The dorm was warm, but it is also cold at the same time, lit by a string of LEDs that cast everything in a soft, violet hue. The air smelled faintly of chips, cheap cologne, and the open can of something carbonated going flat on the windowsill. Controllers clicked rapidly from across the room, broken up by bursts of swearing and Rhys’s dramatic exaggerated groans.
“You’re actually the worst, Samu.” Atsumu barked, throwing his arms up. “Why d’you always go for me first?! I wasn’t even in first!” He slapped Osamu’s shoulder, not in a violent way, but in a frustrated, annoyed way, making Osamu shot a side eye to him.
“Cause you’re suck. Admit it.” Osamu replied coolly, looking at Atsumu with that annoying, smug look, while still grasping on the controller. The ost still played clearly from the TV speaker, loud enough to make the two idiots who’s sitting in front of the TV to scream at eachother. “Also, you were in first.”
“I was not!”
“Yes, you were.”
Esyia was curled up at the edge of Suna’s bed, legs folded under herself, thumb drifting across her phone screen without really reading anything. She wasn’t paying attention to the game. Or maybe she was, in a vague, background kind of way. It was hard not to, with how loud those idiots got. Suna lay beside her, stretched out on his back, one arm slung lazily over his chest, hoodie pulled up just enough to shadow his face. His phone sat loose in his hand, resting on his stomach, screen gone dim. He wasn’t asleep — but he might as well have been.
They weren’t touching, not directly. But their knees were nearly brushing, the shared blanket shifting whenever either of them moved. Her foot had ended up against his ankle at some point — unintentionally, or maybe not. He didn’t move it away. The room was full of noise and motion, but the bed felt like its own separate space. Quieter. Still. Their phones a half-hearted excuse for attention.
“They’re loud.” She grumbled about the noise they were making, shifting slightly to find a warm spot as her body felt cold. Her hand kept scrolling across the screen — though, in truth, she wasn’t really paying attention to what was displayed; the light from the screen seemed like nothing more than a mere embellishment.
Suna shifted slightly, pulling his elbow back so he could prop himself up onto one forearm. He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, watching dust motes drift down in the purple light. For a moment, he remained silent, letting the sound of the game wash over them both. “They surely are.” Suna finally murmured, his voice low and rougher than usual, almost swallowed by the din. “They’re annoying.” His tone held no real surprise at her comment; he hadn’t expected otherwise. In fact, he probably hoped she wouldn’t bring it up, because having to acknowledge it meant acknowledging that she was listening to him, rather than staring into her own phone. After a beat, he turned his head slowly toward her. His dark eyes, usually hooded, seemed more focused now, though still distant.
“I bet they won’t even realize that we’re doing something right now.” She pushed the blanket aside and pulled back her hoodie’s hood before crawling toward him. Moving just a few inches brought her right into his embrace. She closed her eyes, pressed her ear against his chest, and listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat — a sound that, somehow, made her feel safe.
A faint smile touched Suna’s lips, barely visible in the gloom. He let out a soft, long breath, the exhale sounding heavy yet satisfied. There was a slight hesitation before he finally decide to react, as if he needed a fraction of a second to process the shift in proximity. Then, he allowed himself to sink back down, settling his weight around her, wrapping an arm loosely around her shoulders. It wasn’t a tight embrace — more of a possessive hold, casual, and utterly comfortable. He rested his chin lightly atop her head, feeling the softness of her hair, and the faint smell of her shampoo, tickling his cheek. His other hand came up, finding the curve of her hip underneath the fabric of her shorts, his finger curling gently over the material. He didn’t squeeze or press; he just held her there, anchoring her against him. Suna exhaled again, closing his eyes briefly. The warmth radiating off her body seeped through his shirt, grounding him in a way the constant haze of weed and alcohol rarely managed anymore. The ambient noise continued unabated, the shouts and laughter continuing their relentless rhythm, but right here, cocooned between the matress and her body heat, it all faded into a dull hum.
He waited until she settled fully against him, adjusting his grip slightly to accomodate her position. Then, very deliberately, he brought his free hand up, cupping the side of her neck. His thumb found the sensitive spot right below her ear, rubbing a slow, soothing circle against her skin. He leaned down, his lips brushing softly against her temple, inhaling the scent of her shampoo mixed with sweat and closeness. “Don’t mind them.” He said softly to her, as he brushed her soft strands between his delicate finger. She whined softly, squirmed, but not because she feel uncomfortable, but because the way he whispered with that tone right directly to her ear, it tickles her. Oh.. Damn. She thought.
“You’re warm. I like it.” She whispered softly, finding comfort in the position within his embrace. She could feel the gentleness of his touch upon her head, and she loved it — she loved it so damn bad. Slowly, her eyes — previously closed — fluttered open to gaze at the figure now busy tracing his fingers along her neck; he lazily grazed every inch of her skin, making her acutely aware of the path his fingers took.
Suna’s thumb moved lazily against her neck for a brief moment, his touch lingering there as he processed her words. A huff of amusement escaped him — not quite a laugh, just a vibration deep in his chest that she would feel pressed against his ribs. It was such a simple observation, yet coming from her, it felt heavier somehow. Like she was noticing things most people ignored. “Am I?” He repeated it back to her, his voice dropping another octave, turning it into something intimate and questioning. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he adjusted his hold, his hand sliding from her neck down to the nape of her head, fingers threading slowly through her hair. He tugged just enough to tilt her head back a fraction, exposing the line of her throat to the dim violet light.
“Trying to kiss me, huh? Cheeky.” She pulled her head back a few inches, gazing at him as if she knew exactly what he was about to do next. She was simply trying to tease him, wanting to see what he would actually do — was he really trying to steal a kiss, or just playing around? Slowly, she tilted her head, looking at him with an expression that was both flirtatious and innocent, waiting for his next move. She looked at him with that.. Smug look on her face. Making him, somehow frustrated, and challenged.
His thumb traced the underside of her jaw, dragging slowly upward toward the hinge of her mouth. He didn’t rush, he never did. He liked the tension — the way her breathing hitched just a little, the way her pulse quickened under his fingertips. It was a game he played effortlessly, one fueled by patience. He tilted his head, following her gesture, lowering his face until his nose brushed against hers, his dark eyes searching her features with that characteristic half-lidded intensity. Up close, the LED glow painted shadows across his cheekbones, making him look sharper, more dangerous than he had moments ago. His lips hovered mere centimeters from hers, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her mouth, smelling faintly of whatever he’d been drinking earlier. “Maybe.”
She shifted her position before slowly draping her arms around his neck, gazing at him intensely — a look that defied description in a single word. She leaned in, resting her chin on his shoulder, and whispered to him. She’s not actually whispering, but it’s almost like one. The way she whispered made him shiver; he could feel the sound of it right down to his bones. “Miss you.” The word hit differently than he expected. Coming from anyone else, it would have felt needy — a demand for attention, a tether pulling at him. But from Esyia, whispered like that, it just feel different, it just felt, deep, and honest. It landed somewhere deep in his chest, past the boredom and the detachment he wore like armor, and unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite shake.
His hand tightened almost imperceptipbly at the base of her skull, fingers tangling deeper into her hair as she settled onto his lap. He didn’t answer immediately. He couldn’t. Not with those three syllables hanging in the air between them, thick and warm and far too sincere for a Tuesday night surrounded by screaming idiots playing video games. He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable even in the dim violet light. Part of him wanted to deflect — to crack a joke, to push her away with a smirk, to pretend the sentiment hadn’t registered. That was easier. Safer. Easiest to float through life pretending none of this mattered.
But her weight on his lap, the way her arms draped around his neck, the steady thrum of her heart against his chest — it anchored him. It forced him to stay present, and staying present was the hardest thing he ever did. Slowly, he leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He didn’t kiss her — not yet. He just breathed her in, his nose pressing against the soft skin just below her jawline. “Mmhh..” He heard that. That small, involuntary sound vibrated against his lips, and he felt it travel straight through his chest. It was a surrender. A permission. Whatever walls he had left standing after those three words crumbled a little further, leaving him exposed in ways he usually avoided at all costs.
His grip on her hair softened, transitioning from firm to gentle as his fingers began to massage her scalp in slow rhythmic strokes. He nuzzled closer, his mouth ghosting over the column of her throat, tracing the line of her collarbone with agonizing deliberation. He wasn’t kissing her yet — he was testing the anticipation, savoring the way her skin flushed warmer under his touch. His free hand slid from her hip to the small of her back, pressing her flush against him, eliminating every inch of space between them. He wanted her close. Closer than was reasonable.
“Are you trying to tease me?” She was slowly losing her patience. She felt like she was being strung along. Her desire had intensified to the point where even the smallest things he did left him deeply frustrated. The only thing on her mind now was getting what she wanted — right then and there, by any means necessary — because she knew, she couldn’t hold out much longer.
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A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated against her skin, muffled by the hollow of her throat. It wasn’t a denial. It was worse — an admission wrapped in that signature laziness, delivered with zero shame. “Is it working?” He asked her. His tone is quite annoying. She furrowed her brows from that tone of his question, a retoric question. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes catching the violet light, shimmering with a quiet sort of mischief. His thumb resumed its slow path along her jaw, dragging downward until it hooked at the corner of her lower lip, pulling it down jut enough to reveal the pink wetness inside. He watched her mouth with clinical focus, like he was memorizing the shape of it.
His knee nudged her thigh subtly, a reminder of exactly where she was sitting — on him, centered perfectly in the cradle of his lap. He liked the leverage. He liked the control. “You’re making me frustrated with my own need.” She finally admit the fact that she’s needy. Oh crap.. Her honesty was blunt, stripped of any pretense, and it hung in the air between them like a challenge. Suna’s eyes darkened, tracking the movement of her lips as she spoke, his thumb still hooking at the corner of her mouth. Frustrated. Need. Those were visceral words, and he liked the way they tasted coming from her.
He didn’t reassure her. He didn’t tell her it was okay to want him, or soften his approach. Instead, he leaned in closer, his forehead pressing against hers, forcing her to meet his gaze. His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the chaotic backdrop of those two idiots arguing at the corner of the room, but carrying a weight that cut through everything else. “Good.” He said it simply. Almost casually. Like he didn’t hold a full control on her. It’s exaggerating. She said to herself.
She pulled herself free from his embrace and moved slowly toward the exit, seeking a breath of fresh air. Stepping off the bed, she reached for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter — her favorite things — which lay on the bedside table. “Coming?” Before stepping out completely, she turned her head and slid the balcony door open. She cast a listless gaze; her heavy-lidded eyes and the way she dragged her body along suggested a complete lack of enthusiasm — yet, she clearly felt the need to do something to shake off her weariness.
Suna cast a puzzled look, then let out a heavy sigh and followed. Stepping out first, he took hold of the door and slid it shut to keep the cigarette smoke from drifting inside. He watched as she lit a cigarette and took a drag; her gaze was vacant as she exhaled the smoke. The distinct scent of tobacco filled the air, and Suna could only offer a faint smile before walking over to where Esyia was standing. He gently took the still-lit cigarette butt from her slender fingers, drew in the nicotine, and exhaled — as if he were completely unburdened. For the moment, at least, it felt as though the weight he carried had been lifted. Esyia, witnessing this, pulled on his arm, causing him to stumble slightly before collapsing into a small chair nearby.
Returning to the same position they had been in back in the room, she was now perched on his lap, the two of them taking turns drawing from the same cigarette while savoring the cold night air as it brushed against their skin. They gazed into each other’s eyes before lighting up another one. Once they’d had enough, he flicked the cigarette butt into the ashtray on the table, his hands wandering back to the waist of the beautiful woman sitting on his lap. He buried his face once more into the crook of her neck — a spot now faintly scented with the smell of cigarettes. “You’re really enjoying this, huh?” She said as she feel his breath on her neck. It kinda tickles her, but she likes it. She likes how he can relax in her grasp. Her voice turned softer, as she gently brushes his strands.
He didn’t deny it. Why would he? Denial required effort, and Noah didn’t have energy unless it served a purpose. Truth, however, was easy — especially when truth felt this good. He let his gaze drop to her mouth again, watching the way her breathing had grown shallow, the way her chest rose and fell against his with each shaky inhale. She was wound tight, and he was the only one holding the key. “Maybe.” He hummed the affirmation against her skin, a lazy, vibrating sound that resonated through her whole body. His hand at the small of her back flattened, spreading wide, pressing her to feel exactly what she was doing to him — or rather, what he was doing to her.
He let the silence stretch, deliberate and suffocating, just long enough to make her wonder if he was done teasing. His thumb drifted from her jaw to the center of her bottom lips, pressing firmly against it, shaping it, molding it to his liking. He watched her react to the pressure, fascinated by the way her pupils dilated beneath the small glow of the balcony lamp. “Enjoying it? Watching you get worked up.. wanting you to lose that composure of yours.” He echoed her question, his voice a velvet rasp. He finally broke the distance, his lips grazing the shell of her ear, his hot breath stirring the stray hairs there. He lingered there, speaking how the vibration would send tremors down her spine.
She whined as he continued to tease her; her voice — sounding faint yet carrying a potent effect — made her shift restlessly on his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck once more, this time quite tightly, as she closed the distance between them, gazing at him with a pleading look. “Stop teasing me..” And so, he heard the plea in her voice — that tiny fracture in her calm, the way her words lost their edges and softened into something breathless. It was the exact moment he’d been waiting for. The moment where she stopped asking him to stop and started beggin him to continue.
His response was immediate, but not in the way she might expect. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t suddenly become tender. Instead, he dragged his lips slowly from her earlobe down to the junction where her neck met her shoulder, pressing a firm, searing kiss against the pulsing vein there. He stayed there, letting the heat of his mouth soak into her skin, his stubble grazing her in a way that was just rough enough to ground her. “Make me.” He murmured against her skin, his voice a low dare. And he heard her saying the word that makes his excitement soar high. She said it. She said please.
The word hung between them, fragile and desperate, and Suna felt it settle in his gut like lead. He hated how easily she could break like that. Hated how much he liked it. Hated that her submission felt less like defeat and more like and invitation — one he had no intention of declining. He lifted his head from her shoulder, trailing his lips upward along the side of her neck, pausing at the angle of her jaw before finally meeting her gaze. His eyes were dark, unfocused in that particular way they got when he was half-lost in sensation, and his expression was stripped of its usual mask of indifference. There was hunger. Raw and unmistakeable.
“Please what, Esyia?” He asked it quietly, almost thoughtfully, as if he genuinely needed clarification. And he didn’t respond right away when she finally says what she wants. He just stared at her, his gaze traveling over every detail of her face — the way her lashes fluttered, the subtle tremor in her lower lip, the flush creeping up from her chest to her cheeks. He took his time, prolonging the moment until the tension between them was almost physical, a living thing coiled tight in the space seperating their mouths.
Then, slowly, he reached up. His finger found her waist, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her shorts, and he pulled her closer — if that was even possible — until there wasn’t a single sliver of air left between them. He wanted her to feel every inch of him, to understand exactly what her presence was doing to his restraint. And so, he finally closed the gap. It wasn’t the tentative, exploratory kiss he’d offered earlier — this was different. This was decisive. His lips crashed against hers with a sudden, hungry urgency that stole the remaining air from her lungs, his tongue sweeping against her lower lip in a slow, demanding stroe that told her exactly how tired he was of waiting.
One hand stayed tangled in her hair, guiding her head to deepen the angle, while the other gripped her waist with a firmness that bordered on bruising. He kissed her like he was starving, his movements fluid and predatory, moving her mouth against his in a way that made her forget everything. When he finally pulled back, just an inch, he didn’t give her room to breathe. He crushed his body onto her, hugging her tightly and burying his face on his neck. Completely overwhelmed with the feeling. The sensation, how good it feels. Before he finally lifts up his head again, facing her face, staring at her hazy eyes.
Her voice was wrecked as she whined his name — thin and frayed, barely able to carry his name. It was the kind of sound that lived rent-free in his head, the kind he replayed when he was alone and high and drifting somewhere between awake and asleep. Hearing it now, broken and trembling against his lips, made something primal stir behind his ribcage. He didn’t pull away. He just held her there, suspended in that razor-thin margin between a kiss and a confession, his thumb finding the pulse point at her wrist and pressing lightly against it. Her heartbeat was erratic, hammering out a frantic rhythm that matched the chaos building in his own blood.
She cupped his cheeks, slowly moving her thumb to stroke the skin, which had flushed red from what had just transpired. She gazed at him with such tenderness — as if she were completely lost in him — before finally speaking: “Hungry, huh?” She asked softly, giving his cheek an affectionate, playful squeeze before letting go. He let out a short, dark exhale through his nose, half a scoff, half a confession. His eyes narrowed slightly, tracking the way her lips moved as she spoke, the gloss already smeared and ruined from his teeth. He didn’t bother wiping it away. He didn’t care about being neat anymore.
“Starving.” He said as he corrected her, his voice so low it was almost swallowed by the fabric of her shirt where his face was buried once more. He trailed his mouth along the sensitive curve of her jaw, returning to that spot beneath her ear where he knew her pulse jumped highest. His tongue darted out, a fleeting press of heat against the salt-sweet taste of her skin, before he sucked gently at the junction of her neck and shoulder — leaving a mark that wouldn’t fade quickly, or it would.
“You’re marking me.” She said calmly, wincing slightly at the pain from her neck — now reddened by the marks left by his suction. “Enjoying your art?” She said as her hand tugged at his hair, her brows furrowing deeply, channeling some of the pain and frustration she was feeling. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped his throat — a rare sound, one reserved for moments when she managed to catch him off guard with her wit. He tilted his head, examining the darkening bloom of color on her pale skin with clinical detachment of a collector surveying a new acquisition. “Art requires a canvas.” His thumb swiped lazily over the edge of the mark, smoothing the swelling slightly, though he knew it wouldn’t do much to diminish what he’d done.
She winced once more as she felt his finger graze the tender, pale skin — now reddened and swollen from his own suction. “Do you think I’m your canvas?” Her eyes squeezed shut, then opened again; tilting her head slightly upward, she responded with a tone that carried a hint of mockery. He didn’t wait for her to protest. He leaned forward, his mouth finding the underside of her jaw, dragging his lips along the bone toward her ear. “My favorite canvas” His hand tightened on her, grounding her, reminding her that she wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he was finished with his masterpiece.
His arm draped heavily over her waist, his fingers idly tracing patterns against her side — slow, unconscious circles that smoothed out as the adrenaline began to bleed away. He watched her, his gaze traveling over her face with a quiet intensity that lacked its usual sharpness. He looked almost vulnerable like this, stripped of the performative indifference he wore like a second skin. Slowly, reluctantly, he eased his weight back against the chair, bringing her with him until they were close enough. He didn’t let go. He won’t let go.
“Stay, please?” He said it. Not as a command, not as a plea, but as a statement of fact — as if the arragement had already been decided and he was merely confirming it. His thumb found the edge of her shirt and hooked into the waistband, a subtle tether keeping her anchored to him even as his eyelids grew heavy. He turned his head toward her, his dark fringe falling across his brow, obscuring part of his vision.
“I’m still here, in your arms.”
My smug, pretty ass fox side boy
