More Than You Can Chew Sakusa Kiyoomi/f!reader (haikyuu!) CROSSPOSTED TO AO3 Word Count: 4.3k Tags: 18+

more than you can chew sakusa kiyoomi/f!reader (haikyuu!) CROSSPOSTED TO AO3 word count: 4.3k tags: 18+ MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI, tw blood, tw monster fucking, vampire!au, smut, pwp, biting (obviously), kiyoomi as a rich old vampire just makes sense ok? a/n: thank you @shuwuji​ for putting the idea of vampire sakusa in my tiny little brain

It was a stupid idea.

Possibly the worst you’ve ever had, even.

Your heels scrape against the wet concrete of the narrow alleyway as you skitter down it, your every footfall on the pavement echoing off the walls of buildings that all look the same as you rush past them—an incoherent blur that you don’t have time to contemplate. Your breaths are ragged, and your heartbeat—your pathetic, foolish, hopelessly human heartbeat—is racing in your too-tight chest.

You know what this place is, and what you’ve willingly walked into.

You know the dark district isn’t somewhere you’re supposed to travel at night.

Not alone.

Not if you know what’s good for you.

Not if you want to live.

But you also know it’s where he is, and so setting aside every rational, reasonable warning your mind had pleaded with you to abide by, you find yourself there all the same. Wrapped in a little cocktail dress and expensive pair of heels he’d bought for you, you're an all too perfectly primped prey, ripe for the slaughter.

You’d been so determined only a few hours prior. So sure that you were brave enough to face the side of town you’d been raised to avoid—like all good, god-fearing girls are supposed to.

But that confidence has abandoned you now that you need it most.

One brief meeting with a pair of red eyes and a smile too sharp and too predatory to be sweet had sent you running.

You crumple against a brick wall when you can’t run anymore, pressed against the cool, rough stone when your body is no longer able to continue in your flight. You struggle for breath, dropping to your knees on the gritty asphalt, grappling blindly for the cellphone you know is tucked away in your little cross-body bag.

If you can just get to it, if you can just call him before—

“Get up.”

The voice is so shocking you fumble the device in your hands, almost crying out.

But not in fright.

“Sakusa!”

You scramble to your feet, throwing your arms around his middle and burying your face into his broad chest.

He stays rigid throughout your emotional display.

He pushes you back with a firm hand on your shuddering shoulder, prying your hold from his waist. He holds you at arm’s length as he appraises you, eyes flickering to every inch of you that he can see. His usual black mask covers his nose and mouth but his eyes speak volumes to what he’s feeling.

He’s livid.

“How did you find me?” you breathe out, voice watery with tears of relief.

“I could smell you from two blocks away,” he replies flatly. He catches your wrist in his hand, his thumb finding your pulse point just like it always does, and tugs you forward. “Now move.”

There are no streetlights in the dark district. At least, not as many as you’d find in the neighbourhoods made to accommodate the city’s human populace. You’re lucky the moon is out tonight, hanging full and heavy in the sky overhead, otherwise your journey through the labyrinthine back alleys where you had fled would have been even more unnavigable than they already were.

Sakusa doesn’t struggle to see in the dim light as he drags you along behind him, yet another reminder of the fact that this place was built for his kind—not for yours.

Yet another reminder of how the two of you are so very different.

It’s only slightly brighter when you make it back to the main drag—stepping out onto the street to see the soft glow of neon signs in windows, the muted glimpses of light as doors open into the businesses that line the street as shadowy patrons file in and out. You swallow thickly as you realize that this is because the people working in these establishments are mostly human, like you, and the lights serve as a beacon to guide them through the doors—like a lighthouse leading ships into the rocky shoreline to run aground.

Sakusa steers you towards the street corner with a hand on the small of your back and the other still tight on your wrist. He seems to be shielding you from view as best he can—his broad, imposing body following the movement of yours, as though he’s making every attempt to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

It doesn’t work.

“Omi-omi!” a voice calls, cajoling and gregarious.

Sakusa freezes, his grip on your wrist tightening.

Before you can blink there’s a man in front of you—tall, with tousled blonde hair and a dark undercut, wearing a suit that looks as expensive as Sakusa’s though the top three buttons of his dress shirt are undone in a more ostentatious way—and he stoops down to meet your gaze, almost nose to nose.

You don’t even have a chance to yelp, the sound stuck behind the breath of air that lodges itself in your throat.

Red eyes framed by thick lashes blink at you slowly.

“And who are you?”

Sakusa quickly tugs you behind him, leaving you to peer at the unexpected newcomer from around the sleeve of his suit jacket.

“Hey now,” the man laughs, but it sounds almost warm. You don’t feel threatened by him—though you’re sure you should if the speed with which he appeared before you and the red hue of his eyes are anything to go by. “I just asked her a little question, Omi.”

Sakusa stays silent, his body between the two of you like an impregnable wall. You’re sure he’s glowering even if you can’t see his face from your place behind his back.

The blonde looks to you again, quirking an eyebrow in place of repeating his question, and you introduce yourself quietly in response.

“No shit? Yer Omi-kun’s girl?” A wide smile breaks across his inhumanly handsome face. “Ya never told us she’s a—“

“Fuck off, Miya.” Sakusa’s voice is low and warning, and you fight back a shiver at the unfamiliar hostility in his tone.

You’ve heard Kiyoomi upset before, but now? He sounds downright vicious.

But even as the uttered threat hangs heavy in the air, you heartbeat can’t help but flutter at being called his girl. At the fact that this Miya seemed to know of you by name, though you’d never once heard of him.

“Miya Atsumu,” the blonde speaks again, an unruffled smile still lifting the corner of his lips as he introduces himself. “Nice to finally meet ya. Dunno if you know it, but yer all this old man ever talks ab-”

“That’s enough,” Sakusa snaps, but the damage has effectively be done: you know they can both hear the sudden excited acceleration of your treacherous pulse. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“But she’s just so sweet,” Atsumu whines a little, peeking further over Kiyoomi’s shoulder to grin at you, inching ever so slightly closer.

Sakusa pushes him back forcefully with a hand wrapped around his throat, so quickly you barely see it happen. A look is exchanged between the two men, tension crackling in the space dividing them. They’re fairly evenly matched in terms of build—both tall and broad in stature—but you can’t deny that there’s just something more imposing about the darker haired individual and the way he carries himself.

His grip around Atsumu’s throat is so tight, you know that a human neck would have already snapped under the force of it.

After a few painfully tense moments, Kiyoomi lets his hand drop.

“C’mon Omi, y’know I’m only playin’ with ya.” Atsumu laughs, clapping a hand on his shoulder that Sakusa swiftly brushes off. “But yer gonna wanna get this little lamb outta here before the other boys catch wind of her.”

You sense he means it literally.

“They aren’t as well behaved as I am, after all,” Atsumu winks at you as he says it, something playful and mischievous lilting through his voice, and you can’t help but smile a little bit at his charm.

Sakusa scoffs, taking you by the waist and pulling you into his side as he begins to lead you away.

“Seeya later sweets!” Atsumu calls after you, and you turn back to see him waggling his fingers flirtatiously, a glint of fang peeking out from his quirked lips.

You almost hope he’s right.

“Put this on.”

You’re a few paces away when you feel the weight of Kiyoomi’s coat settle upon your shoulders, the command grunted at you with no room to protest.

It’s to mask your scent, you realize, and you grip the lapels between your trembling fingers, drawing it a little tighter around your frame.

“It won’t do nearly as much as you think it will,” the man at your side’s tone is disparaging, as though mocking the thought you hadn’t even expressed, “but it will mark you.”

“Mark me?” you reply quietly, struggling to match his pace as he guides you down the road towards the familiar outline of his sleek black sports car.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, a glimpse of red in the dim night.

“As mine.”

The drive out of the dark district is tense.

The only sound in the car is the soft rumble of the engine as Sakusa guns it, driving far faster than you’d ever dare. Soon the unlit streets give way to those illuminated by far more streetlights overhead, the unsettling atmosphere of the forbidden district easing with every block you travel outside of it.

You’re well beyond the dark district’s limits when you finally dare to speak beyond the two apologies you’ve already meekly offered up to no avail.

“Did you…” you trail off before you finish your thought, suddenly wrought with doubt that you should bring the subject up.

“I didn’t get the chance,” he understands even without you saying it, his voice stilted as he replies. Though you can’t see his mouth beneath his mask, you know his lips are pulled into a thin line, the tightness of his throat a telltale sign of the clench in his covered jaw.

“Oh,” you respond, quiet and apologetic. “We can go back, I could-“

“You’ve done enough for one night, don’t you think?” Sakusa hisses, and you watch as his knuckles tighten as they grip the steering wheel.

He draws in a breath that you swear shakes a little on the inhale.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that stunt you pulled was? How badly this night could have ended if I didn’t happen to catch your scent?” His fury is apparent in his tone, but his eyes never leave the road even as he scolds you. “Do you know what could have happened to you if I hadn’t gotten to you first?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper for the third time since you’d taken your seat on the passenger’s side.

You hear Sakusa swallow thickly beside you.

“So you’ve said,” he mutters lowly in reply.

You don’t speak again for the rest of the drive.

Sakusa’s penthouse is the same as it always is as the two of you step through across the threshold after a long, silent elevator ride up to the fourteenth floor.

Spacious and luxurious, with sumptuous interiors and priceless art lining the walls, it has the feeling of a museum more than a home. Immaculately clean, with not a speck of dust to be seen lingering on any surface. The entire place feels practically unlived in, an almost uncanny atmosphere hanging in the air.

Imposing. Tidy. Unliving.

Perhaps the space is a better representation of its occupant than you give it credit for.

You trail along behind Sakusa quietly, following on his heels after removing your shoes in the entryway and handing him back his suit jacket to hang up.

You linger on one side of the kitchen as he crosses the cold marble floor towards the refrigerator, fidgeting nervously with your fingers.

You watch as he wrenches the door of the appliance open, light spilling out across the impeccably polished floor and dancing along the stainless steel finishes around the room. It’s predictably empty, save for a dozen little silver packets with white capped nozzles on the centre shelf. He grabs one, not even bothering to let the door shut before he’s cracking open the pouch and lifting it to his lips.

It’s not what he needs.

You know that.

You know that bagged blood isn’t as nutritious or as satiating at the real thing. Not in comparison to a fresh feed.

He’d explained it to you once: he sustains himself, as most modern vampires do, on packaged, processed, pasteurized blood—though it’s the best money can buy, to be sure—and only goes to feed when he absolutely needs it.

The blood den you’d followed him to that night was an exclusive, members only club—reserved for the most respected and elite of his kind, with a price tag to match. It was how you’d known where to find him in the first place: it’s the only place he trusts the safety and quality of. He knows they only hire the best servers, take excellent care of them, and don’t overexploit them like a lot of other blood service establishments do.

You watch as he swallows down the contents of the sachet; one, two, three long gulps and then it’s empty. His nose twitches a little as he squeezes the last drops out, like the taste is unpleasant, or at the very least disappointing.

He reaches immediately for another.

Your eyes follow the bob of his adam’s apple raptly with each swallow.

“Stop it,” Sakusa growls, crushing the empty packet in his hand. He doesn’t turn to look at you—his eyes fixed to the marble countertop in his shining, underutilized kitchen.

“What?” you ask him, blinking slowly at your eyes flicker up to his face.

“I can smell you from here,” he spits, finally turning to glower at you. “You’re practically dripping.”

Your eyes widen, legs clenching unconsciously together on the opposite side of the room. You can feel it: the slickness between your thighs, the slide of skin on skin as they meet at the apex, the sticky pull of your damp panties over your cunt.

“What about this is so arousing to you?” Sakusa stalks over to you, crowding you against the wall. “What about watching me feed gets you so wet?”

“It’s just… I-I—“

“You what?” Sakusa has no patience for your stammering, no patience for anything when you smell so good and he’s so thirsty.

“I wanna help you, Kiyo.” It’s not the first time you’ve brought it up. Not even the fifth time. You’ve begged him so many times to feed from you, only to have him shut you down on each and every occasion.

You reach up, slowly smoothing your hands along the firm planes of his chest. Your touch is tentative, like you’re approaching an animal that you fear might bite, but you revel in the feeling of the chiselled musculature hidden underneath the soft Egyptian cotton of his button-down.

Kiyoomi shudders under the gentleness of your touch, like even after all this time he’s not used to the way you imbue so much care into every simple graze.

Your pulse pounds.

“You’re impossible,” the man above you growls, teeth gnashing together as he forces the words through them. But there’s something else there: a fracture in his composure that you’ve never seen before, a fissure in the carefully maintained pretence of control he usually wears that you know is threatening to give way.

You stand on your tiptoes, gently fisting the collar of his shirt, and pull him into a kiss.

Sakusa tries to deny you what you want, tries to keep the kiss chaste; a simple brush of his mouth against yours. But the slightest little mewl from the back of your throat makes him snap—his lips parting as he presses you more firmly into the wall behind you, taking your face in one large hand and tipping your head back so he can kiss you like he’s taking it from you.

Your tongues tangle, slick and wet, and you taste the lingering tang of copper.

It makes something flare in the pit of your stomach: a tight coil of arousal, burning white with jealousy as you kiss the taste of someone else’s blood right out of his mouth.

Another growl rumbles through Sakusa’s chest as he smells the fresh wave of slick that seeps out between your legs, shoving the hand that’s not holding your face beneath the hem of your skimpy dress—right under the lace of your panties.

He wastes no time teasing you—he doesn’t need to considering the mess that’s already smeared itself along the tops of your legs. Sakusa’s long, lithe fingers crook the moment they slide inside of you, and he holds you upright on your unsteady legs by the grip on your pussy and the press of his body into yours alone.

He finds that spot that has your eyes rolling back effortlessly—like he always does.

“Is this what you wanted?” Kiyoomi pulls his mouth from yours and pants into your hairline as he rests his chin against your temple, his voice tight and angry. “What you were so desperate for that you walked into a district full of beasts who wouldn’t hesitate for an instant to tear out your throat?”

You moan.

“Kiyo, please,” you beg mindlessly, chest heaving with sobs that slip out before they even seem to fully form, crackling through your words. “Want it, wanna feel you, wanna feed you, please.”

Kiyoomi has had centuries to perfect his patience, to master his thirst, to develop a sense of self-control that most vampires never achieve. He’s a legacy—a member of a clan so old it’s seen the rise and fall of dynasties, empires, and eras. He’s stronger than a human mind can fathom, body corded with a power that could rase a city to the ground with nothing but his bare hands.

And you—foolish and fragile and human as you are—are the one who manages to break him.

Kiyoomi’s mouth drags down the column of your throat, tongue pressing against the place your pulse pounds most violently under your impossibly delicate skin.

“Please, please, please,” you whimper, fingers tangling in his dark curls as you hold him against your jugular. “I love you, Kiyo, s’much. Let me give you what you need.”

He lets out one long, low groan, and then you feel his teeth pierce your neck.

It should hurt, but it doesn’t.

Then you feel it: a euphoric warmth that spreads through you, turning your body pliant and your legs to jelly.

You’ve heard about this before—read about it in trashy magazines you bought with flushing cheeks from the checkout counter at convenience stores, poured over posts in forums on the internet that described the experience in first-hand detail that was a little more believable. Feeding a vampire is an intimate, incredibly sensual experience for a human.

A rush of hormones floods your system as he feeds from you, triggered by a chemical in his own saliva that keep you willing and writhing as he sates his thirst—an evolutionary response to make it easier for vampires to lure their prey and keep them in their clutches.

Because who would ever try to run when it feels this good?

People get addicted to the rush, and you understand it now as you float up up up on the high of Kiyoomi drinking from you. You finally understand how it leads people to jobs at blood dens, or even selling themselves on the seedier corners of the dark district just to get their fill.

Or more appropriately, their drain.

Kiyoomi groans, a primal, beatific sound, and you watch with hazy eyes as he pulls away from you. He throws his head back, fangs bared and smeared in crimson.

Blood.

Your blood.

You crash into your orgasm with no warning at all.

Sakusa’s fingers inside of you don’t stop moving as you ride the sharp edge of your release, clinging to him as desperately as your walls do to the digits trapped between them.

Before you can even blink you’re sprawled across his bed and his teeth are sinking into your neck again—on the other side of your throat this time—a perfectly symmetrical pair of bite marks framing the delicate column of your throat.

You don’t have time to question how you get to his bedroom so quickly. Don’t have time to notice that your pretty dress is torn in half—leaving your flushed skin bared as the two sides of a garment that used to be united hang limply on either side of your body. At least not enough time before you’re cumming again with a strangled cry of Kiyoomi’s name.

Your toes curl at your back bows, your body drawn so tightly you feel like you might snap.

He pulls back to watch you writhe underneath him—scarlet dripping down to the fair, chiseled point of his chin. His eyes are wild: red with fresh blood and a glint that’s downright insatiable.

Kiyoomi descends slowly down the bed, down your body, leaving open-mouthed kisses as he goes while you fight to catch the breath that evades you. Crimson lip prints trail in his wake that dry like an iron-ochre map imprinted to your skin.

Your panties are long gone as he settles between your legs—though you couldn’t even begin to guess where. He takes your thighs in his hands, guiding them up and apart, hooking one leg over his shoulder while the other is pressed back towards your waist. He drags his tongue along your skin before his teeth sink into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, and another wave of warmth ripples through you to override the ebbing pleasure of your second orgasm. A throb of lust tightens in your core, sending another drip of slick along your folds.

“Kiyoomi,” you call to him, breathless and wanting. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, your vision fuzzy along the edges.

He pulls away from your thigh, laving his tongue over the two crescent shaped imprints of his teeth in your skin to soothe the wound—or not miss a drop.

“Yes?” his voice is even as he responds, but the feral look in his eyes betrays him.

“Do I taste good?” you whisper, feeling the corners of your lips pull in a drowsy little smile.

He pauses for a moment, pressing one last kiss to the bite mark between your legs before crawling back up the bed to cradle your face between his palms. It’s hard to focus your eyes, even when he’s so close to you, and nearly impossible to make your tongue cooperate in speech—as drunk off the feeling of him as he is the taste of you.

“You’re divine,” his words are breathed out like a prayer: reverent and pious.

Kiyoomi’s hands guide you where he wants you, settling your head gently against the soft down of his pillows, holding your quivering thighs back as he positions himself on his knees between them. He drags the head of his cock through the mess between your legs, the hot, velvety soft petals of your slick cunt parting as he pushes through them, the tip of his length nudging at the puffy, sensitive swell of your clit.

You can’t take his teasing, not after you’ve already cum twice, not when you already feel so spent. He seems to sense this before you muster the strength to do anything other than whimper, and suddenly he’s sinking into you.

“Oh—oh!” you cry out, voice breaking between the repetition of the word. “Kiyoomi s’too much, too much.”

Kiyoomi shushes you gently, a contrast to the sharp thrust of his hips against yours. In spite of your words, of your hesitation, your walls still desperately suck him in.

His thumb drags through the drool that dribbles from the corner of your parted lips, forcing it back into your mouth as his ruby eyes flicker between the place his cock is disappearing into you and the way your features are screwing up in pleasure. Your lips wrap around the tip of his thumb instinctively, sucking on it as he continues to fuck into you with long, forceful strokes that have the sturdy bed shaking beneath you.

You moan around the finger in your mouth as Kiyoomi pummels into that spot that has your vision going white, stars crackling across your already blurry vision as your entire body flushes, over and over again. You feel the slick sheen of perspiration clinging to you, and Kiyoomi’s low body temperature feels positively frigid as his skin meets yours.

“Kiyo, kiss?” you slur around his thumb needily as want burns white hot in your belly, and he doesn’t hesitate to comply your desperate request, his chest pressing into yours as he dips down to capture your lips with his.

He bites your lip as your panting mouths move fervently together—a simple nick, but enough to send a burst of copper and salt across your tastebuds. Kiyoomi’s own tongue chases the taste as it washes across yours.

Another surge of heat and endorphins courses through you as his tongue presses his saliva into your wound, blood and spit smearing down your face, and you cum with soundless cry—fingers clumsy as you scrabble for purchase in his perfect, unyielding skin.

Kiyoomi’s toppling over the precipice soon after, though his hips don’t stop fucking you down into the mattress through both of your rapturous peaks.

This is different from the other times he’s allowed himself to touch you; lacking the restraint that up until this point he’s been so steadfast in exerting. Limbs and lust and breaths entwined, you hardly feel like two bodies at all.

You’re one in every way, body and soul, down to the blood that runs through your veins.

You know, you both know, that nothing will ever feel like this again.

That nothing will ever satisfy either of you in place of it—in place of what you've found in each other.

The two of you are well and truly damned.

Together.