A few would have questions about bomb sniffing dogs, or if they ever saw a gun go off (Both things, you knew the soldiers would have seen.) but eight year olds don’t know. They assume war is far far away and exactly how it's depicted in the movies their parents watch. 

You had no idea what soldier would get your classes letters, if it would be someone with their own kids, and realize the backwards letters in marker were causing boatloads of homesickness, or if it would be a war hardened man who wouldn’t respond with anything other than a thank you.  

For the kids sake, you hoped it was someone who would write more than just three sentences. 

“Miss, how do we know who is gonna get the letters?” Clara asks and you look up “Oh, we don’t know.” Standing, you walk to the front of the room. 26 pairs of eyes follow. 

“We don’t?” 

“But how do we know someone's gonna answer us?” 

“What if they don’t read our letters?” 

You smile “someone will read them. I mail them out, and someone on their end hands them out to the soldiers. One soldier will get all of our letters and become our classroom's own inside scoop.”

“Woah.” 

“Do you think he has a gun?” 

“Miss what happens if no one answers our letters?” 

“Someone will.” you promise “this program is for people who signed up to answer our letters, they want to.” 

A moment of understanding passes over the class and all the kids look back down to their own handwriting asking questions only kids would. 

“Alright,” You hum and look at the clock “do we need another couple minutes? Remember don’t write on the envelopes, I’ll do that for you.” 

It's unanimous that the kids want more time, and so you sit back down at your desk and finish up grading. 

Three weeks later, there they were. The bundle of letters was on your desk when you came in that morning. Each a uniformed grey, with a little stamp and the address of the school on it in neat handwriting. 

They’re here. 

Three weeks the entire class had been on edge, three weeks of “miss are they in yet?” and “Miss, do you think they’ll be in tomorrow?” 

Three weeks of disappointed faces and excited chatter at all times of the day. 

You go to the board, and clear off the first two blocks of the day, instead writing “Letters” in bold marker. They were gonna go nuts. 

You find one addressed to you on top of the pile, and silently thank god the kids weren’t in yet so you could read it quickly-in case it was a “don’t ever send me another letter again” kind of message. 

To your delight, it wasn’t. In fact, it was the complete opposite.  

The soldier, who introduced himself as Simon Riley, wrote that he wasn’t great with kids but tried to answer their questions with as much detail as he could provide-and of course it was all appropriate for kids- 

He revealed that he wasn’t much of a talker, but the questions these kids wrote were hard to not answer, in fact he kept thinking about them until he answered all of them. 

All of them. 26 letters with a page of answers for every. Single. One. 

Simon added that he would be inclined to keep responding to the letters, if the class wanted to send more. Gave him something to do during downtime when he wasn’t being annoyed by his teammates. 

As if the kids would ever refuse something like this. They were gonna explode when they found out. 

It was hard to keep the smile off your face when the kids came in, taking their seats at the desks. You couldn’t help but want to blurt out the good news when the kids put two and two together thanks to the change in their schedule. 

Because of the excitement, you had to call out the names one by one, ensuring nothing got too crazy. 

As expected, the kids go bonkers. Each of them squealing and grinning as they read the messages written to them by “Mr. Riley” as he became formally known by. 

You walk around the classroom, listening to each kid as they pull you to read a sentence or show off a small drawing in the margin. 

After the 6th kid, you realize Simon-sorry, Mr. Riley-has written back with each children’s name, answered their question and included either a small drawing or a funny joke. 

This man… this soldier, has taken time out of whatever he was doing, or staying up late, to finish each of these letters and get them back to the classroom. Oh my god. 

It's safe to say, the class loses their mind. And for the next part of the morning, it's all they talk about. 

During recess, you take the time to write your own letter back. Thanking him for his service (again) and how thoughtful each of the letters were, alongside explaining how excited the kids were to receive the letters. You end the letter with your full name, instead of your regular teacher sign off, it just felt right. 

The following day, your class writes response letters-now they know someone was on the other side answering. They dig in deeper. Asking about his own school, if he knew how to spell big words, if he had a dog. 

A week later (were these letters being mailed out as urgent? That was fast for anyone's standards.) 

“MR. RILEY ANSWERED.” someone shouts, pointing to the letters on your desk just after lunch. 

Safe to say, he was a celebrity in less than a month. The kids ADORED him, and each of them felt they had their own bond with him. Each of the letters were written with the same type of tone, and Simon wasn’t talking down to any of them like some people do with kids, he was talking to them like people. 

It becomes a thing-and now it's halfway into October, the classroom decorated for Halloween already. (your class was enthusiastic about holidays) the kids write, Simon responds. You always add your letters in, thanking him and wishing him well. He sounded more like an adult in his letters to you, adding little jabs and jokes about his team or your bosses. He was…god damn it, he was sneaking into your head when you were home alone, or when you were in bed. 

This was going to become an issue for you, but it was nice to imagine for the time being. 

The kids went nuts over every answer, reading them out loud to each other. “Listen, listen! I asked Mr. Riley if he had a dog, and he said ‘no. The dog would probably outrank me’… Miss, what does outrank mean?” 

“I asked Mr. Riley what his favorite dinosaur was, and he said T-rex! That's my favorite  too!” 

“I drew a picture of Mr. Riley and his team and he said that one of his teammates has a mohawk! A mohawk! How cool is that? Miss, Miss, did you see the mohawk!” 

It was safe to assume that Mr. Riley was the coolest person ever, and some of these kids held him on a higher pedestal then the state did. 

You imagine an older man, maybe with a desk job now, but pulling these stories and funny jokes from when he was in active service. You knew Simon wasn’t retired, because he told you, but nothing could have prepared you for the letter you received the last week of October. 

“I’m going to be on deployment for the next two weeks, won’t be able to answer. Tell the kids I’m sorry and to hang on tight until I get back.” 

Deployment. He was active. He was an active soldier, going into battle and he was STILL keeping up with each and every letter. 

You tell the kids about Simon going away for a bit and the energy in the room dips. Upset, but understanding, the kids wait. And wait. And wait. 

You get an email this time, and your heart kicks starts-but it's not from Simon. It's from the association that put together this whole thing. For one second, one fleeting second, you assume the worst. 

“Oh sorry, the soldier you and your class were speaking to has died in battle, please send letters to someone else.” 

Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. Simon was okay-at least, you assumed so. This email was asking both you and your principal if the soldiers the classes had been in contact with, could come and visit the classrooms. 

Without hesitation you say yes, and add that your classroom soldier was on deployment, hoping that it didn’t matter much and they would work around that, instead of just ignoring your classroom. 

You nor the kids would survive that. 

The answer comes back two days later, Monday morning. A resounding “we’d love to have them!” from your principal and a promise to work around everyone's schedules, including Simons. 

You write a letter to Simon for when he gets back, hoping everything works out. 

“Dear Simon,

The class would love to meet you, but I know you are currently away. I haven’t said anything to them because I don’t want to get their hopes up, and if you don’t know, deal with the aftermath. They think you're the coolest person ever, and would love to meet you.  If you do decide to come, we’ll welcome you with open arms. Please consider the offer but no pressure of course. 

Wishing you the best, 

y/n.” 

“Y/n, 

I’m writing this at 3am, I just got back from… where I was. I can’t tell you, but just know there was a lot of sand I didn’t enjoy. I said no to coming to the school originally, but I reread the letters the kids sent and changed my mind. I don’t know if they would have already sent in the list, but I will be there. 

Thanks for reaching out, I’ve got all my limbs fyi. 

Simon R.” 

That letter gets tucked into your work bag. That's for you and you only. Later that night, you re-read it. 

He said no. Then he changed his mind. 

You won’t lie, when that finalized list came in, and Simon wasn’t on it-your heart sank. You were quietly devastated that day but refused to tell the kids. You wouldn’t ruin the image of Simon in their minds, even if they were told there could be a chance he misses it because Mr. Riley was on a mission. 

November 15th, was the day the school was welcoming in the classroom soldiers. Every class had cleaned and each room had a “welcome to our class” banner they worked on the last few days. 

Your class was… enthusiastic to say the least. Once the confirmation was given, you told the class about Mr. Riley coming in and they went insane. The banner was filled with drawings and messages, and there was a stuffed dog someone brought to remind Simon of the bomb sniffing dog he spoke of. 

That morning was like trying to wrangle a bunch of sugar crazy, insane little animals. Even the quiet kids were talking amongst their peers, everyone was on the edge of their seats. 

A knock. 

The room goes dead silent, and all of them look at you, waiting to see what you do. 

You walk over, and take a breath before opening the door. Since you had ruled out an older man with the desk job after Simon told you about the deployment, you really didn’t have an idea of what he looked like. 

But nothing could have prepared you for who you saw. 

Standing at least 6’4, in pressed uniform, was Simon. Tattoo’s covered both his arms and one of his hands, medals adorn his chest, and a hat in his hand. 

You just stare at one another, your cheeks pink and his lips quirk. “Miss,” he nods his nice “I’m Lt. Riley, nice to meet you.” He holds out a hand and you take it slowly “it's so nice to meet you in person. I have-we have thought about you for a while.” 

Nice save. 

Simon’s lips pull into that half smile half smirk, and nods "I've thought about this class as well.” 

You smile, eyes lighting up and Simon has to remind himself how to breathe. 

“Miss?” one of the kids called “miss, is that mr. Riley?” 

You grin, and swing open the door. “Alright, please stay in your seats.” Simon steps into the class behind you, towering over you. The entire class stares. 

26 pairs of eyes are on him, on his uniform, his medals, the scar on his lip, at the hat in his hands. Little minds take in everything about the soldier standing in their classroom. He looks a little out of place with all the artwork and  laminated reminders to sound out words and use punctuation. 

“Hes huge.” 

“Is that really him?” 

“Why is he not in camo?” 

The kids whisper and you lead Simon to the chair with the plush dog. “Cute.” 

“It's my dog!” Sarah gasps “he said my dog was cute! Miss, did you hear?” You nod and smile “I did.” 

Your hand stays on the back of the chair when Simon sits and he looks ridiculous in the small chair, but no one laughs. “I’m gonna get them to sit on the carpet, is that okay?” you ask quietly and Simon nods. “Yes ma’am, fine by me.” 

Directing the kids to come and sit on their carpet seats, it's almost laughable how none of them can tear their eyes away from him. 

“Okay” You hum “how about we start by introducing ourselves. Mr. Riley-is it Mr. Riley? Should we call you something else?” 

Simon shrugs “mr. Riley's fine.” 

“Mr. Riley knows us by our names, not our faces right? So let's go ahead and one by one tell him who we are!” you gesture to Karl “go ahead.” 

One by one the kids introduce themselves, putting a face to the names that signed the letters. You watch as Simon files away their names, finally matching crayon drawings and knock knock jokes to each child. 

Simon repeats them quietly, under his breath, you wonder if it's some sort of military memory training.

26 names, 26 hellos and how are you, 26 little kids looking at Simon like he hung the moon because of them? Answering their letters and being in the military was an equivalent  to being a celebrity. 

It's an open floor, for both Simon and the kids. They raise their hands but end up talking over one another in that clumsy, excited way all kids do. 

He answers each question like it's the best question he’s ever heard. Simon takes them all seriously, and not because he basks in the spotlight like you might think, but because these kids and all their questions, they’re the reason his heart lurched when he found out about the deployment. They’re the reason he stayed up later than most to finish off writing so they have something to open when he is gone. 

Hell, he was in the middle of the desert, taking cover behind some old rock, and was already thinking of ways he could make the story family friendly so he could share it with them. 

Quiet students came up to him after that, whispering questions they didn’t want to ask in front of the rest of the class. Instead of answering for everyone, Simon whispers the answers back, and the kids smile when he respects their level. 

Eye contact was a non-negotiable for Simon you found, everyone who asked a question got his undivided attention. 

The entire time Simon spends in the class was taken up by the kids and their endless interest in him. He shows the few photos he can, some of his team (mohawk man was given a real name, which was soap, which the kids just about died laughing at.) 

At the end of the day, you and Simon wave goodbye to each student and he takes home a folder full of drawings, friendship bracelets, and other artwork the kids wanted him to have. 

“Well,” you say, sitting down in the now empty and quiet classroom. “Did you have fun? I hope they weren’t too much.” 

Simon shakes his head “no ma’am, they were fine.” 

“We’re off the clock now,” You smile, “you can call me by my first name.” 

Simon nods and adds that you’ll have to call him Simon now. So you do, and he calls you by your first name like a man who isn’t sure he was worthy enough.

“How long are you in regular life?” you ask softly and he shrugs “as long as I want. I’m home for at least two weeks before I'm eligible for deployment again.” 

“Well, if you ever feel like spending time in the classroom, we’d love to have you again.” 

He nods “yeah, the kids are great. Teacher ain’t too bad either.” 

You grin, and play with a spelling test on the pile “you flirting with me. Mr. Riley?” 

“Simon.” 

You blink, and smile softly “Simon.” 

He shrugs “Ain’t very school friendly, but I figured we were in the clear with it being after hours.” 

Humming, you nod. “Can’t argue with that.” 

Simon watches you, he had the entire time. How you acted with the kids, how they revolve around you and all ask for your attention and you give it. You divide the attention and your time with each student, and remember little things about them. 

They adore you. 

“Are you free for dinner?” Simon asks bluntly and you meet his eyes “really?” He nods “I want to get to know the women who wrote me letters too, not just the kids.” 

You blink, and blush “I'm not sure she’s very interesting.” 

Scoffing, Simon crosses his arms, his biceps bulge. “I beg to differ, come on lovie, let me take you out.” 

Well, how could you say no to that? 

“Sure,” you reply, breathy. “Dinner sounds great.”

Simon hums and stands, you walk him to the door. “At seven, I'll be at yours,” he says. “How do you know my-?” 

Simon pulls out a letter from inside his jacket, one you had written on your own time, from your place. He kept it. 

“Read it whenever I felt like shit.” Simon reveals like it was nothing. “Had me thinking about you even in the desert.” You hold onto the doorframe, otherwise you’re sure you’d fall over. Simon smirks and nods at you again in a goodbye. 

All he needed to perk himself back up was have you drooling over him, saying things like “Fuck, Tsumu you’re so big.”, “You’re so strong.”, “You fuck me so good, please don’t stop.” While he all but ruined you right there on the entryway floor, because he couldn’t make it past your sweet voice welcoming him back without fishing his dick out of his pants. 

He made the discovery of his little preference a bit before you started living with him.

The two of you had a pretty heavy argument a few days before you were going to officially move in. It was smoothed out shortly after it happened and you had reassured him no longer being upset the next morning. Despite that, there was something about him still so saddened that he made you upset. He felt like such an idiot, almost ruining his own shot at a wonderful life with you. He knew you weren’t angry anymore, and you promised him you’d still be bringing your stuff over next week, but there was still something nagging him deep down and it just wouldn’t stop.

Atsumu truly cared about what you thought of him, and he doesn’t know what he’d do if those thoughts were to ever be negative.

The day after the argument, you found him waiting at your job's reception area when your lunch break started. You were whisked away as soon as he spotted you, and treated to a nice little restaurant close by. 

He spent most of the lunch repeating apologies for the night before that you took more than gladly, chuckling to yourself at how remorseful he was over something that had undoubtedly been a rather small rock in the road. 

“Tsumu, I told you I forgive you. We were both being stupid, there’s no need to apologize anymore.” You reassured him once more, smiling as he took your hand in his across the table.

“I know, I know. I’ll stop it. But couldja swear again ya still love me?” He looked at you with sad puppy dog eyes, and it took everything in you not to laugh.

“I swear to God, I still love you and I’ll never stop.”

“Alright, I’ll calm down now… I’ll calm down some.” 

After a nice hour of cheering you and himself up, Atsumu took you back to work; but not before pulling you to the backseat of his car, begging for your praise while pounding you relentlessly in some lonely spot on the back of your office’s parking lot.

Atsumu knew he could’ve waited until you were back home, but he desperately needed to have absolute acceptance to his apologies; and something he’d never doubt to be truthful was the sounds of your wet pussy swallowing his dick whole, accompanied by the feeling of your beautifully manicured hands clinging to his back. 

He was more talkative then than he had been any other time you had sex with him, which is an insane feat for Atsumu. 

He had you on your back against the plush leather seats, his hands firmly grasping your hips to keep you from squirming away from his deep, oppressive thrusts while he buried his face on your neck.

“M making ya feel good?—don’t run from it, c’mon—No one else could make you feel like this.” He sounded completely wrecked against you, breathy, desperate voice muffled against you, vying for your praise by making you see stars. “No one else can give this perfect pussy what it needs. Ain’t that right, sweet girl?”

He had to bite down on your shoulder to keep himself from moaning loud enough for the entire lot to hear, leg muscles taut and twitching as he felt his high approaching when you started crying out his name, telling him he’s the only one who can fuck you that good.

“Just me. That’s right, baby.” He thrusted in you erratically, arms sliding under you to wrap firmly around your back, arching it just right to pound you at a better angle, dragging his swollen tip against that sweet spot to make you come undone with him. “Tell me ya love me, please ‘m so close—” 

Atsumu had gone back home feeling so giddy and relieved, the most stupid lovesick smile stuck on his face the entire afternoon, and still there when he picked you up from work. You had to bribe him so he’d wait until you made it to your house to throw himself at you again.

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Domineering, devoted!Sakusa who had the world’s most patient princess for a partner. He knew he wasn’t the easiest person to date; he had all his problems with people, he was far too blunt—the warmth and tenderness he now treated you with was completely nonexistent when you first met—he was far too focused in his career and often consumed by it, and yet you didn’t seem to care about any of it. 

You treated his filterless honesty as an endearing thing. You admired his dedication and often reassured him of not being bothered by it, as long as he still gave you attention when he was home. You adapted to all his hygienic routines when you moved in with him as if you had been following them your whole life, never judging him for how thorough he was about some things, only chuckling to yourself at certain rules while nodding along. 

You were never upset at how quickly he liked leaving parties and events, you didn’t mind how he reserved most of his affection for behind closed doors, you gladly took the smallest bits of PDA he was okay with providing—like holding your wrist while you walked, sitting close enough your knees touched, or keeping a hand on your lower back whenever he deemed it appropriate—all because you knew when you got back home, you’d get all of him, unfiltered, and obsessed.

He was very appreciative of every compromise you made, everything you sacrificed, everything you agreed to; and he went out of his way to show it, wanting to make sure you’d never wake up one day upset about the life you were having with him. 

Kiyoomi treated you like something worth caring for at all times, the apple of his eye. When he was home, you could completely forget about touching a single kitchen utensil, he would make anything you pleased and would only let you sit on one of the stools and eye him up.

He made an effort to indulge you in every single request, no matter how big or small, just as long as it didn’t threaten your well-being. 

And God forbid you even thought of using your own money for any frivolous purchases your heart desired. He’d let you spend down to his last cent if you so wished; though thankfully for you both, you weren’t keen on bankruptcy.

In general, Kiyoomi was very hands-on when it came to caring for you. In every single way. He enjoyed showing you how truly devoted he was to reciprocating the kindness you graced him with, it was no one’s fault some of his preferred methods for it fell along indecent lines. 

It could have to do with the fact that he often worried his lack of affection in public could ever become a problem for you, so he made sure to be all over you the second you were alone. 

He took giving you all of him behind closed doors very seriously.

It would start as soon as he was back, immediately at ease at the perfectly pristine penthouse, taking off his shoes, his mask, and setting down everything in their respective places before he made his way to wherever you were.

Some days he’d be slower in his approach, when he found you already unwinding from your own responsibilities. 

He’d take your hand, giving it a chaste kiss while pulling you against him, asking you to join him in the shower. He’d start subtle, sweet. Helping you wash your hair, kissing and caressing every inch of your body he could manage to get at while the water remained warm. But before you knew it, soft massages and whispered compliments would end in you stuck between him and the tiled wall, his name leaving your lips like a prayer, while he thoroughly and efficiently showed you how much he loved you.

“Doing so good for me, need you to give me another one before you can take this cock.” Making your knees weak by sucking along your neck, his thumb pressed against your clit while three fingers shove into your gummy walls relentlessly.

And best believe he’d be nowhere near done until you were completely dumb and spent after cumming for the umpteenth time. 

After it all ended, he’d carefully dry you down before carrying you to bed while asking what you wanted for dinner, kissing your forehead in the softest way possible, as if he hadn’t rearranged your guts to the point of madness just two minutes ago.

Other times he’d throw subtlety and patience out the window, on the days where he’d find you in the middle of some work task or house chore you still needed to get through, not in the mood to wait until you were done. 

He enjoyed it a little too much when he caught you like that, too busy drying off dishes to notice the way he eyed you up when he stepped into the kitchen. 

You’d be none the wiser, melting as he pressed a kiss to your temple, arms wrapping around your waist from behind. He’d ask how your day was while peppering the side of your face with more innocent kisses.

“I went to get those new sweet potato treats you said you wanted us to try.”

“You did?” He smiled against your cheek, giving another kiss to it before moving down to your jaw

“Yeah, it took a bit too long to find them. It was a restock day at the store you told me about. There were boxes everywhere with the wrong labels piled on every aisle.”

“You had to be glad I wasn’t there.” He mumbled against your neck, breathing in the soft scent of your body wash still present on your skin. 

His hands slowly made their way to your sweatpants, undoing the strings before sliding his hand down your front. “Keep talking.” 

He chuckled to himself when you started stuttering out your words, already too excited when the only thing he had done so far was drag his finger along your clothed slit. 

“Was just saying it took me a whileee—Kiyoomi!” You squealed in surprise when he yanked down your sweatpants and underwear, a large palm coming to your lower back to make you bend against the counter before you could say anything else.

“I’m listening. It took you a long time because it was such a mess.” He repeated, gaze now stuck between your thighs. He sank down to his knees behind you, nudging you to spread your legs with a simple pat to your inner thigh. “But you still did it, because it was for me. Is that not it?”

“Of course. You—You were so excited hearing about them I wanted to—shit.” You did your best to keep your legs apart when his open palms went up your thighs, all the way until they were on each side of your already willing pussy, one of his thumbs came up to draw tight slow circles on your clit, making you clutch the edge of the countertop, your hole clenching around nothing, all for him to watch.

“You wanted to do something nice for me.” He finished for you, smirking to himself at the soft sounds he was dragging out of you. 

“Ye—Yes!” 

“Like the perfect girl you are. Always making me happy.” His thumb briefly dipped into your entrance, slowly thrusting in once to slick it up before dragging it back down to keep making you squirm with perfectly measured rubs to your twitching clit.

“I try my best.” 

“Do I always make you happy too?” His thumb pressed tighter against you, his other hand trailing up your ass to grope the plush skin, pulling to spread your pussy wider, every bit of wetness dripping out on display for his eyes only.

“Of course, Omi—haah fuck—You make me so happy, baby.”

“Don’t mind if I make sure that’s true, do you? If I make sure you’re happy with me?” Warm breath ghosted over your skin when he leaned closer, waiting for that weak, whimpered agreement to come out of your pretty lips.

“Please do.” 

“Thank you, princess.” 

Next thing heard in the quiet, cold kitchen would be the completely depraved sound of Kiyoomi spitting on your pussy and subsequently the pathetic whimper that tore out of your throat when his tongue dragged a long, slooww swipe along your slit before burying his face in. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Obsessed and freaky, but adorable!Bokuto who just loved being with you too much! He is a true believer that if you love someone you will want to live in their skin. And god knows he would if he could. 

Ever since you first started dating you had grown accustomed to the feel of Bokuto’s heavy, warm, strong body around you. There was never a time the two of you were out together where he didn’t touch you in some way; hands intertwined together, an arm thrown over your shoulders, a hand on your waist, or even his fingers holding to the belt loops of your jeans, anything he could manage to make you feel close to him. 

And as your relationship grew, so did his displays of affection. At some point he stopped caring about where you were or who was around, if he wanted to feel you flush against him, he would make it happen. 

He’d sit you down on his lap while he chatted along with his teammates, be it at your house, theirs, even at bars. If you needed to stand for whatever reason, he’d sit right next to you, hands wrapped around your waist or one of your thighs, with his face resting on your side. 

His touch tended to turn towards slightly inappropriate, but it was an accident more often than not. It was slightly automatic, if you will. If you wore a nicely snug top, he couldn’t help but sneak in a squeeze or two when he saw it, no matter where the two of you were. 

One time you came to pick him up from training because his car was getting fixed and you made the mistake of wearing a dangerously showy neckline; he practically jumped upon seeing you, like every other time, but instead of engulfing you in his usual bear hug, he picked you up by wrapping his arms under your butt so you’d be higher than him, burying his face in your cleavage in the process.

A loud “You look so good, baby! I missed you!” coming out muffled from where his face stationed itself. Too caught up in you to pay attention to the whistles and laughs from his friends.

You had a stern talk with him about PDA after that, one that truly just went in one ear and out the other because his attention was solely on how good you looked that day. He only nodded along with a dumb smile, muttering small apologies while his hands slid up under your shirt, fondling your breasts through your bra while trying his best to actually hear the words coming out of your mouth.

Bokuto never meant to be perverted per se, he was just insufferably oblivious to how the lines between his affections and his horniness seemed to blur together. And when he noticed, he couldn't care less.

He just loved touching you, and you can’t blame him for loving his fiancée oh so much! 

He’d be the clingiest after long days at work. Hours of running drills, practicing spikes, and lifting weights wasn’t necessarily something that made him want to run back home. He loved it all; what he hated was the days where it all mixed with a dozen other things he had to do—new uniform fittings, preps for press before the next game, meetings about the next tournament and what they all needed to focus on, and a quick drink with his teammates before heading out—making him leave early in the morning while you were still asleep, and return far too late (8:15pm) when you must’ve been done with work and everything you had to do ages ago.

He felt so sad when he thought about all the time you spent on your own—you were fine, his suffering was completely made up—all alone, without his hugs, his kisses, his tickles, the sporadic lick to your face you claimed to hate but he was sure you loved. It must be so terrible for you!

Late nights like that he’d find you laying on the couch, legs sprawled, hair messy splayed out on the cushion behind you, slowly flipping through the pages of whatever book you were currently obsessing over, and he’d be unable to help himself. 

Dropping his gym bag on the floor, phone on the coffee table, and throwing himself at you. He smelt like a mix of sweat, his cologne, and whatever drink he quickly dawned before coming back to you. 

“Kotaro, baby.” He’d hum in response, carefully closing your book and putting it aside before smushing his face in your chest, warm hands sliding up your sides from under your thin top. “You’re crushing me.”

“‘M sorry. I missed you though.” He’d make no effort to move at first, keeping his whole body weight on you and only letting up after hearing you say you missed him too. 

Then he perked up, pushing himself up on one of his elbows to keep some weight off you while his other hand came up to your face, brushing away loose strands of hair before kissing your nose “How much did you miss me?” 

“A lot.”

“What’s a lot?” He’d ask, making you chuckle when he tried to bite back a smile, this was a serious matter only. “A lot like you were counting the seconds until my return just now or a lot like you couldn't stop crying the moment you got home and realized I wasn’t back yet?”

“You’re never gonna believe me, Ko. I did both things.”

“I knew it.” 

You laughed when he started attacking you with kisses, having given him the answer he needed. Of course you missed him to the point of tears, just like he missed you!

He covered your face in small quick smooches before finally bringing his lips to yours. One thing about Bokuto is that he didn’t care for giving you short, sweet pecks when he felt clingy like this. He kissed you the way you’d expect of someone like him, completely overpowering, all-consuming, and as passionate as everything else he did. 

The kind of kisses that took your breath away and made you too distracted to notice his hands already working your clothes off, pulling down the straps of your tank top and dragging it down enough to free your tits, rough hands groping shamelessly.

He’d break away only to fully take the top off and pick you up to switch your positions, sitting down and plopping you on his lap, so you'd straddle him.

If you tried to stop him—why would you do such a thing—the only thing you’d get out of him would be his hands firmly digging on your hips, helping you slowly roll them against him, his hardening bulge perfectly pressed against you.

“Baby, give Ko a second, yeah?” The words came out rasped, shooing off any more attempts at slowing him down. “Just need a minute.” He’d murmur before bringing you forward with another mean roll of your hips so your tits were right on his face, slowly licking around one of your perked buds when he leaned in before fully taking your nipple in his mouth. 

His warm tongue sucked eagerly while one of his hands came up to grope your other breast, rolling the neglected peak between his index and thumb. 

His fingers dug on your skin while he slobbered over your tits, moving from one to the other; he switched between sucking on them and leaving hickeys around the soft skin, moving up to your neck every so often to do the same thing. Sharp canines dragged along your pulse point, a silent, exciting threat keeping you pliant above him while his hips bucked up with every new grind of yours, precum already leaking past his underwear.

And don’t even get him started on how it was when he had to travel. Away games when you were too full with work to come with? His own personal hell. And yours too. It’s like he knew just how terrible he was going to be when he came back that he had to make sure you were just as bad as him by then.

He’d call you first thing in the morning, saying he hopes you had the best day ever, telling you how he misses you so much it makes him want to throw himself at the ocean—even though it has only been one night—how he can’t wait to be back home and cuddle with you all weekend long. All tooth rotting cuteness that was only bound to crumble the longer he went on without you. 

That same day you could count on those kind of messages to start flooding in the moment your lunch break started. 

“Hey baby!!!”

“Have you been thinking about me? I’ve been thinking about you”

“Miss that pretty face and your sweet pussy”

“And your tits!”

“Think you could send me a picture? I only have old ones, and I marked you up so pretty yesterday, I wanna see that again”

He holds off on just that at first, keeping you eager for his return over texts, teasing compliments, obscene comments, and maybe one or two pictures of his dick straining in his boxers. 

Then on the last night before he returned, like clockwork, you’d get a call once you were already cozy under the sheets, some time after he texted you goodnight. 

Low, breathy. “Hey, baby. Weren’t sleeping yet, were you?,” coming out from the other line, followed by the unmistakable sound of him stroking himself, hard. Small groans leaving his lips, not caring to pretend. “I miss you so much, angel. You have no idea.”

“Can’t even wait to come back tomorrow, Ko. You’re so needy.” You chuckled lightly, though your words came out strained, he sounded so goddamn good. 

“All for you.” He rasped out, his breathing ragged as he picked up the speed, every word out of his mouth growing progressively nastier the closer he got. “Gonna make you feel so good tomorrow, make you sit on my face and ride it til you’re tapping out.”

“Fuck, I wish I was there with you.”

“Wouldn’t have to use my hand if I was laying there next to you, would be using you instead. And you’d love it, right baby? You love taking this fat cock in that cute little pussy of yours.” . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Irresistible, proud owner of a hypno dick!Hinata who wasn’t needy at all, at least he didn’t think so. 

He met you shortly after coming back from Brazil, and like most of his infatuations, his feelings for you hit him hard and all at once. He made no effort to hide or downplay being interested in you. 

He got your number the day you met without a second thought. He asked you out on a date after only two days of talking, and he was the perfect gentleman all around from the start. 

He never hid how excited he was to be with you, bringing you gorgeous flowers every day he saw you, a different kind each time so that you’d have a unique bouquet at home. He kept an extra umbrella with him on rainy days because you always forgot yours. For the first few dates he asked for permission to kiss before dropping you off at home, blushing every time you said yes. He invited you to all his games, even practice ones, always running to you at the end, sweaty and adrenaline-filled asking you if you saw that really cool block he made near the end, it was very cool, wasn’t it? Do you think he’s cool? Please say yes.

He was sweet in a way that made it impossible for you not to swoon, and that continued on far past the first dates. Once your relationship was more serious, and you moved in together, you could’ve sworn Hinata became ten times more affectionate than he already was, and even more excited to be near you, if that was even possible. 

He was stoked about every step of the process. Unpacking both of your things in the new apartment was to him of equal excitement to being at an amusement park for the first time when you’re young; every time he set one of his things next to yours he’d turn to you to boast about it. “Look! That’s your toothbrush, next to mine. Isn’t that nice?”

Hinata didn’t think he was needy, because he didn’t have to be. He was just so goddamn cute you couldn’t not throw yourself at him. Every stupidly sweet sentence, every content sigh thrown your way, every surprise hug he pulled you into that made you melt against his embrace, everything about him was enough to make you pull him in for delirious kisses that almost always ended in something way beyond just kissing. 

Now, he wasn’t completely unaware. He knew you had the softest spot for him and he did take advantage of it sometimes. He just loved the fact that you only needed the smallest of encouragement to ask him for more, it made him feel wanted, and desired. He loved that. And so, whenever he did feel particularly mushy, and like he wanted every part of you to himself as soon as possible, he would take out all the little tricks that worked perfectly to get you under him. 

Lingering for a little too long in the bathroom while you were showering to ‘look for something’ and talking about how glad he was he got off early that day because he was so spent and couldn’t wait to come back and see your pretty smile, how much he really wanted to kiss you, until you'd break and ask him to join you, his clothes already discarded long before you even made the offer.

Bringing you to join him on the couch when you came back from work on his days off, helping you rid of your shoes and tenderly pulling your feet to his lap, massaging them while letting you know he already ordered your favorite food, and had a nice movie picked out for the two of you to watch. He’d slowly massage up your legs until his hands were dragging along your inner thighs with just the right amount of pressure, bottom lip stuck between his teeth in restraint while he patiently waited for you to plead him to go higher.

Or his favorite, whenever you were out on the town with him. He was always happy whenever you agreed to come out with him and his friend group, the sight of you, his absolute treasure, mingling with those he loved most like you had known them all your life. It brought a sweet, fluttery ache to his heart that made him need to have you, all of you, quickly, please. 

So he’d give you that look that never failed to butter you up, the world’s most lovesick ‘I can’t believe it’s you who hangs the stars in the sky’ kind of look.

“Stop that.” You warned him, yet still pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Already knowing all too well where this was headed.

“Stop what?” He wrapped an arm around your waist, brought you to his side to kiss you back, a small innocent peck on your lips. 

“We can’t leave yet, it’s still early.”

“I didn’t say we had to leave, we could just sneak away. For a moment?” He pouted, a plea that only lasted another second before he laughed at the glare you threw his way. “I’ll be good, I just want to feel you. I love you so much.”

You rolled your eyes, pursing your lips together to keep from smiling at how terribly sweet he sounded. “Just for a moment, and we’re not fucking.”

Whoever Hinata swore on when he agreed to that last part must be confused as to why they’re suddenly coughing, because that promise only lasted about five minutes. 

One, two, three kisses and you were already on top of him on the passenger seat of your car, panties thrown somewhere in the backseat and two of his fingers knuckle deep in your pussy while you made quick work of undoing his jeans.

“Can I be inside you now, pretty?” 

You weakly shook your head, hand wrapping around him, using the precum dripping down his tip to stroke him out in that teasingly delicious way he loved. “We have—oh just like that—have to be quick, baby. They’re waiting.”

“We’ll be back after I feel you make a mess on my dick. How’s that?”

You wanted to smack the eager grin on his face, he knew as much. But he also knew you were too down bad for him to refuse. 

The second you nodded he pulled his fingers out of you, making you whine at the loss of contact. 

He brought them down to his dick, smearing your wetness around it while you positioned yourself above the tip. He could only thank God the parking lot was deserted because the sounds that came out of both of you the moment you sank down on him were straight up pornographic. 

Anyone who had the displeasure of hearing the two of you would’ve thought you’re fucking for the very first time after not seeing each other for years. But that's just how Shoyo was when it came to you, a completely desperate, yearning freak. 

“So fucking good, you’re so perfect for me, pretty.” His hands went under your skirt, fingers digging on your ass to hold you in place while thrusting up into you like a fleshlight, the squelching sound of you creaming around him while you cried out his name being like music to his ears, the sweetest melody in the world.