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The perfumed aroma of azaleas and double malt scotch had already been starting to give Yahaba a headache. But now, combined with the lung-caving sensation of guilt weighing on his chest, the minor ache at the base of his skull has morphed into an excruciating throb, vision swaying with each beat of his heart.

All this over a goddamn hooker? Really, Tooru?

Somewhere behind there are footsteps following him through the lobby, the air-conditioned atmosphere creating chills along his skin that contrast harshly with the feverish way his face burns. Yahaba’s just about to reach the front entrance when he stops abruptly, ignoring the way his brain pounds against his skull in retaliation.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, voice sounding foreign to his own ears.

The man following him stops just short of running into Yahaba full-force with that solid, tattooed body of his. “Going home with you,” Kyoutani says, bluntly.

“Why the fuck would you do that after everything that just happened?” Yahaba gestures in the vague direction in which they’d just escaped. “You should be pissed at me.”

Kyoutani just stares at him like he’s got a few screws loose (and maybe at this point he does). “Oikawa paid me—”

“Yeah, I fucking know that.”

Apparently this is the point where Yahaba’s sour tone has become too much, for Kyoutani’s features darken considerably more than Yahaba thought possible. “Look, pretty boy, do you wanna get laid or not?” he snaps, teeth sharp. “Kinda seems like you need it.”

There are a few people milling about the lobby, suits and designer handbags; they stare openly at the two men, but Yahaba can’t really manage to feel embarrassed by that. Right now, he’s got bigger problems to worry about.

“Why the hell does everyone keep saying that to me?” he grinds out through teeth clenched so hard his jaw quivers with each word.

Kyoutani eyes him, considering. There’s something about the expression—attractive—and Yahaba hates himself for even recognizing the thought. “If you really don’t want me, I’ll fuck off—but I ain’t paying Oikawa back.”

Yahaba quirks a brow, arms folding over his chest in some unconscious form of defense. “How much is he paying you?”

They’re standing close enough already that it only takes two steps for Kyoutani to stifle the distance between them. A warm hand grabs at his waist, not gently, and the other trails up completely contradictory to curl at the short hair at his nape, soft and sweet.

“Enough to take you apart and fuck you into oblivion,” Kyoutani whispers in his ear and the words swirl, thick and lewd and practiced. “That’s what you need, right?”

Yahaba tries to hide his immediate flush behind a scowl at the cutting jab. Kyoutani is toying with him, verbally and well at that. But even if Yahaba is admittedly tempted to rise to the bait, he thinks (irrationally) that at this point he’d rather be toyed with in a different manner altogether.

“Let’s just go,” Yahaba hisses under his breath, pulling away rather abruptly to search for the valet ticket in his wallet with shaking fingers. There’s an odd sensation in his stomach, something combustable.

Iwaizumi is a good man, he’s a hustler, but he’s not a lowlife criminal—And by the way he vouches for Kyouken-chan, I’m willing to bet the same of him.

Oikawa had better be right.


Yahaba’s apartment is on the fifteenth floor. By the time the elevator passes by the fifth, Yahaba feels that little spark in his gut burst into wildfire. Through the reflective interior walls surrounding them he studies Kyoutani as surreptitiously as possible, taking in his aggressive posture, arms crossed and biceps purposefully forced on display. His tattoos are something Yahaba might ask about, if this were any other situation, but for now he just admires the trail of delicate peony and the tiger-like claws he can see sticking out from tight, black sleeves.

He’s certainly not a person Yahaba would have the nerve to go after on any ordinary night out—but that doesn’t mean that Kyoutani isn’t in the realm of his particular tastes. He exudes danger, but there’s something lingering in the depths of his sunken eyes, something softer than every inch of the man’s physical form. Something Yahaba is very much becoming curious about.

There’s this impulsive, probably stupid moment where Yahaba’s bottom lip quivers with the need to ask Kyoutani what his reasoning, what his motivation is behind pursuing a job so opposite from Yahaba’s own. He’s saved, however, by the ding of the elevator.

Yahaba expects Kyoutani to comment on his apartment, on the plush leather couch or the cherry-wood floors or the velvety ceiling-high curtains. He doesn’t though and for once Yahaba doesn’t feel the compulsion to explain his lack of personal décor, photographs, anything that might make the apartment feel more like a home than an office in the city. Kyoutani is the first person not to pry.

Instead of insinuating anything about Yahaba’s income or lifestyle he turns after shutting the door behind them and says, rather bluntly, “So you and Oikawa friends or something?”

Yahaba is taken aback, not expecting to discuss Oikawa or anything other than sex for the rest of the evening. He feels strangely guilty for just assuming.

He chews on the inside of his cheek habitually, toeing off his oxfords in the bone-white genkan and motioning Kyoutani to do the same. “Why would you ask that?”

Kyoutani complies, though he leaves his boots in a clashing heap next to Yahaba’s. “He seemed pretty upset after you fucked over Iwaizumi like that.”

“I didn’t—” Yahaba growls, sobering only after a pointed look from Kyoutani. “I didn’t mean to imply—” he stumbles. “But it is the truth, you are hustlers, right?”

Kyoutani’s eyes roll so high Yahaba can visibly see where the smudge of his eyeliner begins and ends on his lower lash line. “Yeah, but we don’t need pretty little rich boys pointing it out to the masses,” he grumbles. “I thought Iwaizumi’s whole deal with Oikawa was to pretend to be his boyfriend or some shit all week.”

“I didn’t realize—”

“Look, you can throw yourself this pity party later,” Kyoutani shrugs. “Right now either we fuck or I’m getting the hell out of here.”

There, that’s what Yahaba had been expecting. Somehow he still feels a bit awkward for making Kyoutani out to be less than a person who might want to make polite (or impolite) conversation before getting down to business. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

“You could at least try to be a little more subtle,” Yahaba chokes out, turning towards the living room if for no other reason than to break Kyoutani’s oddly piercing eye-contact.

Kyoutani’s heavy footsteps and voice trail after him. “Subtlety isn’t exactly my specialty, creampuff.”

He could let it go, he should let it go, but Yahaba is not a person to do things like let things go.

“Shut the fuck up with all those names.” He spins on his heel, pushing a sharp finger into Kyoutani’s chest. “I’m not just some fucking pretty face.”

Kyoutani stares at him, eyes darting to the stiff finger and then back up, minute shock morphing into something close to appreciation. “Hm, yeah I can see that.”

Yahaba can feel how pinched his scowl is and he wonders how Kyoutani can find anything to appreciate about a shrill expression like that.

They’re standing very close together, so close that Yahaba can see the barely evident remnants of a bruise sitting on the tender skin beneath Kyoutani’s eye. Yahaba takes a sudden, balking step backwards when he realizes their proximity, even with all the implications of what is to come. His mind is still whirring, but his mouth falls open around awkward words. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No thanks,” Kyoutani answers, surprisingly not so totally impolite. Then he pushes past Yahaba, their shoulder’s grazing. “Bedroom’s this way?”

Yahaba’s head swivels to follow the man as he makes his way down the short hall as if he owns it. So they are really doing this. Yahaba swallows down any lingering hesitance. “Yes,” he answers, unnecessarily.

Feet moving before his brain can even fire off a command, Yahaba follows Kyoutani to the open doorway of his small bedroom. It’s not much more than a bed and a walk-in closet, but the bed is large and the mattress soft and there’s a plethora of condoms and lube in the bedside table, Yahaba knows for certain.

The thought clicks in Yahaba’s head just as Kyoutani’s hands grasp at the back of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one swift movement that puts his muscles and the sharp line of his spine on uninhibited display. Those tattoos crawl up each arm to end at the man’s thick shoulders. When Kyoutani turns, Yahaba is met with a surprisingly calm demeanor to rival the flush he can feel building on his own features.

“Are you—“ he swallows down the awkwardness, blinking. “Are you clean?”

For a second, Yahaba thinks he’s not going to receive an answer. Kyoutani studies him, more thoroughly than Yahaba thinks he’s ever been looked over before. It should be offensive, it should make him squirm, but for some reason Kyoutani’s powerful, invasive glare does nothing other than allow Yahaba the time to even his breathing.

“Mhmm,” Kyoutani replies finally with a short nod. “Iwaizumi drags me to the clinic regularly. Condom’s your choice for oral, but I don’t bareback if that’s what you’re asking.”

The words are bold and blunt, but the way Kyoutani says them makes them seem trivial and everyday. Which in his line of work they probably are. Yahaba, for some unknown reason, takes comfort in the apathy.

“I—yes, that’s fine,” he says, voice ringing true over the meager distance still between them. “Um, no condom. I’m clean.”

He trusts him, maybe due to Oikawa’s words about Iwaizumi earlier, but for whatever reason Yahaba feels a deep-seeded sense of trust for this person he’s known barely an hour. That’s more than he’s felt towards most of his usual partners, the men who shower him in false affection or extravagant dinners. All a means-to-an-end: sex.

But with Kyoutani the means-to-an-end isn’t necessary, it doesn’t even exist. 

Kyoutani shifts, the faint lines of his abdomen twisting with the movement. He regards Yahaba still, but there’s something easier about his expression now. Outside, through the bedroom’s small window a beam of sunlight slices against the carpet and Yahaba remembers that it’s still the middle of the afternoon.

“I’d expect nothing less from someone like you,” Kyoutani croons, but for the first time that day it’s not said to offend. There’s something else in his tone, something almost endeared.

Someone like you. Yahaba wonders, really, what that means.

There’s a few beats of silence between them before Kyoutani blinks and starts to unbutton his skintight jeans. The harsh sound of the zipper nearly echoes through the small bedroom shaking Yahaba back to reality.

What’s the protocol here? Yahaba’s lower lip feels numb when he bites into it. Is it too presumptive to start stripping as well? He watches as Kyoutani’s skin reveals itself bit by bit, a warm tone that’s dotted over with a few moles and what looks like another yellowing bruise Yahaba can see peeking out over his ribs.

Yahaba balances his weight to one hip, trying for casual.

“You just gonna stand there?” Kyoutani asks, blasé as ever while he hooks fingers into the waistband of his dark briefs. Somehow Yahaba’s erratic brain had almost imagined the man having worn no underwear at all under those painted-on jeans.

Whatever protocol, if there had been any to begin with, goes straight out the window as Yahaba’s fingers come up too-fast to start attacking the buttons of his crisp, white shirt. His fingers are shaking and he’d like to attribute it to the adrenaline of the situation, so he does.

He finds it somehow stupidly humorous that in a situation like this (not that he’s had any prior experience) he’d be undressing himself—and fumbling through it too. But then, as if the thought had been spilled aloud from Yahaba’s traitorous mouth, a second set of hands appear in front of him.

“Here,” Kyoutani grunts, swatting at his nearly useless fingers. If he’s amused by Yahaba’s ineptitude he doesn’t let it show, instead gently undoing the buttons until the shirt can fall off Yahaba’s shoulders and to the floor with a grounding sort of finality.

Yahaba’s eyes focus again and he realizes that Kyoutani is entirely naked in front of him.

Fingers move to his belt, prying gently at the clasp and Yahaba feels himself jolt back from his unabashed staring to take over. He’s not quivering anymore when he steps out of the rest of his clothes and that seems to be enough go-ahead for Kyoutani as he meets Yahaba with a smirk before sinking, unabashedly, to his knees.

Yahaba’s mouth forms around a silent oh when he realizes what’s about to happen. Kyoutani’s words echo back through his mind: condom’s your choice for oral.

The idea that this would be implied, no questions asked, makes Yahaba’s legs a little weak. Usually, given his last few partners, this particular scenario is reversed. And while Yahaba certainly doesn’t mind getting down on his knees, the way Kyoutani looks below him, staring up at him through those surprisingly thick lashes—this is very good too.

Yahaba’s toes curl against the carpet as he tries to steady himself, his mind hazing at the edges when Kyoutani’s hands finally come to rest at his thighs, warm and calloused on his bare skin. The touch is gentle, practiced, and when Kyoutani’s thumbs dig into the muscle there Yahaba’s lungs expel a sound he can’t find the wits to be embarrassed by.

Kyoutani hasn’t even touched his cock and already he’s breathless. Those heavy-lined eyes narrow as the man’s plush lips stretch into an expression that Yahaba studies with absolute fascination.

If Yahaba had any previous doubts about getting himself into a situation such as this, they’re gone the instant Kyoutani presses a wet kiss to the underside of his cock.

“Shit,” Yahaba can’t help but hiss through grit teeth. He feels weak already, impossibly so. Kyoutani flutters his lips up and suddenly in a single breath he’s pushed his mouth and throat all the way down on Yahaba’s cock.

On impulse Yahaba squirms at the intensity of Kyoutani’s hot mouth around him, but those hands on his thighs hold him steady, nails digging into his skin just enough to keep his mind from reeling. Somewhere along the line Yahaba had squeezed his eyes closed, but when Kyoutani starts to move he manages to look down through hooded lids to find Kyoutani’s eyes blown dark as they stare sharply up at him. 

The eye-contact and the way Kyoutnai’s tongue moves flat against his cock have Yahaba shivering, gasping, reaching out to thread fingers through the man’s bleached hair. He isn’t sure if it’s an impulse to push Kyoutani away or pull him closer, but when his grip tightens and a moan vibrates straight through Yahaba’s insides, he can’t imagine ever letting go.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of Yahaba’s brain he understands that Kyoutani is playing to him, moaning and taking him deep in his throat because that’s what’s getting the best reactions from Yahaba’s body. He understands that Kyoutani is not just practiced, he’s practically a professional.

On some basal level Yahaba knows that he should just sit back and relax and not think so much. But he’s never really been good with that sort of thing; maybe he’s got Oikawa to blame for being such a control-freak.

Kyoutani swallows him deep, deeper than before and Yahaba’s thoughts cut off abruptly to be replaced with a singeing, white-hot sensation coursing over his body all the way down to the tips of his toes. Holy fucking—

“S-stop,” he whimpers (actually whimpers). “I’m close.”

But Kyoutani doesn’t listen, only arches a dark brow and sinks back down Yahaba’s cock, swallowing around him and that’s all it takes for Yahaba to come right down his throat.

Trembling in the after-glow, Yahaba can feel nonsense trailing from his mouth, and he twitches especially hard when Kyoutani releases him with a wet pop. When Yahaba’s finally able to focus again he finds Kyoutani still kneeling before him, eyes closed and his own cock half-hard between his legs.

Yahaba blinks, surprised. He steps back to give the man some space, but he can’t stop himself from staring at Kyoutani’s arousal. It’s not unwelcome, but he’d just thought—

“Ready for round two?” Kyoutani’s voice is a bit rough, lips slick and red. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, fitting Yahaba with an unreadable look.

Yahaba swallows. “Give me a minute,” he mutters, feeling a bit off-balance.

Kyoutani grunts in understanding, finally shifting to stand, “I’ve got condoms if you’ve got lube,” he says and it sounds like it’s meant to be a joke, but the way he says it is so matter-of-fact Yahaba just nods towards the nightstand.

While Kyoutani busies himself retrieving a few foil squares from his now wrinkled jeans, Yahaba can’t stop the feeling of heat that bubbles in his stomach. His muscles feel a bit lethargic, brain still a little hazy with endorphins, but somehow he thinks he won’t need much more than a minute at this point.

“Are you going to stay there?” Kyoutani asks as he rifles through Yahaba’s nightstand. “Or can we fuck on the bed?”

There’s no doubt this time that his words are teasing, even if they are said in such a gruff monotone. But Yahaba thinks maybe he’s starting to get used to that. He sends Kyoutani a bemused look when the man finally turns back to face him but makes his way, albeit slowly, to the bed anyways.

“You’re good at that,” Yahaba says, kneeling against the soft edge of the mattress.

“Good at what?” Kyoutani snorts, watching Yahaba sharply as he crawls up the bed. “Giving head?”

“No—well, yes.” Yahaba flops back against his pillows, attempting a smile even though his gut is still twisting with nerves. “I meant being charming.”

This time it’s Kyoutani’s features that turn bemused, but only for a brief second before he replaces the expression with a grimace. “M’not charming.”

“You are,” Yahaba says and he can feel in his chest that his heart has begun to pound a little less erratically. “You’re just good at pretending like you’re not, I think.”

He’s not sure exactly where this boldness has come from, but the way it’s got Kyoutani fighting all sorts of expressions has Yahaba biting back amusement.

Out the half-curtained window a passing cloud dims the daylight in the room just enough to pass cool shadows across the hardwood floor in front of them. Kyoutani studies Yahaba closely, chewing unconsciously at the corner of his mouth and tapping at the condom between his square fingers.

“And you’re good at pretending like you’re not a rich prick,” he replies, finally, with an errant smirk that he isn’t quite able to hide. He tosses a nearly full bottle of lube at Yahaba without warning. “Now, are you going to prep me or do you like to watch?”

“Wait,” Yahaba blinks down at the bottle, having barely caught it, then squints back up at Kyoutani, any amusement or boldness effectively snuffed out. “I mean—I thought—“

Kyoutani shoots him a look, still standing over the bed, over Yahaba’s lounging form. “You don’t want to fuck?”

“No, I do,” the words tumble embarrassingly fast from his mouth. “It’s just, I usually—“

There’s a bit of smugness on Kyoutani’s face until Yahaba’s words really register. “Oh,” he says blankly. “I just assumed.”

“You assumed?”

“You always bottom?” Kyoutani asks, blunt as a knife but the words filled with an honest curiosity.

Yahaba balks, or at least tries to. His tongue is so tied at this point that the only thing he can manage to say back comes out fast and earnest. “Do you?”

That seems to satisfy something in Kyoutani’s mysterious head because the man’s curiosity is quickly replaced by something a little too cavalier. “I’ve got a wide range of experience.”

Deep down Yahaba knows it’s a line, one he shouldn’t fall for, figuratively and literally, but somehow the deep tone of Kyoutani’s voice and those dark eyes—it’s impossible not to wholeheartedly believe him.

“Usually,” Kyoutani says when Yahaba offers nothing but a stare in return. “That’s what people prefer, someone like me underneath them. It’s a power trip or some shit.”

Someone like me. The words ring through Yahaba’s head, strangely. His chest clenches in an odd sensation of understanding, “Well—I don’t.”

“Okay,” Kyoutani nods, but his lips linger open around a thought not-yet finished. “I just assumed you’d want that too.”

Again with that. Yahaba can’t help his jaw from clenching, something warm crawling up his skin that’s got nothing to do with being naked and on the edge in front of someone like Kyoutani. “Don’t assume anything about me,” he bites out, but it’s not Kyoutani he’s irritated with and Yahaba can’t really begin to understand why.

In return he receives another startlingly appreciate glance before Kyoutani kneels onto the bed to press Yahaba down into the pillows. “Promise, I’ll make it good for you,” he says before dipping forward to suck at the hollow of Yahaba’s neck.

Yahaba thinks he shouldn’t feel so intoxicated by cheesy words like that, but then Kyoutani’s lips move slowly down the length of his collarbone and he forgets the feeling altogether.

Kyoutani’s teeth nip a patch of sun-bidden freckles at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and Yahaba jolts. “No marks,” he gasps out, eyes flicking to meet Kyoutani’s own. “At least—” he swallows. “At least not anywhere visible.”

The grin that snakes onto Kyoutani’s lips sends Yahaba burning hot then cold, gooseflesh splintering out across the entirety of his naked body. “Anything you say, pretty boy,” he purrs, running tongue over teeth, and it’s the first time that day that the name is said without a hint of malice or spite.

This is probably a really terrible idea, Yahaba thinks, but he can’t stop himself from grabbing firmly at the back of Kyoutani’s warm neck and pulling him down to kiss that smirk straight off his lips.

Kyoutani goes stiff under his fingers, muscles taught but he doesn’t immediately pull away. Their mouths are flush together and Yahaba can feel the plush of Kyoutani’s lower lip settling between his own, but Kyoutani hasn’t moved an inch, doesn’t even seem to be daring to breathe.

Yahaba pulls away, an apology resting on his tongue, but then as if a switch had been flicked Kyoutani moves forward, caging Yahaba in with strong arms and kissing firmly back.

Kyoutani’s lips are chapped but warm and full against him. Yahaba’s tongue darts forward, still a little hesitant, but Kyoutani allows it and meets him with his own tongue licking heavily into his mouth. Together they taste of orange peel and bitter alcohol.

Hands run against the ticklish flesh of Yahaba’s ribcage, rubbing their warmth into his skin until they meet at his chest, thumbs pressing into nipples that have long since grown hard and sensitive. Yahaba’s fingers tighten in the short hair at Kyoutnai’s nape where he’s still gripping against him, holding onto him, and a dual moan flits between their slick lips.

Despite the way Kyoutani has acted thus far, this feels surprisingly soft and Yahaba’s having a hard time believing that Kyoutani kisses all his clients like this.

When Kyoutani pulls back, breathing faster than before, a string of wetness connects their mouths until he licks it away. “No second thoughts, right?” he asks and Yahaba thinks, for just a heartbeat, that there’s an uncertainty he can read in the other man’s sunken eyes.

Yahaba shakes his head, barely needing a second to think of his answer, and sits up on his elbows when Kyoutani pulls back even further. There’s a brief moment where Yahaba thinks maybe Kyoutani is going to leave, but then he sees him fumble for the lube that had been since forgotten on the other side of his bed and Yahaba relaxes back into the pillows with a odd sensation of relief.

In the bluish filtered daylight of his bedroom Yahaba watches Kyoutani’s toned muscles flex naturally with his movement as he shuffles a little awkwardly on his knees to push at Yabaha’s own legs. He settles between Yahaba’s thighs, and even with the swirling sexual tension in the air, all Yahaba can manage to do is study the tattoos crawling up Kyoutani’s bare arms.

Unbidden, his hand moves forward to trace an errant finger against a small cluster of cherry blossoms on Kyoutani’s forearm, some still clinging to their branch, but most being carried away on an invisible curl of wind.

In the time since they’d entered Yahaba’s apartment and now something has shifted and Kyoutani’s movements feel just a little bit different when he swipes Yahaba’s hand away gently before lowering himself enough to place a burning kiss on the inside of Yahaba’s knee.

Without thought, Yahaba’s head pushes into the pillows, neck arching as Kyoutani’s tongue traces down his leg, leaving a wet trail over the heat of Yahaba’s skin. He murmurs a moan, what he thinks is a moan, lashes fluttering as his eyes threaten to close at the sensation and then, without warning, a set of sharp teeth latch onto the meat of his thigh.

With a startled noise Yahaba blinks back to reality, tipping his head down to watch with widened eyes as Kyoutani soothes the fresh bite with his tongue and mouth. “You said no visible marks,” he purrs out against reddened skin and Yahaba stares openly at the hint of coyness there.

“Kyoutani,” Yahaba begins, sounding far more breathless than intended. He swallows hard when Kyoutani meets his gaze, questioning, and then with an impish smile of his own says, “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Something in Kyoutani’s eyes glows, lighting the cool brown of his irises a fiery gold. Rather than responding with words, he drags a rough hand over Yahaba’s hip and flips him in one smooth, determined motion.

The air knocks from Yahaba’s lungs as he’s pressed deliberately onto his stomach and he can’t help but feel a string of irritation at being manhandled so easily, though the way his cock stirs against the sheets distracts him from any annoyance without much effort.

“Bossy,” Kyoutani comments and Yahaba can hear the smirk on his lips, but the cool feeling of fingers slicking between his cheeks cuts off any sort of barbed comeback, instead replacing the thought with a hum of anticipation.

Yahaba finds himself squirming as Kyoutani taps the pad of his finger to his entrance, lingering with just enough pressure to make Yahaba tremble and fist the blankets beneath him. He tries to move, to thrust back onto that teasing digit, but Kyoutani’s hand keeps a firm grip at his hip, holding Yahaba at his own unfair pace.

As if in some form of apology, Kyoutani bends forward to mouth a kiss against the swell of Yahaba’s ass, but when he moves to pay the same respects to the other cheek it’s with teeth.

Yahaba yelps, half turning to scowl over his shoulder, but that’s the moment Kyoutani decides to give up on his teasing and he pushes forward with the first finger, nearly all at once.

Around a stifled groan, Yahaba manages to keep his voice somewhat even. “Really taking that to heart, aren’t you?”

Through his peripheral Yahaba sees Kyoutani’s brow furrowed in concentration. “What?”

“No visible marks,” Yahaba spits and Kyoutani swirls his finger in a clockwise motion in retaliation.

“I think,” he says, breath warm against Yahaba’s backside. “That you like it.”

Kyoutani punctuates his words with another sharp nip and the addition of a second finger pushing against his tight rim. Yahaba loses his next breath and consequently any  argumentative words, focus blurring as Kyoutani massages against his insides and stretches him open simultaneously.

Logically, Yahaba knew Kyoutani would be skilled, but even then it seems that he’d severely underestimated him because fuck

Yahaba’s head falls, forehead pushing down into the pillows and hips pushing up as Kyoutani scissors and twists and prods with all indications that he knows exactly how to take him apart just like he’d intended. And he must look obscene, but Yahaba can’t stop his body from thrusting against those thick, wicked fingers and shaking when Kyoutani presses repeatedly into his prostate.

A few minutes ago he’d only been half-hard, muscles loose but body still sensitive and recovering from the first orgasm Kyoutani had ripped out of him. But now Yahaba can see his cock hard and dangling between his legs and with each twist of Kyoutani’s skilled fingers he can feel himself slowly slipping back towards the edge.

Kyoutani’s teeth graze his skin in warning before biting down again, hard enough to definitely leave a mark, but the sharp pain just thrums through Yahaba’s body and straight to his cock because Kyoutani hadn’t been wrong earlier—he does like it, possibly too much.

Kyoutani hums, clearly appreciative of the noises he’s receiving in return for his ministrations. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he says, growls. “Think you can come just from this?”

Yahaba blinks, those words echoing through his pleasure-addled mind, but he manages to keep himself from actually falling. Lifting up on his elbows, Yahaba turns to peek over his shoulder, a hot flush rising on his cheeks as he bites out through unsteady lips. “Actually, I plan on doing that with your cock inside me.”

Kyoutani’s eyes widen, going a little less sunken, and his mouth forms a soft oh that shifts abruptly into a cutting smile, much-too-pleased. “Whatever you say,” he answers before pulling his fingers free too-fast and leaving Yahaba shivering at the sensation. Something plaintive and stupidly needy wells on Yahaba’s tongue, but then Kyoutani’s hand returns to him, dripping with a copious amount of fresh lube and pushing three fingers in without warning. “But, you’re not ready for my cock yet.”

Yahaba falls forward onto his chest, Kyoutani’s grip on his thigh and in his ass the only things holding him remotely steady. Frustration and pleasure pool in Yahaba’s stomach as Kyoutani brushes over his prostate again, but not paying it the full attention Yahaba would like him to, needs him to. He rocks his hips back, trying to spur Kyoutani on, mewling nonsense and sounds that he thinks, somewhere in the hazy crevices of his brain, that Kyoutani might like.

When Kyoutani finally releases him, fingers leaving his body with a wet sound, Yahaba’s knees shake where they are splayed wide atop the bed, his impending orgasm denied just in time.

There’s the sound of foil being torn into, far-off to his own ears, and then the heat of Kyoutani’s body brushes against him again where he’s still propped against the bed. Yahaba should feel embarrassed, but all he feels is weak-limbed and expectant. His skin tingles, melting where Kyoutani touches him, startlingly gentle, at the sharp bone of his hip. Fingers press and massage into the flesh there as a hard cock nudges against his entrance but doesn’t yet push in.

“You ready?” Kyoutani asks and his voice is right in Yahaba’s ear now, lips brushing at the shell and waiting patiently for an answer. Yahaba feels a bit whiplashed.

His fingers clench and unclench in the sheets, head turned just enough that he can find Kyoutani’s profile in his peripheral. Kyoutani’s body is nearly scalding with the way it’s draped over Yahaba’s own and he can’t—he just can’t help himself. “I don’t know, am I?” he responds, pointed and with the tiniest of thrusts back.

Kyoutani’s laugh purrs out of his throat and into Yahaba’s ears and it’s such a pleasant sound that he can’t begin to fathom how this is the first time he’s ever heard it before now. “Bossy and needy,” Kyoutani says, that familiar appreciation laced in his tone.

Something pulls in Yahaba’s ribcage, but when he curls to face Kyoutani more fully the man is already gone and he’s pushing into Yahaba in one slow, smooth motion.

Once he’s bottomed out, Kyoutani leans in again to press a kiss to the back of Yahaba’s neck, soft and no teeth. “So, tell me what you need.”

Yahaba tenses, considerably, and he knows Kyoutani can feel every little twitch and movement of his body. “I thought you knew what I needed?” he pants out, the pain of the stretch starting to ebb away into a familiar feel of pleasure and fullness.

Kyoutani hums another laugh, though this time it’s much darker than before. “Oh I know what you need. A good, hard fucking, right?” He rolls his hips as the words drip off his tongue and onto Yahaba’s skin. “But, I’m asking because I’m not the one in charge here.”

Kyoutani’s voice is rough, possibly even strained, and those words don’t sound as practiced as his other lines had earlier. Yahaba thinks, for the second he takes to try and even his breathing, that maybe those words are just for him.

“Fuck me, just—fuck me,” he whines, because he can’t quite swallow the sound. “Please.”

Kyoutani obeys, pulling nearly all the way out and trailing his tongue down Yahaba’s spine before slamming back in and stealing the breath from Yahaba’s lungs. He beats a pattern against Yahaba’s flesh with each new thrust, the sound of skin on skin echoing through Yahaba’s bedroom, wet and fast.

Yahaba is still pressed into the mattress, but Kyoutani’s powerful hips are pushing him inch by inch further into the pillows and the arch in Yahaba’s back starts to ache with the movements. He can feel pre-cum dripping from his still untouched cock and on an ill-timed thrust he manages to push up onto his forearms, bring an unsteady hand between his legs—

“Nope,” Kyoutani growls, clutching at Yahaba’s wrist before he can do anything other than graze his aching cock. Yahaba growls back, but Kyoutani’s grip is strong and certain before he wraps a thick, sweat-slicked arm around his mid-section.

For a heartbeat Yahaba feels like he’s falling, vision swimming, before he’s pulled back to rest against Kyoutani’s chest, held in place by firm hands at his hips. The movement sinks him more forcefully onto Kyoutani’s cock and the angle rips a strangled cry from his slack mouth as Kyoutani grinds into his prostate.

“Don’t you dare touch yourself,” Kyoutani says against his neck, pecking soft kisses over Yahaba’s fluttering pulse.

Yahaba tries to focus, tries to respond with something sharp, but all his muscles allow him to do is lay back against Kyoutani’s shoulder and take what is given to him. His fingers flinch, searching for something to distract until they find their way to Kyoutani’s trembling thighs, his firm ass clenching with every thrust and grind.

Kyoutani huffs a gasp, bucking up into Yahaba’s tight, constricting heat and the sensation forces Yahaba’s fingers to dig into warm flesh, leaving marks of his own, pink and harsh. Kyoutani groans and twists enough to suck at his mouth, kissing messily against the corner of his lips.

Yahaba thinks, absently in some out-of-body way, that this might actually be the best sex he’s ever had.

Though Kyoutani’s probably had better. Maybe.

Yahaba only slackens his grip on Kyoutani’s skin when the other man’s hands shift, one trailing up to rest heavily against his neck and the other sinking down to play at the slick head of his reddened cock.

“Fuck,” he moans out, attempting to grind down further onto Kyoutani. “So close.”

Kyoutani indulges him with a hand wrapped firmly around his erection, finally pushing and pulling through pre-cum and Yahaba absolutely shudders. His eyes blink open and he’s staring up at his ceiling, Kyoutani’s hand gripping his neck and holding his body against him as he jerks Yahaba in time with his thrusts.

Kyoutani is panting too, their breath swirling together between them, and Yahaba can feel the way Kyoutani’s heart pounds against the bare skin of his back. Yahaba tightens his grip again and Kyoutani groans where he’s laving wet patterns over Yahaba’s shoulder. It is without thought that he digs his fingers in, marking, and Kyoutani’s mouth opens against him, teeth biting into his shoulder on impulse. 

Yahaba isn’t sure what pushes him over the edge, but suddenly he’s soaring off the cliff, free-falling and coming in hot, thick stripes over his stomach and Kyoutani’s fist.

There’s a moment where he thinks he hears Kyoutani breathing words into his ear, maybe. But Yahaba’s mind is too fogged to comprehend anything, his body floaty and sated and eyes growing almost immediately heavy. Then Kyoutani pulls out, a bit roughly, and the sensation is enough to bring Yahaba back down to reality.

Kyoutani’s hand is still wrapped around Yahaba’s neck, though his touch is tender and careful, as he waits for Yahaba to come back from his high.

“Holy shit,” Yahaba mutters, once his mouth and brain are in working order once more. He fingers uncurl from where they’d still been holding onto Kyoutani, muscles feeling laggy and a little sore. He dips forward onto hands and knees and Kyoutani releases him without hesitation, keeping silent and still behind him.

When Yahaba turns he finds Kyoutani halfway off the bed and cock still very much hard.

“You didn’t—” Yahaba starts, gesturing to Kyoutani as he rolls onto his side to face the man at a better angle.

Kyoutani blinks over at him, a certain level of surprise in his features that leads Yahaba to believe his clients don’t often inquire after Kyoutani’s own pleasure or inquire after him at all.

Those broad shoulders shrug, blossoms and ink fluttering with the movement. “S’okay,” he mumbles, turning away to tug off the condom.

Logically Yahaba shouldn’t, really he shouldn’t. But instead he splays long fingers atop the sheets, pointedly ignoring the sensation of cum cooling against his skin, and pats the bed beside him.

Kyoutani looks from the corner of his eye at the movement, eyeliner hopelessly smeared beneath his lash line. “What?” he grunts, but Yahaba can see that his erection has not dissipated in the slightest.

“Come here,” Yahaba says, simply.

Kyoutani frowns, tries for something unattractive. “Why?” he grunts again, this time more forceful.

Yahaba smiles and imagines it’s the sly one he’s picked up from Oikawa. “Because I’m in charge, remember?”

The fleeting memory of his orgasm has nothing on the image of Kyoutani before him, all tattoos and hard muscle and bad attitude, flushing a beautiful red across his chest and neck.

Yeah, Yahaba’s pretty sure he’s never had better.

Kyoutani, probably because he’s stubborn, drops the condom on the floor (bastard) and saunters back over to the bed. Heeding Yahaba’s beckoning hand he crawls up, a bit cautiously, to lean back on his elbows in the vacant space left for him.

Kyoutani’s eyes watch Yahaba carefully, unsure, and Yahaba tries to turn his smile to one a bit more kind and open. He waits for a moment until Kyoutani seems to relax somewhat and then makes his move, shuffling on his knees and pushing between Kyoutnai’s own.

“You don’t have to,” Kyoutani blurts out and now his cheeks are warm with color too and Yahaba can’t bring himself to find it anything other than endearing.

He nods, once. “I know.”

Kyoutani’s cock is hot in his hand, pre-cum beaded at the head. Yahaba looks up through his lashes, coy, before flicking his tongue out to taste. A soft noise escapes Kyoutani’s mouth and Yahaba observes the way he attempts to muffle himself with a fist, a ridiculous amount of pride filling his chest.

He brings his mouth to the base, licking a strip all the way up before circling the head and Kyoutani does moan then, especially when Yahaba sucks away the wetness there, heady on his tongue. He probably won’t last long, but Yahaba does his best to bring him to the edge at least once, popping off just as Kyoutani’s hips begin to thrust up into his throat.

Kyoutani doesn’t say a word, but the scowl and the way his teeth have nearly bitten through his lower lip are enough for Yahaba. He smiles, wrapping swollen lips back around Kyoutani and pushing down as far as his throat will allow before gagging.

But Kyoutani only comes when Yahaba presses his fingernails sharply into the scratches he’d already left on Kyoutani’s skin what feels like hours ago.

Yahaba manages to swallow most of it down, breathing in through his nose and pulling back only to swipe at a string of cum that sticks to his lips with his tongue.

When he looks up Kyoutani is watching him, studying him. There’s a glint in his dilated eyes, something hungry and dark, but also something else, Yahaba thinks.

After a moment to catch his breath, Yahaba wanders into the ensuite to run a cloth over his stomach, rinse his mouth, but he’s feeling too lethargic for an actual shower and besides, there’s a hooker still in his bed, in his apartment.

Hooker, Yahaba repeats in his head, nose wrinkling. It just doesn’t sound right.

Kyoutani is still in his bed, in his apartment.

He realizes that tomorrow he will have to apologize to Oikawa yet again, profusely.

When he comes back he finds Kyoutani lounging in the pillows looking for all the world like he belongs there.

“Hey,” Kyoutani says, mostly a mumble. “You’re good at that.”

Yahaba regards him, mouth quirking. “Good at what? Giving head?”

Kyoutani scowls, but Yahaba doesn’t miss the way his lips twitch at the edges.

They share a silence then, just watching one another and maybe waiting for someone to make the first move. Yahaba eventually cows under his tired muscles and makes his way to sit gingerly against the edge of the mattress. Kyoutani watches him the entire way, giving him only a moment of hesitancy before reaching over and pulling Yahaba bodily onto the bed.

A warm arm circles his waist, tucking Yahaba against Kyoutani’s chest and it’s so counter to what Yahaba had been expecting back when this man had followed him out of that lobby and into his home, but he can’t help but feel a little pleased with the outcome.

He finds himself almost nuzzling into the other man’s skin, but quickly remedies the lapse by nipping just enough to show faint indentations and color.

Kyoutani crooks his neck, “Hey,” he grumbles, his voice throaty and only half complaining.

You never said anything about marks,” Yahaba laughs, soft and a bit dozy.

“I guess we both have a thing for it, huh pretty boy?” Kyoutani says, roguish.

Yahaba tilts his head in agreement, though he pokes a couple of fingers into Kyoutani’s side. “I thought I told you to shut up with the names.”

Kyoutani’s hand runs up his side, all the way up to tangle in Yahaba’s mussed hair.

“You are pretty,” he says, mostly a whisper. “Too pretty for someone like me.”

It’s not exactly what he’d been expecting, but it doesn’t startle Yahaba like it might aught to. Instead—Someone like you. Someone like me. The words swirl around Yahaba’s head, a cocktail of implication and emotion and a warm, velvet voice that he can’t manage to separate into any form of understanding.

“Do something for me?” he asks, pressing further into Kyoutani’s warmth.

Kyoutani shifts to fit Yahaba with a raised brow that pulls at the yellowed bruising at the corner of his eye. “Ready for another round already?” he snorts.

“Will you fucking stop acting like you’re the dirt beneath my feet?” Yahaba says, in lieu of reveling in Kyoutani’s amused expression. He scowls, just enough to get his point across. “Please?”

It’s clearly not the answer Kyoutani had been looking for and the way he stares at Yahaba, entirely taken aback, a little vulnerable—it’s one of the first real expressions Yahaba has seen from him all night.

Kyoutani swallows and Yahaba watches the way his throat tightens and Adam’s apple bobs with the motion. He looks almost like he’s not going to answer and Yahaba thinks, for the briefest of seconds, that maybe he’s finally fucked up, gone too far. But then—

“Alright,” Kyoutani says, soft and maybe a little suspicious, but mostly just honest and Yahaba believes him.

They lay together for a while and Yahaba watches the filtered sunlight shift slowly across his bedroom as the day shifts slowly into evening. 

Eventually Kyoutani’s voice rumbles again through the silence. “But—I did get paid for a full night.”

“You—“ Yahaba doesn’t know whether to laugh or to blush, his mind feeling almost as sleepy as his body. “You don’t have to stay,” he decides on, hoping he sounds firm and frank. 

“Okay.” Kyoutani shifts, burrowing further into the pillows and consequently bringing Yahaba with him. “But unless you’re gonna kick me out, I’m not plannin’ on leaving this bed.”

Yahaba does laugh then, chest feeling lighter than it has in a long time. Wrapped around him Kyoutani feels warm and real and genuine. “Alright,” he says because it’s true.