I Dont Get It, Akaashi Says, Putting Down The Two Cups Of Coffee Hes Just Made. He Kisses The Top Of

“I don’t get it,” Akaashi says, putting down the two cups of coffee he’s just made. He kisses the top of your head as he sits down next to you. You’ve got your journal out, scratching something either very important or very unimportant into it (it’s hard to tell sometimes, this early in the morning).

“And that’s why it’s my journal and not yours.” You look at him, leaning in to kiss his cheek as thanks for the coffee. “I don’t understand your spreadsheets either.”

“Not that,” he retorts, grumbling something about the utility and value of spreadsheets at the end of that statement. “I don’t get why you keep wearing my Fukurodani jacket.”

“Because you gave it to me and it’s mine?”

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miya atsumu x gn!reader, suggestive

“what are ya thinkin’ about?”

“how soft your hair is,” you hum back in reply, carding your fingers through your lover’s hair. atsumu, fresh out of the shower and smelling of peaches, freezes in his spot between your legs — obviously guilty.

“ya like my hair?” he asks.

you ignore him.

“have you been using my conditioner, ‘tsumu?”

“…what’s mine is mine, and what’s yers is mine, babe.”

you suppress a laugh. “who said that?”

“it’s in our wedding vows.”

“we’re not married!”

atsumu turns, his arms finding their usual place around your waist while a familiar lazy grin pulls at his lips. “not married—yet.”

“silly goose.” you bring your hand up to flick at his forehead gently, suppressing yet another chuckle at how your lover scrunches up his handsome face. then you kiss away the crease between his brows, peck the tip of his nose, and finally press a big noisy smack to his lips — complete with an exaggerated “mwah!” that makes him giggle boyishly.

“what are you thinking about, then?” you ask when you pull back.

“hmmm.” a tiny pout pulls at his lips. you see the mischievous glint in his eyes — he’s pretending to think. “i’m thinkin’ ‘bout yer tits in my mouth.”

“miya atsumu!”

“oh, uh, please? yer tits in my mouth… please?”

“you’re terrible.”

“that wasn’t a no.”

you feel atsumu’s arms tighten around your middle, shoulders flexing under his thin cotton shirt, and your breath hitches when his thumbs slip under the hem your shirt to rub at the sensitive skin of your waist.

“…no, it wasn’t.”

when you step through the door at the end of the day, your apartment is almost exactly the way you left it that morning.

two mugs sit in the dish drying rack next to the sink. one is plain, on the larger side to hold the amount of coffee a 5AM alarm necessitates. that one's hajime's. the other is slightly smaller, with a design faded from years of love and dish soap. it's monogrammed with your name on it--something that you would never buy for yourself, but rather an awkward, earnestly-given gift from the early days of a relationship that has lasted longer than the ceramic glaze.

the curtains that hang over the balcony door across the room ruffle in the breeze, though the sky beyond them is dusky where it had been bright when you'd departed for work earlier in the day. the air outdoors is still warm from the sunny day, but as the sun rapidly sinks on the horizon you know a chill will soon creep in, so you cross the expanse of the living room to gently slide the balcony door shut to preserve the lingering warmth of your home.

you pause when you hear a voice. a laugh. a sound that kindles inside of you as well as any late-summer breeze ever could.

you follow it.

"--your delts if you're not training your traps just as hard--"

then a tinny, murmured reply you can't quite make out even as you get closer to the sound.

you turn the corner to the home office.

"yeah? well don't come crying to me when you're walking around with a hunchback shittykawa! it's a miracle you can even hold up that big fucking head of yours with those underdeveloped--"

hajime spots you hovering in the doorway with a smile on your face, and the pinch between his furrowed brows immediately softens, unfurling like a knot shaken loose.

"ohhhh, is someone home?" you unmistakably hear your boyfriend's best friend tease from the other end of the call. from the other end of the world.

"i'm hanging up," hajime grunts, reaching to end the video call he's taking on his open laptop.

"wait! wait!" tooru's voice cries frantically, and hajime's hand pauses where he's about to sever the connection with a swift click. the man in front of you stares down the screen impatiently.

there's a beat of silence.

"love you!" tooru chirps. "you have to say it back!"

"fuck off." hajime shakes his head but he's hiding a smile, and he grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "love you too" before slamming his hand down on the end button.

he slumps back in his seat after ending the call, looking to you expectantly. his face is bathed by the evening sun that streams through the window on one side of his office, gilding him in light. he blinks slowly as his cheeks pull in a lazy, welcoming grin.

"you're home," he says, opening his arms.

you nod, stepping through the doorway towards him.

hajime watches every step you take as you draw nearer, his arms still outstretched, though they reach for you when you come within their span--circling your waist and pulling you down into his lap.

"did you have a nice day?" he asks, nosing at your cheek, his grip tight but not overbearing around you. you tilt your face towards his and brush a kiss across his mouth, chaste and sweet and teeming with affection.

"i did," you say, pecking his lips again. "need to change out of my work clothes, though."

you move to stand and he lets you, knowing that you're sure to return to your rightful place later on.

you peer down at him as you hesitate beside him in his desk chair, reaching out to brush your fingers through the hair at his temple. the sun catches in the brown and makes it look warmer, a little more red.

"how was your day, pretty boy?"

hajime blinks up at you in confusion.

"pretty boy?" he asks, laughing almost a little awkwardly at the unfamiliar term of endearment, "kawa's not on the phone anymore, baby."

"i know that," you reply, letting your nails scratch gently against his scalp. "but you're my pretty boy."

the red that the sun paints in his hair is rapidly mirrored in the blush that blooms across the high planes of his cheeks. the kind of flush that makes the green in his eyes stand out so starkly. a rosiness that only furthers your belief in the man before you's prettiness.

he leans into your touch, and the heat of his cheek brushes against the inside of your wrist. he stares up at you in a way that can be described as nothing short of adoring. as much a home as the one you've built with him. as familiar as the monogrammed mug in the rack beside your sink.

"yeah," he says quietly before pressing a kiss to your pulse point. "i'm yours."

8:18 PMㅤPIROUETTE! afab reader. alcohol intoxication, panic attack, borderline smut.

seven-drink yuuji: when the liquor starts to taste like "I should pull her hair the way I do it in the bedroom" in the midst of helping you while you throw up in the toilet.

the way you figure it, and the way his friends and colleagues call it, the 'itadori drunkenness scale' is a thing.

every stage is more distinct than the previous one. you've reached the point that you know its symptoms like the back of your hand. it became a domestic routine during parties, and both of you have learned your parts so well.

so far, you've seen the first six.

the first drink is the calm before the storm. one-drink yuuji is not completely convinced that the amount he has had is hitting him. yet. he keeps his jacket on.

touchy-feely territorial is what two-drink yuuji is. his personal favorite way is met somewhere between getting rid of the sidelong stares being thrown at you by guys and recharging his social battery at a mere 94%. it's him trotting excitedly over to you right before sitting on your lap facing inward, doubling the weight of the chair as he makes himself cozy with his chin resting on your shoulders.

you've seen how three drinks alone can already unleash how of a piece of work yuuji actually is—you've endured it countless times. it's him suggestively leaning into your face looking like it would be a kiss but it's actually whispering something dirty in your ear. he takes mental snapshots because your cheeks flushed under the lights is just a sight to behold thus into the album compartment of his brain that says, "i can't believe i landed this fine thing!!! <;33"

four-drink yuuji. oh boy. it's him and the clusterfuck of: "begone!" his jacket thrown in the air and "don't worry, I can't feel no pain at the moment" extraordinaire. (check for bruises or cuts later, you make a mental note.)

down at five drinks, you learn to not let yuuji come near to the karaoke machine, let alone the microphone. it's him with this shit-eating grin on his face, loading in a lot of songs as he shouts "baby, we're gonna sing all these, and we're gonna raise the roof of this house!" or something like that.

(you guys did raise the roof during a song of 'way back into love' earlier, though, just laughing in the microphones most of the entire song.)

now, six-drink yuuji—now that's just a god. how come he isn't throwing up yet after those supernumerary backflips? why isn't he blacked out yet after falling down the stairs? blessed with both high alcohol and pain tolerance you'd say. regardless, it's him mellowing down. it's him sitting on the couch just to stand up again to go to the nearest bathroom.

and you never—in a million years—take this rest interval for granted.

because right after that minuscule period, as though his muscles recovered rather too quickly, you haven't had enough time to register what's about to happen until you can already feel wandering hands on your skin.

his physical affection might just already kick in and is currently in overdrive.

as though it's his way of letting you know the obvious, that he has these strong hands and arms, he gets too adventurous with it. it's his arm over your shoulder, his hands over time roaming at your back, and his fingers stopping at the spot where the clasp of your bra is hooked. you would side-eye him as yuuji continues conversing with fushiguro (who apparently couldn't actually look directly at his friend's eye because of it.)

(for lack of better words, bra-fidgeting to yuuji is just the equivalent of you absentmindedly playing with the front strings of his grey sweatpants. it's just a fact.)

as for seven-drink yuuji, well, so far, you have him with you inside the same cramped stall of a party bathroom. he's on his knees. behind your crouched figure.

you wish it was as sexy as it sounds in comparison with what's happening on the other side of the door. but it isn't.

because you're currently throwing up in the toilet. all the while, yuuji is resting his forehead against your backless sundress, meanwhile also handling his own war—fighting for his life as he holds onto the remaining drop of his sobriety just so he can properly hold your hair up away from your face. 

and that's what makes you brace yourself; the prospect of what kind of enormity that seven-drink yuuji has in store for you considering the previous stages are just enough for the night.

but not right now. not when your head is spinning, doing a continuous 360 whenever you try to lift your head from the toilet rim. not when it's pounding to the bass of the music reverberating from outside.

it's the way yuuji is doing a decent job despite him being seven times more hammered than you. 

once in a while, he lets go of your hair that he has bunched in his fist just to tuck some of the stray strands that fall over time that's got it framing your face. when both of his hands are not busy raking your locks, you can feel one of his hands petting your back in the cadence of his groggy whispering ("you can do it, babe... i got you, i got you...") over and over again like a broken record. the sound of your belching overpowers his cooing. 

but fuck—what is this? why on earth are there reasons for you to be turned on right now?

something about yuuji progressively tugging at your hair as he chants all these "baby, you can do it, yeah?" with every outward jolt of your torso makes you... go off. it has got you worked up and whimpering.

something tells you he's doing that on purpose—tugging your hair just to solicit familiar sounds out of you that usually only envelopes the corners of your bedroom, his bedroom, the backseat of the car...

and now inside a dingy bathroom cubicle.

you're giving yuuji an ego boost. it's just a fact. you're tasting his name, feeling its shape in your tongue before finally rolling off your lips, likewise liking the sound of it with every moan.

not that you're already concluding what seven-drink yuuji looks like, but so far, you got: tends to bring bedroom habits into new experiences. 

upon flushing the toilet, you hear the blaring chorus of a song by cigarettes after sex from outside. you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. 

"baby?" you turn to him.

"d'you need some lavender?" he asks at the same time, already fishing for the essential oil he learns to always keep in his pocket just in case you forgot yours.

realizing you were about to say something, he hums in response and at once, lowering his head down right next to yours to properly hear what you have to say over the music. 

as you are about to speak, your gaze drops to his collarbone that's peeking out over the collar of his white shirt.

you can smell it—although uncertain whether if it's his soap, his cologne, or the pheromones themselves—it's the grounding scent of yuuji that does it; the familiar intimate secret between just the two of you.

your pupils might have just blown wide an inch or two.

yuuji still has his head lowered right next to yours, staring down the floor, waiting for whatever you have to say. he blinks, his lashes wispy.

"isn't that our next song?" you croak.

turning to look at you again, he nods. he tries to search for your eyes as you do the same. you immediately figure he's not exactly there, there.

"shit. I'm sorry we missed it—"

he grabs hold of your face, letting out a giggle to hide the fact that you don't have to worry about missing a song; not when he loaded a shit ton of it for you both to butcher later on.

"baby, baby," he coos, shaking his head as he pushes out the stray hair that's been sticking to the sheen sweat on your temple. 

"—and you shouldn't see me like thi—"

he shakes his head again. "hey, it's okay! it's fine!"

"no, no, it's not!... and–and I prolly look like shit!–"

"hey, hey donttalktomygirllikethat look at me, look at me—eyes here." he cradles your face in his hand. you lean into his palm, finding comfort in its warmth. you look up at him.

you can't feel your face. not when yuuji's eyes are nailed hard at yours, staring at you with such intensity, as though searching for something and he needs it. now. 

"baby, you're—you're the baddest girl, alright? nobody else matters."

you're the eighth wonder. the secrets of the universe lay on your face and he's trying to find another. before you know it, there's a sudden glint in his eyes now. you ask yourself if he just found another one. 

"babe?" he whispers. 

"mhm?" 

you stare at yuuji, trying to gauge what he's thinking; showing some sort of solidarity through one shared look. but he was too busy trying to sift through his own thoughts to even realize he's just now gaping at you. your response now hangs in the air, some electronic dance music blaring from outside now fills the silence.

not that it needs to be filled with something, because as long as he is involved, everything paradoxically becomes—if not chaotically—at ease by default. that for sure.

and it's times like these when it just can't be helped but to take you back to that particular night. 

the two of you ended up on your bedroom floor, bodies leaning against the footboard of your bed for support. it went so fast. your mouth was dry as you were heaving for air, your eyes brimming with tears, and your hands clutching at yuuji's as though your personal lifeline. 

because he is and he proved it as soon as you were starting to have an episode.  

because even though you can see fear manifesting in his eyes, he was trying to stay calm as he cradled your face. because he was brushing your hair with his other hand while whispering all these encouraging words to "breathe, breathe, breathe, i got you, i got you…" and to "count with me, love, one, two, breathe, three.." over and over again like a broken record. 

because you croaked 'you,' 'your pink hair,' the 'glow-in-the-dark stickers' on the wall, the 'desk chair' and 'your jacket' hanging on the chair's top rail when he asked you to mention some five things that can you see;

because you said 'it's soft' when he asked you "what can you feel?" after guiding your hand on his hair; the scar on the left corner of his mouth—'you got this when you attempted to pull that trick with your board'; on his earlobes—'it’s soft and squishy'; on his chest—'you’re heart’s beating so fast'; 

and funnily enough, as far as you can remember, it’s in that exact moment when your breath starts to even out.

he noticed it right away: the weight on your chest was slowly being lifted out; your grip on his hands is no longer tight. he noticed this as the new warmth of conviction washed over him, completely taking over the fear that almost governed his whole system.

yuuji became very well-acquainted with what you have to deal with. and the boy had a brain and so much heart, he wasn't afraid to use it.

not even on a hell week as the college workload remained untouched and piled on his desk while he goes over his laptop researching grounding techniques in the dark of his dorm.

it's your well-being over his mise en scène film analysis paper anytime.

finally, the last question of the grounding method he was using that has something to do with taste, he asked, "what flavor can you make out with this?"

and right just about you was to ask what he meant by that, he cut you off with his lips crashing into yours.

by the time he pulled back, you said, without hesitation—that it "tasted somewhere between strawberries and salvation. "

right now, inside a party bathroom stall, seven-drink yuuji asks you; 

"d'you wanna make out after this? i really wanna kiss you so bad right now—well, after you're done with your thing f'course." 

even though you're not exactly in your element, you still caught the nanosecond as he was talking, how his gaze flickers on your lips and drops on your chest.

that sudden glint in his eyes; the way desire is manifesting itself in his eyes. you try not to laugh. you should've known. 

you can't help but raise your eyebrows, your eyes narrowing down at him. you give him the chance to re-assess what he just said given the circumstances that, well, you were just throwing up a few minutes ago.  

"baby, I–I am done…but—didn't you just see what I was doing? or was it someone else that’s been holding my hair?” 

yuuji blinks at you. "what?" 

you cup his face. "tell me," you say, leaning into him. "how much did you smoke?" 

he breaks a smile. he reaches on his side and there he shakes a water bottle. "yeah? I have a water bottle here f'you," he chirps, completely ignoring your question. you whine as you let go of his face.  

suddenly he's getting up. "c'mon, we can do it—" he peeks at the upper opening of the stall "—outside, on the sink. c'mere, I'll carry you." 

"wait, wait, yuuji." you pull his hands to make him sit back down again. "someone will walk on us."

he squats back down, manspreading. "babe, no one's gonna catch us!" he waves his hand as though swatting bad energy.

"but I kinda hope they catch us. anyway, c'mon."

before he can even carry you to the sink, the bathroom door flies open as kugisaki walks in with eyes deadly, enough to be translated to "don't you even think about it." 

as the two of you drove back to your place past 2 am, you ruminated on the passenger seat. two of them being is 1. how seven-drink yuuji is a god all the same like he was at six drinks considering he could still drive with the same composure of a sober man and 2. on the contrary to your friend's words, how the both of you were still thinking about it just by the way his hand reached over to your thigh and how you open up your legs for him a little bit more.

sure, seven drinks could put yuuji on his acts of service and slurred "I love you so much, you're the best girlll" speech bullshit but nothing beats your most personal favorite;

seven-drink yuuji who would ram you into the shower glass, strong hands tangled in your wet locks, giving a whole new meaning to spectacular shower scenes ever known to hollywood.

you wonder if eight-drink yuuji could even top all of that.

lmao. this has been on my drafts for so long, let's just eat it up heh heavily inspired by childish gambino's LES since I was in need of some kind of cathartic purge at the time to get rid of that pre-chorus in my brain.

© SENT2TOBIO, 2022. please do not plagiarize, repost & translate.

Okay but like... you're trying to help Itadori study and explaining the work to him but he's so distracted and thinking about how bad he wants to bend you over the desk and have you twitching and crying for him as he rails you...

And he feels guilty when you're being all sweet and patient with him but he's nearly drooling at the thought of your walls clenching around him and trying to hold your desperate little moans in... 😖 I just know he gets distracted and fantasizes a LOT I feel it in my soul.

you have to be doing this on purpose—wait, what? itadori bites his tongue until it stings, cursing himself. no. no, that wasn’t right. it wasn’t right at all—you weren’t doing this on purpose, the hell was he thinking?

yuuji runs a hand down his face, dull buzz in his ears. fuck. what the fuck. you were being nice to him and all he can think about is how he wants to fuck you? until your pretty glasses with the shiny metal frames he keeps staring at are halfway falling off your face? until you’re drooling all over your textbooks, fists desperately trying to find purchase on the slippery table crumpling your notes the moment he runs careful fingers over your folds? until the stupid highlighters and pens are shoved to the floor and—yeah. yeah, that is all he can think about. and it’s a problem.

there has to be something wrong with him.

itadori groans and buries his head in his folded arms. he hates himself for this, he really does. just once he’d like have some semblance of self-control. it’s the least he can do. maybe. is he allowed to get distracted by you like this? he’s doesn’t know.

“are you okay?” a jolt prickles his senses—your voice that had faded into background noise in the face of all his less-than-moral thoughts now snaps to the forefront of his mind. itadori scrambles to prop up his chin on his arms, blinking up at you, trying to get out of his head.

you’re looking at him—really looking, with the sweetest smile. the type of smile that says it’s okay. i get it.—but you don’t get it, that’s the thing. you think he’s upset over determining convergence in calculus and god, that’s the cutest thing—you have so much faith in him. so much.

when you lay a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly, yuuji’s mind lags for a moment—he doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to tense or relax under the touch. “we can take a break if you want. you’ve been working hard.” and then you laugh—the prettiest laugh he’s ever seen. bright and pretty and wow, he feels bad.

why are you pretty. why are you pretty and so smart and so fuckable—and yuuji is losing his mind. that’s it. that’s officially it because he’s selfish, okay? he’s selfish and you look cute and the pen you’d been chewing at the cap of twirls between your fingers as you study him, waiting for an answer and god, your lips looked really pretty around that pen before, did he mention that? they did. dammit. they absolutely did.

yuuji blinks again, lets his muscles loosen for a moment as he thinks, then somehow his gaze—that had been focused on your face and then your tortoise shell glasses and then your pouting lips and then down to your blue pen—finds its way to your chest. and then he’s staring. at your tits. shamelessly. so, so shamelessly. it doesn’t matter what you wear—you’re so pretty in everything, that’s all he can think. it’s the only thought his mind seems able to fully form.

and even then, when he’s practically eye fucking you, you barely even notice, think he’s maybe just staring off into space, concentrating, thinking about something—anything. you don’t question it because you’re too busy being concerned for him, think he’s burnt out from studying, think he’s such a hard worker.

yuuji likes how that shirt hugs you, he decides. he stares at the curve of your breasts in it for a little longer, cheek pressed against his still folded arms as he considers his options—and then he speaks, slowly and thickly, mouth moving before his mind can wrestle it’s way out of the daze pounding in his head. “babe,”—the way you tilt your head at the single word, attention focused fully on him almost makes him feel bad for what he’s going to do to you; he considers silently asking for forgiveness to make up for it—“can i kiss you?”

HOW ARE WE FEELING I AM PERSONALLT DOINF FINE

[top-row id: a manga panel of yuuji itadori. he’s drawn simply and he’s frowning. his hand is raised and there are small cloud shapes next to his face. second row id: the first and third images are manga panels of yuuji. he has a scar on his mouth and between his eyebrows and his mouth is slightly open. the middle image is a series of drawings yellow emoji blobs with various crying expressions and surrounded by hearts. final row id: a manga panel of yuuji. he looks from the corner of his eye at the viewer, appearing surprised. he has the same mouth and eyebrow scars. //end id]