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Be it on the court or off, there’s something to be said about Tetsurou Kuroo’s timing.
It’s how you found yourself so enamored by him in the first place, after all. Months ago, when your friends drug you along to your university's enormous gymnasium to watch the men’s volleyball team play a practice match with a local rival between classes, you didn’t think you knew enough about the sport to drum up much interest from your unassuming place in the back of the stands—until your eyes landed on a tall, loud player with the number ‘1’ adorned across his red jersey.
But it wasn’t just his height or the way he ceaselessly commanded Nekoma’s side of the court that kept your rapt attention, it was the way he moved.
Tetsurou Kuroo—a name you caught your friends whispering after he scored a point that had the gathered crowd roaring in excitement—had a mesmerizing knack for timing his movements to make the most of each and every square inch of the court.
And you?
You may have known shit all about volleyball, but fuck if just watching him didn’t set your heart racing.
Sometimes you can’t help but laugh at the irony—the way Kuroo collided with you in a busy hallway days later, setting off a dangerously flirtatious chain of events that would eventually find the two of you tangled in his sheets, naked and sated and gasping for air.
It was casual then; you went into this arrangement under no false pretenses.
And...it’s still casual now, despite the fact that you know beyond a shadow of doubt that neither of you is fucking anyone else.
Despite the fact that you wake up in Kuroo’s bed more often than your own, to the point where rolling over in the morning to inhale the scent of your own laundry detergent on the pillowcase beside you feels almost wrong at this point.
Despite the fact that at one point or another, he suddenly made a habit of calling you after every one his away matches—just to talk, just to say goodnight.
Despite the fact that, somewhere along the way, he started kissing you more softly. There are still hurried, frantic kisses, ones full of hunger and lust that leave your lips swollen and your thighs clenching with need, your entire body arching into his touch like a moth to a flame. But now, there are kisses without an agenda. Kisses with no beginning, middle, nor end.
Just Kuroo’s mouth slotted against yours, a callused thumb brushing gently along the curve of your jaw.
But it’s casual, even if there’s a dull, quiet ache in your chest that protests otherwise each time his hands settle on your waist.
And the completely, utterly, inarguably casual nature of your relationship is why you find yourself choking down the words you really want to say as Kuroo’s fingers curl inside of you right now, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you swallow down something that’s far too intimate for what this really is.
Tetsurou.
Tetsurou.
Tetsurou.
His given name is always caught in your throat at times like this, yearning to climb up your tongue and burst out through your teeth.
Your name leaves his lips effortlessly, like it’s as easy as breathing. Like he hardly has to think twice. And the way his deep voice traverses each letter now, his lips slick with your arousal as he firmly slides his tongue over your clit? It drags down your spine with a white-hot, iron grip.
It’s casual.
It’s fucking casual.
Your limbs are still trembling from the force of your first orgasm when he begins to ease his length into your entrance, your wet cunt welcoming the thick, familiar stretch of his cock.
(You try not to think too hard about the fact that the exclusivity of your casual arrangement somehow led to this—no condom separating your tight, drenched walls from the leaking, pulsing need of his shaft.)
(And yet you still can’t fucking say it when you're like this with him, naked and vulnerable and wanting.)
(Tetsurou.)
( Tetsurou. )
Deep down, you know it’s because you’re scared.
You’re scared because he hasn’t mentioned the way you dance around it during sex. You’ve convinced yourself that despite how absolutely not casual this whole goddamn situation has become, the intimacy of using his name now is what will break the fragile glass of this façade you’ve both built. He’ll realize you’ve both grown too comfortable, too attached, roots burrowed and trapped beneath concrete.
He’ll pluck you from his life like a hapless dandelion that’s sprouted between the unforgiving cracks in the sidewalk.
So even though his name is like a mantra in your mind as he cradles the side of your face, his hazel eyes trained on yours, black hair sticking up in every direction from the way you’d carded your fingers through it while his tongue was buried inside of you, you don’t say it.
“Kuroo,” you exhale as he drags his teeth down the side of your neck, mouthing at your collarbone while he rocks his hips into yours.
“Kuroo,” you gasp, while he rolls your pebbled nipples between his fingers and drives his cock into you so deeply you see stars.
“Kuroo,” you whimper, when his forehead falls against yours as his thrusts begin to grow sloppy.
And ever a man known for his timing, it’s then that Kuroo says it, with your sweat-slicked body writhing beneath his, voices hoarse and raw, your fingers digging into his back.
“Tetsurou,” he breathes out, chest heaving against your own.
It catches you so off guard that all you can do is stare up at him in confusion, lips parted as his eyes search yours.
“Say it,” he implores, voice nearly breaking with desperation. “Please, say it.”
Warmth unravels in your chest like a sail catching in the wind, the insistence of your rapidly beating heart rattling against your ribcage. Kuroo’s nose brushes against your cheek before his mouth ghosts over your own, the beat of silence that stretches between you a yawning precipice.
“Tetsurou,” you finally whisper, a hot, wet tear sliding down your cheek.
The mattress groans in protest as the world beneath you shifts, Kuroo swiftly tugging you upward into his lap. His lips chase the wet trail to the edge of your jaw while your legs curl around his waist, a jolt of pleasure searing through you as his cock slips even deeper inside of you.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, wrapping one strong arm around your body while the other cradles the back of your head. And with his chest pressed to yours, you can feel it—the way his own shuddering heart responds in kind.
“Tetsurou.”
His breathing becomes ragged as he begins to fuck you with fervor, each pounding thrust upward punctuated by the sound of you crying out his name.
“Tetsurou.”
“Tetsurou.”
“TETSUROU!”
Your vision goes white as his dexterous fingers find their way back to your throbbing clit, massaging the pulsing, aching bundle of nerves while he swallows down your unabashed, sobbing moans, uncertain if you’re still screaming his name or just making unintelligible noises at this point. A heady, dizzying wave of pleasure pulls you under just as he buries himself inside of you to the hilt, the choking squeeze of your fluttering walls milking ropes of thick, hot cum from his cock and filling you to the brim.
He holds you tight as your breathing evens out and your shuddering limbs still, softening cock nestled snugly in the heat between your thighs, cum beginning to seep out and onto the sheets below. A hand caresses the side of your neck, fingertips grazing your ear as you lift your head from where it’s buried against the crook of his shoulder to find him looking at you with so much unabashed affection, your chest aches.
And your lips have only begun to form the shape of Tetsurou’s name once more when his mouth crashes back into yours.