The Second Kuroo Bursts Into The Kitchen With Your Son Of Fourteen Months In His Arms, You Know You’ve

Fill-a-Page February day 23!

I was in a Kuroo kind of mood today. His hair is such a disaster zone omg.

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 [ miya atsumu x f!reader ]

word count : 2k // notes: no warnings just me having a crush on atsumu <3

“Are you still single?”

It was an overused taunt between the both of you.

Miya Atsumu, the nation’s bachelor’s twin brother had recently proposed to his girlfriend and so he and his bride had hired you to ensure their wedding day would be perfect.

“And who are you to say that, Miya-san?” You smile, swiping your journal with all of your plans away from his sweaty hold.

He sticks his tongue out when you laugh in triumph.

Each of his friends had fallen into the curse of matrimony—as Atsumu would call it.

His teammates from Inarizaki, from MSBY, down to the national team, and even his rivals have all settled down and some of them even had the “privilege” of having children.

He had attended the majority of the weddings as the best man—being the constant single friend; and you had attended all as their wedding planner and that was how you met the ever so charming Miya Atsumu.

“What’s the excuse this time? Commitment issues? You know... you should probably be planning your own wedding soon, Y/N.” He smiles, playing with the nameplate on your desk. “We’re not getting any younger.”

“I don’t really see the need to get married. Commitment isn’t a joke, Miya-san—“

“Miya-san is my father, just call me Atsumu.”

“I like my job, Miya-san.” You flip through the demands of the couple. They wanted fancy but simple, memorable but special, a garden theme sounded nice but having the reception at a beach wouldn’t hurt, Elegant but hints of youth would be nice.

That was as far as their requests went. The rest was up to the both of you.

Being a good friend of the bride and as the wedding planner, you had the duty of making their day perfect to suit both of their interests.

As the brother of the groom, Atsumu was left in your care to help you out—a request from the engaged couple.

Their special day rested in both of your hands.

Atsumu fumbles with his phone. “I’m just saying, most girls at our age tend to worry about settling down. And we’ve had at least seventeen weddings together in the last six years, right? Seven of them, I was the best man—not that I’m counting or anything.”

He miscounted.

The both of you had seen each other at nineteen weddings total and at every wedding since the third, you would taunt each other regarding your relationship status.

He charmed a bridesmaid or cousin from two of those events but declined their company, danced on one of the tables two weddings ago and Osamu had to bring him down. He cried five weddings prior to this one because that wedding was where his first love married someone else that wasn’t him.

Rumors said he had been sleeping around since then—Atsumu would leave an indefinite and open response but his brother, Osamu, would oppose to say that Atsumu wasn’t the type to do so; and who better to believe than his own twin?

Despite all those times you mentioned you hated seeing his face at all those weddings, the fondness in your eyes reserved for him (and only him) would say otherwise.

When you’re about to lose your mind, he was always there to rescue you and take you away for a bit. Whenever one of the plans goes wrong, he somehow helps you come up with an alternative thanks to his connections.

He was spontaneous yet reliable and you loved having him around.

And his signature cocky grin just made you just want to kiss the corners of his lips.

With a lazy yet cocky smile, Atsumu pocketed his phone. “Why don’t we get married next? That way you can finally plan the wedding of your dreams.”

“No thank you, do you have any idea how expensive weddings are?” You answered rather too fast.

“Money won’t be a concern with me.”

“It’s still a no.”

“Suit yourself.”

Five weddings ago—the same one where he cried his heart out, you slept with Atsumu Miya. The moment his warm hands pressed themselves onto your hips almost like a cry for help, you foolishly allowed him to have his way with you. He wreaked of tears, chardonnay and red wine, cologne from Ralph Lauren, and caramel tarts that night.

There was something about the way he whispered your name instead of hers like a prayer, how he carefully undressed you and looked at you like you were everything he wanted, how his feverish yet impatient touch burned on your skin, how his tongue felt and tasted like caramel against yours, or how he kissed you and said that he loved you.

You left immediately after he passed out on the pale white sheets of the hotel bed.

“Are you still single?” Atsumu’s habitual greeting came as he swung the door to your office open.

“As are you.” You click the pen in your hand while you try to imagine a layout for the ceremony. “The groom wanted something traditional and his bride wanted something modern… I’m thinking of gray satin—“

“This isn’t the first time we worked together, right?” He immediately plops himself down on the couch of your office. From where he sat, he could see fabric samples scattered and pinned on a desk, three whiteboards that blocked the windows full of table arrangements for the reception at a garden, contact numbers listed and posted all over your window.

It was messy—but you had a system.

“No it isn’t.” You look back at him. Miya Atsumu looked so unbelievably handsome you couldn’t help but stare. He was dressed in a white tee and jeans, it was a simple outfit yet his top accentuated his broad chest and shoulders and the jeans around his thighs—

“The first was at Oikawa’s wedding or was it at Bokuto’s or Hinata’s?”

“No it was at Bokuto’s and then at Hinata’s, then it was at Oikawa’s”

He laughed, remembering how stressed you were handling all those events in a span of a year.

( He wonders if you ever took breaks. You rarely asked for help and never brought your personal life onto the table—Atsumu knew so little about you. )

You wave your hand in front of his face and mention that he was aggressively staring off into the void—too intense for your liking. It was like he was plotting a murder or something.

He then ponders about a life with you.

The nation’s best wedding planner and the nation’s eligible and most desired bachelor? That would certainly be a headline or a cover for a magazine.

Would you soon be wearing that navy blue dress from five weddings ago? The very dress he had given you as a gift as a thank you for making his friends happy?

A smile pulled at his lips, remembering how you teared up in gratitude when he managed to pull some strings and hired another media crew to document the wedding when the one you hired decided to back out on you six hours before the event.

They owed him a favor and he wanted to help you.

When you called him your hero and embraced him so tightly that day, he swore his heart stopped.

He wanted you to look at him like that again; seeing as how exhausted you tend to be when planning these events, you most probably needed a partner to help you out. If he had to stop volleyball, perhaps he could run this business with you—if you would allow it.

“Miya and Miya’s Wedding Planning Service.” Atsumu grins to himself and locks eyes with you. “How does that sound to you?”

“If you and your brother are planning to buy my business from me, it’s not happening.”

“Oh, I was thinking of Miya,” Atsumu’s palm rests on top of his chest. “And Miya.” He then gestures over to you—fingers in your direction and palm facing upward.

A proposal.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion with a tinge of shock, feeling your cheeks burning. “What are you talking about—“

“Just painting a picture.” He leaned into the cushions of your couch. “It looks… less lonely and I see two happy people. What do you see?” There was a sound of an object breaking—or rather, crunching, behind him.

“Not a lot without my glasses.”

The professional athlete fished said object from the cushions and promised to buy you a new pair.

You waved it off.

One minute your face was so close to shriveling like a pathetic raisin within the walls of your office from stress, the next it was relishing in the soft breeze of the beach.

“What do you think?” Atsumu rolls the cuffs of his jeans above his ankles. “They loved driving to this spot every summer. This was where my brother and his girlfriend had their last date.”

He passes you the umbrella and dashes into the water, laughing like a child’s first time on the beach.

“Before he proposed?” The sand crunches under your toes, tailing after him.

The resort nearby was owned by one of your cousins—it would make a great location for the reception.

“I think so.” He splashes the seawater your way and invites you to join him in the water. ( You didn’t have the energy to scold him for dampening the cover of your planner. )

You’ve seen him play on the court before. The way the lights would give him some sort of halo, his sweat glistening on his skin, the triumphant grin on his lips, the way his muscles tensed, his sharp eyes...

But to see him underneath the bright afternoon sun—it was different. Atsumu and the beach were a terrific mix. He was beautiful.

Atsumu was reliable, gentle when he wanted to be, a little crass and informal at times, judges characters without hesitation, inviting, endearing, warm, smelled like autumn, safe and whatnot. There was just something alluring about him.

Setting your shoes and planner next to his, you roll up your slacks just below your knees.

The setter beams and cheers when you step into the waters and approach him. His hand was outstretched for you to take which you timidly did.

“We could have the wedding here.” He glances at the waves foaming on the sand. ( It takes him a moment to remember he was there for his brother’s wedding and not his future one. ) “The bride really loves beaches so I believe we’d get plus points for having it here.“ He continues to ramble on about the possible arrangements.

And then it finally settles in you—you like him... a lot.

“I didn’t think wedding planning with you was going to be entertaining.” He squeezes your hands and softly places his lips on the curves of your knuckles. “You know, my offer for Miya and Miya’s Wedding Planning Service is still open.”

And it honestly doesn’t sound so bad...

Thirty hours until the wedding.

Everything was in place, all toxic invited guests were eliminated, never went above the budget, the bride is excited to officially wear her gown and change her surname, the groom is shaking in anxiety and finally got the acceptance of his father-in-law-to-be, none of the hired staff and crew looked like they were going to back out anytime soon...

Both parties were planning to celebrate the day before the wedding and you were planning to get some rest before you were going to be overwhelmed with pressure and stress that will come in the next couple of hours.

Seven months of stressing over the pressure, planning, calls, negotiations, and connections finally paid off.

Atsumu had other plans though—he wasn’t interested drowning in blinding lights and beer that day. Leaving his brother with his peers, the setter had asked you if it was alright to see you.

How could you ever oppose?

The same taunting greeting came as soon as you both locked eyes but this time, there was a hint of hope in his tone. “Are you still single?”

“Who’s asking?” You lean on your doorframe.

“Me.” He shoves his hands in his pockets—his eyes admiring every inch of your face. “So... will you be wearing the same navy blue dress you wore five weddings ago? That pretty velvet one... the one I gave you.”

“Are we going to keep asking questions—wait what?” Your stomach twists in shock. Navy blue dress? Five weddings ago? Does he actually remember what happened?

“I wasn’t drunk that night and neither were you.” Atsumu rubs the back of his neck, processing the mixed emotions on your face. “I don’t regret it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Atsumu, were you planning to match with me tomorrow?” You could not help but smile at the way the tips of his ears burned red.

“I was.”

“Navy blue is not part of the palette, remember?”

“It should have been.”

His lips tasted like cherries that afternoon.

I wonder if you know how they live in Tokyo

— HQ BOYS + WHAT THEY WEAR

feat. iwaizumi hajime, kuroo tetsurō, miya atsumu, miya osamu, bokuto kōtarō, yaku morisuke, hanamaki takahiro, matsukawa issei

note. this also includes what they smell like. idc if u agree w these. i’m correct. objectively.

IWAIZUMI always smells like sweet tobacco when you get close enough. it mixes with his sweatshirt long enough that when you wear them, it swirls around you in a way that settles deep in your skin. (and, of course, there’s that scent of sea salt that rests on tanned skin. so when he kisses you, you almost swear you can taste it). so in that way, iwa will always remind of you feeling a little younger, of making stupid decisions just for the hell of it, of that first taste of independence that you’ll never get back.

KUROO smells like oak, something that could almost be the scent of leather mixing his skin. he’s strong when he hugs you, all encompassing as his arms find your body, pulling you in until all you know is the material of his shirt—either a flannel or a dress shirt, depends if you’re at a bar or not—and the scent of his cologne. and when he presses the lips to the top of your head, you know that he’s all encompassed by you, too.

ATSUMU smells almost like citrus—bright and sweet enough to pull you in and leave you smiling in his shoulder. he’ll make fun of you every moment he can, teasing you with the lilt of his voice and the bow of his head, but when you meet him with laughter, you find that his own is quick to follow.

OSAMU smells like a deep sandalwood. it’s the kind that buries into you and holds you close, the kind that twists around your whole body like it could keep you there forever. it’s almost warm, low and comforting and kind in a way that could only mean osamu. so when his thumb swipes against your cheek, when it follows the curves of your face, you allowing yourself to be consumed—by all of him.

BOKUTO smells like nutmeg, maybe a little cinnamon if you catch him on an especially good day. it’s the scent of those sweet spices, of something that feels a bit like home and that you know would taste sweet if it were to ever land on your tongue. it’s that mix of sugar and laughter and all things good that comes with bokuto. it’s enough to want him to hold your hand or your waist or whatever he may wish until the days become too long for either of you to stay awake.

YAKU smells like fresh pine, a little youthful in the way he smiles and teases you with every slip of his tongue. he draws you in with that damn taunting gaze, with the way his teeth poke out through that held-back smile, only to leave you with your eyes rolling and laughter threatening your voice. and he loves it. every second of it. so he does it everyday just to hear it over and over again.

HANAMAKI smells a little like acrylic paint—not the part that stings your nose and leaves your eyes watering, no. it’s the sweetness of it, the parts of him that are covered in little bits of red and blue from old art pieces. some days, he smells like the dusting of charcoal, of pen against paper—but no matter what, it’s him and it’s passionate and it’s more than you could ever ask for.

MATSUKAWA smells like clean linens. it’s hardly more than a suggestion of a scent, but when you get close enough—your nose buried in his collar while laughter pricks at his tongue—you can smell it. and it’s something that feels uniquely soft to him, something that you would know if it only passed by the quake of your breath, so it’s enough.

cool kids

summary: Kunimi x Reader. "reader's the one simping hard for kunimi and kunimi's just like "😑😑😑" but secretly likes them too" as requested by an anon!

word count: 2k

cw: uhhh two swear words

a/n: tysm for the request!! hope i did your boy justice

You just think Kunimi is nice to look at.

His hair is straight and natural and never greasy or obviously gelled; it looks soft and shiny. He probably rinses with cold water. You like how dreamy his eyes are— they’re deepset and often narrowed into a lazy smirk, but they have a faraway quality to them that makes the gray-brown shade reminiscent of the misty moors you’ve read about in books and seen in movies. You like the lean muscle on his thin frame, the way you can feel how deceptively strong he is whenever he decides that you’re his makeshift pillow at school.

“Is this comfortable?” He asks, slumping over you, forcing you to wilt over your desk beneath him.

“Not at all,” you answer honestly. “Your elbows are pointy, ow ow ow—” you wriggle until it no longer feels like he’s pressing directly on a pressure point— “but by all means, keep crushing me.”

“Hmm, thanks,” he hums into your back. “Class was so boring today.”

“The teacher is still in the classroom, Kunimi,” you say, voice muffled as he tries his best to become dead weight. “He can hear you, because we’re still in the classroom, missing lunch.”

“Nah,” he says, but graciously gets off, standing next to your desk while you gather your things, then holds out a hand to help you up. You take it, and it’s more the feeling of his skin on yours that makes you wobble on your feet than anything else. Your heart beats fast in your chest as you follow him, although he’s already let go.

“Where are we going?” You say into his ear, over his shoulder. He gives no indication that he heard you, so you do it again, speeding up your pace so you’re walking in stride with him.

“Gotta get a spot on the rooftop before everyone else shows up,” he says offhandedly, dodging a group of people standing still in the hallway. Obnoxious, you know he’s probably thinking.

“Ooh, the rooftop?” You tease. “Planning a confession?” There’s a saying about how all the best jokes have a grain of truth in them. In this case, you’re joking with a silo of hope.

“Too corny,” he wrinkles his face up, casting a disgusted glare towards the students who walk by in pairs, joined hands swinging between them. “PDA is gross, you know.”

You grab his hand again, his lack of protest reassuring you.

“You’re just jealous because you’re single.”

“Not for too long, I hope,” he says, eyes sliding to your face. You blink and drop his hand.

“What? Who? What?”

Your questions go unanswered, his volleyball seniors choosing that moment to swarm him. You wait on the edges of the group, mind spinning as you consider who your friend— your crush— would be interested in. You’re pretty sure that the only person he spends more time with than you is Yūtarō, and from the way Kunimi speaks about his teammate, you know it’s not him. You hope that it’s you, considering that you’ve been flirting overtly with him since the festival last summer, since you’d developed feelings for him. He’s never rejected you directly, after all, only made general comments on the futility of love and romance and relationships. You blow out a breath.

“Hi, sorry,” a face you recognize as a girl in another first-year class bows her way through the group of volley-boys. She’s biting her lip, clearly nervous, clearly clutching a letter behind her back. She has the locker next to Kunimi’s, you recall. A sick feeling rises in your stomach while all the others make a path for her straight to Oikawa. She makes a turn just before she reaches the third-year. “Um, hi, Kunimi, do you, ah, have a moment?”

You can’t look. You pay attention instead to the third years, watching Iwaizumi clamp a hand over Oikawa’s mouth before he can coo over his junior’s first confession. While they struggle, you bite your lip hard, shoving your hands in your pockets, feeling suddenly too hot and too cold all over. You’re probably allergic to watching people you like get confessed to or something, and now you have a fever.

Unwillingly, your gaze slides back to Kunimi, who, for once, looks wide-eyed and surprised. The girl appears to have finished her part, and he looks frozen as his eyes dart to the other people around, then back to her, then away again. Finally, he lands on Oikawa, who appears to have escaped his friend’s grip and has a disturbingly wide smile on his face.

“...Fine,” Kunimi says, and you watch him walk behind her to the stairs.

“Ah, so cute,” Oikawa says, leaning on the wall and sticking his nose up, an air of great wisdom and experience surrounding him. “Young love is in bloom today!”

You don’t want to wait for Kunimi to get back, so you adjust your bag and start to walk away, blinking rapidly.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you hear behind you, and then Iwaizumi is running up behind you, grabbing your shoulder. “Are you okay?” He sounds hesitant, and a little like he’s choking as he speaks.

“Yeah, of course I am,” your own voice sounds far off and too quiet for your words to be true. “Thank you for asking, Iwaizumi-san, don’t worry about me.”

“You’re crying,” he notes, and your eyes widen in alarm as your hands fly up to pat your cheeks, checking for wetness. “Well, not quite crying, but when Oikawa said that, your face, it kinda,” he gestures to his own. You look at him quizzically, unsure what he’s trying to mime. “...Crumpled?”

“Oh,” you say. “Yeah.” Both of you seem at a loss for words, then, but he walks with you all the way to the lunch stand and then he follows you to the back of the gym, where you sit with your knees curled up to your chest.

“Sorry you wasted your lunch period with me,” you mumble after twenty minutes of picking at your food.

“I didn’t want to leave you alone to wallow,” he says, mouth full of melon bun. “It’s bad for you.”

“Is that your professional medical opinion?” Your voice is watery, but you can feel the corners of your mouth lifting.

“For sure,” he tells you. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I guess,” you sigh, and look down. “I just really, really like him.”

“I get that,” Iwaizumi has a reputation for being loud and kind of rough, but his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Thank you for staying with me, Iwaizumi-san,” you say, standing.

“No problem,” he smiles sympathetically at you. If Kunimi were here, he’d call it pity. You’d rather call it kindness.

The bell rings, and Iwaizumi bounds off around the corner.

“Sorry,” you hear him apologize to someone before his footsteps echo away. When you turn the corner yourself, you see— shiny hair, dark eyes, and a tall, narrow frame. One plus one plus one equals heartbreak.

“Y/N!” He says in greeting, then tilts his head upwards, seemingly searching for something to say.

You pause in front of him. “So?”

“So what?” He looks confused.

“The confession,” you say.

“Oh,” he says, straightening a little. “It was whatever. Look, I just wanted to tell you, uh…”

“Yes?” You say. You’re late for class. You’re not sure why you’re still standing here, face hot, waiting to hear whatever he has to say.

“Wait for me?” He asks, and you blink. You weren’t expecting that, of all things.

“Why?”

“I don’t,” he tucks his chin into his jacket collar, dark eyes resting on you warily, and despite yourself, you smile a little. “I don’t want to rush things, and I’m not— I don’t wanna mess up something I know’ll be good, okay? So just wait a little longer for me.”

“What about the, uh,” you swallow. “The girl who you were talking to earlier? I’m not waiting if you’re not.”

“Her?” He makes a grossed-out noise. “I rejected her. Why would I want anyone but you?”

The ‘12-’13 Seijoh VBC ten-year reunion is nothing short of chaotic.

You’re there because you joined (in the form of management) shortly after Iwaizumi sat with you during that fateful lunch period, and everyone else is there because playing volleyball with Oikawa apparently results in some kind of gravitational effect that keeps one circling him loosely forever. You, Kindaichi, and Kunimi huddle in a sort of commiserating bunch, even though the three of you have more than kept in touch over the years; where Oikawa is an Argentinian celebrity and Iwaizumi is well compensated for his career in athletic training, the former first years are barely out of undergrad, still working and suffering beneath the weight of recent student loans.

It’s Hanamaki who opens up the conversation, complaining about his recent bout of failed interviews, while Watari pats him on the back and Yahaba lists off places he could begin networking.

“What have you been doing?” You address Matsukawa, who is slumped on his elbows on the table, a slight smile on his features as he watches Hanamaki talk, formally.

“Me? Oh, I’m a mortician, or working towards it, anyway.”

“Of course you ask Mattsun first,” laughs Kindaichi. “You still think he’s ‘tall, dark, and handsome?’”

“No,” you groan, while the others at the table perk up considerably. “Don’t bring that up, please, I’m begging.”

“You had a crush on Mattsun?” Smirks Hanamaki, laying an arm across his shoulders.

“Not really!” You protest, waving your hands in front of you. “He was only the best looking of the third years, anyway.”

Oikawa makes a wounded noise, and Mattsun sticks his tongue out at him. Next to you, Kunimi lifts his glass and takes a long sip.

“Only the third years?” Asks Yahaba, raising his brows. Kindaichi grins. In your peripheral vision, you can see Kunimi drawing a line across his neck and mouthing shut the fuck up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“Everyone knows that Y/N only had eyes for Kunimi, really,” Turnip-Head says anyway, and every head at the table swings toward your seatmate, who drops his hand and shuts his jaw with a click. "You were obvious!" He says in response to your embarrassed expression. He's not wrong, but you're still covering your eyes with your hands, peeking through the gaps.

“Do you have eyes? Why haven’t you changed your haircut?” Kunimi says, his voice bored. “Don’t you get tired of being called names because of it?”

Undeterred, Kindaichi takes another swig of beer and continues, nudging Kunimi hard, which only has the effect of pushing him into your side as he tries to escape his friend.

“He used to get jealous, after Y/N called Matsukawa-san hot, anyway,” Kindaichi adds. “He’d try harder in practice and everything.” There’s a chorus of oooohs around the table. Kunimi groans and drops his head onto your shoulder. You pat him reassuringly. His hair is soft.

“Kunimi has a crush,” Shido grins.

“It was a decade ago,” you feel the need to defend him.

“Yeah,” Kunimi says, sitting upright. There’s a scowl on his face, but his ears are subtly red.

“You should’ve said yes to dating back then,” Hanamaki butts in. “Then you wouldn’t be single now.”

“What do you mean I’m single now?” Kunimi arches an eyebrow. “That’s news to me.”

“Why didn’t you bring them, then?” Mattsun points at him. “That’s bad etiquette, you know.”

“Yeah, Akira,” you murmur affectionately, tucking his hair behind his ear. “You have bad etiquette.”

There’s a moment of silence as your former classmates look at you, then at Kunimi, then back at you. Then at both of you, holding hands under the table.

“You’re dating?” Yells Yahaba, standing up and swaying a little. General clamor ensues as you laugh and Kunimi brings your hands up to rest on the table, his eyes narrowly focused on Matsukawa, who seems happily oblivious as he knocks back more of his drink and attempts to rouse Makki into a thumb-wrestling match.

“He’s rubbed off on you,” Kindaichi tells you later, as you exit the restaurant. Kunimi drapes his jacket over you and rests his chin on your shoulder, putting his hands in your pants pockets.

“I hope so,” you smile softly. “Almost ten years together will do that to a person.”

On the way home, Akira asks you, almost sardonic (but you know he’s being genuine), "Was the wait worth it?"

You beam and kiss him, pulling him close by his shirt collar.

"Of course it was."

tagging: @crystal-lilac , @kohi-zeri

reblog to give warm bread to your mutuals

Imagine riding a needy nagi seishiro whilst shotgunning him ♡

✩ ˛˚ . NAGI SEISHIRO ; — nagi doesn’t think he’s ever felt as relaxed as he does beneath you.

warnings: f!reader, weed use, all characters written 22+, shot-gunning. note: i will forever remain obsessed with this agenda i am not normal about it <3 also this is v sloppy written i’m sorry sob i just bashed this out in 20 mins :<

“does it feel good, sei?” you gasp as nagi watches you, hes all bated breathes and flushed cheeks, sweating hard as he lets your words roll around his clouded mind. he feels fuzzy, his mouth suddenly dry as his head drops back against the back of the couch when you sink down onto his cock again, pulling a dreamy, needy whimper from the snowy haired striker beneath you as you bounce on his lap.

good—was an understatement, the tingling along his limbs is only exaggerated by the weed mixed with how perfectly your pussy is hugging around the length of him, pressing him deeper along the swollen spots inside of you that make you bear down on him eagerly.

nagi liked having you like this, half clothed and lazy as you take another long draw of the joint hanging between your pouty lips, the smoke of your exhale curling into the room before it thins out. he gives you another starry eyed look before he moans, half lidded and blown out gaze meeting yours as his toes curl against the carpet beneath him.

“sei~ don’t be mean, answer me.” it’s such a pain how fucking cute you look right now despite how well you’re taking him, you’re like a demon in one of his video games as you lean back but still manage to lure him in. your pretty breasts bounce with every intoxicating roll of your hips and he can’t help but reach out to take a handful of them, pinching and kneading before your fingers are brushing through the messy bangs across his cloudy, bloodshot gaze and he finally speaks.

“fu—uck, angel. yeah..” nagi begins before his train of thought trails off, suddenly too enamoured by the press of your body underneath his palms as he squeezes at you, easing you along the length of him despite the way he feels like he’s full of cotton and so fucking close already. “jus’ don’t wanna cum yet, g’na give you more first.”

it’s needy and a little desperate the way he’s still managing to roll his hips up into you, slow and languid but still making your insides curl and ache with how deep he feels like he reaches — throbbing inside of you as you press him even deeper into the cushions below you both.

“do you want more of this?” you purr as your fingers graze under the neckline of his hoodie and nagi’s never felt so warm in his life, he’s flushed to his chest but he still nods with a slow blink before he’s knocking his head against yours drowsily, although managing to smear a kiss along your cheeks before he’s mumbling out a “y-yeah. share w’ me though, please.”

the white paper glows as it crackles, cherry eating away at it before you’re slowing your pace to a roll as you inhale — but your boyfriend’s greedy when he moves to curl his hand around the back of your neck to draw you into him. your fingers twist naturally into the snowy peaks of his bed head before you pull and it’s almost erotic the whimper that pours from his lips as you kiss him.

“mffff—pretty thing.” it’s slow and messy as the heat of your exhale floods his mouth and senses, urging him to inhale instinctively as you press yourself closer — rolling your hips lazily against his as his free hand curls and kneads at your ass and hips. nagi feels utterly consumed by you as he loses himself in the dreamy tightness, his lungs trembling with how enthralled he is by the press of your lips and the hug of your body.

the room feels like it spins and his cock throbs when you lick into his mouth, gliding your tongue along his own until he’s grinding himself up deeper into your warm cunt and he feels like he’s fucking melting beneath you. you only pull away to breathe and he already misses the thrilling tightness in his chest as he exhales, allowing the kiss to break wet and smokey despite the way he dreamily follows you forward as you pull away.

“hey— no fair, why’d you stop.” nagi’s eyes are still closed when he asks, smoke trailing from his lips as he speaks but his gaze is sleepy and lidded when he leans back to blink up at you. he pouts through his heavy, lustful expression before he’s letting his hand smooth through his hair — even more mused from your own touch before he’s haphazardly—and clumsily—pulling his hood up over his head.

“to breath, seishiro.” you giggle before you’re leaning back to rest the remaining joint back in the ashtray on the coffee table. but the movement only seems to press his cock even deeper into you when you fall back into his arms and another dreamier, sweeter moan falls from his lips this time when they part.

your arms hook around the back of nagi’s and you let them graze underneath the neckline of his hoodie, making him shudder as goosebumps trail along his skin at your touch — his senses heightened by the weed in his system and the warmth of you. but it still feels natural the way he lets himself curl into you, face pressing into the crook of your neck as he smears wet kisses along your collarbones between slurred grumbles and drowsy, drawn out whines as his body rocks seamlessly with yours.

“eh, breathing’s so bothersome. can go again, come on. gimme more.”

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i just chopped it all off.

if you have nice hair, respectfully please don’t stand next to me.

it’s kinda silly how like people who like the same characters … like the same characters from other series