Chapter Text
The apartment still smelled like burnt coffee and stress when Rin walked through the door, his duffel bag hitting the floor with a heavy thud that spoke of another brutal training session in Parisian heat. You did not look up from your laptop immediately. You could not, really, because the quarterly reports were due by midnight and your eyes were already burning from twelve hours of fluorescent lighting. But you felt him there, standing in the entryway, radiating that particular brand of irritated exhaustion that had become so familiar over the three years you had known him.
"You're furrowing again," you said, fingers still typing, not needing to see him to know his brows were drawn together in that perpetual scowl that somehow made him look unfairly attractive. "It's going to stick that way, Rin-chan."
"I'm not furrowing," he grunted, but you heard the shuffle of him kicking off his cleats, the rustle of his training jacket. "And don't call me that."
"Rin-chan," you repeated, just to be difficult, finally looking up with a smile that felt wicked even as your shoulders ached from hunching over spreadsheets.
He was standing there in his compression shorts and a sweat-damp tank top, dark hair messy from where he had run his hands through it, those sharp, beautiful features arranged in their usual expression of displeasure. But his eyes. His eyes were already softening as they took you in, cataloguing the way you were still in your work blouse, the dark circles under your eyes, the way your hair was escaping its clip. You watched him watch you, and you felt a familiar heat curl low in your stomach. He did not know how to say he had missed you. He did not know how to say he was glad you were here. But you could read it in the set of his shoulders, in the way his gaze lingered on your mouth.
"You're still working," he stated, dropping his bag and crossing the room in those long, athletic strides. Soccer had carved him into something lethal and lovely. Lean muscle and controlled power, the kind of body that made money for destroying defenses on the pitch. "It's nine PM."
"Corporate slavery doesn't respect soccer schedules, baby," you sighed, but you were already closing the laptop. Not because you wanted to stop working, but because Rin was standing behind your chair now, his hands bracing on either side of you, caging you in with the smell of sweat and grass and whatever expensive cologne he had started wearing after his first million-euro contract.
His chin hooked over your shoulder, rough stubble catching on your blouse, and you felt him exhale. Long, slow, defeated. "You smell like the office," he muttered, but there was no real complaint in it. Just observation. Just Rin being Rin, unable to voice affection but saying it anyway in the way his hand came up to thumb at the tension in your neck.
You leaned back into him, letting your head fall against his shoulder. You could feel his heartbeat against your back, steady and strong. You knew he was hard already. You could feel it in the tension radiating from his body, in the way his breathing had gone shallow. Two weeks. It had been two weeks since he had touched you like this, and you could feel the hunger coming off him in waves.
"You smell like you ran ten miles and then decided to roll in grass," you teased. "Shower?"
"Join me," he said. Not a question. Never a question with Rin. It would sound too much like begging, and Rin Itoshi did not beg. He demanded, or he took, or he silently maneuvered until the world bent to his will. You understood this about him. You understood that his dominance was not just physical but psychological, a need to control the space around him because he felt safest when he was in command.
You hummed, considering, enjoying the way his fingers were working knots from your shoulders with the same precision he used to control a ball. "Are you asking nicely?"
His grip tightened, just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to remind you that beneath the grumpy exterior was something predatory and patient. "Nee-chan," he rumbled against your ear, and god, the way he said it. The honorific twisted into something illicit, something that reminded you of the age gap he had never quite let you forget even as he towered over you now. "Get in the shower."
You stood, stretching, feeling his eyes track the movement of your body with the intensity he usually reserved for analyzing goalkeepers. You were older by four years, soft in places where he was hard, marked by desk jobs and skipped lunches while he was carved from protein and discipline. But when Rin looked at you, really looked, with those dark eyes and that furrowed brow that never quite smoothed out even in pleasure, you felt like the only thing worth looking at. You felt seen. You felt owned, in a way that made your knees weak.
The shower was warm, and Rin was methodical about cleaning himself, which meant he was methodical about cleaning you. His hands slid over your skin with soap and intent, touching every place the day had made you feel small. He said nothing, just worked in silence, but you could feel the tension building in his shoulders, the way his touches lingered longer than necessary, the way his breathing had gone shallow. You watched him watch his own hands move over your body, and you saw the moment his control slipped, the moment his gaze went from practical to possessive.
"You trained hard today," you observed, leaning back against the tile, watching water sheet down his chest, following the lines of his abdomen to where he was already half-hard and trying to hide it behind the pretense of washing your hair. You were teasing him. You knew you were teasing him, and you knew he knew it too. The game was half the fun. The psychological dance of who would break first.
"Shidou was being an idiot," Rin muttered, fingers massaging your scalp with more force than necessary. "As usual. Coach ran us ragged."
"Poor baby," you cooed, not meaning it, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw where he had not shaved. "Want nee-chan to make it better?"
His eyes snapped to yours, dark and dangerous, and his hand slid from your hair to your throat. Not squeezing, just holding, claiming. You felt your pulse jump against his palm, felt the power dynamic shift palpably in the steam-filled air. "You're playing with fire," he warned, but there was no heat in it, not the angry kind. Just the heat that had been building since he walked through the door.
"Am I?" You smiled, letting your hand drift lower, tracing the V of his hips, teasing. You were pushing him, testing the limits of his control, because you loved the moment he snapped. You loved watching him break out of his civilized shell and become the thing he kept locked away. "Or are you just grumpy because you haven't gotten laid in two weeks?"
Rin's jaw tightened. That tell-tale sign that you had hit the mark. Two weeks. Two weeks of away games and your late nights, two weeks of passing each other like ghosts, two weeks of tension coiling tight in his lean frame. You saw the decision in his eyes before he moved. You saw him give up on words, give up on the pretense of patience.
He shut off the water, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around you with rough efficiency before lifting you. Actually lifting you, like you weighed nothing, like you were something to be claimed and possessed. He deposited you on the bathroom counter, and you felt the cold marble against your thighs, felt your breath catch as he stepped between your knees.
"Rin—"
"Quiet," he said, and there it was. The dominance that he wore like a second skin, the thing that made him captain material, the thing that had you spreading your thighs without conscious thought. He stood between your knees, still wet, still radiating heat, and he finally kissed you.
It was not gentle. Rin did not do gentle, not when he was hungry. But it was thorough, his tongue sweeping through your mouth with the same precision he used to map out defenses. You felt the kiss in your whole body, felt him claiming territory, marking you as his in the most primitive way possible. His hands gripped your waist tight enough to bruise, and you made a noise against his mouth, fingers finding his hair, pulling. He growled, actually growled, pressing closer, the towel the only barrier between you and his growing hardness.
"Bedroom," you managed when he pulled back to bite at your jaw, your throat, marking you in ways that would show tomorrow.
"No," he said against your collarbone, teeth grazing, making you arch. "Can't wait. Can't..." He cut himself off, frustrated, always so frustrated with words. You understood. He did not need words. He needed action. He needed to prove his possession physically because he could not say it out loud.
He lifted you again, carrying you like you were nothing, the towel falling away as he stalked to the bed and dropped you onto the sheets. You lay back, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes as he stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with that furrowed brow, that intense focus that made you feel seen down to your bones. He was beautiful like this. Hair drying in messy waves, body lit by the bedside lamp in golds and shadows, cock hard against his stomach, expression caught between affection and something far more primal.
"You're staring," you teased, letting your knees fall open, letting him see how wet you already were, how ready. "Like you've never seen a woman before, Rin-chan."
"I've seen plenty," he said, climbing onto the bed, crawling over you with that predatory grace. "You're the only one worth looking at."
Your breath caught, because that. That was Rin at his most dangerous. When he let the mask slip, when he let himself be soft even while he was positioning himself between your thighs. You felt the head of his cock press against your entrance, and you held your breath, waiting, anticipating.
"Talk to me," he demanded, even as he was pressing in, inch by inch, stretching you with the kind of patience that made your eyes roll back.
"About what?" you gasped, hands finding his shoulders, nails digging in as he bottomed out, filling you completely, perfectly. You felt full, possessed, owned in a way that had nothing to do with the physical and everything to do with the look in his eyes.
"Anything," he gritted out, forehead dropping to yours, brows still furrowed but for different reasons now. "Just... talk. Don't want you quiet."
He needed the connection. He needed to know you were present, that you were with him, that this was not just physical release but intimacy. You understood. So you talked, even as he started moving. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that made your breath stutter.
You told him about the quarterly reports, about how your boss had spilled coffee on his tie, about the email you had gotten from your mother asking when you were going to settle down. Mundane things, stupid things, your voice breaking as he hit a particularly good angle. Rin listened, grunting responses, his hands braced on either side of your head as he kept the rhythm steady, controlled, safe.
But you could feel it. The control fraying at the edges. Two weeks was too long for him, too long for the both of you. His thrusts were getting sharper, less measured, and you were clinging to him now, your words dissolving into gasps and whimpers as he hit that spot inside you with increasing precision.
"Nee-chan," he rumbled, and the honorific sounded obscene like this, filthy coming from his pretty mouth. "Touch yourself. Want to feel you come."
"Lazy," you accused, but your hand was moving between your bodies, finding your clit, circling in time with his thrusts. "You're just... ah... using me like a pillow princess."
"Yes," he agreed, no shame in it, because he knew what you liked. He knew you loved lying back and letting him work, letting him use his athlete's stamina to fuck you stupid while you just took it, just enjoyed the ride. He knew the psychology of it, knew that you needed to feel taken, needed to feel like he could not get enough of you, needed to feel his desperation. "My princess. Mine."
"Yours," you agreed, because it was true. Had been true since that first awkward dinner when he had scowled at you across the table and you had thought he hated you, only to find him at your door at midnight with flowers and that terrible, grumpy expression that meant he liked you too much.
He picked up the pace, then, reading your body like he read the field. Knowing when you were close, knowing when to angle his hips just so, knowing when to drop his head and take your nipple in his mouth, sucking soft, biting softer, making you cry out and clutch at his hair.
"Rin—"
"Right here," he said against your breast, looking up at you with those dark eyes, that furrowed brow that never smoothed out even in pleasure. "I'm right here. Come for me. Come on my cock like a good girl."
The words. Rare, filthy words from Rin who preferred actions to speech. They sent you over, your orgasm rolling through you in waves that made your back arch, your legs tighten around him, your voice breaking on his name. He kept fucking you through it, chasing his own release now, his rhythm becoming erratic, his grip on your hips tight enough to leave fingerprints.
"Fuck," he gritted out, burying his face in your neck, his thrusts becoming short, sharp, desperate. "Fuck, you feel..."
He came with a groan that sounded like surrender, like the only time he ever let himself be vulnerable, spilling inside you with a shudder that ran through his entire frame. You held him through it, stroking his back, his hair, murmuring nonsense that might have been praise or might have been love, knowing he heard it either way.
For long moments, he stayed there, still inside you, still heavy and warm and perfect. Then, with a grunt, he rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were sprawled across his chest, listening to his heart slow from its frantic pace.
"You're still furrowing," you mumbled against his skin, tracing the line between his brows with a lazy finger.
"Shut up," he said, but he was smiling. Small, secret, only for you. His hand came up to stroke your hair, fingers tangling in the damp strands. "Missed you."
"Missed you too, baby," you said, pressing a kiss to his sternum. "Even if you are a grumpy little shit."
He huffed, pinching your side, making you yelp. "Nee-chan."
"Rin-chan," you countered, settling more comfortably against him, feeling safe and sated and thoroughly used in the best way.
They lay there in comfortable silence for a while, the city lights filtering through the curtains, the sounds of Paris distant and muffled. You were nearly dozing when he spoke again, his voice rumbling through his chest under your ear.
"Shidou said I was distracted today," he said, casual, conversational, his hand still stroking your back. "Said I kept looking at my phone."
"Were you?" you asked, smiling against his skin.
"Waiting for you to text," he admitted, like it cost him something. "You didn't. You were working."
"Sorry," you said, not sorry at all, knowing he did not want an apology anyway.
He shifted, rolling you onto your back again, settling between your thighs with a hardness that made your eyes widen. "Make it up to me," he demanded, that furrowed brow back in place, that grumpy, gorgeous mouth descending on yours.
"Again?" you laughed into the kiss, already wrapping your legs around him, already feeling him press against your oversensitive entrance.
"Again," he confirmed, pushing in with a single, smooth thrust that made you gasp. "And again. Until you remember who you belong to, nee-chan."
"Show me," you challenged, arching up to meet him, your hands finding his shoulders, your eyes locked on his. "Show me, Rin."
And he did. Slow and deep and devastating, fucking you with the kind of focus he brought to everything, until you were incoherent, until you were clinging to him and babbling his name, until the mundane world of quarterly reports and training schedules fell away and there was only this. Only him, only you, only the heat and the friction and the love he showed in every thrust, every bite, every furrowed, frustrated, perfect expression.
"Love you," you managed, at some point, your voice breaking, your nails digging crescents into his back.
"Idiot," he said, but he kissed you soft, so soft, even as he fucked you hard. "Love you too. Now be quiet and take it."
You smiled, obeying, letting him use you, letting him love you in the only way he knew how. Thoroughly, possessively, completely.
And when you came again, crying out against his mouth, you felt him follow, felt him shudder and groan and cling to you like you were the only solid thing in his world. Maybe you were. Maybe that was what this was. Two people clinging to each other in the dark, fucking away the distance, the stress, the silence of their separate lives, finding communion in the slide of skin on skin, in the mundane words whispered between gasps, in the furrowed brow that somehow looked like home.
"Bed," you mumbled later, when he finally pulled out, when he cleaned you both with the kind of tender efficiency that made your chest ache.
"Yeah," he agreed, lifting you. Always lifting you, as if you weighed nothing, as if you were precious. He deposited you under the covers before sliding in beside you, pulling you against his chest, tangling his legs with yours.
"Rin?"
"Mm?"
"You're still furrowing."
His hand found yours under the covers, fingers interlacing, squeezing tight. "Go to sleep, nee-chan."
"Make me."
He huffed, but you felt him smile against your hair, felt the tension finally, finally leave his shoulders as he held you close, as the world narrowed to the warmth of his body, the steadiness of his breathing, the love he could not say but showed in every touch.
"Tomorrow," he said, voice already thick with exhaustion, "I'm making you quit that job."
"You've been saying that for a year," you murmured, eyes closing, safe in his arms.
"Mean it this time," he insisted, even as he was drifting off, even as his grip on you remained iron-tight, possessive, permanent.
"Sure, baby," you whispered, knowing he would not, knowing you would go to work tomorrow with bruises on your hips and marks on your throat, knowing he would go to practice distracted and scowling and secretly smiling at his phone.
Knowing that this. This grumpy, beautiful, impossible man. Was yours, completely, thoroughly, forever.
"Love you, Rin-chan," you said, but he was already asleep, his brow finally, finally smoothing out in dreams, his hand still holding yours like he never intended to let go.
And he would not, you knew. Not ever. Not Rin Itoshi, who did not know how to love halfway, who did not know how to fuck gently, who did not know how to say he needed you but showed it in every furrowed, frustrated, perfect moment.
You closed your eyes, smiling, and let sleep take you both.