The shoes were easy afterwards, something classic and comfortable since they’d be covered by the skirt, anyway.

You swipe your card again, trying not to squint at the receipt or crumple it.

It feels like ticking off a checklist with this, but what’s the goal? You hold up the dress to your chest when you get home, swaying the thing from side to side in front of the only expensive thing in your apartment, a wide floor-length mirror handed down by a cousin who moved abroad. Well, the second expensive thing, after the dress.

You feel at the stitching and admire the draping, and yeah, maybe feeling good about looking good is what matters. Even for a little bit.

“This looks pretentious,” Kenma holds up the invitation like it’s diseased. He jolts a bit when Kuroo drives over a road bump. He’s driving Kenma to lunch with his mom, a condition she asked for when Kenma had wanted to move away. An ‘only child’ thing, maybe.

Kuroo snatches it back, “It’s fine, just unexpected,” he adjusts in his seat, “last time we talked was in college, now this," he side eyes the thing, dropping it back on Kenma's lap as he shifts his gear. "I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“A wedding? You’re 27 so it’s not really surprising,” his friend shrugs, fingers on the zipper of his bag.

“And you’re 26 so you don’t need me chauffeuring you around, yeah?”

He wanted to correct him and say that he meant he's been disconnected with the guy all these years but instead tilts his head towards Kenma. “Your net worth can buy like ten cars,” he clicks his tongue, “or ten drivers.”

“Shut up,” the other man grumbles, further bending into himself, “I pay for gas.”

Kuroo turns back to the topic, “Besides, it’s 2022, not 1970. Nobody does things like this anymore.”

“Seems like an old timey family. Shotgun wedding?”

“I don’t judge.”

“No right to,” Kenma jabs, snickering.

“Yeah yeah,” he reaches to Kenma’s head, shoving it away, “Cut it out.” And Kenma does.

The rest of the ride has the man messing with the radio, and when there’s nothing good on, he starts to bounce his leg.

Kenma only stops the motion when Kuroo’s engine dies on the curb of a mall. And Kenma deflates. His entire demeanor screams discomfort. And Kuroo wishes he can reassure his oldest friend. He’d always seem off-balance whenever these lunches happen.

Kuroo, despite his understanding of modern tech and media, has a conventional job. And can empathize with a mother's distress about an unusual career path. No matter how successful.

“So are you gonna go?” Kenma bends down the door after getting out of the car.

“Be weird not to,” And really, he can only roll his eyes.

“Well,” the other man looks down to his feet, bouncing lightly on his feet, “have fun,” he tries at a smile, and fails.

“Tell Auntie I said hi.”

Kenma stops again, sighing, “She’s gonna nag at me again for not having a girlfriend.”

“She can nag for the two of us then.”

“Gross,” Kenma slams his door and he can almost hear Kenma’s thoughts of, ‘I’m single because I want to be, not because I’m a loser,’ and Kuroo can’t help but chuckle.

The venue is at a newly built hotel one subway transfer away from your apartment. One you've seen on the news, a premium luxury getaway in the heart of the city. Told right after a segment on international war crimes.

You're really living the high life these days.

Prepping for the wedding, you try to keep everything simple, from hair to makeup, shaving time by avoiding the rush hour of the commute by carpooling. And your invitation is secured inside a clutch beside an envelope of money, freshly withdrawn and still smelling of future weeks with cup ramen. And hope that none of your colleagues get married any time soon.

The grand ballroom of the hotel sprawls on marble flooring, the ceiling adorned with vines and flowers. All fresh, too, with golden chandeliers hanging on almost every square meter bathing the venue in warm lighting. The tables have crystal vases, candelabras, and table napkins with an embroidered family seal. Much like the invitation, it's a bit much.

But it's pretty.

You sit at a table with your name on a card, after being led by a super professional looking wedding planner. You're joined with other co-workers, filling the eight seats with friendly chatter. There's a charcuterie spread on each table and you find it no issue to dig in as the other guests slowly arrive.

The bride and groom walk in after a dimming of lights and a short countdown. They've already said their vows, attended only by their extended family. But, with the amount of crying aunties who have walked past you, you reckon that the ceremony isn't as small a gathering either.

"No point hiding it, huh?" Your co-worker nudges you. And you look up at the bride, wedding dress hugging her waist and showing a rounded bump.

You don't judge.

Once they've settled in and the music has started—a live performance—a host starts with the program proper which includes, unsurprisingly, a mish mash of traditional and modern (hell, western) rites. It’s like they can’t decide on what to do with their own wedding party. Or to give them the benefit of the doubt, they do know, it’s just not the couple’s decision to make alone.

And the food is just as expensive as the decor. Hors d'oeuvres piled high on long tables at each corner of the grand ballroom. There are high tables for standing guests too, passing along business cards, and waiters going around with drinks and serving food. The event is trying to be both an intimate and networking venue simultaneously.

Another co-worker holds up a crumbly quiche the size of a child’s palm, snickering, “Hah! Horse divorce,” before pushing the tiny thing inside their mouth.

Kuroo gets to the venue late. The taxi he took from the Shinkansen was a saving grace from the six hour ride. He's packed for the night, a damage mitigation plan. With the week he's had, a full night's sleep later is all he can ask for if he can't get a night bus home.

He hitches his backpack a little bit higher on his shoulders as he steps inside the air conditioned ballroom and the familiar itch he feels during business gatherings makes itself present. He's used to it by now, but a part of him still feels a pang of doubt whenever he's surrounded by so many unfamiliar people.

He’s greeted by suits upon suits upon suits of gray and muddy brown, unkempt hair, eyes not regarding the dancing couple in the center, business cards being presented, and even a flash of…product samples? Half the guests appear to be business partners, representatives of companies the couple or their family wants to network with.

And maybe that’s why he was asked to come too. He feels his exhaustion multiply tenfold as the planner leads him to his designated seat for the evening.

Kuroo is surprised to know that he is seated nearer the principal sponsors than the back end where the real business is apparently ongoing. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the back of his chair, accepts the offered drink, and starts to take bites of the pastrami on the wooden block.

He's in the middle of a small conversation with one of the bride's uncles when a finger taps his shoulder.

You notice a messy head of hair where the spotlights swirl in purples and blues, casting a wonderful dance of lights in the ballroom.

He's in a three piece suit (tailored and fitted well even from this distance), setting down a backpack (backpack?) on his seat. He looks to fit in VIP even with just his posture but then again, he is sitting near the front. The definition of Very Important in functions like these.

He's deep in thought, eyes shifting around the area, seemingly wary. Well, it's odd that he looks like he didn't come here for friends. Especially with where he's sat. Maybe that's part of the networking that's been happening around you since he does fit the bill.

And honestly, a part of you feels bad. It's a nice wedding, polarizing theme aside, with good food and good wine.

You get lost in a conversation about the recent gymnastics championships, but your eyes always land on him eventually. You were thinking about crossing the ballroom to him when a woman taps his shoulder and tackles him into a hug just as he turns around.

Ah, he's with a friend.

That's good.

You almost embarrassed yourself there.

And in hindsight, you shouldn't be making rash decisions like that. One, it’s a recipe for humiliation, and two, you are not friends. You barely know him.

A traitorous image of sweat dripping down his torso flashes in your mind. Well, in that regard, you do.

Taking a bite of a biscuit with a mix of tuna and onions with garnishing of microgreens, you start to feel like his presence is a bad omen. You cross your arms and sip on fancy wine with a bottle that has this curling script of a label you can't be bothered to read right now.

“You’re here!”

That voice.

“I’m so happy to see you,” it continues and Kuroo gets pulled in a hug.

No.

This is why he was invited. Now everything makes sense.

“It’s been how many years now?”

The voice is shrill in his ears and Kuroo tries not to flinch. He's never felt a shiver run up his spine this bad since his last job interview.

Lights shift on stage and the couple steps under a heavy spotlight for their first dance. He turns to the voice and smiles, kindly. He's always kind.

"How have you been?" She now sits beside him, ignoring the greeting of his now-sister-in-law's relatives.

The groom’s sister was his junior back in college, someone he always figured liked him in some way. One he can admit seems to have a few screws loose. He recounts the exes her brother has told him about that one time they drank in university.

She never confessed (she didn’t really need to), but with how she clung to his arm as they sat, it seems like she’s acting upon her feelings now.

There's a pinch to his brow when he smiles at her quip. Too sweet. What a terrifying girl.

Five years seems like such a long wait but she lays it on pretty thick with a, "We haven't seen each other in so long," and a stroke to his arm. Plus a, "It's the perfect time to catch up," with her shoe running up his pant leg as he hides his grimace while trying to enjoy his drink.

In hindsight, he should've just bolted but goddamn does the whiskey taste good.

Your eyes can't help but gravitate back to him. And you can't blame yourself when he's so damn big. He sits half a head taller than the other guests, and when the ballroom cleared out, he's just too damn easy to spot.

He's enjoying his time with his lady friend, it seems. Her hands all over him as he downs his nth drink of the night.

You didn't count.

You absolutely didn't.

(It's his third. Neat, same as how you met him. Whiskey, judging by the amber color and shape of his glass.)

And then the couple gets a request to share a kiss. You look away.

You guessed that he's not driving, possibly has a room reserved for him and the girl. You focus your attention on the flower arrangement on your table, purple, blue, pretty (it doesn't work). Your eyes flit back to him.

Truly you wonder why you give him the mental load. Though maybe it's out of concern. But you know you're not that kind. Not to just anyone, at least.

When the music starts up again for more of the program—whatever thing it is couples do with the thigh garter—Kuroo wobbly but quickly excuses himself. And his date visibly deflates, crossing her arms over her chest and huffing.

Once again you consider interjecting, somehow it feels right even if you have no right to. But he comes back a little later, with his necktie loosened and the top button of his shirt unbuttoned. He's looking more…human.

You sincerely hope he feels more like one too.

By the time you've polished your third plate of dessert, your co-workers asked you to join them for a smoke at the hotel's outdoor cafe.

The event has winded down to a lull after the showing of an edited video of the couple as children and you think it's about time for them to cut the cake. So on and so forth until eventually the ballroom is opened for the aunties in attendance, which is best avoided.

You go with them, albeit reluctantly, looking back at Kuroo and seeing him leaned back on his chair with his suit coat folded on his arm, showing his matching vest, his tie now swung over his neck. And with the woman still draped on the opposite arm.

It's a sin for someone to look so good. And you're a bigger sinner for looking.

The cafe is in the courtyard of the hotel, surrounded by a well-kept garden and ponds with fountains. The decor is early 1900’s French design with candelabra lamps and ornate arches on the windows, mingling within are locals and foreign businessmen alike even at this later hour. There’s low jazz music playing as you walk closer and you almost swoon at the smell of coffee.

"Who were you checking out?" Your co-worker blows smoke on your face.

"Nobody," you fan around your face, leaning on one of the carved half-walls surrounding the cafe and garden.

dabbing a napkin at the skin.

She takes a hit again, holding it in before declaring, "Liar."

"Is he cute?" The other interjects, handing you a small mirror as you dab a napkin on your smudged eyeliner. You can’t seem to get the pigment off.

“Yeah. Or hot?” she flicks the cigarette ash, “Should at least be hot, right?”

Hot?

That makes you pause. Sure, he’s hot. Just hot, and none of your business.

Everyone had more than enough to drink at this point, and you reckon that it's their last smoke before calling up a driver for the three of you to head home.

"What table is he at?" the other continues, stepping in your space. They both murmur to each other about how you’ve been looking at the other tables and, ‘it can’t be the old geezers!’ with a, ‘I’m half-blind I couldn’t get a proper look with all of the strobe lights!’

"Ok enough of this," you brush them off, crumpling the napkin in your palm, “I’ll go to the restroom.”

One holds up a phone to her ear, "You have ten minutes or we won't wait up."

You head straight to the ladies restroom, wanting to give yourself a moment to freshen up when you hear a—

"Come ooooon…"

And a heavy groan.

"Daddy booked me the best room!"

Another long groan, quieter this time. More resigned.

"Well, I guess, one after my brother's and my new sister…"

You slowly trace back to the voice, finding Kuroo and the girl slumped over a poor potted plant beside an indoor fountain.

He appears to be completely out of it. And his date is impatiently stomping expensive heels on the black marble floor. So hard you fear it would shatter under the red bottoms.

You are about to exit the scene—because it's really none of your business—when his eyes shoot to you.

And really, you know that look. Shock and recognition mixed into golden but hazy eyes. Like a kitten left out in the rain trying to get adopted. And your mother did tell you that you have a penchant for strays.

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

He really gives a girl no choice.

"Hey, Kuroo-san—" you call out.

His head is reeling.

He really should've been more in control. His ass is getting kicked by alcohol and fatigue. It's not a good mix.

"Excuse me but we're busy here?"

There's a hand on his shoulder, "Suzuki-san from that uh, protein bar company, remember him? He's calling for you."

It's her, staring straight at him, lying for him, eyes wide and round. Pleading him to agree, to acquiesce, to walk and meet this Suzuki-san. And how can he deny her that? He’s an empathic man. So he nods in faux recognition.

"Come now," a voice comes out of her, pitched higher than what he recalls, more professional, "he's waiting for us back there. Yeah,” a clearing of her throat, “in the ballroom."

His junior, she's still here. Right. Yeah, no. He doesn't want to get involved with any of that.

Kuroo slurs to his junior, "I gotta go," before taking the offered hand of this familiar face. This shining beacon in god awful timing. Of all places.

His blood buzzes under his skin. And if he was a little more sober, he'd be embarrassed at how clammy his hands have gotten in hers.

"Enjoy your stay, miss," she bows to the girl who took him here.

This perpetrator, shock painted all over her face, stomps off to the elevators., "Screw this." Vaguely he can hear her, mouthing at how he was always like this. Putting work first.

Is that really an insult at this point? At least the alibi worked.

And on the—literal—other hand, she's here.

In the flesh.

He wants to say so much. Like, 'Hey. Yeah, I know. Wanna start over? Has been a few months. We can get something awful and chill. The air here is stifling. Whaddaya say?'

But all he manages is a nod to her reassuring smile while limping his way back to the ballroom.

You pull him aside, away from the girl and far enough from the ballroom that you can hear yourself think over the heartbeat in your eardrums. You ask a passing waiter for a glass of water.

"We have got to stop meeting like this," you pull his coat from his arm, putting it around his shoulders and offering him a seat in one of the now-empty tables. You’re near the edge of the ballroom, away from the dancing aunties and their dance instructors.

"Inebriated?" The man has the gall to smile under his lashes, or maybe that's all he can do right now.

"No," you clarify, "at massive fancy events." You pass him the glass of water and he ignores it.

"I like seeing you all dolled up. But I’d like it better if you were—"

"Drink," you pull a seat for yourself and notice the way he stares at the dip of your dress as you sit down.

And softer, "I thought I'd never see you again."

"Drink," you insist and he takes a sip. A gulp. Eventually finishing the glass of water and you ask another wandering waiter for more.

He breathes deep after downing the glass, "You gonna take me home?"

"I'm taking you to your hotel room,” you pause, “if you have one?"

He just shrugs. So unhelpful.

"Kuroo-san, did you plan on staying anywhere tonight?"

A shake to his head comes after, looking down at his shoes. Still wobbling and woozy.

"Were you supposed to stay this late?"

That makes him look up, "Uh, no. Supposed to," he clears his throat, "get a night bus back."

"Have you booked a ticket?"

"Nope."

"Yeah, okay. What were you thinking, going here?" You tap your shoe in impatience. And nerves.

"Wasn't really thinking much," he shrugs again and it's when you realize that this conversation is pointless.

Aside from his swaying, he's been sneaking obvious looks at you. And it's making your skin prickle in a way you don't want from an obviously drunk man.

"Alright," you put your palms on your lap, "I'm taking you home then." A part of you wants to reassure him that it's for his own safety. But you both know that you're just reassuring yourself.

On the cab ride home, Kuroo wouldn't stop talking, mumbling about how the few short months have been while leaning his head on the glass window.

"I never got your call," he says, still leaning on the glass. He has a plastic bag in his hands, courtesy of the hotel’s kind doorman, just in case.

“You gave me a fake number," is your curt reply.

“Didn't. Phone broke," Kuroo defends, mind slurring at the few days between when he met you and when Hinata broke his phone.

“Like hell I’d believe that," you put your shawl up a little higher.

He puts a finger in the window drawing a smiley face, “I thought you trust me?”

“Doubting my decisions so far," seeing the gesture though, you can't help but soften the dip of your brows.

"My phone got busted two weeks after the Olympics. Long story," he recalls and shifts in his seat, leg bumping into yours, "but I thought the rule for calling was three days."

You give him a flat stare at that, "And I still think you've had too much to drink, Kuroo-san."

"Can I be candid for a moment?"

Breathing deeply, you gesture for him to continue.

“Is it weird to say that I miss you? I mean we're basically strangers—”

“Maybe. But we have met twice now, I guess. That might mean something,” in the larger scheme of things, maybe, “or not.”

“But I know soooo much about you,” he waggles his brows and it comes off more sleepy than seductive.

��Pervert.”

“You like it,” he just smiles at you, a little loopy, incredibly flushed. And cute, something you thought would have been beyond him if you just met.

"I thought you were bad at this flirting thing," you've stopped in front of your apartment mansion.

He shrugs and insists on paying the cab, “I’ve gotten a bit of practice." Immediate regret paints his handsomely red face.

"Yeah," you help trying to hoist him out of the car, "that's a no."

It's late, and cold. You can't wait to head inside. Rubbing your palms together, you unlock the main door code.

He stands beside you, leaning close to your face as the cab drives off, "Hey, sorry. Too much?"

"Just…inappropriate," you wave for him to follow you to the elevator. You feel his presence, solid right behind you.

"Because it's me?"

"Because you're drunk."

"I'm not."

"You are and we need to fix that," your floor opens and he follows you like a puppy. Even as you unlock your door and take your shoes off.

"Sit on the couch for me."

Kuroo follows with an ‘oof’ resting his head on the back, legs splayed, and eyes half-closed.

You grab your last bottle of sports drink from the fridge, handing it to him by pressing it on his forehead. He jumps, holding your wrist before taking the bottle from your hand.

How can a man’s skin be so cold and so awfully warm at the same time?

“I’m gonna pee so much at this point,” he sighs, taking a swig.

“That’s the point,” you pat his thigh, asking him to move so you can sit beside him.

The silence in your apartment is stuffy, especially with him here. You grab the remote to turn on the late evening news.

“Ooh!” He points to the drink’s packaging, “company-sponsored drinks, I see.”

“If you knew where I worked,” you take the bottle from him and take a sip, “why didn’t you look me up?”

His brows are furrowed, skin flushed, “I’m a pervert, not a creep.”

“Well, I looked you up,” feeling no guilt at the admission.

“Really? What did you find?” He’s starting to become more sure with his movements, more sober, but only slightly.

“Just some random article,” you take another, handing him back the bottle, “of this cool high school volleyball team from Tokyo.”

He stares at the lip of the bottle, “An indirect kiss? Dear me."

“You were less insufferable when you were trying to get in my pants.”

“I still am,” he confesses.

“You’re drunk," a statement of fact, not a suggestion.

“So if I wasn’t you would?”

You glare at him.

“Sorry," he digs his teeth on his lower lip.

“Kuroo-san, if you didn’t drink too much,” you say calmly, “you wouldn’t even be in this situation."

“My savior."

“Indeed. So you sleep here, I’ll get ready for bed myself.”

Despite your words, Kuroo dutifully follows you to your room like it’s a house tour.

“Nice room,” he scans around. Unsure what to expect, it’s a nice surprise to see bootleg stuffed animals on a shelf beside your bed.

"You sentimental too?"

"Same tricks won't work on me."

You notice the moment his eyes land on the mirror.

"It doesn't fit, I know," you defend the offensive thing, "I don't know where else to put it."

"No, it's fine," he sits at the edge of your bed, ensuring your stuffed animals remain undisturbed in their pristine positions.

He pulls at your arm, "Come here."

"We can't," you pull away.

"Why not?"

"You're drunk?" You pointedly look at the crotch of his pants, untented despite his verbal willingness. He thought he'd be hard by now, like you're some cure to his predicament or maybe he really did imbibe too much.

"Okay," he loosens his tie.

"No, okay?"

"No, rest your back to me," he sits further up, moving into the wall.

"Kuroo-san," you stop him short, kneeling one leg on the bed as it creaks from the weight of two people for the first time.

"Tetsurou, actually."

"I'm not saying that."

"Okay, but I have an idea," he touches your forearm, "hear me out?"

"No," you pull it away, straightening your back as you're kneeling on the bed.

"Give me a chance, I'm trying to prove a hypothesis."

You expected your disgusted grimace to put him off, maybe calm him down. But his eyes just grow a little wider, a little prettier.

And he's warm and strong and smells really really nice.

"Please?"

Kuroo calls you by your name, your first name. Like he's testing it on his lips while tasting it on his tongue, how the syllables roll. And you see clearly how it affects him.

Restraint can only keep you for so long.

His hands brush on your hips for a moment too long.

A beat.

You feel a flip switch.

You want to eat him alive.

Kuroo stops when you dig your nails into his shoulder.

He sits behind you, long legs spread so wide you almost think he can wrap them around your bed if he tried.

Your legs are spread too, calves perched on top of his knees as the skirt of your dress is hiked above your thighs.

His breath is warm on your skin, eyes trained as it disappears under the chiffon, then to the too-gaudy too-convenient mirror in front of the bed.

"This is embarrassing," you whisper, cheek pressed to your shoulder as you blink away tears.

Kuroo does something and you jolt, followed by the near-silent sound of his fingers moving deeper inside you. He groans deep and slurring, "Yeah, that's the spot."

You feel his hardness grind you from behind as you come to, still lightheaded but lucid enough to give him two weak taps.

It feels like it's been hours. Maybe it has been. You don't really care at this point.

"Yeah?" He sounds breathless, like he hasn't noticed his own arousal, focused entirely on yours.

"Your hypothesis?" You don't mean it to come out so breathy, but he's been persistent and eager. Not a complaint. Never.

"Huh," he stills, "oh."

"Oh?" You wiggle your hips experimentally, his reaction—a low rumble in his chest—spurs you on. You do it again.

"...Hah," he leans forward to breathe onto your neck. You feel almost bad and ashamed at the rate of which your desire is escalating but something within you is also wired wrong and enjoys this…so much.

"Oh," untangling his arms from around you, you face him and scoot down your bed. He's flushed perfectly on the top of his cheeks and on the veins of his neck. And sometime between then and now, he's loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. The blush doesn't extend to his chest, unfortunately, but the radiating warmth does.

“What are you doing?” His fringe is sticking to his forehead. For someone whose hands are so in control, his entire body seems to be the same composition as half-cooked pasta. So pliant under you.

“Returning the favor?" Your hands cup the bulge of his slacks, damp and hot.

"Oh…" Then he nods. And nods. And nods.

You undo his belt, he lifts his hips as you drag drag drag his bottoms down and off. “Are you clean?” You ask mostly to see him flush deeper.

And it works.

“I am," he pouts, brows furrowed deep.

“Said you got a lot of practice," mouth close enough to his cock that he feels the warmth of your breath. "You’re giving me mixed signals here," a light touch to the weeping head, "what’s a girl to think?”

“I told you, I haven’t,” he chokes, “not since—”

“Not since me?” You crawl on your knees to him, “That’s cute. That's so absolutely cute, Kuroo-san.” Some part within you feels sick and twisted but so so good at the way his eyes drift close at the compliment.

“Please," he gasps with your hands wrapping on the base of his shaft, "put your mouth on me."

You think it obvious that the smile you give him promises no satisfaction from acquiescing. You want to, but he's just so cute.

And it doesn't take long for Kuroo to sit up himself to push you into the pillows of your bed. You half expected it but the force still leaves you breathless.

"Don't tease me," he's got tears on his eyelashes, "it's been too long. I haven't—" He pushes his hips down and grinds your inner thigh. It's ticklish, but his eyes are sewn shut and his breath stutters at every drop of his weight on yours.

You shift your hips so his cock would grind at your folds and the motion wrenches a moan from him. Too loud to be respectable.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—"

"Easy," you tell him, easing him and his breathing, "you have me."

Still in your dress, you allow him to grind himself on you, smearing your wetness and drenching himself in it. It's a quiet couple of minutes with Kuroo murmuring something you don't understand.

"Kuroo-san?"

"Huh?" He sounds groggy pulled away from his thoughts.

"What were you saying?"

"I want…"

"You want?"

His eyes are so dark.

"I want to put it in."

You raise your eyebrow at this.

Wasn't that the point?

"I'm scared," he continues softly, belying his cock twitching underneath your skirt.

"Of?"

He looks at you, pleading. Drool collects on his mouth making it shine under the light.

Oh.

"That's not a problem," you pull his face close and suck on his bottom lip, "I'm here, not going anywhere this time. You can have me as many times as you want."

The relief on his face is immediate, and he adjusts to push himself in with zero warning.

“Oh god, it’s so wet. You’re so—haah…”

Distantly, you think of all the decisions you made tonight that led you to this point. But more than anything, you feel him in your throat.

He pulls out entirely when you half-scream, apologies on his tongue. But you pull him by his hair, at the base of his neck he almost purrs, “Tetsurou,” your voice even, “do not even think of stopping right now.”

You wish you could capture the relieved look on his face when he enters you again. But you can’t, so instead you swallow his answering moan with your lips.

The dress is a mess, catching most of your fluids that it almost feels disgusting if it didn't fill you with so much pride your heart could burst.

Your heartbeat is still pounding on your ears when he speaks again, having rolled off of you not two minutes prior.

"Remember how you didn't let me get you breakfast?"

"Couldn't, not didn't," you correct him softly. You’re bone dry and aching in the best of ways. A post-coital date invite isn't what you expect from one night stands. Two nights now, technically. But it isn’t unwelcome.

"Well, what do you think?"

"What do I think about what?"

"Breakfast?” He sounds so hopeful, you wouldn’t dare break his heart. “You and me?"

You start to feel the stickiness and the disgust—you needed a shower an hour ago—but with it the warmth, "Yeah,” you get up slowly and stretch, “sounds good."

He clambers after you ask him to join you.

Cutlery clinks on ceramic as the smell of freshly cooked rice and miso soup permeates the kitchen.

"Do you like it?"

"Like it?" Your heart is light, "I wish someone would cook for me like this more often."

His eyes go wide at the sudden confession. You did just spend an obscene amount of time in bed with him, but boundaries, right?

Your brows furrow, finger shushing his lip, "Don't get the wrong idea."

"Right," he nods, "not your boyfriend. But we can totally do this again," he clears his throat, "the breakfast?"

He pushes and picks himself up fast, something you admire. "Sure," you smile into your cup of coffee, "when I can squeeze you in my schedule."

There's a pause, a hopeful pause.

"Especially since you have my number now, don't you?"

You don't know what's brighter, the sunlight streaming from the window or the smile on his face.

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