mega-bastard

mega bastard

crybaby ☀ brat ☾ demon ⇑| 18+ minors dnirulesm.list23

139 posts

This Was So Immaculate And Hot Fire ! Some Good Akaashi Food For The Soul

This was so immaculate and hot fire ! Some good Akaashi food for the soul <3

Snare

Keiji Akaashi x Reader (Haikyuu!!)

WC: 3k

TW: Exhibitionism, Degradation, Teasing, Begging, Bratty Reader, Daddy Kink, Spitting, Spanking, Asphyxiation, Mirror Fucking, Jealousy

A/N: This is my (extremely late) secret santa gift for @deathcab4daddy. Forever sorry that it took me this long to finish, but I wanted to make sure it was perfect; hope you enjoy it love! ♡´･ᴗ･`♡

Irritation is not an emotion Keiji feels often. Trying as you are, he prides himself on keeping a level head and soft tone, only ever offering the truth with a smile. It’s only right, considering how much experience he’s had dealing with explosive personalities.

Tonight, he can feel himself slipping.

It’s not that you’re being explicitly difficult; hell, you’ve been nothing short of an angel all day. From the breakfast you served him in bed to the time you spent lounging and simply enjoying each other’s presences, it seemed like Kuroo’s Christmas party was bound to be the icing on the cake to a perfect day. And when he watched you glide out in a short, velvety dress—all long, lustrous legs and bare shoulders—Keiji was positive nothing could ruin his mood.

“Yeah, ‘Kaashi was so plastered he face-planted in front of his date,” Bokuto’s deep baritone rings out amongst the throngs of guests, “and to make it worse, he puked all over her dress!”

“Kōtarō, please,” you let out a giggle dipped in one too many glasses of champagne, manicured fingers grazing his larger friend’s bicep and lingering just a second too long for Keiji’s liking. He knows that his friend’s story is all in good fun, that your gesture is innocent, that the casual word, ‘please,’ is nothing compared to the strings of prayers and curses alike that he has you sobbing beneath the sheets most nights.

So he remains silent, hands stuffed in his pockets, glaring with furrowed brows and a permanent scowl. Is it just him or did Bokuto actually flex when you touched his arm? Every time his eyes glance towards yours, Keiji can’t help but grit his teeth harder. Perhaps he’s just overreacting, turning nothing into something for the sake of his frail ego.

Maybe he’s the one being difficult.

But the night continues this way for far too long—Bokuto landing joke after joke, you chuckling along, and Keiji downing glass after glass of champagne and still feeling painfully sober.

When a careless quip about his stamina, or lack thereof, is thrown out, Keiji decides he’s had enough. He offers his clueless best friend a polite excuse, threads his fingers around your dainty wrist, and tugs you into a far hall of the looming house. It doesn’t matter that his body sways with every step or that the words muttered beneath his breath are slurred; his only concern is pulling you away, reclaiming your precious attention, and losing his cool in the privacy of a shadowy corner where no one will take notice.

“What the fuck was that?” Despite being well-past inebriated and teetering on plastered, Keiji thinks he’s doing a stellar job at keeping his voice even and reserved. A quick glance at your raised brows tells him otherwise.

“I think I should be asking you that question,” you run your fingers down the miniskirt of your dress, smoothing out wrinkles that don’t exist. He’d think it’s a tell—a trick to steady wavering, guilty hands—but your stare doesn’t shift from his own. “You haven’t said a word all night.”

Firm as you’re trying to be, your voice is still twinged in confusion, the words tumbling from your lips a soft whine of annoyance. It’s nothing Keiji’s not used to, but tonight it seems the alcohol is speaking.

“And? You’re too busy drooling over ‘Kōtarō’ to care.” With that blunt retort, he feels a bit more himself. A version seething with envy, but still, himself.

The impact is swift, a worried bite at your lip flitting into a slow, knowing smile. Keiji can read you like a book, but what the hell is there to be smiling about when he’s deathly serious?

“Keiji,” your lithe fingers trail at his crisp collar, causing him to sink further against the wall, “are you jealous?”

“No.” Yes.

He can feel his head clouding over, the weight of all the downed champagne bubbling up with every stroke of your hands across his chest. The privacy of the empty hallway now seems uncomfortable, far more cramped than the bodies crowded into Kuroo’s large living room.

“You’ve been around me too long,” you giggle, teasing, “I see you pouting, babe.” It’s clear you’re trying to rectify the situation by poking fun, but Keiji doesn’t budge, doesn’t want to budge; not that easily, anyways.

His lack of compliance only makes you laugh harder, wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him even as he tries to shake you off. “We were talking about you the entire time, drama queen.”

He catches himself before he can crack a smile; at this point, he’s in too deep to simply kiss and make up. Though if you continue to carelessly splay your body against his, that plan may quickly slip out of reach. Every brush of your breasts against his bicep or warm hands roaming his body reminds him why he typically stays sober at these functions. A tipsy girlfriend makes for a loss of inhibitions—and a complete lack of self-awareness.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing?”

“Huh?” He watches as your face contorts, confusion etched onto your soft features once again. It’s adorable, almost allows him to forget you’ve been trying his last nerve all night. Almost.

“You– ugh.” Instead of arguing, Keiji twists your bodies, caging you in against the wall. His hands roam your bare thighs, kneading and pressing at the supple skin and reveling in the heat that seems to pull his fingertips closer. His lips ghost over your collarbone, your neck, your jaw, never quite making contact even as you shift to allow him access.

A smile spreads across his face when he hears you mewl softly, fed up with his groping. “I can see you pouting, babe,” he speaks between grazes, licking the shell of your ear, “but you did this to yourself.”

“Keiji, we’re in public,” trembling hands push at his chest, a half-hearted attempt at maintaining respectability. Well, it’s too late for that.

“Yeah? What about when you were all over Bokuto?” He skims a finger across the hem of your dress—smooth red velvet sending shivers down his spine—before tugging it up. The article’s so skimpy, he doesn’t even have to, but the way your eyes widen is worth it. “What about when you were all over me, just a minute ago? Were you not in public then?”

“That- that was all innocent,” you whisper hurriedly, voice jittery as your brows furrow. He runs his finger across your panties, an action that makes you keen and him snicker. He doesn’t let up, simply because he can’t contain his excitement any longer; the lace is absolutely drenched.

“That’s why you’re fucking soaked right now, huh.” Keiji’s words are surprising, even to himself; though blunt, he’s not typically so vulgar. But they work wonders on the both of you.

He feels your lower half twitch towards him, hands reaching out to steady yourself against his shoulders. All the while, your eyes are lidded, glazed over in– lust? inebriation? Whatever the reason, it does it for him. He feels his dick harden beneath his slacks, strains it against your thigh so you can feel how painfully frustrated he is with you, for you. “Anything to say for yourself?”

At that, you seem to regain your bearings, hands settling more firmly on his shoulders. When you look him in the eyes, Keiji can practically see the jest—the disobedience—dancing across your irises. Your lips quirk into a devilish smirk and out tumbles the word he had been waiting on,

“Nope.”

And there’s the brat he knows, coming out to play your favorite game of cat and mouse. You want to make him work for it, desire nothing more than to be treated like the whore you are until you’re crying and begging for him. He knows the game well, of course.

But this time, he’s got something different in mind.

The sheer disappointment on your face when Keiji untangles himself from you is enough to make him cackle. As he turns away, he offers little explanation in the form of a shrug and a devious smile.

“Heard Kuroo’s making a speech,” he throws over his shoulder, “we should probably head back.” He doesn’t even have to check to know you’re pouting.

As the night continues, he knows he’s got you precisely where he wants you. An ‘accidental’ graze of his arm on yours makes you shiver, the hand glued to your lower back has you keening into him, every charged gaze into your eyes and sharp flash of pearly canines results in a lip bite and clenched thighs. But still, he makes no move towards you.

Because this time, the mouse is going to come to the cat—hand delivered with a shiny red bow to boot.

“All in all, I’m just glad I could have my closest friends around for the holidays,” Kuroo raises a glass to the small crowd, “Merry Christmas!”

Keiji raises his glass with the rest of them, the same one he’s been carrying around for the past hour; sobriety is necessary for what’s to come. When you raise yours, he shifts his fingers to massage slow circles into the back of your thigh.

A gasp, shattered glass, and dozens of eyes trained on you.

It wasn’t his intended reaction, but it works at riling you up nonetheless. Soon, you’re apologizing for your clumsiness, glare unwavering from Keiji’s own amused smile even as you whisk him away to the bathroom ‘to clean up’.

“Keiji,” you stress, arms crossed against your chest, while he’s kneeling beneath you rubbing at the tiny stain.

“Hm?” He doesn’t look up, doesn’t dare ruin the little trick he’s mastered: feigned indifference.

“Keijiii.” This time it’s a whine, high-pitched and drawn out in the hopes that it’ll sway him. When he finally glances up towards you, he can practically taste the desperation threaded through your face. Your hands grab at his jaw, ghosting a thumb across his cheekbone as you finally, finally break, “Need you.”

But it’s not enough for him.

“Is that any way to ask?” He snickers, you let out a huff of frustration, and the game goes on.

“We’re in a tiny bathroom at your friend’s Christmas party. I’m not gonna sit here and beg–”

He turns his head, making a move to leave, “Oh, the stain’s gone. We should probably head ba–”

“No, no– wait!” Your palms grab at his face again, frenzied and forlorn, slightly sticky and sickly sweet, reminiscent of the bubbly champagne still surging through your bodies. “Just fuck me already.” It’s spoken hardly above a whisper, laced with urgency.

“Vulgar, but not quite,” Keiji teases, but he finds his hands already on you, drifting over the smooth skin of your calves, your thighs, and toying at the soft, velvet hem of your dress once again.

“Please.” That earns you a few kisses to your inner thighs, to which your legs party readily. Needy slut. He can hardly wait himself, wants to pounce on you and be done, but the wait is worth it.

“Please what?” He speaks between nips and licks at your thighs, traveling closer and closer to heaven, but never touching you where you both need it most.

“Please daddy, fuck me.”

And finally, Keiji complies.

The bathroom is cramped, filled with heat and fervor and two bodies haphazardly grabbing and groping anywhere they can get their hands on. He lifts you onto the sink, lips clashing to yours passionately; your fingers weave through his hair, shooting sparks down his spine.

Every touch is a plea for more, an insatiable craving to meld your bodies into one. He fumbles with your dress’s zipper before deciding it’s a hopeless endeavor, choosing instead to tug the bodice down and hem up to expose you.

When he pulls his lips from yours, a string of saliva still connects you. He gives you a once over and– fuck. You—with your lidded eyes glazed over, lips puffy, breasts strained against his chest—are enough to drive Keiji mad.

In seconds, his fingers are at your cunt and his lips at your neck. He shifts your panties to the side and slides two digits into you easily, reveling in the heat that envelops him.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp sharply, a pretty little noise that he wants, needs, to hear again and again. With each thrust, it’s as though your cunt molds to his fingers, pulls him in and aches for more. His thumb at your clit makes you twitch and bite at his shoulder, and all the while, Keiji grinds his throbbing cock against your leg.

But it’s not about him, not yet. Right now, he wants nothing more than to see you fall apart, to cling to him and chant his name like a prayer—trembling and begging for more.

His free hand flits to your jaw, pressing your mouth open. And like the good little whore he knows you are, your tongue rolls right out. Keiji’s enraptured by the spit that hits it, offers you a rough grunt of ‘hold it,’ while he continues to pump and curl his fingers into you.

You’re nearing the edge; he can feel it in the way you clutch at his shirt, in your furrowed brows and quivering thighs. It only makes him move faster, resolute in making you see stars.

“Cum for me.” It’s a demand more than a request—one that he knows you’ll fulfill with devotion.

And you do. One press against that spot Keiji knows good and well, and your body stills, muscles straining and a choked mewl leaving you with a shudder. He works you through it, biting at your neck and soothing over the pain with his tongue.

“Turn over.” You may be worn out, body still quivering against his, but Keiji’s not quite done with you yet.

He unzips his pants in a flash, pulls his cock out in half that time. Rubbing against your slit, his entire body shudders with need. “So messy,” he can’t help but groan, hands secured to your waist. It only makes you hump back against him, wiggling any way you can to get him inside of you.

Back and forth, he runs his member across your slick, spreading it all over him—though he doubts he’ll need the extra lubrication. “Tell me how badly you want it.”

“Please Keiji,” a stinging slap to your ass, “Please daddy, I need you. Need you so fucking bad.” Your hands are flush against the counter, gripping the sides with enough force to turn your knuckles white. Keiji thinks he likes you best like this, wanton and breathless, splayed out for him like a common whore where anyone could see you. It suits you, he thinks.

He sinks into you hard and fast, basking in the warmth of your cunt— the way it pulsates and stretches around him. No matter how hard you try to keep quiet, your moans quickly escalate from soft, whiny whimpers to full-blown mewls. Keiji quickly reaches to shove a finger into your mouth, then two, pressing down hard on your tongue until you gag and sputter around them.

“That’s it, baby,” his free hand tangles through your locks, yanking so that your face meets the mirror. “Take a look at yourself.”

“Mmph.” Whatever you’re trying to get out is hazy, turned into mindless babble as you pant and squirm beneath him. Even as you try to keep your eyes trained on your reflection, every thrust makes your eyes roll back, a movement that prompts Keiji to tug harder on your hair.

“I said,” another harsh snap of his hips against your ass, “look.” Despite his attempt to gag you, a delirious, high-pitched moan is ripped from your throat. He removes his fingers from your mouth, only to smear spit-soaked fingers across your plump lips. Sloppy, just how he likes you.

Keiji begins to lose himself in you; it doesn’t matter that your voices are escalating, that your hands hit the wall with a resounding thunk every time he pounds into you, or that the two of you have been gone for far too long to blame on a stain. His only concern is the fluttering of your soft cunt around him and your inevitable releases.

“M’close,” you murmur, eyes screwed shut. He keeps his pace, fast and hard, and nuzzles his face into your neck, enveloping himself in the smell of warm vanilla, champagne, and sweat—a combination good enough to fucking eat. One of his hands moves to wrap around your throat, the other to rub circles on your bud.

“Fuck,” he grunts, “such a perfect whore for me.”

Your entire body tightens, muscles tensing as you murmur strings of gibberish. Keiji doesn’t let up, doesn’t dare stop moving his fingers, even as you buck and shake. With the way your cunt sucks him in, the warmth and pleasure of each hump into you, he finds himself close behind you—stilling all at once to paint your insides white.

And then you’re both left panting, unmoving from your spots on the counter, all tangled limbs and sweat-soaked skin. He takes a moment to regain his composure, whispering soft praise into your ears as you both come down from your highs.

When he’s finally settled, he slips out of you, grabbing toilet paper to wipe you both off while you fix your dress.

“That was–” You sigh contently, voice hoarse, and turn to look at him, still wearing that fucked out glow that makes his heart soar.

“Yeah.”

“Do you think anyone noticed?”

A knock at the door.

“Uhm, hello?” Kuroo stutters. Bokuto’s deafening laughter can be heard from behind him. “Yeah, uh, the party ended twenty minutes ago.”

Keiji smiles.

“They noticed.”