Work Text:
“hey omi-kun, wanna make out?”
sakusa blinks.
it takes about three seconds for him to process your question; one and a half second more than other questions he’s gotten used to answering like ‘how are you?’ or ‘can i have your autograph?’ or ‘omi-omi, did you put those cans of disinfectant in my locker?’
“no,” he blurts out of instinct, because what? where did that come from? what could’ve given you the impression that he was interested in doing something like that here, of all places?
you shrug, pretty metallic top throwing refractions of light across the room. he wonders if the material is as silky as it looks.
“okay,” you say, nonchalant.
he twitches. you genuinely don’t look too offended by his refusal, but something still nags at him. the cheap disco lights of the karaoke room slide over your skin, across your jaw and down your neck and he wonders if the pulse is quickened there; wonders if the blood is pushing against your skin in that frenzied pace that he feels starting within himself now.
he sighs.
he doesn’t even like karaoke.
he doesn’t even like karaoke but he’d come anyway and he’d like to say that he was dragged here against his will by bokuto, who’d asked miya, who’d asked hinata, who’d asked him and invited you by extension, even though he wasn’t planning to go. but when he’d brought it up in passing, you’d seemed so excited about it that he just couldn’t bring himself to back out. so here you two were, on the gross couch of some private karaoke room while the others are taking a piss break and you’re gorgeous and shiny, asking him to make out.
“tch.” he leans back.
“if they catch us, i’ll kill you,” he grumbles and that’s all you need, face lighting up as you scramble to crawl onto his lap.
your fingers card through his hair and he tils his chin up to meet your eyes.
no, he doesn’t like karaoke, he thinks as your mouth slides against his.
but he likes you.
and your hands and your skin and your lips.
yeah, he likes those too.