Chapter Text
Kei is on the verge of a mental breakdown.
College wasn’t supposed to be easy. Everyone told him—warned him—that just because he was the smartest kid in whatever podunk high school he came from, didn’t mean shit at Karasuno College. Here, he was just another average student. A tiny fish in an enormous pond.
They’d been wrong, of course. Not about everything. He had been the smartest kid back home—and he was here, too. He sailed through intro classes, easy-As and weed-out courses alike. The burnout never came. By the end of his freshman year, his adviser told him he was on track to graduate a year early. Which would have been fine, sure, but he wasn’t in a rush to join the workforce. He had a scholarship. He had time. College wasn’t just a stepping stone to a life of 9-to-5 drudgery, it was also a chance to kick back and relax for four years. To play club sports and shot Fireball and sleep around as much as possible. Most people came to Karasuno for the prestige; Kei came here to enjoy himself. And, for the most part, he has.
“Sorry, can I get by you?”
For the most part.
You toss a smile over your shoulder at whatever poor sap you just squeezed past, before neatly sliding down to take your usual seat right in front of Kei. He clears his throat, loudly, and you turn around with a little hair flip that he’s certain was tactically planned to give him a whiff of strawberry shampoo. “Yes?”
Here’s the thing: if you put in a little more effort, you could be really fucking hot.
Maybe that’s not fair. It isn’t about the effort. You’re already really fucking hot to begin with. It’s just that you ruin it from the get-go by having such a stick up your ass.
Kei met you the first week of school, in a rare freshman discussion seminar. You’d had that whole “good girl” vibe going—sensible slacks and delicious button-up sweaters, your hair held back by a series of increasingly pastel headbands. Well-spoke, if a little awkward. From the way you carried yourself, Kei would have put money on you having grown up ugly and glowed up over the summer. You had soft, vulnerable eyes, and plush lips slightly parted, and you always smelled like strawberries. You looked up at him like you’d never been kissed. He looked down at you like he’d gladly change that.
Then you’d opened your mouth.
Which, even if it didn’t necessarily make him want to kiss you any less, it definitely made him want to kiss you a bit rougher so that you’d maybe shut the fuck up for once.
You spent the whole hour at each other’s throats, arguing so hard that even the TA leading the class could barely get a word in edgewise. The school couldn’t force either of you to transfer out of the class, so they settled for having the professor in charge of the corresponding lecture class sit you both down for a discussion about in-class civility. Fine; you both learned to hold your tongues. Barely. But you stayed neck-in-neck in other ways.
Over the past three (and a half) years, you’ve matched him grade for grade in every class; joined every club; volunteered for every tutoring session. The two of you have won scholarships back and forth, vying for first place as though it were a tennis match. Somehow, by the grace of whatever high power is up there that Kei doesn’t believe in, you’ve never been assigned to work together on a group project.
Until now.
“What do you want?” You ask.
You’re seemingly in a good mood; over what, he couldn’t guess. But what he does know is that he gets a small, sick little twist of satisfaction when he says, “I need to cancel tomorrow. Scrimmage.”
That smug, kissable little smirk falls from your lips. “What?”
He shrugs. “Team rules. Sorry.”
“It’s due Monday.”
“I know. I’ll have my half done by then. You know I’m good for it.”
“I don’t, actually.” You pull an enormous, candy-colored binder out of your bag. He’s wanted to set that planner on fire every day for as long as he’s known you. You open it to a page in the middle, flip a page, flip another page, run your finger down the paper. “Are you free literally any other day this week?”
“Study groups all weekend.”
“How about tonight?”
He stares at you. “It’s Wednesday.”
“And?” You don’t even look up.
“It’s the Wednesday before Halloweekend, you psycho. Most people have plans.”
You put the planner down. “So by study groups all weekend, you really just meant getting shitfaced off of mediocre punch.”
“Punch ? What is this, the fifties?” You don’t respond. He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I was planning to go to a few parties. Sue me.”
“This project is twenty percent of our grade, Tsukishima.”
“Believe it or not, some people take breaks in between obsessing over school to have a little fun. Have you heard of that? Fun? Might want to try it sometime.”
You cross your arms. It’s clear you’re not budging.
He sighs. “You have your half done?” he asks. “I just need to critique and then add in mine?” You nod. “Fine. Swing by the Theta house tonight. Any time after ten thirty. I’ll try to carve out five minutes to chat about it, and then the rest we can finish separately.”
You’ve remade yourself since freshman year. Lost the headbands; replaced the slacks with standard skinny jeans. Chilled out ever so slightly. You still don’t really go to parties, though, which is why he’s shocked when, instead of immediately protesting, you just squint at him and say, “Thirty minutes.”
“Ten.” He puts his hands up. “Final offer. No entry without a costume.”
The look you give him could melt glass. “Fine,” you say. As you turn back around, he hears you mutter, “asshole.”
At ten twenty eight, Kei presses through the crowd of sweaty, beglittered bodies with a drink in each hand, and passes the unopened one to the girl he’s talking to.
He wishes he remembered her name. But that doesn’t matter; what does matter is that she’s cute enough and witty enough to hold his attention, and he’s tall enough to hold hers. She told him as much. That she likes how tall he is, and that she likes his costume (which is literally just his jersey, but sure). She’s prattling on and on, and it occurs to him that maybe he has met her before, and shit, he’s a real asshole for not remembering her, and he’s going to maybe just lean in and kiss her to put a stop to the unnecessary thinking part of this, when he turns his head for a just a second and sees you. Walking towards him.
Dressed as a sexy Catholic schoolgirl with a plaid skirt that barely reaches your thighs.
He nearly drops his damn drink.
You have some trouble reaching him, with people pushing into you on all sides as you cross through the dance floor. Halfway there, someone spills their drink on your shirt, soaking it through and revealing— fuck, are you not wearing a bra?
Perhaps he’s misjudged you.
Or perhaps not. Because you get delayed for all of two seconds by this drink fiasco before you’re at him again, looking somehow even more murderous than before. When you finally reach him, all you say is “Hi.”
“Didn’t think you’d actually show.”
You give him a thin smile, before nodding a greeting—a genuinely friendly one, actually—to the girl he’s been talking to, who does the same in return. And then you extend a packet of (slightly water-logged) paper. “Shall we?”
He looks down at the paper. Up at you. Down at the paper. Back at you. He laughs. “Are you serious?”
“You promised me fifteen minutes.”
“Ten. And I—“ He turns back to gesture at What’s Her Name, only to find her gone. A quick scan of the crowd tells him that she’s been hijacked by a group of her girlfriends and is now on the dance floor with them, halfassedly waving their hands above their heads and belting out “Party In The USA” as vodka-Sprite splices over the tops of their red Solo cups. He sighs. “Fine.”
“Great. Outside?”
“It’s fucking freezing.”
“What? The great party king of Karasuno College can’t handle a little cold?” You give him an exaggerated pout, batting your eyes in a way that would be cute on literally anyone else.
“ I’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m just not in the mood to hear you bitch about how you caught frostbite standing outside after a wet t-shirt contest.”
“I—“ You follow his gaze down to your shirt, and immediately cross your arms and glare at him. “Fuck off.”
He smirks, pleased to have regained the upper hand. “You want a drink?” You tilt your head, arms still crossed, and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t offer,” he mutters. “C’mon. Let’s find a room.”
You scoff. “In your dreams, Tsukishima.”
“Wet shirt. Frostbite.” He nods his head in the direction of the stairs. “Your ten minutes are running out, you know. Tick, tock.”
After a brief stare down, you shove the papers against his chest and storm towards the stairs. He follows behind. Not too close, not too far—the last thing he needs is for you to accuse him of ogling you in that skirt.
(Even if he does sneak a quick glance.)
At the top of the stairs you stop, looking a little lost—adorable—leaving Kei to take the lead. He heads straight down the hall, opens the door to find two juniors making out on his bed. Fully clothed, thankfully.
He flips on the flight. “Out,” he barks, and they break apart. One of them leaves behind a shoe in their haste; Kei tosses it out after then, then extends a hand to invite you in. “Shall we?” he asks, mimicking your earlier tone.
You stand by the nightstand. When he closes the door behind him, you ask, in the quietest voice he’s ever heard you use, “Should we lock it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“No! I mean. I just meant, so that nobody else tries to come in.”
“Sure, [L/N].” But he obliges, turning the lock before crossing the room to sit on the bet. It’s a decently sized bedroom, and he keeps it decently neat. A few jackets he doesn’t recognize. Occupational hazard of living in a frat house; most weekends, his bedroom turns into a coat closet. That’s a problem for tomorrow. He starts flipping through the papers. “Are you just going to stand their the whole time, or…”
You sit on the very, very edge of the bed.
He rolls his eyes again, but gets back to reading.
It’s excellent. No surprise there. Kei may hate your guts, but the fact still stands that you’re one of the smartest people he’s ever met. Maybe the only smart person he’s ever met.
Not that he’d ever admit that.
“Great,” he says once he’s finished. “I’ll send you my notes tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll have my half finished up by Monday.”
“The whole thing’s due Monday.”
“Yes. And?”
“I mean, I’m going to want to see it. To make sure it’s continuous with my half.”
“It will be.”
”And I should take your word on that…why? I mean, you said it yourself, you’re all booked up this weekend.”
He laughs. “All booked up —you couldn’t sound more like a middle-aged accountant if you tried, could you?”
“You’re barely giving me twenty minutes—“
“Ten—“
“—on the most important assignment of the semester, because you’ve decided that fucking Halloweekend is more of a priority—”
“You showed up,” he points out. “And what, am I supposed to assume that this—“ He waves a hand at your little getup. “—is a typical night-in-studying outfit for you?”
You grab the nearest pillow and put it in your lap. “You’re a pig.”
“A pig who’s going to get the work done on time, and to your unattainable standards. Cross my heart.” He offers the papers back to you. You stare at them for a long moment, before grabbing them, practically shoving the pillow in his chest as you get up to leave. As you reach the door, he calls out, “This is college, you know.”
You stop.
“You’re allowed to relax. I know you’re allergic to the concept, but for most people, it’s kind of the point.”
“Yes, because nothing’s more relaxing than playing flip cup until three a.m. and sleeping your way across campus.”
“Jealous you didn’t make the cut?”
You turn. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He stands up, and starts walking towards you. “C’mon, [L/N]. You can’t seriously tell me you changed into that and came over here just to get me to do fucking homework.”
“You said costumes required. To get in. And I didn’t have anything on hand except—“
“The world’s sluttiest plaid skirt,” he finishes for you.
“It’s my roommate’s. From high school.” You smooth down the plaid fabric. “And apparently it’s shrunk a few times in the wash.”
“You don’t say.”
You unlocked the door, but haven’t made any more movements to leave; your hand has long since slipped off the doorknob. And when he reaches down to lightly run his fingers along the hem of your skirt, your breath hitches, your hands fly to his chest—fluttering, too hesitant to make full contact—and he swears you arch slightly against the door.
You’re very, very quiet when you ask, “What are you doing?”
“Should I stop?”
A pause.
You shake your head.
He continues up, under the skirt, fingering the elastic edge of your underwear. They feel soft. Lacy. “How about now?” You shake your head again. He hears your breath catch in your throat. With neither of you speaking, the room is silent except for the dark, throbbing beat of the music from downstairs.
You look up at him like you did the first time he met you, all those years ago, soft-eyed and strawberry scented, and your hands finally settle on his chest.
Fuck it.
Your lips are soft as he’d imagined—softer, maybe, and sweetened by whatever lip gloss you put on before coming here. His hand slides up to rest on your waist, to pull you against him as he kisses you, and your arms wind around his neck in comparison. When he pulls away, he realizes you’re on tiptoe.
Cute.
He picks you up like it’s nothing, and deposits you a few feet over on the dresser, turning the light switch off, while he’s at it, so the room is dim except for the light of his nightstand lamp. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, his head, cradling his face. By this point the kisses are open-mouthed and sloppy—for a stuck-up bitch, you really know how to use your tongue—and he has the pleasure of feeling you moan into his mouth as he slides a newly free hand back up your skirt.
“Are you wet for me?” he murmurs. You nod against him with a gasp, which he quickly gets you to replicate by pulling your panties to the side. You’re so warm, and so slick —he swipes his fingers across your entrance, gathering some of the wetness to bring back up to rub your clit. “God, you’re such a little slut, aren’t you? I haven’t even done anything and you’re already soaked. I bet I could just…”
He slowly slides one finger inside, pumping it in and out. He bends down to kiss your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, before adding another finger. This one is more of a stretch, but he takes his time. It’s worth it to feel how tightly you're squeezing around him, how your breath catches, how your hands become fists in his hair. How you moan when he curls his fingers inside you. Like you can’t help it. Like he’s finally, finally gotten you to stop thinking quite so hard.
When he pulls back, still rubbing lazy circles around your clit with his thumb while those fingers slide in and out, he can’t help but smile at the sight of you. Your lipgloss is smudged, brows knit, eyes low-lidded and hazy. Your chest is heaving, with your nipples pressing even harder than before against the fabric of that shirt, and at least one button coming undone on its own, and that tiny fucking skirt hiked up to your hips with his hand between your legs. You look half fucked-out already, and he hasn’t even fucked you.
“ Fuck. Is this all you needed?” He picks up the pace until he’s fully finger-fucking you on the dresser, with one of your hands on his shoulder and the other clutching the edge of the dresser for support. “All this time I though you were being a bitch for no reason, you were just asking to get fucked. Is that it?”
“Fuck you,” you bite out, though you clench around his fingers as you say it. You pull him in for another bruising kiss. You bite his lip so hard he pulls away with a curse, and a slap to your thigh. You clench at that, too—and fuck, who would have guessed you were such a little masochist?
“Soon,” he says, nipping at your earlobe. “But you’ve got to come for me first, baby. Come on.”
You attempt another comeback—something about how you’re not his baby —but your words are half-buried by moans, and you try to muffle yourself by kissing his neck, but he pulls away. He wants to see your face when you come.
“There you go,” he says, unable to hide his gloating. “That’s it. Fuck.” Fuck . You look better falling apart under his touch than doing literally anything else. When your breathing starts to even back out, he says, “You really needed that, huh?”
You chuckle, your head lolling to one side where it rests against the wall. You spit a piece of hair out of your mouth. “Do you ever shut up?”
He huffs out a laugh of disbelief. “You really want me to?”
You open your mouth, but he pulls his fingers out of you at the same time, turning your answer into a gasp. He can’t help but lick your juices off his hand, and has to hold back a moan himself. Fuck, you taste good.
It’s all the motivation he needs to drop to his knees.
He tosses his glasses to the side. They clatter on the floor. Whatever. They’ll survive. He’s busy with other things, at the moment, like the way your greedy little hole is still twitching with the aftershock of your first orgasm, like it’s missing his fingers already.
Your eyes, so recently closed, flutter open to take in the sight of him—your years-long nemesis, kneeling before you and pulling your underwear off as he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. If you weren’t so cumdrunk, he’s sure he’d never hear the end of it. As it is, you manage one, weak little laugh. “What are you doing?”
“Finding something better to do with my mouth,” he replies.
When he buries his face in your cunt, you almost jerk away from the overstimulation. “Wha— ohfuck .” He gets his legs over his shoulders, wrapping an arm around each so that he can hold your hips in place as he sticks his tongue inside you and moans to let you feel the vibrations. Your hands are back on his head, half trying to pull at his hair, half scrabbling at the edges of the dresser.
He reaches one hand up under your shirt, squeezing your breast, running a thumb over your nipple, before pulling so hard at the fabric of your shirt that it opens with a tearing sound, buttons popping off the front and scattering across the floor. You don’t complain. He’s got your clit in his mouth at this point, so he would be surprised if you did. You’re so fucking wet, juices running down his chin, and your legs are trembling, and your moans are so pretty that he’s beginning to think he could die happy like this.
After he’s pulled another orgasm out of you, you’re shaking so hard he’s almost afraid you’re going to fall off the dresser. He stands back up, dragging an arm across his mouth and chin to get most of the mess before he kisses you, and all the while keeps gently massaging your clit with the other hand. Tasting yourself on his lips seems to make you even wetter.
As soon as he breaks the kiss, you say, “That was my best shirt, asshole.”
He gets a hand on your jaw. “Guess you shouldn’t have worn it to a fucking frat party, then.” He kisses you again and gives your pussy a little slap, relishing in the way you yelp into his mouth. “Yeah. You never really shut your mouth either, do you?”
“Let me guess, you’re going to give me something to put it on?” you quip.
“In a minute,” he says. Let’s be real—he’s been hard since you walked into the party, and he’s been waiting to fuck you for years now (also—let’s not forget how hard you bit his lip earlier. It’ll be at least an hour before he lets your mouth anywhere near his dick).
He takes a step in. You widen your legs by instinct, allowing him to settle in between them. He slips two fingers into you—so easy, now.
“Here. Lift your legs a sec,” he tells you, before slipping a condom out of the topmost drawer. Your hands flutter down to his shorts, pulling down, and when he pulls his fingers out of you to help you, you practically keen at the loss.
But then you’re the one who, quick as a whip, licks your palm so that you can take him in one slick hand; you’re the one who, once he’s unwrapped the condom, puts it on and lines him up to your entrance, running the head of his cock up and down against your slick, needy, overstimulated cunt until both of you are panting with need.
He goes slow. He might be an asshole, but not the kind to want to hurt you unnecessarily; and even after two orgasms, it’s still a stretch. He bottoms out with a few centimeters to go, and presses into you just a bit further than that (because he is still a bit of an asshole, at his core), and when he does that your head falls forward to rest against his shoulder.
He presses an absentminded kiss to your temple. With one hand on your hip keeping you steady, he uses the other to trace imaginary loops across your back. “You okay?”
“Mm-hm.” It’s half whisper, half moan. You flutter around him, and he curses; he can’t help but grind into you, and you do the same. Slow, subtle movements that allow you to get used to him, to how deep he is inside you. Movements that allow him to pay attention to each gasp and moan. To figure out what you like. It’s easy. Almost too easy, because it’s you—you, who he’s spent three and a half years trying and failing to ignore; you, whose strengths and weaknesses he knows almost as well as his own. For a moment, all the old insults fade away, and he almost feels something else towards you. A tenderness.
Until you mouth at his jaw and whisper: “Is that the best you’ve got?”
He thrusts into you with enough force to have you both seeing stars. Then again. And again. You can barely kiss him back when he presses his lips to yours, muttering against them, “Thought I told you to shut up, slut.”
With that, he slips your balled-up panties into your open mouth. It doesn’t do much to actually muffle you, but looks so fucking hot it’s a miracle he doesn’t come right then and there. He swears, it looks like you’re smiling around them. Your eyes stay locked on his, your arms firmly wrapped around him as he keeps fucking you, so hard that not only does the dresser shake, but the door eventually pops open.
That’s right—you’d unlocked it earlier. There’s nobody right outside his room—just the music and chatter coming from downstairs—and it’s only open a crack. He should still close it.
He keeps going.
“Gonna have to be quiet, baby,” he says, wrapping one hand around the back of your head to protect it from hitting the wall (you pulse around him when he says it—so you do like it when he calls you baby). “Door’s open. You’re gonna have to muffle those pretty moans if you don’t want people to hear.” He thrusts harder on purpose, hitting a spot he knows you love, and the sound you make is just heavenly . “Unless you want that? Yeah, I bet you’d love that. Filthy little whore, I bet you want everyone downstairs to know you’re getting fucked dumb on the cock of the guy you fucking hate.”
You can’t stop moaning. It’s so fucking delicious. He brings a hand back to your torso, supporting your waist while simultaneously rubbing circles on one aching nipple.
“I want you to come again,” he says. Your head lolls side to side, but when he says, “Rub your clit,” you obey, bringing one hand down. Your movements are sloppy, but you get even louder, if possible, so it must be working. “Good girl. Good fucking girl. Rub that clit and come for me. Let everyone hear you come on my cock.”
And you do . You absolute miracle, you do—every muscle in your body clenches and releases, and there’s a gush of heat and wet on his cock, and as he comes he can feel his brain be rewired forever because now he knows you can squirt.
You both cling to each other, as you come down from the high. With one long arm, he pushes the door back shut and locks it.
“Three…in one night,” you say, through heaving breaths, your mouth newly free. Every bit of you is loose and limber; you don’t do much to support yourself as he picks you up again and brings you to the bed, laying you on your side, before helping you take a drink from his water bottle. “Not bad.”
“Was that a compliment?”
You scoff. “Don’t make me regret it.”
He smiles.
After a moment getting your breath back, you say, “So.”
“So.”
“I should probably…I mean.” He looks over to see you crossing your arms again. “Sorry. Can I just borrow something to wear out of here? Since you kind of ruined my shirt?”
“Oh. Yeah, here.” He takes his jersey off and passes it to you, and you stand up to pull it on. You’re drowning in it. He’s willing himself to find it less one hundred percent fucking adorable than he currently does.
“Thanks. I’ll, um.” You shoot him finger guns. And now Kei’s going to have to shoot himself , because somehow the sight of you doing fucking finger guns doesn’t make him want to fuck you any less. “Just send me your half of the assignment whenever you finish it.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
You make it exactly one step towards the door before, without being able to stop himself, he calls out, “[Y/N].” You turn. “It’s stupid late, you can’t walk home alone in that.” He nods at the empty bed space besides him. “Just stay here. Bathroom’s down the hall. We’ll figure your clothes out in the morning.” When you don’t move, he sighs internally, but adds, “and the, uh. The assignment, too. We can figure that out in the morning, too.”
He can’t quite place the look you give him. But, after the bathroom, you do come back. You kick your shoes off, and crawl into bed, and accept his water bottle back for another sip.
When he reaches across you to shut off the lamp, he catches another whiff of that strawberry shampoo, and you make the mistake of looking up at him with those enormous doe eyes. What is he supposed to do—not kiss you stupid?
(Just before he does, though, he picks up the stupid fucking homework packet and tosses it off the bed.)