Love Makes You Crazy, If It Doesn't You Ain't Doing It Right

Just some cheese to tide me over in these troubling times. Hope it helps. :)

-->Special thanks to my Patron Celina B for saving the dialogue in that last panel!

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(Don't repost please, but reblogs are great!)

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What the fvck

summary: Your long term boyfriend leaves you for someone else (no cheating), so you decide to take revenge on the most important person in his life. But it takes an unexpected turn... genre: angst, smut, a pinch of fluff? warnings: fighting, falling out of love, breakup, swearing, MINORS DNI betas: @vivianvampyric thank you so much, my love. What would I do without you <3 special thanks: to @karasunowo for this beautiful Osamu doodle <3 and my soulmate @bokutosace for pushing me past my block <3 a/n: Fic is a part of the Anilysium server collab with a prompt: hate/revenge fucking. You can find the masterlist here. wc: 3.2k

“What the fuck?!”

Eight years. Eight fucking years reduced to this one sentence.

“Am sorry, I really am.”

To be fair, Atsumu does look sorry—with pain besmirching his big brown eyes, usually so warm and bright; a quiver of his bottom lip and muscles shifting in his jaw; and the way he’s fiddling with his fingers, something he almost never does. Something about precious setter fingertips.

“I don’t give a fuck, Atsumu! How could you?!” He shrinks in on himself.

“I— We haven’t done anythin’, I just— A wanted ta be fair ta ya.”

You scoff. Fair. How is dumping a girlfriend of eight years after living together for five for some other chick fair? How is falling in love with someone else after making promises of forever since high school fair?

You’re surprised you haven’t started crying yet—maybe it’s because of the shock, maybe it’s the rage, or maybe it’s your pride and not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you break down. Although between the breakdown and your current outburst, you’re not sure which is worse.

“Look, yer free to stay ‘ere fer as long as ya want. I have a place ta stay, I’ll grab ma things when yer out. I owe ya this much.”

“You don’t owe me shit.”

“I do. I— I better go now. Bye, Y/n.”

Closing the door of your shared apartment (not anymore, you realise) opens a door somewhere inside of you, and you burst in tears. And then you cry, and cry, and cry, until your eyes are swollen and burning, and you can’t open them anymore.

The next few days are a blur; you're not quite sure if it's a day or night with your closed curtains, you fall in and out of an uneasy slumber, and don't remember the last time you ate or showered.

The rage has burnt everything in you, leaving nothing but ashes and dried tear trails. It's bizarre, not feeling anything—a little bit like drowning, a little bit like floating, a little bit like suffocating.

On the fifth day of this timeless suspension you realise that the noise you hear isn't an earthquake; it's just your stomach demanding something, anything. But there's nothing at the apartment, you've already ate whatever was still consumable, and the rest is spoiled.

You're still standing in front of the open empty fridge, deciding on whether to go shopping or not, but the loud grumbling makes the decision for you. But first, you need a shower.

The water feels magical as it flows down your body. It's warm, bringing back sensations in your numb limbs. It cleanses the dread, removes dust, and all the dirt and worries disappear down the drain.

It's kind of refreshing to wear clean clothes after these few days and leaving the apartment, even if it's to go to the grocery store right next to your building. It's almost normal to pick the rice, vegetables, meat, and fruits.

Back at a home that isn't yours, the ingredients for a simple dish are simmering in the pot, and you hum happily while mixing. It's a sound that these walls haven't heard in a while, and it still lingers when you pour the soup in a bowl.

You sit at the table, clasp your hands together with an echoing clap and mutter an itadakimasu. And then it hits you, again. You're at the table, alone. About to eat dinner, alone. You're in this flat, alone. He's not here anymore, not yours anymore.

The dish is forced down your throat, spoon after spoon, even when you choke back the tears. It burns, it hurts, it threatens to go back up, but you continue, swallow after swallow. Because the world hasn't come to a halt, even if yours did.

There's a soft knock on the door, and you notice the room is filled with a red-ish, pink-ish light. You have survived another day, you think glancing at the setting sun.

---

"What the fuck." Osamu mutters under his breath and considers running away. "Why am I even doing this for that dick?"

He knows what Atsumu did. He knows that sometimes things like this happen and it's not necessarily anyone's fault. He's mad because he would never treat you like that. Maybe giving you up back in high school in favour of his twin was a mistake.

The man drags a hand down his face and knocks. Part of him hopes you're out, that you won't open the door and he won't have to pretend that he doesn't see your red, puffy eyes. Another part hopes that upon seeing him you'll just throw yourself into his arms in search of comfort.

There's a click of a lock and then a voice,

"'Samu?"

---

"'Samu? Come in, please."

It hurts how identical they are. Even despite different-coloured eyes, despite Osamu going back to his natural hair, they are so undeniably identical twins. Fuck.

"Would you like some tea? I don't have any coffee, sorry."

He hates the expression you're wearing, he hates how obvious it is that you're in pain, and he hates how it's probably because of his face. He shouldn't overstay his welcome, shouldn't break you any more, but he just can't leave.

When the drinks are ready, both of you sit at the table, the same one that you used to dine at with his brother. Judging by the look in your eyes, he's occupying Atsumu's chair, inflicting damage yet again.

The awkward silence fills the room; neither of you know what to say, because really what is there to say? Between the sips of a hot brew he opts for a meaningless small talk, one of about weather, because any other topic seems dangerous.

Time passes, and after many deafening tick-tocks it's suddenly too dark to see your undereye bags. You stand to turn the lights on.

"'Samu?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are you here?"

He looks at you and gulps, not sure of your reaction when he says his name.

"To— to grab 'Tsumu's stuff."

"Did he— he asked you to?"

Osamu nods, and you can feel your blood boil. He was with you for eight fucking years, and he doesn't have the decency to come himself? He threw you away like trash, and he doesn't have the courage to look you in the eyes? He has to drag his brother into this?

You're angry, you're so angry, and the only thing you want is to devastate, to hurt, to break, to trample, just like you were devastated, hurt, broken, and trampled. Osamu stands in front of you.

"Am sorry, Y/n. Am so incredibly sorry."

Blinded by the rage, you hide your face in Osamu's chest, crumple his shirt in your fists, as you decide to destroy the only constant in Atsumu's life. To rip off something that was always his and claim it as yours, even if it’s just for one night.

He’s mad too; he gave you up all those years ago for his brother, only for him to step on it, and in the name of what? He’s spent all those years watching your relationship bloom, wishing you were his instead, but you belonged to his twin, you were untouchable, unattainable. But now, the very same brother left you, spat on Osamu’s sacrifice, and ran away. So he’s going to steal you away, claim you as finally his, even if it’s just for one night.

He hugs you tight, rubbing soothing patterns on your back, and mumbles apology after apology. If there was anything he could do, he'd do it in a heartbeat. There's not one thing he wouldn't do for you.

"'Samu, what's wrong with me? Am I not enough?" You mutter into the fabric. Hook.

"Huh? No, Y/n, look at me." You lift your face and look at him with doe eyes. Line. "There's nothing wrong with ya, yer a wonderful woman." Sinker.

You keep your gaze on him for a moment, pull him down by his shirt as you stand on your toes… and then you kiss him. A gentle peck right on his lips, then another one before you capture his bottom lip between yours.

"I— I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I don't—"

You push yourself off of him, babbling and pretending to panic, but in the corner of your eye you see how much he liked it. Perfect. So you place a finger on your lips, as if the sensation of him still lingered there, and shift your gaze at him.

Everything becomes a blur when you keep looking at each other, millions of feelings swarming in his eyes, a dangerous glint in yours. Everything is hazed over when he pulls you in and crashes his lips on yours.

His warm hands slide under your shirt against your cool skin and you gasp at the sensation. He wastes no time and kisses you deeper, harsher, with a tongue teasing at yours. You wonder if it tastes as sweet to him as it does to you.

Your impatient fingers tug at his shirt, wanting to feel him closer, sooner, right now. The kiss is broken and as if on command, both of you take your shirts off. Osamu's arms snake around your waist again, pulling you into him and into another searing kiss.

It's full of longing, full of hunger, overtaking your senses like a storm. There's just Osamu and the taste of his tongue, the feeling of it sliding and swirling around yours, and the stinging of his bites on your bottom lip.

He pushes you backwards until your thighs hit the edge of the table; you're lifted to sit on it as the black haired twin sucks hot marks onto your neck. His hands are on your thighs, digging in the soft flesh through your pants, and he moves them towards your ass, not forgetting to tease the creases with his thumbs.

A shiver runs down your spine and straight to your cunt; it’s a forbidden fruit with an alluring scent, and you want to bite into it, devour it whole, even if it consumes you back. Just the idea of the act is so sinful, that you can’t help but wonder if the heat inside you is arousal or hellfire.

Osamu’s huge hands unclasp your bra and throw it somewhere on the floor, then they move to cup your tits and squeeze them. His lips are on yours again, kissing you like there’s no tomorrow, as if he’s been waiting for it for a lifetime. A pinch on your nipples makes you release the sweetest little ‘ah’ he’s ever heard in his life.

You’re growing impatient, you want him to finally fill you up, so you tug on the band of his sweats and he gets it. Leaning on your palms you lift your hips us, giving him the opportunity to take both your pants and panties off. Where they land afterwards, you don’t know.

One of his hands reaches straight to your pussy, fingertips prod at the entrance and smear your juices all around your folds.

“Fuck.” He breathes into the kiss. “Yer so fuckin’ wet.”

He flicks your clit a few times and you arch your back in response. Osamu smirks; you’re so sensitive, so responsive, he can’t wait to pull all kinds of sounds from your lips, especially his name. He doesn’t have to wait long though, a few rubs and pinches on your nub and you let out a breathy “‘Samu…”, and he swears he could cum at that moment.

His touch feels so much different from his brother’s—his hands are rougher, fingers thicker, which you notice as the man slips one of them into your cunt. It’s so different but so good, intoxicating even, and you nearly lose your mind when another one joins in.

There’s a steady pace of the pumping of his digits, in and out, in and out, with each time the base of his fingers rubs against your clit. Your walls are squeezing him, nails digging in his shoulders, and when you moan his name again, he has to be inside you. Now.

Osamu pushes you gently so you lay down on the table, and gets rid of his sweats and boxers in the meantime. Your knees are spread wide to invite him into your leaking hole, and he enters in one swift motion. The next few seconds are still, it’s time to adjust to his size, to this new experience, but soon enough he moves again. Tea cups fall to the floor and shatter, but neither of you notices.

At first the thrusts are slow, careful, and he’s watching your face closely for any signs of discomfort. They don’t appear, so the pace is a little quicker, the push a little harder. It’s happening, it’s finally happening, the moment he’s been dreaming of for years at last coming true. It’s difficult to control himself, and soon enough his cock is drilling into you with a force that will surely bruise your cervix.

You’re so full of him, he’s invaded your pussy, your mind—in this moment your whole existence screams “Osamu, Osamu, ‘Samu.” You tell him to go even faster, even harder, to hammer out every thought out of your head. He complies, pulls you closer to the edge of the table and leans down over you. His hands grip the opposite edge of the furniture and Osamu makes an experimental thrust.

And then he’s ramming into you, pushing his cock even further in your cunt, and it’s a miracle that your table is still in one piece. You wrap your arms around his, nails digging in his shoulder blades, as the familiar heat blooms in your abdomen. One of your hands reaches down between your bodies, the other still holding onto him for dear life.

You rub your clit in circles, his cock covered in your slick gliding against your fingers, and you suppose you can’t hold on for much longer. Neither can he, both your brains turned into mush, and between incoherent moans and groans of oh gods and fuckfuckfucks only three words are exchanged.

“Where?”

“Inside. Pill.”

Your thighs shake around him, body arches off the tabletop, and your cunt sucks him deeper and deeper with every clench. His cock twitches at every spasm but he needs to be patient, you need to fall first. And you do, after he suckles harshly on your nipple, with a loud scream of his name. His name. This is what pushes him off the edge, and he spills inside your throbbing pussy in hot spurts.

There’s a moment of silence, only your quickened pants fill the air. You’re still wrapped around him, keeping him inside, and Osamu thinks that maybe this is his chance. Only chance.

“Lemme take ya to bed.” He whispers in your ear and you nod, so he lifts you off the table and carries you to the bedroom.

He lays you down gently, hovering over you, and captures your lips between his once again. Only this time it’s slow, gentle, full of all the words he’s never said. Because this time is not about the hot eruption of anger, not about revenge. It’s about you (and maybe him, if you allow it), about the worship and unspoken feelings.

His kisses trail down, caressing every inch of your skin, every crease and mound of your body, until you ask him to fill you up again. Only then does he push in again, rolling his hips calmly, almost lovingly. Only then does he whisper how beautiful you are in your ear. Only then does he make love to you, until you both fall asleep.

---

You’re woken up by a clinking noise coming from the kitchen, but it takes a moment before your awareness comes back enough to actually process what’s happening. There’s still a faint scent of a cologne and sex in the air; the pillow next to you is rumpled, same as the sheet.

Then it dawns on you—memories of the last night and who you spent it with flow freely into your mind. You wonder if the noise coming from outside of your bedroom is made by your latest hook-up, who just so happens to be your ex-boyfriend’s twin. Your feet search for the slippers but find none; you just throw some t-shirt from the floor on you and patter barefoot to the kitchen.

You’re welcomed with a sight of Osamu’s bare back, very muscular back, marked with long red stripes and a bite mark on his shoulder. There’s a familiar throbbing between your thighs, and it suddenly feels so empty without his cock; even though it’s wrong, it’s wicked, it’s salacious. What the fuck?

The man is still unaware of your presence, digging through the cupboards in search of bowls, plates, chopsticks—anything to serve the breakfast in. For one person, as you notice. Everything is ready, so he places the dishes on a tray and turns to put them on a table, only to be startled by your figure.

“Oh god, ya scared me.”

“Good morning to you too, ‘Samu.”

There’s an awkward silence; you’re still standing facing each other—you in his shirt, him with a tray.

“I made ya breakfast. Thought you’d be hungry when ya wake up.”

“You’re not gonna eat?”

He’s still standing there, but now his eyes are trained on the food, as if he was counting the grains of rice.

“A don’t think ya’d want my company.”

“I do. Stay. Please?”

The smile that shows up on his face is faint, even less visible than the sudden glint in his irises. But he stays, plates another set of dishes and sits by you at the table. The rest of the meal passes in silence; only after the bowls are empty do you speak,

“‘Samu, I’m sorry, I- I used you to—”

“Do ya regret it?” He doesn’t let you finish, his gaze is intense, taking in your confused expression. “Sleepin’ with me. D’ya regret it?”

You let the question sit in your mind for a moment, wait for your conscience to object but it doesn’t happen, so you reply simply, “No.”

“Good. I don’t either. I used ya too, ya know.” Your confusion changes into disbelief, so he leans back on the chair with a sigh and continues. “I got mad. Back in high school I stepped back from pursuing ya. I told ‘im that if he’s serious about ya, A won’t stand in the way. And then looked at ya both wishin’ t’was me. With you. But that dickhead threw it away. I was so mad that I wanted ya to be mine, even just for a moment, yanno?”

It’s a lot to take in, what the fuck are you supposed to say to that? Twin brother of your now ex-boyfriend, the one you have just spent a very pleasant night with, has been feeling something for you? For this whole time? You watch as Osamu shifts to lean on his elbows on the table, face hidden in his palms.

“Sorry for droppin’ that bomb on ya.”

“Do you… Do you still…”

“Love ya? Yeah.” Your heart skips a beat at his words.

“Wait for me. Wait until I heal.”

It’s a selfish request, you know it, but Osamu nods anyway. There’s something to look forward to now, because when you heal, maybe you’ll make the choice you were deprived of.

more sketches i guess?

will line and color on another day

Alt version:

2am mac n cheese