Chapter Text
You stayed for a while longer — long enough for the quiet to turn easy again, for everything you’d shared to settle into something softer. The twins didn’t move much; Atsumu kept tracing lazy shapes against your knee, and Osamu’s arm stayed draped along the back of the couch, fingertips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he couldn’t quite let go.
Eventually, though, the hour crept up on you. The city outside had gone quiet — the kind of stillness that made the moment feel too intimate, too tempting to stretch any further.
“I should probably head home,” you murmured, though the words felt reluctant even to you.
Atsumu groaned immediately, throwing his head back. “You’re kiddin’. It’s Friday night — you’re really leavin’ now?”
Osamu’s hand gave your arm a light squeeze, quieter but just as persuasive. “He’s right. Ain’t no reason to rush off. Stay a little longer.”
You smiled, torn but resolute. “If I stay, I won’t want to leave at all.”
That got you a pair of looks — one amused, one knowing. Osamu’s eyes softened; Atsumu’s grin turned slow and teasing, though neither pushed.
“Guess we’ll let you go, then,” Osamu said finally, voice low. “Even if we don’t like it.”
When you stood, they both followed — Osamu to grab your jacket, Atsumu hovering close enough that you could feel his warmth even as you slipped into your shoes.
“You sure you don’t want a ride?” Osamu asked.
You shook your head, tugging the jacket over your shoulders. “It’s close enough. I could use the walk.”
Atsumu’s grin dimmed, replaced by something gentler. “Text us when you get in, yeah?”
You nodded. “Always.”
They watched as you stepped into the cool night air, the quiet of the street wrapping around you, the door closing softly behind.
-----
By the time you made it home, the night air had cooled the flush from your cheeks — but only barely. Your pulse still fluttered, the echo of their touches and voices tangled somewhere between your ribs. Every step felt like you were walking through a haze, caught between memory and the quiet hum of something new.
You kicked off your shoes and made it straight for your room. The moment you hit the bed, you fished your phone from your pocket and sent a quick message into the group chat:
You: Made it home safe.
The reply came before you could even set the phone down.
Atsumu: good. was kinda tempted to drive behind you just to make sure.
Osamu: she’d notice you tailin’ her, idiot.
You smiled at the screen, fingers hovering before you typed back:
You: you two worry too much.
Osamu: maybe. still don’t like lettin’ you go this late.
Atsumu: yeah… night’s quieter without you here.
That last line made your heart stutter. You stared at it for a moment before replying:
You: you’re both sweet. get some rest, okay?
Osamu’s reply came a beat later — simple, steady.
Osamu: night, sweetheart. sleep well.
Atsumu: sweet dreams. bet we’re in ‘em. 😏
You snorted, tossing your phone aside and collapsing back onto the mattress. The room was dark, quiet, but your thoughts weren’t.
You could still feel them — Osamu’s steady breath against your ear, Atsumu’s teasing grin as his thumb brushed your skin, the weight of their closeness still imprinted along your nerves. Every inhale made the air taste faintly like warmth and memory.
You pressed your hands over your face with a muffled laugh. “God, they’re gonna be the death of me,” you muttered, voice half-embarrassed, half-awed.
You lay there for a minute, the quiet hum of your room settling around you. But the warmth lingering under your skin refused to fade.
A wicked little thought sparked.
You rolled onto your side, unlocked your phone again, and opened the group chat. The last message from Atsumu’s smirking emoji blinked up at you — like a dare.
Padding to the dresser, you tugged open the bottom drawer, fingers brushing past soft cotton until they closed around cool silk and lace. The matching set—black, delicate, with straps that crisscrossed the back—was something you’d bought on impulse months ago and never worn.
Now felt right.
The fabric sighed against your skin as you pulled it on, the lace cups hugging your curves just so, the waistband snug where it dipped low. You angled the full-length mirror near your closet, catching the way lamplight gilded the lines of your throat, the swell of your hips, the shadow between your breasts where the lace dipped teasingly low.
Perfect.
You angled your phone, catching just enough — a teasing suggestion of lace beneath the sweater, the curve of your smile — nothing more, nothing less. The picture came out dangerously good.
You typed,
You: thought I’d give you something nice to dream about 😌
You hit send before you could overthink it.
The read receipts popped up immediately.
Three dots blinked. Stopped. Blinked again.
You laughed quietly into your pillow, already picturing Atsumu’s wide-eyed expression and Osamu’s hand dragging down his face in disbelief.
Atsumu: are. you. tryin’. to. kill. me.
Osamu: …you’re trouble.
Atsumu: gorgeous, dangerous trouble.
You grinned, satisfied, warmth bubbling in your chest.
You: sweet dreams, boys 😉
You set your phone down and curled beneath the blankets, heart racing for all the right reasons this time. The last thing you saw before sleep claimed you was the chat still open — Atsumu typing again, Osamu’s read receipt glowing steady.
Whatever they were about to say could wait until morning.
-----
Morning light slipped through the blinds, brushing soft gold over your pillow. You groaned quietly, stretching until your joints popped, then fumbled for your phone on the nightstand.
You blinked. “…oh, god.”
The group chat was chaos.
Atsumu: I AIN’T SLEEPIN AFTER THAT PIC 😭
Atsumu: who gave ya the right to look like THAT
Osamu: you’re ridiculous. but also… yeah. that was somethin’.
Atsumu: admit it, ya zoomed in.
Osamu: don’t project.
Atsumu: you totally did 👀
You buried your face in your pillow, muffling the laugh that slipped out. They were impossible.
Still smiling, you flipped the camera, hair a soft mess from sleep, cheek pressed to the pillow. The morning light hit just right, catching the half-lazy grin on your lips and the empty space beside you.
You typed beneath it:
You: it’s so cold waking up alone 🥺 wish you were here to warm me up
You hit send, smirking before your nerves could catch up.
The read receipts appeared instantly.
Atsumu: you’re playin’ with fire, sweetheart.
Osamu: she’s definitely tryin’ to start somethin’.
Atsumu: and it’s workin’. i’m running over rn.
Osamu: you’re not.
Atsumu: watch me.
You laughed so hard your pillow muffled it.
You: behave 😇
Osamu: no promises.
Atsumu: depends. ya plannin’ to stop me?
You shook your head, still smiling, warmth spreading all through your chest — the kind that had nothing to do with teasing and everything to do with how easy it felt with them now.
You were halfway through brushing your teeth when a frantic knock rattled the door.
You froze, toothbrush still in hand. Nobody was supposed to be stopping by this early.
After spitting and rinsing, you padded over to your phone on the counter — and that’s when you saw it. A message you’d missed while getting ready.
Osamu: he actually ran out.
Your brows lifted. No way.
Curiosity prickled as you made your way to the door, peeking through the peephole — and your breath caught.
Atsumu stood there, chest rising fast, a thin sheen of sweat glinting on his temple, hair tousled like he’d sprinted the whole way. His hand hovered over the doorframe, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock again or wait.
You opened the door slowly. “Atsumu, what—”
You didn’t get the chance to finish.
He closed the distance in a heartbeat, kicking your door closed. His hands coming up to frame your face as his lips met yours — not careful, not planned, just need. The world tilted, heartbeat-first and dizzy, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as his breath caught against yours.
When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his grin unsteady and breath still ragged.
“I told Osamu I wasn’t jokin’,” he said between breaths, voice roughened and bright. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”
You blinked, still catching up, pulse racing. “Atsumu—it’s barely eight.”
He laughed — low, breathless, boyish. “Then I’m just startin’ the day right.”
Your pulse stuttered as the words sank in. You were still in your baggy sleep shirt and soft shorts, hair messy from sleep, and the realization hit all at once — he’d run here. Like this. For you.
You tried to turn, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. “You could’ve at least warned me—”
Atsumu’s grin flashed, unbothered. “I did warn ya! Told ya I was runnin’ over— you just didn’t believe me.”
You stared at him, torn between exasperation and the ridiculous fluttering in your chest. “You weren’t supposed to mean it!”
He just laughed again, the sound bright and reckless, like he’d never once regretted charging headfirst into anything that made him feel this alive.
Before you could even try to hide your face again, he stepped in close and slid his arms around your waist, drawing you gently back against him. The motion was easy, instinctive—like he’d been meaning to do it since the moment you opened the door.
“Atsumu—” you started, flustered.
His chin dipped to your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.
Then, quieter than before, stripped of all the bravado he usually wore:
“You’re beautiful no matter what you wear.”
Your breath caught.
The words weren’t teasing, weren’t flirty—they were soft, honest, almost shy in a way Atsumu rarely let anyone see.
You felt him squeeze you once, like he needed you to really hear it.
“Baggy shirt, bed hair, anythin’,” he murmured, voice warm and steady. “I’m still gonna think you’re perfect.”
You turned in his arms, slow and deliberate, until you were facing him fully. His hands settled instinctively at your waist, thumbs brushing lazy, grounding circles against your hips. He looked at you like he wasn’t sure you were real — like maybe you’d disappear if he blinked too fast.
Your arms slipped around his neck, fingers threading into the messy strands of hair he’d clearly run too many hands through on the way over. His breath hitched, just barely, when you leaned in.
Then you kissed him.
Soft, slow, nothing like the frantic heat from earlier. This one was warm — steady — a feeling that unfolded in your chest rather than crashed.
Atsumu melted into it instantly.
His hands tightened at your waist, drawing you closer like it was instinct, like his body had decided for him. He kissed you back with a low, quiet sound that was nothing but relief and want and something achingly tender.
When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, voice a little rough around the edges.
“Ya can’t do that,” he whispered.
You blinked. “Do what?”
A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Kiss me like that first thing in the mornin’. I’ll never leave.”
You snorted softly. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
That stopped him.
His eyes lifted to yours — bright, startled, hopeful — and you felt the shift in him like a physical thing.
Atsumu opened his mouth, maybe to joke, maybe to deflect, but no words came. Instead he just held you, quiet for once, searching your face like he could memorize every second of this.
Then:
“…I'm sure Osamu’s gonna kill me,” he said, voice softer than the words deserved. “But I don’t care. Not if it means I get this.”
He kissed you again—urgent, messy, tasting of morning air and something uniquely Atsumu. His hands slid from your waist to cradle your thighs, lifting you against him in one fluid motion that stole your breath. Your legs locked instinctively around his hips as he stumbled blindly into your apartment, his mouth never leaving yours, hot and demanding between ragged breaths.
“Where’s—” Another kiss, deeper, swallowing your gasp. “—your room?” The question rasped against your lips, rough with need.
He moved like certainty—muscles coiled beneath your thighs—shouldering open the first door he found. Morning light spilled through gauzy curtains, painting stripes across the familiar mess of your sheets. Then he was lowering you, not gently, but with a possessiveness that curled your toes.
Your back hit soft cotton, his body following yours instantly—knees bracketing your hips, hands pinning your wrists above your head. All breath vanished beneath his mouth claiming yours again—hot, urgent, tasting like impulse and the faint salt of his sprint. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, pulling a ragged sound from your throat.
He released your wrists, palms sliding down to grip the hem of your sleep shirt. You mirrored the motion—fingers curling beneath his damp joggers—each tug frantic, desperate. Fabric rasped as you stripped each other bare, tossing clothes carelessly aside until only skin pressed against fevered skin. His mouth trailed down your neck—nipping at your pulse, sucking a bloom of heat at your collarbone—each bite sharp enough to brand.
When he leaned back—braced on his knees above you—his gaze traced you like a map. From tangled hair fanned on your pillow, down flushed skin, lingering on each curve he’d only imagined before. His throat worked, fingers hovering near your hip like he couldn’t decide where to claim first. "God, you're..." he swallowed, voice broken. "Almost feel bad gettin' to see you like this." He shook his head, knuckles brushing your thigh. "‘Samu’s definitely gonna murder me."
A wicked impulse sparked. You stretched languidly beneath his stare—letting your knee brush his ribs—before murmuring, "Then show him what he’s missing." You lifted your phone from the nightstand, screen glowing. "Take a picture. For him."
Atsumu’s breath caught, his eyes widening as he stared down at you—half-naked, sprawled across your sheets like something out of a dream. The morning light hit your skin just right, painting warm gold across curves he’d only ever imagined touching.
He swallowed hard, fingers tightening in the bedding beside your head. “Y-ya serious?” His voice cracked, rough as gravel. “Sendin’ that… to ‘Samu?”
You tilted your chin higher, letting sunlight catch the marks he’d left blooming across your collarbone. “He sent me pictures of his breakfast yesterday.” You arched subtly, silk sheets whispering against bare skin. “This is breakfast.”
Atsumu snatched the phone like it might burn him. His thumb trembled against the screen—once, twice—before he steadied it with a shaky breath. The lens framed you: thighs parted just enough to hint at shadow, hair fanned like spilled ink, lips swollen from his kisses. For three heartbeats, silence thickened as he stared—not at the image, but at you raw and real beneath him. Then the shutter clicked, sharp as a gasp.
Atsumu’s thumb froze over the screen, his gaze locked on the image he’d just captured. The photo was perfect—golden light catching the flush on your skin, silk sheets tangled around you like secrets waiting to be unraveled. His chest rose and fell unevenly, pupils blown wide as he stared at the proof of what he’d done.
“Holy shit,” he breathed out, voice barely audible. “You’re gonna kill him.”
“Send it,” you whispered back, fingers curling against the sheets. The thrill twisted sharp in your chest—reckless, dangerous—as Atsumu’s thumb hovered over the group chat.
His gaze flickered between you and the phone like he was weighing sin against salvation. Then he tapped send. The soft chime echoed like a gunshot in the stillness. He tossed the phone aside as if it burned him, his eyes dark and desperate as they locked onto yours.
Atsumu’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your soft shorts in one fluid motion. The fabric slid down your thighs, pooling around your knees—revealing bare skin beneath. His breath hitched. "Commando, huh?" he murmured, thumb tracing the curve of your hipbone.
You arched into his touch instinctively. "You ran here before I could—" The words dissolved into a gasp as his palm slid between your thighs, fingers breaching slick heat.
His grin sharpened, predatory. "Already soaked." He curled two fingers deep, knuckles pressing against your walls. "Did you get excited sending that picture to 'Samu?"
You choked on air—yes—it was the thrill of being seen, of knowing Osamu's eyes were burning into that image right now while Atsumu's fingers drove into you. He withdrew slowly, coated to the knuckle, and licked them clean with a groan. "Fuck…"
He shoved your knees apart, settling between your thighs. No teasing preamble—just the blunt head of him pressing against your soaked entrance. One rough thrust buried him to the hilt. Your gasp shattered into a moan. Atsumu braced his weight on his forearms, caging your head, eyes locked on yours—dark, possessive, stripped raw.
"Mine," he growled against your lips, hips snapping back before slamming home again. "For now. Mine." Each word punctuated by the slap of skin, the groan of the bedframe, the dizzying stretch of him carving a place inside you that belonged only to him in this stolen moment.
Your phone buzzed violently on the nightstand—a frantic, insistent rhythm cutting through your shared gasps. The screen flashed:
**Osamu Calling**
Atsumu froze mid-thrust, hips flush against yours, buried deep. His gaze snapped to the phone, then back to you—a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his kiss-swollen lips.
"Perfect timing," he breathed against your neck, fingers tightening on your hip. Without breaking eye contact, he stretched across you, that sly grin sharpening as he hit answer and speakerphone. "Mornin', 'Samu," he purred, voice thick with exertion. "Missed us?"
He pulled out slow—agonizingly slow—leaving you achingly empty. Then pushed back in, deliberate and deep, stretching you around his girth. The drag was exquisite torture. You bit your lip hard to stifle the whimper clawing up your throat.
“Don’t,” Atsumu murmured, hot breath ghosting your ear as his hips rolled again. His thumb brushed your bitten lip. “Let him hear.” The command was velvet-wrapped steel. You gasped instead—sharp and ragged—as he angled deeper, hitting that sweet spot with bruising precision.
Silence crackled from the phone for a heartbeat. Then Osamu’s voice sliced through—low, tight, dripping with disbelief. “That picture… The hell are you two doing?” The unspoken accusation vibrated in the air: without me.
Atsumu’s grin turned feral against your throat. He rocked forward, grinding slow and deep, forcing another choked sound from you—this one unmistakable
“Just enjoying breakfast,” he answered casually, though his hips were anything but. Each stroke was calculated—shallow teasing retreats followed by deep, grinding thrusts that made the headboard creak against the wall.
Atsumu’s breath hitched as your inner muscles clenched around him—a sudden, deliberate squeeze that spoke volumes without a single word. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as he processed what that reaction meant. The thrill of it—knowing you were getting off on Osamu listening—cracked something inside him.
Atsumu’s hand slid from your jaw to your throat—not squeezing, just resting—a possessive anchor against the dizzying rhythm.
Atsumu’s voice dropped to a possessive rasp against your neck. “Say my name when I’m inside you.” His hips slammed harder, deeper—punishing each syllable you might have spoken instead. “Not his.”
The command vibrated through you like a shockwave. Your back arched off the mattress, fingers clawing into his shoulders as he hit that perfect spot again and again. You couldn’t scream Osamu’s name while Atsumu was claiming every inch of your body—it felt sacrilegious somehow.
“Please, Atsumu—” you gasped, a wordless plea lost in the sound of his skin slapping yours.
Atsumu groaned low—half triumph, half surrender—and bent your knee to your chest. The shift deepened every thrust, his name spilling from your lips in ragged bursts as sensation blurred vision.
“You hear that, ‘Samu?” Atsumu’s voice dropped into that dangerous range—half purr, half growl—designed to shred nerves through the phone. His hips pounded harder now—faster—each impact shaking the headboard against the wall with deliberate force.
The rhythmic creaking of the bed filled the silence between breaths—yours ragged and broken, his controlled but sharp with effort. You could almost picture Osamu on the other end—fists clenched white-knuckled around his phone as he processed every sound he shouldn’t be hearing.
Osamu’s breath hitched again—this time louder, sharper. The sound was raw enough to make Atsumu’s smirk falter into something darker, more predatory.
“Sounds like someone’s enjoying the show,” Atsumu taunted into the phone, hips rolling deep as he leaned forward to capture your gasp between his teeth. “Don’t tell me you’re getting off listening to me fuck her.”
Your hips bucked involuntarily at his words—at the sheer audacity of it. Atsumu groaned low in approval as your walls tightened around him again. "That’s it," he whispered against your collarbone. "Let him hear how good you feel when I’m inside."
Atsumu’s fingers danced across your phone screen with practiced efficiency—speaker off, volume maxed. The device settled beside your head on the pillow, amplifying every sound from the other end. Your breathing hitched at what you heard: rough gasps punctuated by muffled curses—Osamu’s voice tight with restraint as he gave in to the audio torture.
“You hear that?” Atsumu murmured against your jaw, hips rolling slow and deep while his lips brushed your ear. “He’s losing his mind over there.” His thumb traced lazy circles over your clit as he spoke—each word timed perfectly with the sounds bleeding through your phone.
Your free hand clenched the sheet beside you—knuckles white—as you fought to stay quiet.
The faint sounds bleeding from your phone were unmistakable: Osamu’s breath rasping sharp and uneven, punctuated by a choked groan you’d only heard when he was buried deep inside you last night. It hit your nerves like a live wire—raw proof of his desperation.
Atsumu’s eyes locked onto yours—dark and knowing—as he registered the shift in your breathing. The way your walls tightened around him wasn’t just pleasure anymore—it was a reaction to Osamu’s raw need bleeding through the speaker.
“He’s losing it,” Atsumu murmured against your lips, hips rolling deeper with deliberate precision. “You’re so wet thinking about him touching himself while I’m inside you.”
You gasped, nails scraping his shoulders as Osamu’s choked groan echoed from the pillow beside you—sharp, urgent, unmistakably climaxing. The sound tore through you like lightning. Your spine arched instinctively towards it, walls clamping around Atsumu in a vice-like pulse that stole his breath. His hips stuttered—driven wild—as he drove deep into that frantic rhythm.
Atsumu’s fingers dug into your hips, anchoring you as his thrusts turned erratic—harder, faster—losing all control. A ragged cry tore from his throat, half your name, half sheer desperation. He pulled out abruptly—cock slick and throbbing—just as warmth spilled hot and thick across your lower belly in trembling arcs. His release painted your skin in pearlescent streaks, each pulse shuddering through him as he gasped above you—eyes squeezed shut, sweat dripping from his jaw.
Panting, he snatched the still-active phone from the pillow—voice rasping into the speaker, breathless but triumphant. "Sorry 'bout that, 'Samu," he managed, thumb stroking the smear of cum on your abdomen with possessive tenderness. "Got... carried away." A low groan echoed faintly from Osamu’s end—raw frustration masking something deeper. "Lunch’s on me," Atsumu added quickly. "Your favorite burger joint. Promise." He didn’t wait for a reply—thumb jabbing end call with jarring finality.