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It’s seven thirty p.m. on a weekday, which means Yamaguchi Tadashi is in his happy place. Volleyball practice is over, the setting sun is painting the sky a pleasing gradient of oranges and reds, and Tsukishima is kissing him senseless in the parking lot behind his apartment complex.
It’s routine, at this point. It’s also the best part of his day.
Except, there’s something different in the way Tsukishima is kissing him today.
Usually Tsukishima’s eyelids flutter when they kiss. The inherent neediness of the action is a stark contrast to the cool air of indifference he goes out of his way to uphold, and Tadashi likes to watch him lose his carefully-crafted composure.
He’ll open his eyes mid-kiss and observe Tsukishima with acute consideration; his eyes flickering under softly closed lids, the gentle knit of his brows as he laps his lips and tongue against Tadashi’s. He likes to see Tsukishima’s face up close like that, cupped between his two sweaty palms. Tadashi has always thought that Tsukishima's beauty is something to behold. How lucky he is now, that finally, after years of soul-crushing pining, he’s the beholder!
And although anyone could agree that Tsukishima is objectively attractive, ‘beautiful’ might not be the first word one would use to describe his looks—he’s too cold, too tall, too bad for most to see him in a word so delicate. But Tadashi sees it. Since they were very young he’s been able to see through his prickly exterior to his soft underbelly. Or, rather, Tsukishima allows him to. He supposes that makes it all the better.
Yes, Tadashi loves to drink in all of the subtle reactions he can pull from Tsukishima, the ones that nobody else but him gets to see. It makes him feel special, when he typically feels exceedingly ordinary.
Today, though, Tsukishima’s eyes are clamped shut like he’s thinking quite hard about something, his kisses are withheld, carefully doled out like rations, and he’s gripping Tadashi shoulders, keeping him at a distance like he did the first few fumbling times they sucked face after their walk home from school.
Since then, he’s formed a habit of lacing them around Tadashi’s waist and holding them steady against the small of his back, clenching and unclenching the fabric of his uniform shirt with the pace of their mouths moving against each other’s. Tadashi likes this a lot; as if Tsukishima is saying with his hands, ‘this is where you belong, right here, against me.’
Maybe he’s reading into it too much. He has a habit of doing so.
And it could be considered cute—because Tadashi finds every one of Tsukishima’s quirks to be cute—this odd change in body language, if not for the looming sense there’s a more nefarious reason behind it. Tadashi has come to learn there are very few things Tsukishima does without rhyme or reason.
Abruptly, Tsukishima pushes him back by his shoulders. Their lips detach with a wet pop.
Tsukishima peers down at him, brows still furrowed, a serious look hardening his features. His lips are puffy and pink from kissing. His eyes glitter with something devious. Behind his head the setting sun glows a bright, honeyed yellow, gilding his curls in a delicate ring of gold. A devil donning a stolen halo. He’s perfect, nefarious undertones and all.
“Can I ask you something?” Tsukishima says, cool as ever. It doesn’t sound like a question. This makes Tadashi nervous for some reason, even though he’s grown used to Tsukishima’s mind games.
“Heh, why so formal Tsukki,” he giggles, then wants to kick himself in the shins because he despises when his nerves make him giggly.
Tsukishima decidedly ignores this. “After we do this,” he gestures nonspecifically between their faces with a few flicks of his bony, pale wrist, “do you jerk off?”
Tadashi had it coming, but the words still wallop him in the face like a comically large cartoon hammer. He staggers backwards, literally or figuratively, he’s not sure, and mumbles a somewhat pathetic response of, “Tsukki, why?”
“It’s a simple question, Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima says in that tone of his that implies ‘Yamaguchi’ is synonymous with ‘moron’. It makes his toes curl in his sneakers. Traitorous blood rushes to his lower half.
Tadashi very much does not want to admit that yes, of course, the very moment Tsukishima is out of earshot he’s racing up the three flights of stairs to his apartment like a bat out of hell, slamming his bedroom door shut and shoving his right hand down his pants. No, that would be undignified, as Tsukishima might say.
Yet, Tsukishima seems to want to hear it, judging by the bratty way he’s tapping his foot against the pavement and folding his long arms over his chest. Tadashi finds the mocking disappointment glimmering in his eyes erotic, and hates himself a little for it. Tadashi nods, a shameful bob of his chin.
Tsukishima tuts. It sounds like getting high must feel.
“Because, I was thinking,” he lilts, slowly pacing backwards as he speaks, “the next time you come, it should be by my hand.” He raises his right hand as if to demonstrate. He doesn’t stop his backward stride. Tadashi feels his chest pull forwards—a marionette on a string.
Wait. Tadashi hears his brain rewind like an old cassette tape. Did Tsukishima just offer up a handjob like a stick of gum? His nonchalance is a cold, hard slap to the cheek. The most they’ve ever done is rub their clothed crotches together behind the mailbox of his apartment building for Christ’s sake. Is he finally giving him an out? Is that what this is? But he’s still walking away. That can’t be it.
“Wait!” Tadashi calls after him.
Tsukishima does not wait, but he does slow. He raises his brows, only slightly, as if to crack open his features to whatever Tadashi has to say. It’s too bad Tadashi does not have anything productive to say, though. He vacillates on the spot, sputtering like one of those souped-up car engines the idiots at their high school mess around with.
“My—uh, mom, isn’t going to be, um. Well, she’s not going to be h-home anytime soon, and I, y’know—”
Tsukishima cups a palm to his ear. “What’s that? You’ll have to speak up, Yamaguchi,” he purposefully interrupts.
Tadashi wants to stomp his feet. Tsukishima is just too fucking good. A master puppeteer; Tadashi can’t help but go slack under his holds. No, he crumples entirely.
“N-nothing, Tsukki! Have a good night!” he backtracks, flailing, thinking himself a coward.
Then, Tsukishima, the cheeky bastard, grins proudly and blows him a big, wet kiss. Frantically, Tadashi jumps to catch it, and immediately feels enormously foolish for doing so.
His fist clenches around Tsukishima’s kiss. He watches him turn on a smug heel and methodically place his white Sony headphones over his ears, one at a time. With each weightless stride he shrinks into the distance, leaving Tadashi alone in the empty parking lot, with nothing but his racing thoughts and the beginnings of a boner.
_________
As it turns out, denying himself his typical post-makeout wank session does not in fact tear apart the seams of time and space, as it felt like it might last night when Tadashi was lying in his bed, gripping at his bedsheets and decidedly ignoring his raging hard-on, as Tsukishima had lightly suggested he should.
And though the suggestion may have been said in Tsukishima’s typical tone of indifference, Tadashi knows better. After a near decade of friendship and approximately two months of more-than-friendship, although it’s probably much, much longer than that if Tadashi really thinks about it, he understands the games Tsukishima likes to play. The games that he indulges him in. The games that may or may not be constructed specifically to cater to Tadashi’s pleasure. It's a rather dreamy idea, that Tsukishima goes out of his way to play into the facets of Tadashi’s sexuality that he’s only just starting to understand himself, so much so that Tadashi nearly drops the volleyball net he’s in the midst of hanging directly onto Hinata’s orange head.
“Woah, Cap!” Hinata exclaims, jumping backwards with those scary-sharp reflexes of his. “Nearly killed me! Wouldn’t that be funny? Death by volleyball net! Haha!” he prattles, amusing himself.
Across the gym, Tsukishima pushes his glasses up by their bridge. He typically does this when he’s holding back a snide remark. And as much as Tadashi adores his snide remarks, and every statement that Tsukishima graces the world with really, he was hoping today’s practice would go off without a hitch given his nerves are quite a bit more frayed than usual, which is saying something. Probably something to do with sitting through calculus class with a half-hard dick because Tsukishima was sucking on a strawberry candy not five feet from him.
Tadashi bought him those candies. He did not do so with the intention of watching the way his lips wet and purse around them in the middle of a trigonometry lecture, but such is his life.
“Is your head so soft that a volleyball net would do you in?” Tsukishima calls from across the court, smirking that smirk Tadashi suspects he knows exactly how well it suits him.
Tadashi sighs. Lately, it appears Tsukishima has been testing the limits on what he can and cannot get away with now that Tadashi himself is Captain, toeing the metaphorical line to gauge exactly how much he’ll put up with. The problem is, Tadashi has grown used to spoiling Tsukishima. He enjoys nothing more than to indulge his every whim, to shower him with praise until his cheeks glow pink and he mutters a bashful ‘shut up, Yamaguchi’.
Hinata, on the other hand, is not hopelessly smitten by Tsukishima’s every word. And thank God for that.
“The hell’s that supposed to mean!” Hinata barks, emphasizing ‘hell’ as if it is a really, very nasty word. He’d probably keel over dead if he got even a whisper of Tsukishima’s full vocabulary, Tadashi thinks smugly.
Tsukishima saunters over. His warm up shorts are looking particularly short today, their dark fabric swishing satisfyingly against his creamy, muscular thighs. The back of Tadashi’s neck heats up. He idly wonders if anyone would notice his absence if he were to pop to the bathroom to—get a grip.
Tsukishima raises two fingers, then brings them back down in one fluid motion, stopping an inch or two above Hinata’s fluffy head. Hinata full-body flinches, then hops up on his toes, apparently ready for the fight of his life.
“What are you—” he sputters, but Tsukishima smoothly cuts him off.
“Looking for the soft spot on your skull,” he explains, using the same instructional tone he uses during his gratuitous tutoring sessions, “I’m fairly certain your development stunted at infancy, so it’s gotta be around here somewhere.”
Hinata shrieks, surely falling for Tsukishima’s antics for at least a second or two. Tadashi rakes a hand down his face. Tsukishima seems to be in a rare form this afternoon. Just his luck.
Kageyama sneers something indecipherable from across the net. Tadashi cannot tell if he is egging Tsukishima on or defending his spiker’s honour, both scenarios equally unlikely. The new first years flock together like minnows, edging closer to the growing commotion, still too wobbly and fresh-faced to know how to appropriately react. Tsukishima continues to torment a squealing Hinata with two carefully-placed fingers hovering just above his unruly mop of hair.
Arousal blends messily with frustration. Tadashi nears the end of his already cut-short rope.
“If I press down hard enough, I might just be able to—” Tsukishima starts up again, and Tadashi does not like where he predicts it will end.
“Tsukki!” he shouts, much louder and shriller than intended. He’ll get the Captain's voice down one of these days. But, it seems to work regardless. Tsukishima freezes in place. His golden eyes snap their focus to Tadashi. Their gazes catch, and for the briefest of moments, something like submission washes over Tsukishima’s face.
It’s fascinating, Tadashi thinks, the way he and Tsukishima play this game of theirs. How easily they pass control of it back and forth, how visibly Tadashi can sometimes see its ebb and flow. He steels his expression, levels his tone, and rolls with the momentum.
“Now stop harassing your teammates and practice that serve of yours! I know you still miss your mark like, most of the time, Tsukki,” he says, adopting the tone only Tsukishima would recognize as teasing, yet firm.
And just as it came, the look disappears, replaced by Tsukishima’s signature deadpan. Then, incredibly, Tsukishima obeys, ducking his chin and turning on his heel. If he had a tail, Tadashi thinks it would be firmly wedged between his legs.
The rest of the team goes quiet, apparently too stunned to speak except for Hinata, who coos a playful, “Oooh someone’s in trouble!”
Tadashi glances around the gym. The first years scatter. Kageyama gathers the volleyball net from the floor, muttering grumpily to himself under his breath. Yachi stands at the corner of the gym, white-knuckling her clipboard and clicking her pen incessantly. She flashes Tadashi an unsure smile and a thumbs-up.
Finally, he zeroes in on Tsukishima. The back of his neck is flushed a delightful pink, and Tadashi knows what he has to do.
He waits until after practice, until the rest of the boys have cleared out of the clubroom, to act. Tsukishima had once described him as a professional dawdler, so the way he drags on changing from one pair of clothes into another isn’t outside the realm of ordinary occurrences.
Tsukishima’s leaning his tall body against the locker beside Tadashi’s, scrolling on his phone the way he usually does while waiting for him to get his butt into gear.
They haven’t spoken a word to each other since the outburst. Tension is palpable in the air that hangs between them, despite Tsukishima’s best efforts at playing it cool. Popping his head out through the collar of his shirt, Tadashi cuts through the silence.
“I listened yesterday, you know,” he says, surprising himself by the evenness of his tone.
Tsukishima’s eyes flick up from his phone screen, reluctantly intrigued.
“Yeah?” he asks lazily, but Tadashi does not miss the click of him locking his phone.
Tadashi tosses his shirt into his locker in an attempt at nonchalance. He turns to face Tsukishima, naked from the waist up, and feels very brave for doing so without keeling over. Tsukishima pockets his phone and his hands go with it. His gaze rakes down Tadashi’s bare torso, then back up again to meet his eyes. It’s positively shameless. Hungry. Hot. Tadashi’s throat parches.
“Yep. I didn’t, well—I didn’t—” he cuts himself off abruptly, knowing for certain he would not be able to finish the thought without stammering. Barely a foot from him, Tsukishima is looking very pleased, as if he can sense Tadashi’s momentum faltering. His grin is wicked as he opens his mouth to no doubt begin to tease, and Tadashi almost wants to let him because that in itself feels so good, but he simply cannot endure another night of hormonal agony, so he barrels forwards, headfirst, fists clenched, eyes closed—freefall.
“Come over today,” he blurts. It is not a question. Tsukishima understands this.
Without missing a beat, he shoots back, “Thought you’d never ask.”
His grin is nothing short of playful. And Tadashi is fucking game.
_________
Hand in hand shoved in Tsukishima’s pants pocket, they skip their usual detour to the back of Tadashi’s building and take the elevator up to his floor. It feels like every other time they’ve done this with the intention of watching cartoons on his laptop or microwaving cup ramen in his tiny kitchen, but entirely different at the same time.
It’s silent in the elevator except for the muffled thumps of Tsukishima tapping his foot against the low-pile carpet lining the floor. Tsukishima does not get nervous or fidgety, not in the same manner that Tadashi does. Tadashi knows this. Except he cannot think of another explanation for the way his teasing grin has since flattened into a hard line, the sweat beading on the palm pressed against his own, or the faint, nearly imperceivable blush sitting atop his cheeks as the elevator brings them closer and closer to his floor.
He also knows Tsukishima would never blatantly seek out reassurance, from him, or anyone for that matter. Because of this, Tadashi feels obligated to provide it.
At the threshold of his apartment door he tugs at the hem of Tsukishima’s shirt to pull him into a loose hug. Tsukishima falters for a moment, caught off guard, then places his large hands hesitantly on the curve of Tadashi’s waist. With his face smushed into Tsukishima’s blazer, he finds broaching the awkward topic of what’s about to happen between them far easier.
“Hey, Tsukki, you know, we can just play Mario or something if you want, we don’t have to do any—”
“Do you want to just play Mario?” Tsukishima interrupts, placing his chin gently atop Tadashi’s head. It hurts a bit, because Tadashi thinks Tsukishima probably has the world’s sharpest chin, but he doesn’t complain. The action is as silly as it is sweet, and Tadashi buries his face deeper into his boyfriend’s shoulder. The smell of his home sticks to his clothing; warm noodles, the same soap he’s used since he was twelve, and something else distinct and familiar, something that has no other word to describe it except Tsukki.
Tadashi wonders what he smells like underneath all of his clothes.
“No,” he admits, giving Tsukishima’s middle a tight squeeze. He thinks he hears him smile.
Then, Tsukishima does something so stunningly out of character Tadashi almost feels the need to pinch his forearm to convince himself he isn’t dreaming—not that his dreams have ever been quite so cheesy—he dips down down, loops an arm under the backs of Tadashi’s knees and lifts him up bridal-style, his own knees nearly buckling from the effort.
“That settles it then,” Tsukishima decides, leaning in and pressing a chaste peck to his lips.
Nobody’s home, because nobody ever is while the sun is out, so Tsukishima carries him across the apartment to his bedroom without a soul to bear witness of his overblown attempt at romance but Tadashi himself. Snickering at the ridiculousness of it all, he kicks his bedroom door open with a sneakered foot.
Tsukishima then heaves him forwards and unceremoniously dumps Tadashi onto his bed. The bedsprings creak as he lands flat on his ass and bounces onto his back, and before he has a moment to regain his bearings and chastise Tsukishima for roughhousing, Tsukishima is on top of him, kissing him senseless, lips hungry on his. Quickly, Tsukishima slips his tongue past his lips and licks deep, mapping out the flesh of his soft palate.
Tadashi melts around him, whimpering into the kiss. His head feels thick and his limbs feel syrupy as he attempts to snake his arms around Tsukishima’s slender neck. He feels sort of numb, sort of drunk, like gravity is working overtime today, or maybe it’s just the eighty-two kilograms of Tsukishima’s rather large body pressing him into the mattress.
Tsukishima’s lips could have been working against his for thirty seconds or three hours, he really can’t be sure, but the next thing he knows is his mouth is suddenly unoccupied and Tsukishima is hovering over him, propped up by his sharp elbows digging into the mattress on either side of Tadashi’s head, lips shining with spit and eyes once again glistening with mischief.
“Sit up,” he says casually, if not a little breathlessly.
Tadashi realizes he isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders right now, but that can’t be right. Why would he sit up when he could have Tsukishima’s long body grinding his into the mattress while he tongue-fucks his waiting mouth? He can’t make sense of it.
“Yamaguchi. Sit. Up,” Tsukishima enunciates, folding out each word with his lips like crisp, clean laundry. Tadashi manages to peel his back off the bed and prop himself up onto his elbows.
“S-sukki?” he slurs.
“My God, come here,” Tsukishima huffs, outwardly irritated now. Instead of waiting for Tadashi to oblige, Tsukishima reaches forwards, grabs his pliant body from under his armpits and lifts him up, pushing his back flat against the headboard. He manually arranges Tadashi’s legs into a crossed position. He then rocks back on his heels and looks him up and down. Tadashi squirms.
“I-is everything okay?” Tadashi stammers, feeling very observed.
“I’m thinking,” Tsukishima replies coolly.
“Thinking?”
“Yes, I’m thinking. Not many people do it. I have to make up for that,” he replies quickly, exasperated.
Right. Of course. Tsukishima is singlehandedly taking on the stupidity of the world by overthinking how to fuck him. Makes complete sense.
The longer he sits there, though, watching Tsukishima watch him, the more he finds it sort of erotic. Actually, no, he finds it very erotic. Tsukishima’s intelligent eyes are razor-sharp behind his smudged spectacles. Honed yet featherlight, they glide across Tadashi’s face, down his chest, then lower still where they settle on the growing bulge between his legs. He resists the urge to fold his legs over themselves, to conceal himself, but he has a strong feeling Tsukishima would disapprove. So he sits there, toes squirming in his socks, being picked apart by Tsukishima’s gaze.
He feels like some sort of specimen. Tsukishima could probably be wearing a stiff white lab coat and latex gloves with the way he’s eyeing him, like he’s something to examine, to dissect. Halloween is coming up soon. Maybe he could convince him to go as a doctor or a mad scientist or something of the like. Yes, he’d look quite hot in a white lab coat and latex gloves.
Tsukishima makes a small, affirmatory noise at the back of his throat as if to say, ‘Right. I’ve figured it all out. We’re good to go.’ Slowly, he leans in, and Tadashi passingly realizes he’s been vibrating with anticipation.
Tsukishima reaches forward and cups his jaw with long, slender fingers. The touch is familiar, but foreign enough to be exciting. Tadashi shivers. Tsukishima starts tracing his lower lip with the pad of his thumb, then briefly slips the digit into his mouth to collect saliva from the soft, fleshy space under his tongue. Seemingly satisfied by how wet the finger is, he plucks it out of his mouth to run gently across his top lip.
Tadashi’s pulse throbs in his ears. His heart runs rampant in his chest, apparently trying to break loose, reach out and shove that strong, yet delicate digit of his back into his mouth, now cavernously empty without Tsukishima’s fingers.
He almost can’t believe it—he’s getting hard from the simple action of Tsukishima tracing his lips. He feels stupid, and he loves it. As Tsukishima pets over his top lip, his eyes seem to be telling him, ‘That’s right, turn your brain off Yamaguchi, you won’t be needing it.’
Tsukishima scoots closer, placing his feet flat on the mattress between Tadashi’s hips, effectively caging him in between his lean legs and the headboard.
Using his index and middle fingers now, he pokes at his spit-slick lips to request access to his mouth. ‘This okay? ’ his fingers seem to ask against his lips. ‘God, yes,’ Tadashi silently begs as he parts them.
The pads of both fingers caress the soft flat of his tongue, stroking back and forth, back and forth. He pushes deeper, reaching through the saliva collecting at its centre, until spit starts to breach his lips and dribble down his chin. Tsukishima, ever the gentleman, uses his shirtsleeve to wipe it before it can drip further down his neck.
“Ank-yuh,” Tadashi mumbles around his fingers.
“Don’t try to speak,” Tsukishima instructs. Tadashi doesn’t miss the eager waver fluttering quietly under his even tone, though.
He continues his languid caresses and Tadashi feels soothed, cared for, loved.
His senses dull and his limbs feel impossibly heavier, almost as if he’s about to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. He floats happily in that infinite moment between awake and unconscious. A low din buzzes in his ears. He feels just as weighed down as when Tsukishima was pressing his body into the mattress. It’s all quite odd, but pleasant.
Without thinking, he starts sucking on Tsukishima’s fingers. Through heavy lids he sees the corners of Tsukishima’s lips lift up in a pleased smile. He presses in deeper as Tadashi’s cheeks hollow out, then pulls out to the tip of his tongue as the muscles of his jaw relax. Each time Tadashi sucks in, he pushes in a bit further, until the blunt edges of his nails hit the soft, undulating flesh of the back of his throat. He pauses there, eyes suddenly flickering with what looks like concern as they flit around Tadashi’s face. The shift in tone brings a semblance of clarity to Tadashi's fogged-over brain. What’s he looking for? Is there something wrong?
Eyebrows furrowed now, Tsukishima cups Tadashi’s jaw firmly with his other hand. Experimentally, he pulls the two fingers out of his mouth, then slowly pushes them back in. Pausing every inch or so to study Tadashi’s expression, he continues until he’s lightly brushing the back of his throat again. It tickles, and Tadashi almost wants to cough, but he holds his breath, unwilling to react, waiting for Tsukishima to give an indication of what he’s after here.
For the first time since the start of this encounter, Tsukishima flushes. Blood colours his porcelain cheeks, making them glow a soft pink, and Tadashi can practically feel the heat of his arousal shimmering in the air between them. Tsukishima pulls his fingers out and drags them down his lower lip, one last time, before making a small coughing noise and averting his gaze from Tadashi’s. He stares down at his slick fingers, wet and twitching in his lap.
“Good to know,” he mutters quietly to himself. Tadashi is unsure what to make of this.
Tsukishima abruptly rights himself, then leans in to press a tender peck to his lips. His hands roam up and under Tadashi’s shirt, over the flat planes of his stomach, then back down to grip the skin of his waist. Tsukishima’s mouth hovers slack over his, decidedly not kissing him, as his hands fondle his hips, then his thighs. He pulls them apart, making a small noise of satisfaction as his fingers dig into their squishy inner surface. He shamelessly stares at Tadashi’s erection straining his uniform pants, now blatantly put on display for him. When Tsukishima catches his gaze Tadashi wonders if his eyesight is starting to go as well; the edges of his vision are starting to blur as arousal pools low and stirs restlessly in his belly.
“Can I take these off?” Tsukishima rasps, giving his thighs a tight squeeze. Tadashi nods mutely in response, feeling the pleasant weight he felt earlier start to press down on him again.
Tsukishima takes his sweet time undoing his belt buckle, telling him when to lift his hips and how to shift his body, and Tadashi is grateful for it. He’s not sure he’d be able to do much of anything right now if not for Tsukishima’s instructions. His deft fingers undo his fly, one button at a time, each one relieving the pressure of his hard-on straining obscenely in his pants. He shimmies the fabric below his hips and gives his ass a teasing squeeze before pulling them down his ankles and discarding the bundle of fabric onto his bedroom floor.
Tadashi watches with half-lidded eyes as Tsukishima shuffles his long body down the bed and folds himself in half to run his lips over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, then back up towards his groin. He gasps and bucks forward instinctively, because all he can do is act on instinct right now, with his brain overheating and leaking out of his ears as Tsukishima continues to grope at him in the most intimate of ways.
Tsukishima plants soft kisses on the skin just underlying his knee, moving all the way to the innermost part of his thigh, where he idles for a moment.
“Nine,” he murmurs hotly against his skin, pads of his fingers digging into his flesh.
“Hn?” is all Tadashi can manage, barely conscious.
Tsukishima lifts his lips from his thigh momentarily. “You have nine freckles on your inner right thigh,” he informs, his breath prickling goosebumps to the surface of his skin.
“Oh-kay,” Tadashi replies, feeling dumber than he ever has in his entire life, even though his GPA is a whole half-point higher than Tsukishima’s.
Tsukishima seems quite satisfied with himself. He pulls back.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, hands still lightly groping at his bare thighs.
Tadashi blinks at him, eyelids drooping, slow as molasses. He’s barely able to heave them back up again. He’s unsure of what’s happening to his body, what’s been happening to it the entire time Tsukishima’s been touching and teasing him, but he likes it. He likes it a lot.
He nods, no doubt a dopey grin on his face, hoping Tsukishima takes this as the consent he was likely looking for.
“No words?” Tsukishima asks wryly.
Tadashi blinks up at him, trying to mentally communicate how badly he wants to be kissed right now. ‘Your tongue. My mouth. Now, if you don’t mind, sweetheart,’ he hopes he’s able to convey, disgusting pet name and all. Tsukishima chuckles lowly, carding his fingers through his hair and pulling him against his chest. He holds him there, and if not for the fact that Tadashi thinks his dick might just explode in his boxers, he probably could fall asleep.
Tsukishima presses his lips against the crown of his head.
“So, can we continue?” he murmurs into his hair.
Tadashi bobs his head against his chest. Tsukishima’s long fingers wrap around his chin to tip it up, then he kisses him so deeply it appears he’s trying to eat him right up. Tadashi is convinced he’s never experienced such pure and utter bliss. Stars twinkle behind his eyelids, fireworks go off in his chest, and all that horribly sappy shit. Tsukishima angles his head so their mouths slot together easily, then slips his tongue past Tadashi’s lips. Reminded of his delicate fingers petting into him, Tadashi dissolves against his boyfriend’s body; a brainless, pliant puddle for Tsukishima to do as he pleases with.
Desperate for further contact, Tadashi heaves his heavy legs up and around Tsukishima’s hips, glueing his body to the front of Tsukishima’s, as his fingers scrabble for purchase along the front of his button-up. His hips rock forward eagerly and their clothed erections rub together in a way that solidifies the arousal stirring low in Tadashi’s abdomen. Chasing friction, he circles his hips again and Tsukishima audibly gasps into his open mouth, his grip on the back of Tadashi’s head tightening as he pulls them somehow closer together. Their kisses become sloppy, nearly frantic, and Tadashi wants nothing more than to just keep grinding against Tsukishima’s warm, solid body, to keep humping and rubbing and gasping until they both come in their pants because it’s just so good, and he’s inconsolably horny for him, every minute of the hour and every hour of the day he craves him and now, finally, he has him, but Tsukishima doesn’t allow it.
He abruptly tugs Tadashi’s hair back, pulling their lips apart with a wet sliding sound that Tadashi finds incredibly alluring despite the fact that he’s not being kissed anymore. Tsukishima’s glasses are foggy and askew on his nose. His blonde curls are mussed up in a way that screams sex hair. He’s panting. Tadashi is going to come in his pants. He whimpers.
Tsukishima’s eyebrows fly up at the soft, needy sound. He adjusts his specs.
“God, you’re so…” he trails off, reaching forward to rub the apples of his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. They go tingly and numb under his touch. Television static crackles idly under his skin.
“Mhmf,” Tadashi manages, allowing himself to go slack under Tsukishima’s fingers. As his head lolls forward, the outline of Tsukishima’s erection stretching the unforgiving fabric his uniform pants enters his field of view. He wants to reach out and touch it. He’s always been one to act on impulse, so he does.
Still held up by Tsukishima’s grasp on his face, he weakly projects his noodle arms out and brushes the length of his cock with the tips of his fingers like a petulant child grabbing for a toy just held out of reach. Tsukishima jerks forward at the touch, a strangled noise escaping his throat before he composes himself again.
“Fuck, Yamaguchi,” he groans. He shifts his hips backwards. Tadashi makes grabby hands at his dick.
“No, no. You first,” he says, voice low and rough with want. He pauses for a moment before adding, nonchalantly, as if it wasn’t the hottest fucking thing Tadashi has ever heard in his life, “it’ll make mine better.”
That was it—the final piece of the puzzle clicking satisfyingly into place. Tadashi has known this for an embarrassingly long time, but now, he’s sure of it: he’d let Tsukishima do anything he wants to him. Whatever pleases him, will please Tadashi. He lurches forwards, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, dropping his forehead against his shoulder in complete and utter surrender.
“Tsukki, please,” he whispers, words tumbling into his chest.
“Yeah,” Tsukishima breathes, “I got you.”
Tsukishima deftly undoes the bottom three buttons of his shirt, then runs his index finger down his clenched abdomen, gasping as he brushes across the soft ridges of his bellybutton.
“Freckles here too,” he says, damp breath tickling down the side of Tadashi’s neck, sending an electric shiver down his spine. He nods against his shoulder. Tsukishima makes a low humming sound as he flattens his palm against the wet spot in his boxers. He rubs in a slow circle against it, repeats the action twice, only stopping to curl his fingers around his length.
“Ah, Tsukki, ah,” Tadashi gasps, rocking against his hand, desperate for friction.
“You’re so hard.” Tsukishima marvels, keeping his hand steady, unmoving. Tadashi allows himself to be proud of how hard he can get for him, only for him.
“For you, for you,” he mumbles, and Tsukishima’s breath hitches in his throat. He wants to absorb the sound, to live in the reactions that he can pull from him simply by showing Tsukishima that he’s his.
“Yeah, for me,” Tsukishima repeats, curling his fingers around his cock, only obstructed by a thin layer of hot, wet, fabric and pulls down, up, then down again. He does this on repeat until Tadashi’s legs are shaking and he’s whining desperately into his shoulder. Flickering heat builds in his abdomen and flares down his trembling thighs as he thrusts into Tsukishima’s palm, chasing the feeling, fingers scrabbling at the collar of his shirt for purchase.
Abruptly, Tsukishima’s other hand shoots to his hip, stalling his movements.
“Stop moving for a sec,” he practically growls in his ear. Tadashi yelps, tipping his head back to search Tsukishima’s eyes for an explanation. “Come here,” Tsukishima demands, then, seemingly on a second thought, makes the move he had in mind himself.
He shuffles behind Tadashi, keeping him between his legs, both hands grabbing his hips to pull his back flush against his firm chest. Tadashi feels the long curve of his erection against his lower back. He leans into it. It twitches. Tsukishima groans, long and deep.
“Don’t—n-not yet,” he warns. Tadashi nods obediently against his chest. “Sorry, Tsukki.”
He feels Tsukishima’s pleased smile against the top of his head, and a warm rush of pride fills his stomach. Tadashi positively glows. What more could he need than that?
Tsukishima hooks a thumb under the elastic waistband of his briefs, just above where the head of his cock is weeping precum and darkening its fabric from grey to black, and he lifts. His other hand reaches past the muggy fabric to wrap around his length, pulling him free, exposing him to the cool air of his bedroom. Tadashi shivers, watching the entire process with wide, incredulous eyes. He knows he’s of average size. He knows he’s not small by any means— but Tsukishima’s large, steady hand dwarfs him. This image alone makes his cock twitch and leak messily over Tsukishima’s svelte, pale fingers. Tsukishima uses his thumb to pull fluid from his slit, rubbing it around the sensitive underside of his head, then slicking it down his length with the circle of his fingers.
“You look so good like this,” he whispers, hot breath burning the already flushed tips of Tadashi’s ears.
“N-no, you look—you always look so—ngh—oh,” Tadashi babbles as Tsukishima strokes him in earnest, pumping his cock with a practiced twist of his wrist.
It’s all too much. Tadashi’s breaths are coming in fast and short, making it impossible for his brain to receive the correct amount of oxygen for even partial functionality. Tsukishima only picks up the pace. Tadashi nearly can’t handle it. His legs tense and flex, bending at the knee off of the mattress, then collapsing back down in a heap. His hands clench at the sheets. He rolls his head uselessly against Tsukishima’s chest.
“Yamaguchi, easy,” Tsukishima soothes, slipping two fingers into his mouth.
Oh. This makes it much better. Easier to handle. Tsukishima’s long fingers fill his mouth and ground him, bringing his mounting pleasure to a point he can focus on rather than be overwhelmed by. He falls back into the natural rhythm of suckling them as Tsukishima’s other hand jacks him off, faster and faster, between his legs.
“Mm—mmff, Chukki,” Tadashi garbles around his fingers.
“Shh, don’t speak,” Tsukishima mutters into his ear, “just come, Tadashi, come for me.”
God, he wants to give Tsukishima what he wants. His pulse roars in his ears. Torrid heat solidifies and drops low in his belly, sparkling and crackling before bursting out of him in waves. He spills over Tsukishima’s hand, splashing messily onto his stomach as Tsukishima strokes him through it. Then, everything fades into a dripping warm, ringing static.
When he comes to, the edges of his vision still fuzzy, the room still slowly spinning on its axis, the first sensation he notices is Tsukishima dragging his fingers through the mess on his belly. Tsukishima is apparently just as nasty in bed as he is out of it, and Tadashi is delighted. Then, he notes the steady rhythm of Tsukishima rocking his hard dick against the small of his back, using him as a warm, firm object to chase his release. This only further delights him.
Mustering what strength he has left, he lifts his hips off the bed, hooks the back of his neck over his shoulder and bows his body into Tsukishima’s roaming hand.
“You’re back,” Tsukishima notes, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of his head.
“Mmm, Tsukki, missed you,” he whines into his ear, circling his hips uselessly.
Tsukishima clicks his tongue. “You’re so greedy, Tadashi. I just made you come, what’s this now?” he chastises, but he’s still rubbing his erection against Tadashi’s back, so it somewhat takes the edge off his jab. Tadashi wants more. He wants him to be meaner.
Hoping to pull a reaction from him, Tadashi cranes his neck to press his mouth against what he knows is the very sensitive skin of the column Tsukishima’s pale neck. He licks at the salty skin, nibbling at it with his front teeth. Tsukishima hisses through pursed lips.
“Hey. Stop that,” he mumbles over a thick tongue. Tadashi latches on and sucks, hard.
Tsukishima jerks his neck away from Tadashi’s mouth and roughly grasps his jaw between his fingers. He holds him firmly in place as he swoops his other hand through the cooling cum on his stomach, lazily dipping his fingers through it, then hovers them over Tadashi’s mouth.
“Should I keep your mouth occupied?” Tsukishima asks hotly into his ear. Tadashi nods, elated, cheeks being squished in and distorted by Tsukishima’s grip.
“You’re sure about that?” Tsukishima jeers, low and breathy, hips starting to stall against his back as he brings his sticky fingers dangerously close to his lips.
Tadashi reconsiders. Logically, no, he does not want Tsukishima to shove his own cum into his mouth. He does, however, like the threat of it. It’s a delicate balance. He fears by providing the wrong answer he’ll shatter it.
Tsukishima places the very tip of his index finger on Tadashi’s bottom lip. On instinct, Tadashi opens his mouth. This clearly pleases Tsukishima. He drops his hand and carelessly wipes his fingers on Tadashi’s sheets.
“Heh, I wouldn’t do that,” he admits into his hair. His voice has an edge to it now, sharper than before, as if making Tadashi come was the whetstone to his razor tongue. Tadashi could get used to this.
“Okay, Tsukki. Thanks, Tsukki.”
He’s overusing ‘Tsukki’, and he knows it, but he can’t be stopped! Everything right now is just Tsukki, Tsukki, and more Tsukki. He’s drunk on it. And Tsukishima is still rock-hard against his back.
He shifts backwards to rub against him, and this time, Tsukishima doesn’t stop him. He grips Tadashi’s hips and gasps a punched-out moan onto the top of his head.
“I-is there something that you want?” Tsukishima implores between pants, and Tadashi revels in his uncanny ability to make him look like the desperate one, when Tsukishima is gripping onto him and rolling his hips against his back like his life depends on it. And even better—he’s actually correct. Tadashi does want something from him.
He nods slowly, carefully. Tsukishima exhales sharply into his hair. With the grip he has on Tadashi’s hips, he flips him around so they’re facing each other and Tadashi realizes all at once how much he’s missed his boyfriend’s pretty face.
“Hi,” Tadashi says on an exhale, cupping his cheeks and bringing Tsukishima down into a long, loving kiss. The bed creaks as Tsukishima leans into it, sighing contentedly as he pulls his fingers through Tadashi’s stringy hair.
“Hey,” he mumbles against his lips, “that thing you want—you can do it now.”
“Hah, okay Tsukki,” Tadashi breathes, restraining himself from saying thank you. He pulls back, chest heaving, anticipation of what’s to come buzzing under his flushed skin. Tsukishima’s eyes trace a path from Tadashi’s lips, slick with their spit, to the bulge between his own legs. His glasses slip down the bridge of his nose. He props his feet flat against the mattress. The intent is unmistakable. Tadashi feels comfortably caged in by the V of his long, slender legs.
And Tadashi knows what he wants. What they both want. Tsukishima may as well be tangling his fingers through Tadashi’s bangs and pushing his head between his legs, with the way his lips are curling up at the edges and his hips are starting to stir against the mattress. But, he’d never do that. No, Tsukishima prefers to conceal his vulgarity under calculated banter, in the whips of his wit.
He stares at Tsukishima, perfectly laid out in front of him. There are too many things he wants to do. Overwhelmed with possibility, Tadashi chooses to start in on the buttons of his uniform shirt. Tsukishima’s sharp eyes flick down, watching his shaky fingers fumble with each button, gradually parting the fabric to reveal the flat planes of his chest, now stained a blotchy pink colour. Something about stripping Tsukishima down, unwrapping him like a gift, makes Tadashi’s head swim and limbs feel fuzzy again. He blinks through the feeling. He has got to be lucid for this.
Tadashi allows his hands to wander underneath the starchy fabric, gripping at Tsukishima’s thin waist. He stares, transfixed, at the contrast of their skin tones—warm honey against cool ivory. This feels big, too big for Tadashi to put into words, especially now.
Rough, speckled digits splay over pure, creamy silk. Tadashi wants to lick him up. He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of Tsukishima’s pants and Tsukishima obediently arches, allowing Tadashi to slip them over the curve of his ass as his hungry eyes drink in the stretches of skin being revealed for the first time outside the context of a locker room or communal bath. Tadashi’s mouth waters at the sight.
Tsukishima’s bony hip bones jut out from underneath the black waistband of his boxer briefs, forming a shallow tent between his pelvis and hips. The thin fabric outlines his leaking erection. Tadashi palms over it and a soft, needy sigh spills from his lips.
“You’re big, Tsukki,” he tells him.
Tsukishima swallows. Tadashi watches his Adam’s apple bob under the thin skin of his throat. “Oh. Um. Yeah?” he chokes out.
His voice has that low husk to it that sparks electricity at the base of Tadashi’s spine. Tadashi nods enthusiastically. He anchors his other hand on Tsukishima’s exposed hip.
A direct contradiction to his steeled expression, Tsukishima rocks against his open palm, hips lifting off the mattress with each thrust. Tadashi feels himself growing hard again. Overcome with desire for the perfect, ridiculous boy under his hands, he surges forward, pressing his face flat into the damp heat of Tsukishima’s clothed crotch. Surrounded by Tsukishima’s scent, he feels as if he’s stepped sideways into a dream. It’s better than any of his fantasies though, better than the time he shoved his face into Tsukishima’s dirty volleyball shorts and inhaled like a man starved.
Hunger-crazed, he breathes in deep, burying his nose between Tsukishima’s dick and inner thigh, inhaling all his sweat and musk and arousal trapped between the fabric of his shorts and his sticky-sweet skin. His hips press into the mattress, a futile attempt to relieve the pressure building in his boxer shorts again.
“Mmm,” Tadashi hums into his groin, unable to stop himself. Above him, he hears Tsukishima’s breathing become laboured, as if he’s thoroughly enjoying the attention Tadashi is paying between his legs. Long, slender fingers card through Tadashi’s hair.
“Do you like how I smell, Tadashi?” he implores.
Tsukishima does not ask pointed questions unless he is searching for a specific answer. Tadashi knows this.
“Yes, oh yes, Tsukki, you smell so good, god, I-I want—fuck,” he cuts himself off with a long, laving lick to the side of Tsukishima’s clothed cock. Tsukishima shudders against his tongue. Tadashi mouths at his tip, tasting his precum through the damp fabric. He pulls back, only to run his tongue along the back of his teeth, evenly spreading Tsukishima’s taste throughout his mouth.
“C-come on then, show me,” Tsukishima urges, blinking down at him through askew, foggy frames. Tadashi’s mouth pools with saliva. He dislikes how its own taste displaces Tsukishima’s. He shuffles closer on his knees.
“Okay, Tsukki.”
Typically, Tadashi wishes his hands didn’t shake so much. It makes him feel weak, stupid, like he can’t even control his own useless body (useless: the most cutting insult, in Tadashi’s opinion). But right now, with the way Tsukishima is watching him—enthralled, as if Tadashi’s unsteady hands are the only two things that matter in the entire world—their quiver doesn’t seem to matter all that much. All that matters is the way Tsukishima bows towards him as he carefully pulls him out of his boxers, the nearly inaudible gasp as Tadashi runs his fingers along his length.
“Perfect. You’re perfect,” Tadashi whispers, honesty incarnate, before guiding Tsukishima’s dick past his lips.
Tsukishima’s tongue in his mouth was pleasant. His fingers were satisfying. His cock, on the other hand, is goddamn euphoric. It fulfills a need he was only ever passingly aware burned inside of him—the need to be filled, his every nook and cranny full to the brim with nothing but Tsukki. The thought makes his eyes roll back in his skull.
He purses his lips around the baby-soft skin of Tsukishima’s cock head, then bobs his head as he starts to suck, following the earlier routine they played out with Tsukishima’s fingers.
“Fuck, your mouth—s-so good, Tadashi,” he praises between breathless gasps. Mouth full, Tadashi hums in response. He feels the sound vibrate against Tsukishima’s cock, then the tremble of his thighs as a result of the noise. His dick twitches and pulses, warm and alive in his mouth, and Tsukishima mumbles a choked, “Mm’close—Tadashi, can I—” while grasping for purchase on the back of Tadashi’s head.
Tadashi allows his jaw to slacken. He blinks up at him. Tsukishima is a wreck; puffy lips parted, chest heaving, pink from the tips of his ears to the centre of his chest. Tadashi wants to smile at the sight of him, but doing so around a dick isn’t something he’d ever considered the mechanics of. He nods twice, praying his enthusiasm is painted across his face the way he assumes it must be.
“T-tell me if it’s too much,” Tsukishima whispers hoarsely, and Tadashi almost laughs. If only he knew how absurd he sounds. If the events of the past hour have taught Tadashi anything, it’s that he will never be able to get enough of Tsukishima Kei.
But when Tsukishima finally snaps his hips forwards, surging the tip of his cock against the back of Tadashi’s throat, he nearly regrets his confidence. Nearly. Until Tsukishima does it again, and again, and adrenaline sparkles under his skin, crackling down his limbs, making him feel weightless, brave, so wholly and completely himself in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before.
He coughs and sputters, but it mostly feels good. Really good. Like he’ll need this at least once a day to stay sane good. And based on the sounds Tsukishima is making, low and guttural and unlike anything he’s ever heard come from his mouth before, Tadashi figures that can be arranged.
“Fuck—I’m, T’dashi—hah,” Tsukishima pants, humping desperately into his mouth, faster than he’s has ever seen Tsukishima move in his life. And he should feel helpless, utterly violated by the way Tsukishima is using him, thrusting robotically into his open mouth, making him choke and gasp with every hit to the back of his throat, but Tadashi has never felt so empowered, so alive.
Drunk with this newfound power, he snakes his fingers between his legs, past his balls to the soft, untouched skin just beyond, and presses down. Tsukishima gasps, loud and wet and obscene, then uses his hold on the back of Tadashi’s head to pull him off his dick as he comes.
It all happens too fast for Tadashi to react appropriately, and he makes a rather unsexy noise as he’s hit in the face with Tsukishima’s cum. It’s warm, and sticks to his cheek for a moment before dripping down his chin and neck to stain the collar of his shirt, but Tadashi likes it. He isn’t surprised by this, nor is he ashamed. He’s just proud. Sticky and proud.
“Shit, sorry, Tadashi—I, uh,” Tsukishima stammers, still panting while sitting up and wrestling his shirt over his long arms before bunching up the fabric to wipe Tadashi’s face clean.
Once finished, he tosses the soiled shirt in the pile with Tadashi’s pants, then gently grasps Tadashi’s face with his hands, the pads of his thumbs resting softly atop the apples of his cheeks, just below his eyes. All mischief and pretence melts away, and Tadashi’s graced with a rare look of sheer adoration. At this moment, he thinks he could probably die happy.
Tsukishima parts his lips as if he’s about to say something very important, then doesn’t. He averts his gaze, glances down at the softening bulge in Tadashi’s boxers, blushes crimson, then looks back into his eyes again. His brows furrow, forming two little creases in his forehead. It’s inordinately cute.
“Is there something wrong, Tsukki?” Tadashi speaks up.
“No,” Tsukishima responds immediately, “I—I didn’t hurt you, did I?” With his features so soft, so open and sincere, he looks much younger. It makes Tadashi’s heart clench in his chest, but he also wants to laugh at the same time, so he does. Tsukishima’s mouth forms a perfect pout, so Tadashi shimmies out of his grasp and crawls up his body before he can comment on the nature of his laughter.
Knees on either side of his waist, hands caging his head, he drops his hips to bring their bodies confluent, then presses their sweaty foreheads together.
“You didn’t. I wouldn’t have minded if you did, though,” he admits, breath tickling Tsukishima’s lips. Tsukishima groans like he does when he’s happily overwhelmed by Tadashi’s affection, like he does right before saying something avoidant like ‘shut up, Yamaguchi.’
Instead, he says, lips pressed against Tadashi’s sweaty neck, “I love you.”
It’s not the first, or second, or even third time he’s said so out loud, but Tadashi feels a wet sob collect at the back of his throat anyway.
Forever in tune to Tadashi’s exact emotion, Tsukishima adds, “Don’t be weird about it.”
His sob is reduced to a giggle, and Tadashi shoulders himself up and kisses the tip of Tsukishima’s nose.
“Oh, I’m going to be weird about it.”
Then, Tsukishima is halfway between giggling and choking up too, but just for a moment, because in actuality he’s much weirder than Tadashi is himself.
“Wanna keep being weird, Tsukki?” Tadashi teases, taking Tsukishima’s wrist and sliding his hand down his body, guiding his palm between his legs so Tsukishima can feel for himself what he does to him, time and time again. Wide-eyed, Tsukishima nods.
Tadashi glances out the window. The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon, hazy and orange like the post-orgasm glow that surrounds them.
He pushes his grin into Tsukishima's mouth as his hand slips into his boxers.