Strawberries

Accidentally kissing

Joker

🤡Joker would be a bit flustered as well as surprised, but would overplay it very well. Whilst you would be most likely a blushing mess he would act very smoothly about it. If you were the one who accidentally kissed him and you would busily apologize he would comfort you by telling you that it’s alright and you don’t have to worry. By the way, you’re a very good kisser. If he was the one to stumble onto you he would apologize for not watching where he goes and also adding that he must say that there are worse people to kiss. So in both cases he would let a comment slip in which will tell you that he didn’t dislike this at all and which will make you blush even more than you already did.

Ran Mao

🌺If Ran Mao gets the chance to kiss you she will well damn use it. She would be a bit surprised the first split second, but as soon as she realizes what’s going on she will instantly kiss back. She wouldn’t look really affected by it if we ignore the slight pink dusting her cheeks. She wouldn’t even apologize if she was the one falling onto you and would wonder if they look at her so shocked and ask if she doesn’t want to apologize. Why? Is she that bad of a kisser? If you are the one who fell onto her she would stop you during your apology and would rather bluntly tell you that she liked this and you don’t have to apologize. She might even wonder if you did this an accident so you could kiss her.

Prince Soma

🍛Soma is delusional and thinks that the both of you are happily in love with each other and if I’m honest I think this isn’t the first kiss you shared with him. But that doesn’t mean that Soma won’t be happy about this and will be quick to kiss you firmly. It doesn’t even matter if he fell on you or the other way around, just the thing that you bumped into him is sign enough for him that you wanted his attention. Good luck because the rest of the day Soma will cuddle the daylight out of you and shower you with many, many kisses. You should have told him that you wanted his attention, but it was sweet from you to tell him like this. What is he even talking about?!

Agni

🤜Agni would lie if he would say that he didn’t enjoy it, but he would quickly feel ashamed when noticing how embarrassed and uncomfortable you are because of this? How can he think that he enjoys it when you’re clearly awkward about this. He’ll stay composed despite feeling completely flustered and having a slight red tainting his cheeks. He’ll tell you that it’s alright and that you don’t need to feel bad if you were the one who kissed him, not wanting you to feel like it’s your fault. If he was the one who made this mistake he’ll sincerely apologize and hopes that you will not feel awkward around him in the future about this. But if you do you have his full understanding. Agni feels like the type who would scold himself mentally whenever he thinks back about this and finds himself enjoying this memory. He shouldn’t since it made you uncomfortable!

Charles Grey

🤺Charles would be shocked for the first second, but is bastard enough to press his lips firmly against yours after he gained his composure back. He would be the type to overplay how flustered he really is despite the pink blush on his face. Such a silver tongue and incredibly full of himself, better expect some teasing. You fell onto him? Oh my, you must really love him very much if you already “fell” for him. He was the one who kissed you? Don’t tell him you didn’t enjoy it with a blush that red on your face. Maybe you two should do that very soon again in the future. Honesty, he’s selfish enough to somehow look for opportunities to have a replay of this scene, preferably so that you trip onto him and kiss him and he can tease you once again.

Eren Yeager

👊For Eren it might just be more out of instinct that he’ll kiss you back without even realizing that he does so. That boy dreamed of kissing you for god knows how long. He would be slightly embarrassed afterwards, but also damn happy with a huge grin on his face. He will try to overplay his nervousness. The last thing he needs is making himself look like an idiot in front of you. If this happened in public then be prepared for this boy getting quickly verbal if someone teases him or you for the rapidly growing blushes on both of your faces. But he would still be pretty blunt about this situation, meaning that if he was the one tripping over you he will apologize, but still make it clear that he really liked it and you most likely know anyways that he has a “crush” on you. If you were the one tripping over him then be aware that this guy has from time to time delusional mood swings and might just start thinking you did this on purpose. And he would definitely be up for it if you both would “trip” onto each other more often.

Mikasa Ackerman

🧣Mikasa feels like the type who would be pretty chill about this, being of course the tiniest bit flustered when the both of you suddenly kiss, but quickly gaining her calm and kissing you back, probably even pulling you closer to deepen the kiss. Mikasa is in a sense very territorial despite being chill with letting you talk to others. So she would like bringing her point that you’re hers over, especially since the both of you aren’t in a relationship yet and even more when this happens in public. She won’t apologize for this if she was the one tripping over you and will also not tolerate if you apologize for this if you were the one tripping over her. She would just hush you and tell you that it’s fine. She’s even blunt enough to tell you that she liked this.

Annie Leonhardt

💗Annie is normally always someone who keeps a stoic and almost emotionless expression on her face which is why I believe she would be for a short moment completely thrown out of her calmness, eyes widening shocked and staring dumbfounded at you. It honestly doesn’t matter if she was the one who fell onto you or you, her reaction will be the same. She would quickly scramble up to her feet, glance shortly at you and then step quietly and quickly away. This might seem very mean to you, but Annie was caught off-guard and is also very embarrassed about this. She doesn’t want you to see the pink blush on her face. If you confront her later on about this it’s either that she ignores it or, if you feel bad about this and keep apologizing, will tell you with a neutral expression on her face that it wasn’t all that bad and leave you confused alone.

Hanji/Hange Zoë

🔬Hange is another one who might just kiss out of reflexes as soon as the incident happens. They would grin from one ear to another when pulling away, cheeks burning a bright pink. Everyone will be able to see that they enjoyed this and Hange wouldn’t even try to deny it. If they were the one who stumbled onto you they would of course apologize, but you’ll honestly doubt that they mean it from the way they’re grinning happily at you. If you were the one who caused this accident Hanji might even secretly hope that you did it on purpose or at least enjoyed it. They aren’t delusional by any means, but hoping is not a bad thing now, is it? Poor Levi is going to hear in the near future everything about that accident, Hange not stopping gushing and excitedly rambling about how soft your lips were and how cute the blush on your cheeks was until his ears might just start to bleed.

Bertholdt Hoover

you, who has the strength of two blue collared men.

doesn’t cry. doesn’t flinch. doesn’t wince when you hit the ground. does not back down for shit. got slammed during training once and bit through your tongue— yet didn’t even blink.

you don’t even look that strong. to literally everyone, you have the build of someone who minds their business. you look tired. maybe a little mean. people assume they can take you on in a spar and have an easy victory— until they’re thrown over your shoulder with one hand. you lift what needs lifting, does what needs doing, and keeps it pushing.

you and levi met during squad reshuffling. you got assigned to his unit because you had a track record for handling fieldwork solo and keeping a calm head. levi didnt speak much to you at first. just gave orders. short, dry acknowledgements when you executed them well.

but the way you picked up full grown soldiers like paper? the way you carried two jugs of water in one hand, and a gear pack in the other? the way you held formation like a wall?

thats enough to get anyone wrapped, even levi.

one day, during a particularly messy clean - up, he noticed blood running down your leg. you were limping slightly, still hauling equipment. and you looked bored. like it wasn’t even worth stopping over.

“sit down.” he told you bluntly.

“i’m fine.” you attempted to argue.

“i didn’t ask.” he retorted.

so you sat. but you laughed a little.

and that was the start.

after that, he’d call on you more often. partnered you with him during scouting runs. paired you up for drills. you didn’t speak much, but when you did, it was always dry, smart, sharp. simple, just how he liked it.

and then one night, after hours, when the barracks were quiet and your hands were bruised from the day’s work, you ran into him. told a joke that got a small smile out of him. told him goodnight— and actually got a response.

and that was how it began.

levi’s quiet, and you are too. the kind of quiet that has its own rhythm. over time, he learned that you like your tea strong and your bathwater hotter than hell. you learned that he stares too hard when he’s tired, and that he can’t sleep unless something’s covering his hands.

and now he knows you.

he knows how you fold under praise.

how you melt before he even puts anything in.

how your voice gets thin and your breathing starts to skip when he whispers in your ear.

how your legs always twitch when all is said and done.

you’re strong. that’s still true.

but now?

now you’re on the bed, back against his chest, gushing.

“p-please—levi—levi— fuck, —i—i’m gonna— i’m gonna—“

hes fingering you quickly, hitting that spot just right. his other hand’s around your throat— barely pressing. just enough to keep you in place. keep your back arched. keep you open for him.

he watches your face closely. watches your lip tremble. watches your eyes start to roll. and he just tilts his head.

“gonna what?” he asks.

you sob. actually sob.

he pushes in again.

“one.”

your eyes roll. your pussy clenches and squirts, warm and sudden and so loud against his palm it echoes.

he hums.

“there she is.”

you’re crying now. deadass crying, drool on your lips and your hips bucking against his hand, your moans becoming hiccups as your eyes start to flutter.

“levi—levi, please—“

“what?” his voice is low. mean. but calm.

“you wanted more.”

“you wanted to be good.”

“so count.”

you shake your head, whimpering.

“i-i c-cant— levi, i need—i need to—“

he grabs your chin— firm, fingers digging just a little.

“you need to shut the fuck up.” his tone is sharp, slicing clean through the haze fogging up your brain. “youre taking it, that’s what youre doing.”

your breath catches. your body violently twitches. the second orgasm hits before the first even fully fades, and you let out a moan that could genuinely just pass as a scream. you can’t even stop it.

and when you come down, you don’t even really come down.

you crash.

“levi— levi i— hahh— fuhhh— i can’t— please—hahh— fuck, fuckfuckfuck— no more—i—s’too—s’too much—i c-can’t— please—“

you’re slurring every other word, drool clinging to your lips, whole body shaking as he curls his fingers just right and presses down harder with his palm, putting pressure directly on your clit. every time you try to breathe, another moan slips out. it’s like your brain is fried and stuck on a loop.

he just watches it all. listens to you babble and squeal like youve never been touched before.

“then stop running your mouth.”

you let out a high pitched, broken whimper— and it just spurs him on. he doesn’t slow down. definitely doesn’t stop.

you’re twitching, thighs trembling around his wrist, voice climbing up into glassy, desperate moans that barely sound like words anymore. it’s just noise now. messy, choked, wet sounds and the obscene slap of his fingers pumping into you, over and over and over—

“cmon,” he whispers directly in your ear, letting his chin rest on your shoulder. “be good. give me another.”

your eyes roll back, and you squirt for the upteenth time. though, the sound of it is barely coherent through the scream you let out.

you are starting to believe that captain levi’s office is becoming yours with how often you spend your time there. even your fellow special operations squadmates tease you for your absence now that you’ve taken on the new — and quite precarious — position as vice captain. although you have yet to find a plausible reason as to why the captain promoted you in the first place, let alone allowed your entry into his meticulously handpicked squad. and coincidentally, you simply cannot recall the last time you had a break from captain levi’s overbearing presence, and his room, since becoming his vice captain.

oftentimes, at this late hour in the evening, it is you who brews and brings tea for captain levi— per his request, that is, and for whatever godforsaken reason that he has yet to divulge, but who are you to defy orders? the first day you had been requested to his office to assist with the arduous hours of labor that was completing paperwork, you had thought to prepare some tea. it was meant to be a kind, one-time, gesture of reassurance and camaraderie from your end. but now you fear that your captain’s become rather spoiled, as the second time around when you had showed up empty handed, he looked far from pleased.

so alas, you come to a standstill in front of his office’s door. pitch perfect posture, not a thread misplaced on your uniform, and hands settled onto the handles of a small silver platter tray. your eyes absentmindedly drift to the contents atop the salver: a ceramic teapot that is far too nice to have been found in the survey corps, two matching cups and saucers of the same lavish set, a dainty teaspoon, a creamer, and a bowl for sugar cubes accompanied by sugar tongs; and even though you know quite well that he doesn’t utilize the latter two dishware, you are adamant about keeping them for formality's sake. but you can’t help but feel that you’ve neglected to include something in the assortment.

due to your hands being held hostage by the tea that captain levi was so persistent on you delivering, you clear your throat to announce your arrival, “sir, it’s vice captain name.” he doesn’t entertain your salutation with a response of his own, but rather, gauchely slams open the door with concerning haste. you dwell on the fact that it was just too fast, even for someone of his caliber, almost inhumanely so, and it makes you speculate if levi was stationed right at the entrance, waiting for you.

levi’s expression is unreadable, but his frown is apparent as ever. he’s blocking the doorway with his body, one hand holding the door at arms length, and the other pointing inside the room towards the desk at the center of his office, “you, inside. now.” his voice is stern, addressing you as if he were reprimanding you for insubordination. it causes you to grimace, but you know better than to test levi’s last nerve.

you step inside, cautious as to not tip over any of the cups, or cause the tea you had spent such a fastidious amount of time brewing to overflow out past the flange of the teapot. hurriedly and heedfully all in the same, you navigate your way to the guest-side front of levi’s desk, avoiding the chair and stacks of paperwork in your way; and you are beyond attentive whilst lowering the silver plate down until it is completely flat on the table. you don’t release your white knuckled grip on the handles until you see the contents on the platter tray have stopped trembling. had you not been so immersed in your soundless struggle to appease levi’s strict cleanliness standards, you would have picked up on the sound of the door being locked.

sighing softly, relieved, you slump your shoulders and pull the chair beside you by its crest rail, wincing when it scrapes against the floor and creating an obnoxious screech in retaliation, before taking a seat. levi enters your line of vision from the left, and you flinch when he cuts unnecessarily close to you, enough for you to feel his uniform’s coat brush past yours, but not enough to feel his body beneath it. a scowl instinctively makes its way on your face, one that you cannot hide, and you’re thankful he didn’t catch it, faced away from you entirely. levi swivels his heel with sharp precision once he’s stood on his side of the desk, standing in front of his chair, but he doesn’t sit.

there is a pair of inkwells on the desk, wedged between the piles of untouched documents, and you take hold of the one that still has its lid sealed on. near to the opened inkwell are a couple of feather pens, one is in rough condition, and two seem untainted by the ink and whatever iron grip they were unfortunately subjected to for the past few hours. you retrieve the one furthest from the middle of the table, and when it finally dawns on you that levi has still yet to make a move to sit down after a lengthy silence, you hesitantly tilt your head to take a glance in his direction.

he appears in deep thought, concentrated on something beyond your immediate comprehension, until you follow his gaze down to the silver tray. and now that you bring your attention to it, the tea has a delightful aroma to it, and smells as though it’s finally been steeped long enough— “you forgot the strainer.” levi isn’t pointing it out, he’s chastising you.

pesky tea leaves, curse you. perhaps an oversight on your part, the one that you had intuitively sensed earlier but could not place a finger to, but minuscule as a stand-alone mishap. how mean of him, really, it was as if levi was trying to find something he could fault you in. and considering the scrupulous amount of time he took to detect such a minor mistake, he would not be satisfied until he did. you can’t ascertain whether it’s because levi loathes the thought of you doing anything right without his personal interference, or he simply gets a power trip by nitpicking at you. you’re starting to believe it’s both.

“i’m sorry, i can go get one right now—” levi interrupts you, or more fittingly, silences you, without even so much as uttering a word. he takes the handle of the teapot with the two fingers of his right hand, mindful of its fragility, and gathering the teacups together in his left hand. “nonsense, i already have one.”

levi turns his back to you, setting the ceramics atop the dressers lined up on the wall behind his desk. without missing a beat, he locates the drawer containing this supposed strainer with ease, and sure enough, a tiny mesh tea strainer can be seen pinched between his pointer finger and thumb. of course captain levi has this in his office, he may as well have the whole tea set hidden in that drawer, and of course, captain levi can compensate for every single flaw and shortcoming his vice captain has.

his fondness for the craft is evident as he takes it into his own hands to strain the tea for both cups, “sir, i could have done that.” forcing yourself to avert your eyes, as if dismissing the whole (ridiculous) ordeal altogether, aggravatedly setting the closest report down in front of you and skimming the words, “i know.”

levi returns to his seat, this time, he does sit, but not after returning the teapot and teacups to their rightful places on the expertly organized platter, “here.” he lifts one of the cups in that peculiar way that he always does, by the edge of its rim, and extends a hand towards you, “you brewed it, it’d be a shame for me to enjoy all this good quality tea alone.”

reluctantly, you entangle your hands around the handle, impatiently pulling it from his grasp before he can properly let go, and you drink until the teacup is half empty. sparing a passing glance at levi as you carefully set the cup back on its respective saucer, he seems satiated.

falling into routine, the rest of your exchange is done quietly. only the sound of feather pens making detailed incisions on the papers ricocheted throughout the idle office. and perhaps it’s the finely written cursive on the papers, or that it is well past curfew, but your eyelids feel unbearably heavy. it had become increasingly difficult for you to remain upright, slightly swaying in your seat, desperately attempting to regain your composure every time you nearly fall out of your chair. one particularly long blink has you absolutely reeling once you open your eyes, but the feeling of something brushing against your knee has you retaining consciousness instantaneously.

parting your lips with a surprised exhale, your eyes peer down to your legs, but there is nothing out of the ordinary. it must have been the inner side of the desk, the opening that created leg room so two people could sit comfortably across from one another. that sounded far better than accusing your captain of purposefully invading your personal space— seeing as such a thing has never happened before, him intentionally rubbing against your knee with his own, that is. you dismiss the notion altogether, but then it happens again, and this time, it feels like a hand.

“did… did you just touch me?” levi calmly takes his focus off his paperwork, momentarily stilling the movement of his feather pen, “no.” but for some reason, you still doubt him. and levi surmises as much as his eyes narrow, though not with suspicion, but something else that you can’t quite figure out in your delirious state, “are you sure?”

“do you want me to touch you?” he inquires with such sudden seriousness, it catches you off guard. your reaction time has been awful, but you almost immediately blurt out a; “no.” and your response is a little too quick for his liking.

“no?” levi echoes coldly.

no, that is what you recall from your last moments of blurred consciousness, but you can’t remember if you had said it, or levi had. quite honestly, that had become the least of your concerns as soon as you opened your eyes. met with the unforgiving glare of the sun shining through a suspiciously large window that most certainly didn’t belong to your room, you break into a sweat when you inhale the familiar scent of someone else, and you’ve become increasingly aware of how unbearably warm you are. you’ve been stripped bare, and despite being engulfed in a tangle of blankets and sheets, you feel disturbingly exposed. and you know this feeling, one of another naked body pressed against your backside and a pair of arms wrapped around your waist. any move you had initially tried to make was futile, thrashing about to free your own arms from the lock of the other pair, tugging at his wrists and pushing them down with all your might.

Oikawa found it endearing. You were like a secret admirer, never pushing past the other girls, just sitting there silently blushing and avoiding eye contact. You were there at his games, his practices, and even sometimes at the convenience store he frequented with his closest friends. 

During matches, he looked for your face in the stands. After practices like these, he found extra time to bother Iwaizumi until you showed up at the back of the crowd. He secretly hoped you would show up every time- and you hadn’t disappointed him yet.

Today was no different.

You were leaning against the wall next to the entrance, watching Oikawa and his friends with a calm expression on your face. His heart did a little flip when his intense brown eyes landed on you.

“Hey!” Oikawa ignored the pouts on the girls’ faces as he slipped through the crowd to talk to you, “You stayed to watch my practice again! Iwa-chan’s receives were pretty good, but you have to admit, my stellar serves stole the show, huh?”

You blinked owlishly at him, “Um, yeah, it was a great practice.”

Oikawa’s lovesick grin grew wider. He was completely oblivious to the way your eyes had drifted sideways to look behind him.

Iwaizumi was wiping sweat with a towel, scowling at the commotion coming from the group of girls. He glanced up, noticed you staring, and gave you a little nod. Nothing special, just something he’d do to an underclassman or acquaintance.

But to you, it was everything. A spark lit up in your eyes and your awkward smile relaxed into a genuine one.

Oikawa didn’t notice. He was too busy talking about the practice match, how Iwa-chan was just so mean, and how the team would be lost without his talent and genius.

“Um, is Iwaizumi busy after this?” came your soft, shy voice, gently interrupting him.

It hit him like a jump serve to the gut. 

“Eh? Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi looked up, “Yeah, what’s up?”

You stepped a little closer, staring at your sneakers, “I was wondering… did you want to walk some of the way home together? If you aren’t busy or anything, that is.”

Iwaizumi shrugged, “Sounds good. I’m heading out now, anyways. Oikawa, you coming?”

Oikawa forced a laugh, “Of course! We always walk together! Don’t leave your best friend behind!”

The three of you set off. Despite you being between them both, your eyes always looked up at Iwaizumi’s face, your laugh always came when Iwa-chan complained about his dramatics, and your attention drifted farther from Oikawa the farther you walked.

You waved goodbye as you set off down a different street. Iwaizumi nodded goodbye and Oikawa waved wildly, earning an eyeroll from Iwa-chan.

It was subtle, the way you seemed to prefer Iwaizumi but Oikawa was nothing if not perceptive when it came to things he wanted. And you? You were something he wanted very badly.

Over the next few weeks, he made it his goal to make you feel loved by him. He brought you water bottles, saved you the best seats for the match, called you his good luck charm. You smiled at his actions and laughed when appropriate- but your eyes always searched for Iwaizumi.

Walking home with you became a habit for him and his best friend. One evening, after you had turned down your side street, he turned to Iwaizumi and asked, “Do you think she likes me?”

“Who?” Iwaizumi blinked blankly at his friend, “The quiet one that always follows you around? She seems nice. Why?”

“Because she’s always at our games… she must be interested! It’s obvious right?”

Iwaizumi gave him an unimpressed look, “Maybe she just likes volleyball.”

The seed of doubt had been planted, but it wasn’t until Oikawa mentioned, loudly, that he would be using Saturday to practice volleyball at the park, that it began to truly grow.

Sure enough, you appeared at the park, sitting at a bench overlooking the volleyball court. His heart soared… until your eyes lit up at the sight of Iwaizumi stalking across the court, holding the ball Oikawa had forgotten to bring.

You weren’t watching Oikawa’s form. You were watching Iwaizumi’s spikes. You were watching the way the scowling spiker’s muscles flexed with a smile on your face.

Oikawa missed a serve.

“Oi, focus!” Iwaizumi snapped, but Oikawa’s eyes were on you.

You were wearing that sweet, shy smile on your pretty lips. The smile that Oikawa had thought was meant for him.

Something dark and ugly twisted deep inside him.

All those times you watched his matches. All those times you appeared with his fangirls.

The way you followed him around… It wasn’t because of him at all!

It was because wherever Oikawa was, Iwaizumi wasn’t far behind.

Well, that wasn’t fair. You weren’t allowed to use him like that! 

He would find a way to get you alone, then tell you he wants you to meet up with him sometime. He wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. He’d tell Iwa-chan that he liked you- his best friend wouldn’t touch you if he knew Oikawa wanted you.

Because Oikawa Tooru didn’t lose.

Not in volleyball.

Not in love.

ushijima knows it would only take one hand to hold you down. you’re no match for his strength, of course, and your trembling fear alone is enough to keep you pliant and still for him. you both know it, but it doesn’t stop him from absolutely crushing you under his weight, pinning you down and completely restricting your movement so you can feel the difference between the two of you.

he knows he’s too big for you regardless of the prep he gives you. stuffing three thick fingers into you while his tongue laps at your clit doesn’t do anything but make you cry harder as your body shakes from the orgasm you don’t want. the burning stretch that comes with his huge cock sinking into you is the same regardless of how wet you are — the only purpose of making you cum on his tongue and fingers first being to keep you overstimulated, or to humiliate you, maybe.

and it is humiliating when you can’t keep your desperate whines and cries to yourself. when you’re trying desperately to claw at his chest, or grip his hair, or rake your nails down his back, but you can’t. not with the way he flattens you, crushing you with his strength and rendering your limbs useless because he gets off on it. he gets off on the size difference, knowing that every single part of him is just too big to fit in any part of you. his hands and legs and arms crushing you with so little effort it’s sad. his cock making your belly bulge where he reaches deep inside you, and his heavy balls holding so much cum that it leaks out of you when he finally gives you his load — only after fucking a couple more orgasms into you. he likes you nice and dumb when he spills his hot cum into you, watching the way you go almost cross-eyed as you feel yourself get even more full.

You felt your thighs clamp together tightly in an attempt at soothing the sudden ache his words spurred from your body. You weren’t sure if he realized it or not, but this was all you really wanted from him.

“Yeah? You like that, do you?” Sweat begins to build up against the smooth planes of his skin and he’s nearly irritated by it. So much so that he finally slips up and drops that gentle, kindhearted act of his, “Oh, I bet you do.” Your lips smooch down against his swollen base as he holds you in place—the faint tuffs of a white happy trail tickling your skin. “Tell me then, tell me how much you like having your mouth properly fucked. Come now, let me hear it.”

“Mmmph!” You mumble around him, batting your eyes up rapidly at him.

Qifrey chuckles. He did quite enjoy it when you tested him, and that feeling only doubled down when he saw you like this, “Still putting forth your best efforts even when—nngh… y-your mouth is all full of me. How cute.”

Your partner—never boyfriend, for reasons you’re entirely unsure of—gains that different shaded glimmer in his eyes all of a sudden. You relish in the feel of his dick drooling something pleasantly nasty down your throat and he seems to be delighted by the sight of it. That, and the sexy way in which you squirm in between his legs like you wanted him to be meaner to you or something.

“Slow, my love.” He tried to warn you, tried to apply pressure to your head and steady how quickly you sucked at his cock. “S-Slow down, I’m close.”

His voice was so delicate even as his orgasm approached and you found yourself moaning around his shaft as his tone wavered and pitched in reaction.

Then your hands met his legs and you gripped at him, lifting your gaze back up and swirling your tongue across every reachable vein he had to offer you. He wanted you to slow down again, but just like the last time, you refused to do so and proceeded to suck faster ‘n harder.

Things click for him right then.

“Ah? You want me to… oh.” His cock was throbbing all against the constricting walls of your throat and he knew you felt it. Even so, you still swallowed him in deeper and ignored how gags threatened to interrupt your actions. Qifrey found himself grinning, “You’d like to swallow it, would you?”

Naturally, you nod.

The witch before you was many, many things—but a complete pushover for you was not one of them. If you were going to actively disobey his orders of slowing down just to get what you wanted, then he was going to only allow your desires to come forth on his own terms.

Which is exactly why he holds your head as he pushes himself up to stand. You try to pull back as if you needed to breathe but your mouth is rapidly clogged by the length of his cock pushing forward in one, mean thrust.

His balls smack against your chin and he feels you whining around him as he grunts, “Naughty girl.” Qifrey readjusts his hands to the sides of your pretty face before letting out a soft sigh. Though, his calming exhale was rather opposite to the vicious look in his eyes as he began having his way with your mouth, “I do hope this-, hah… satisfies your fantasies well. Mmgh.”

You somehow gain the bratty nerve to try and wiggle your head away from his steeling grip and he seems to find that most humorous.

Cocking his head to the side and narrowing those rude eyes at you, “Still—keep still,” He groans, rolling his hips forward more thoroughly so that you could feel each inch of his cock twitch around your mouth. To his surprise, you manage to stop your squirming, and for that he smiles and says, “Goooood. Now swallow.” before cumming directly down your tongue.

When he soon pulls out of you, he’s left to watch gallops of saliva and his cum string between his tip and your lips. The sight should’ve been seen as disgusting, given how wet and sloppy it was. And yet he was still hard, still twitching in front of your face even as he panted to catch his breath.

It really was unfair how gorgeous of a partner he’d obtained.

He couldn’t help but want to fuck every drop of his frustrations out into you—especially when you were peering up at him with those glossy eyes of yours, looking as though you wanted to go again and again until he had his fill of you.

You move to wipe at your mouth, “Qifr—“

“Actually,” He’s cutting you off rather sharply, taking his dick into one hand and shuddering from the sensitivity of it before his feet shift his body closer to you. Then his other hand finds the top of your head and he’s glaring at you like you’re nothing more than some toy for him to make use of, “I quite enjoyed that.”

You blink once.

Qifrey had a tendency to focus on your pleasure most days, claiming that doing so is most enjoyable for him too. But you knew there was another side of him he wasn’t showing you quite yet, and apparently this was it.

His fingers disappear into your hair and his palm is nearing the back of your head. You knew he was about to absolutely ravish your throat based on the way he was holding onto you.

“Let’s go again, shall we?” Serves as the only warning from his plush lips. Then you watch him move his hand from his dick and to your jaw, tipping your chin up before he swipes a thumb over your cheek in awe. He hates water but it would be quite the sight to see it falling from your face all because of him, “Preferable until you’re crying… and after that, you’ll keep quiet about this. Understood?”

Qifrey had to make sure your silence was a given these days, seeing as you’d created a small habit of hinting at the intimate nights you experienced with him. And to make those matters worse, he’d found out that you shared these vague details with Olruggio of all people.

Hence why you’re pouting, “Not even—“

The witch cuts you off by nudging the hardened edges of his cock in between your lips all unevenly, letting his shaft gloss over your wiggly tongue and deep down into the back of your trachea—easily causing you to gag.

“You will tell no one about this.” He orders, yanking your head back so that only your lips are left to quiver around his tip, “Not a soul. Now nod if I’m understood.”

Obediently, you do.

Then his cheerful grin returns, despite that darkened look remaining present in his eye. “Good girl.”

Gulp.

Thinking about Daichi Sawamura who is the natural option for you to run to when mysterious packages start showing up at your door. It’s all sorts of intimate items – pretty lingerie that somehow fits you perfectly, all in your favorite colors (and his, too, of course). Then it shifts towards just single items, no longer the pretty babydoll sets – silk thongs with an initial stitched in, collars with your name engraved in the metal tag, vibrators that slowly get longer and thicker. It’s only when one comes that’s much too realistic, leaning slightly to the left and with veins lining the top that you finally confide in Daichi. It all comes tumbling out, and it’s only when you show him the handwritten note with the most recent dildo – reading it’s modeled after my own, let me know how it fits - that Daichi softly sighs, throwing you a look and telling you that you know there’s nothing we can do about it. Creeps like that always get away with it, unfortunately. Just ignore the way his uniform pants are straining at seeing you all teary-eyed and dependent on him – cute. Maybe you’d like another gag – he’s noticed you haven’t used the last one yet.

Thinking about Koushi Sugawara who feels bad about installing the bug on your phone, but not bad enough to disconnect it. It’s not visual, is what he tells himself – it’s not creepy if it’s not looking at you, after all. It only picks up on sound when he activates it – which has let him into a whole other side of you. You bring your phone with you everywhere, he’s realized, and he’s always keeping his headphones on at any given time, playing the live feed and letting his cheeks turn red and his pants grow tight at the sound of you. Your voice, your laugh, your humming, your moans and whimpers and hell, even the sound of you peeing is enough to make him feel light-headed, connected to you in a way that gets his heart racing and his cock swelling. Maybe one day he’ll install the visual one, too, but for now the sound is enough – the audio recordings he takes of you is more than enough fodder should he ever need it.

Thinking about Asahi Azumane, whose apartment is basically your second home. You come over and spend the night often – often enough to have your own toothbrush permanently living at his place, set off to the side and out of the mainly used area of the bathroom counter. It’s a common brand, one that Asahi can find at the corner market – which he does, keeping a constant supply around so that he can replace it each time you use it. He keeps them all stacked nicely in a Ziploc bag, dating each in permanent marker so he can recount and remember all the times you’ve slept under the same roof as him, only a room away. And of course, this makes it much easier to slip the it between his lips and against his tongue, teeth grinding down against the bristles and his eyes fluttering closed because it just feels so very intimate. It’s embarrassing and he keeps everything well hidden from you, but the way he stares as he brushes his teeth beside you is a bit of a give-away that there’s something going on.

Thinking about Ryunosuke Tanaka who keeps a running list of the insults you throw at him. They’re never truly mean, always just jokes or digs at some niche thing about him and his Loverboy attitude, but Ryunosuke notices. He’s transcribing them into his Notes app on his phone, and when he gets home each evening he repeats the insult to himself out loud, saying the word over and over in a mimic of your own voice, letting his hands run down the length of his body as he closes his eyes and melts into memories of your expression, your tone, the way you’d been looking at him. He’s got something of a degradation kink, and he’s training himself to become aroused at the mere mention of a derogatory nickname – it's for the future, he’ll tell himself, so that when he’s got you straddling him, tying him up and keeping him pinned underneath you, he can preform exactly how you want him to. He’ll be good for you – just call him a freak again, please.

Thinking about Yuu Nishinoya always making jokes about feet because he knows it makes you squirm in discomfort, but soon it stops being a joke. He’s always tickling your feet, making exaggerating sucking sounds when you slip your shoes off, even snatching your socks and running around with them, the adrenaline of you chasing him and yelling his name and looking at him him him making him giddy. But then he’s managing to keep the sock one day, curiously rubbing a finger over it as he palms himself, running his leaking, bright red tip against the material and cursing. He’ll wind up using it as a sort of cocksleeve, fucking into it and leaving it so riddled with cum that it’s hard, and suddenly the next time he jokes about you letting him give just one suck, c’mon is less teasing and much more serious.

Thinking of Shoyou Hinata who doesn’t understand why you get so angry when he suggests switching underwear. He thinks it’s sweet – a sign of love and comfort with each other, really. He’ll step into the cute, flimsy panties he buys for you, pulling them up and face twisting up slightly as he adjusts himself, trying his best to get the thong to hold as much of his cock and balls as he can. He feels naughty, wearing them under his shorts when he runs to the store to pick up groceries, and with each step he can feel the lacey material – the very material he’d forced you to strip out of that morning, the material still warm. And of course, you were forced into his boxers – the same ones he'd slept in, smelling musky and feeling wet with something you don’t want to name.

Thinking about Tobio Kageyama who has a full body reaction when he hears you say his name. It’s not subtle, either – he’s going stiff as a board, eyes blowing wide and pupils dilating, visible goosebumps erupting all over his skin. His breathing gets a bit heavier, and every muscle in his body is flexed, clenched so tightly that he can hardly move. He’ll stare at you, lips focused entirely on your lips, murmurs leaving his own that sound vaguely like your name, vaguely like fuck. You’ll have to pull him out of the moment yourself, with a touch to his shoulder or waving your hand in front of his face, and it’s only then that he’ll clear his throat, shifting in his pants and realizing much too late that he’s visibly hard, a bit of sweat visibly staining his exercise shirt under the armpits. He’ll make some lame excuse and run away, but as he fists his cock and replays the moment over in his head, he’ll be whining your name and your name only.

Thinking about Kei Tsukishima who feels so, so very stupid but can’t help but bite his lip as he scrolls through Spotify. There’s a separate, private folder of playlists he’s curated, each lasting easily two hours, all with different, single word titles. Doggy, cowgirl, lotus, 69. There’s ten or so, and they get updated at least once a day. It’s music that he can almost too easily imagine touching you to – slowed, passionate, your favorite songs, almost all of them coming from recommendations you yourself gave him. He just can’t help the mental imagery that fills him the moment he hears the chords and the singer’s voice – immediately you’re perched in his lap, tits pressed against his own chest and grinding on him so slowly that he’s near tears, desperation filling him and suddenly his finger’s tapping before he knows it, the little ‘saved to edging’ notification popping up at the bottom of his screen. It’s mortifying, really, but so is the silence only interrupted by the bassy thump thump that would otherwise fill up his bedroom every night.

Thinking about Tadashi Yamaguchi who splurges for his birthday and buys himself a customized life-sized body pillow with you printed on it. He’d been bright red the whole time he’d been ordering, the prized photo of you – scantily clad in your cute, revealing pajamas with your breasts just barely contained by the top – uploaded to the cute little Etsy shop. The package had arrived not soon enough, and he’s both flushed and breathing erratically the moment he rips open the packaging, wide eyes nearly tearing up at the sight of you – well, almost you. He’d paid extra to have the little audio insert sent alongside it, and as he records an audio he’d saved of you teasingly telling him goodnight ‘Dashi, love you, he’s shivering in excitement. It’s a shame that he stains the fabric with cum the first night, but a quick wash leaves it good as new – leaves you good as new.

Thinking about Tooru Oikawa and the pretty dildo he’s got buried away in his closet. It’s smooth, a pale pink color that reminds him of Sakura blossoms – that reminds him of you. He doesn’t use it often; only when he’s been on long, long stints away from home, tournaments and games making his muscles sore, his eyes sag, his heart ache in his chest. But as he sprits your perfume on it and whines your name as he sits down on it, his eyes roll to the back of his head and he remembers how he snatched this from your own closet after having watched you fuck yourself on it through your bedroom window.  

Thinking about Hajime Iwaizumi who absolutely loves the big, pretty mirror you have in your bedroom. It’s the first thing he notices when he walks in for the first time, and it’s also the first thing he looks up when he gets home that night. And when he’s got you spread out on his cock a few months later, the locks on the doors numerous with passcodes he’ll never tell you, he’s sure you’ll be a bit relieved to see something familiar on your new bedroom’s walls. And he’ll tell you as much, gruff voice in your ear as he bounces you in his lap like some kind of toy, telling you to look at the mirror, baby, lookin’ so pretty… And when you cry he’ll wince, but the way his cock throbs inside you is telling.

Thinking about Kotarou Bokuto who calls you when he’s touching himself, narrating to you exactly what he’s doing. Of course, it’s not from his own phone – he likes to think it’s more exciting if it’s an unknown number. Maybe he’s seen too many TikTok thirsts about men in masks and Scream, but he thinks you’ll like the mystery. So when you stop picking up, he’ll just leave voicemails – always groaning and moaning your name, putting the microphone on the phone right up next to his fist, the wet schlock schlock sounds loud and clear. It’s risky and dirty, and when you bring it up the next time he sees you, complaining and confiding in him that some fucking creep is leaving horrible messages for you, he’ll only play along, convinced you’re hiding your true feelings to avoid looking like a pervert. But that’s okay, he likes that you’re a pervert! So pick up next time, yeah?

Thinking about Keiji Akaashi who, when the late hours and pages upon pages of editing the same manga get to him, will switch over to edit the more lewd, more explicit series he’d recently been assigned. Yeah, maybe it’s illegal to be photocopying the pages when there’s particular scenes that appeal to him, and maybe there’s something ever so slightly creepy about printing your photos and cutting out your face, pasting them onto the hentai’s protagonist and doing the same with his own photos, but it’s not a big deal. At least, it’s not a big deal until you find the volumes upon volumes of different almost collaged panels with your photos, all strung together in Keiji’s own personal fantasies of exactly what he wants to do to you, fit with his own handwriting covering the neatly White-outted text bubbles.

Thinking about Tetsurou Kuroo who purposefully gets a desk at work that can be raised to standing height. It’s not often, but when his mind is wandering and he can’t sit still while thoughts of you become unbearable, he’ll bring the desk up slightly. Standing up, he’ll align the wood right below his groin, shuffling forward and gently resting his clothed erection against the surface, sighing and rolling his head back as he lightly thrusts forwards and back. The fantasy of having you bent over the desk is too strong to ignore, and when you – his oh so sexy little assistant – come knocking at his door, he’s thanking anything that’s listening that you can’t see the way wet spreads across the front of his slacks.

Thinking about Kenma Kozume who only plays Sims because he has characters for the two of you. There’s no other avatars, solely and only the two of you. He’s curated your character to have your hair, your eyes, your body proportions, even buying special packages and programming his own mods to make it happen. The house you’re both living in is, he’ll admit, a bit excessive – there’s beds in every room, and the very first thing he’ll do each time he opens the game is immediately press the WooHoo button, zooming in on the monitor to get as close to your pixelated forms as possible. He’ll gulp and palm himself, eyes unblinking and repeating the command until he’s panting and gasping and staring at the sticky mess he’s left behind.

Thinking about Lev Haiba who’s not good at the up-skirt photos he tries to take. He’s not subtle, the camera flash going off and making you stiffen up. It’s easy to brush off with him though, his little laugh and scratching the back of his neck, telling you that he’s just supposed to be taking ‘candid photos of myself, something my new agency’s been wanting! Hey, look at that bird over there, so cute right?’ The flash as you turn around is less noticeable, but the way he audibly groans at the sight of your pretty panties certainly isn’t.

Thinking of Wakatoshi Ushijima who can’t quite understand why you’re uncomfortable when he stands so close to you. He’s always creeping up behind you, unnaturally quiet for someone so large, and suddenly you’ll feel this looming, overwhelming presence behind you, his breath hitting the crown of your head and making your hair tickle your neck and throat. He’s standing nearly flush with you, his cock mere centimeters from your ass, the smell of his cologne invading every one of your senses. He’ll only stare, stonefaced when you yelp and whirl around, only swallowing when you lightly swat his chest, irritation rippling through your tone when you tell him don’t sneak up on me like that! He doesn’t mean to scare you, really, but there’s something about being so close to you that makes his heart race, and he’s heard from all his teammates in the locker rooms about how women ‘love it from behind’, and he can only assume this is what they mean. He doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but he’s convinced that with enough time, you’ll grow to enjoy him standing behind you like a shadow, breathing down your neck and audibly inhaling at the juncture of your neck – television tells him as much, so why do you always shy away when he tells you that you smell heavenly?

Thinking of Eita Semi who, despite his best efforts, can’t find it in himself to reject a band admirer when she approaches him after a show. It’s not you and he’s not initially interested in her at all, but as she stays persistent and his numerous texts to you remain unanswered, Eita finds himself noticing that you have similar lips, similar hair, similar hips. It’s not actually cheating if he pretends it’s you, right? It feels sacrilegious to touch another woman, sure, but he’s actively moaning out your name, telling her to shut up when she says something he doesn’t think you would. And it starts a troubling pattern – you won’t sleep with him and he doesn’t want to pressure you, but the sexual frustration of desperately wanting to touch you and being unable to makes him crazy, willing to do anything to get even a phantom taste of you. He’ll apologize profusely if you ever find out, getting to his knees and begging you to forgive him, claiming he did it for you, but it’s a temporary solution for now. Just until you give him a taste of what he’s been dreaming of for months.

Thinking of Satori Tendou who picked up photography as a hobby once his feelings for you formed. He’s still a bit unsure about photographing you without your consent, but then you go and do something that makes his throat dry up, his fingers unable to stay still because you’re just so damn cute and he can’t help himself. He keeps all the photos in a special box, placed neatly and gently in the corner of his closet. They’re all labeled on the back with the date, time, and location, even a few jots of what he was thinking at the time of the photo capture. They’re by and large mostly innocent, but there’s a few that he’d been rash with, snapping the photo and feeling guilt away at him. Writing down the fantasies he’d had with each time he uses the photo to masturbate had been embarrassing at first, but each time he rifles through the photos – which are perfectly pristine, not a drop of cum or even spit anywhere to be seen – he’s poring through his notes, biting his lip and curling his toes as he remembers particularly vivid fantasies, all driven forward by your smiling face or your unaware figure. And while he’ll never offer to show them to you, should you ask he’d reluctantly agree, watching with baited breath to see which ones you like – which fantasies you want to try out.

Thinking of Tsutomu Goshiki who still, even as a young adult, finds himself getting flustered when he watches porn. He’s consuming as many videos as he can find, but he often finds himself clicking off of the video almost as soon as the actual sex starts – he’s interested in the lead up, rather than the act itself. He’s diligently studying the scripts, the scenarios placed forward, the way the women seem to go crazy for a few common, simple lines. He’s noting everything down and practicing the lines, looking at himself in the mirror and adding in your name just to get used to saying it without blushing. He’s convinced that because the women in porn would like these lines, so would you – of course, you would not enjoy being told that he’s the delivery pizza guy and that you’ll need to pay with your body, but Tsutomu doesn’t quite understand that. Surely it’s real – it’s porn, and he’s sure that he’ll be able to fuck you just the way he sees on his screen. He’ll make you scream just like all the women do – he promises.

Thinking of Shinsuke Kita who will let you bathe on your own, but never alone. He’s pulling up a stool beside the bathtub before you can protest, those eyes unblinking as he gets nice and settled in. He’s smiling gently at you, asking you if the water is the right temperature, if you’d like to a use a bathbomb, if you want any help shampooing or scrubbing your body. It’s unnerving if only because the nonchalance is infuriating, but his hands stay perfectly still on his lap, palms flat against the material of his trousers. He’s visibly growing hard as you quickly wash your body, still staring, but he makes no move to act on it. It’s only once he’s watched you settle into bed, promising he’ll be up soon, that he makes his move. The water’s cold by now, but he still sinks into the porcelain with a stifled grown, letting the bath water slip past his lips and cover his face, enjoying every bit of residue of you.

Thinking of Atsumu Miya who’s notorious for PDA with you long before you’ve accepted your fate. He’s always inviting you to his games, getting you special seating so that you’re as close to the court as possible, and after each win he’s pulling you into a searing, bruising, loud kiss. It’s dramatic and it’s entirely too much, but the cameras flash and the headlines spur with details of his supposed relationship with you. It’s all for publicity, he’ll tell you, apologizing but telling you that y’understand, right? It’s for his career, he promises, to make himself look better for the media, but the way he’ll slowly pull away and whimper your name so that only you can hear isn’t quite as publicity-driven as he claims. At least, when he groans and lets his eyes flutter closed afterwards, it sure doesn’t feel that way.

the first time it happens, you think you’re losing it.

you’re crouched on the gym floor, folding towels like the dutiful manager you are, while the boys finish drills. sakusa’s serving, as usual, his mask tugged neatly over his face like he’s allergic to oxygen. nothing out of the ordinary—except that when he tosses the ball and his eyes flick to the sideline, a voice cuts into your brain so sharp you almost drop the towel.

‘she looks so pretty when she’s folding towels. is it insane that i want to frame that image in my head forever? god. i hate everyone else for also seeing her. disgusting.’

you freeze. because one: no one said that out loud. two: the only person looking at you right now is sakusa kiyoomi, who, last you checked, barely tolerates your existence.

but then he serves, the ball spinning so cleanly it makes komori clap like an overexcited seal, and you’re left blinking at him, towel half-folded, heart racing.

it has to be coincidence. no way. sakusa doesn’t even like you. if anything, he’s made it clear he finds you bothersome—always telling you to stand further away, stop touching his water bottles, don’t breathe too close to him (that one might have been in your head, but still).

except.

except the next thought comes in clear as day.

‘stop staring at me, i’m going to mess up. oh god, no, wait, keep staring at me. don’t look away. if she looks away i’ll actually serve this ball into the wall on purpose just so practice gets delayed and she talks to me.’

you choke. actually choke on air. komori runs over, eyes wide, “hey, are you okay? need water?” he’s thinking about chicken nuggets right now.

“fine,” you wheeze, waving him off. you’re not fine. you’re hearing sakusa kiyoomi’s thoughts, and sakusa kiyoomi’s thoughts are… gross. yearning. sticky-sweet and a little terrifying, like honey left out in the sun too long.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

for the next week, you test it.

every time he’s near, you listen.

in the locker room corridor when you pass him a towel:

‘her hand brushed mine. i can’t wash this hand. no. wait. that’s unhygienic. i’ll wash it but i’ll remember forever. yeah. that’s good. disgusting. i’m disgusting. but god i want it again.’

during water breaks when komori’s chatting with you and sakusa’s lurking a few feet away pretending not to watch:

‘why is he making her laugh like that? she doesn’t laugh like that with me. she should only laugh like that with me. i’ll kill him. no i won’t. i’ll trip him in practice. no one will notice.’

and once, memorably, when you bent down to tie your shoelaces and caught him staring:

‘that’s a vulnerable position. she trusts us enough to kneel on the floor like that. i could guard her from every angle. i should stand in front of her so no one else looks. if anyone looks i’ll—’

you stand up so fast you almost get whiplash.

the worst part? you like him. you’ve liked him since the first time he walked into the gym, tall and brooding and stupidly handsome, and the two pretty moles on his forehead. you think they’re the prettiest constellation you’ve ever seen. you thought he hated you, though, so you buried the crush under your duties as manager.

but now. now you know he’s rotting on the inside for you.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

komori notices first. ‘if i buy some nuggets with my allowance, how many will i get?’

“you’ve been spacing out,” he says after practice one day, when you’re packing up the first aid kit.

you shrug, trying to keep your face neutral, but across the gym sakusa is wiping his hands with clinical precision, and in your head he’s thinking:

‘she looks tired. she should sit down. i’ll tell her. no i can’t tell her, she’ll think i’m weird. maybe if i trip iizuna he’ll ask her to sit down and then i can agree with him. yes. that’s normal.’

you bite your lip to stop from laughing, which komori takes as confirmation you’re definitely hiding something.

“what?” you say.

“nothing,” komori hums, but he eyes sakusa, then you, then sakusa again like he’s putting puzzle pieces together.

you pray he doesn’t.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the thing about sakusa kiyoomi is that he’s good at hiding things. his face never changes, his tone is always flat, his movements are calculated down to the inch. if you didn’t have your new telepathic glitch, you’d never know he’s mentally monologuing about your shoelaces, your handwriting, the way you tuck stray hairs behind your ear.

‘i should start wearing my hair differently. she always brushes hers back, maybe if i do it too she’ll notice. no, too obvious. god, i want her to notice me. please notice me.’

and you do notice. oh, do you notice.

every stalkerish little habit.

like how your water bottle is always mysteriously colder than everyone else’s—because he secretly swaps it with a fresh one before practice, cursing internally about how no one else deserves to touch the condensation beads on plastic meant for you.

like how your umbrella went missing one rainy afternoon, and you were sure you’d left it in the gym, until sakusa appeared outside the gates holding it—mask on, expression flat, but inside his head screaming:

‘act normal. just hand it to her. don’t tell her you’ve been keeping it at home for three days so no one else could borrow it. normal. normal. normal.’

you’d thanked him, smiling, and he’d stiffly nodded. but in his brain:

‘her smile is brighter than the sun. i’m blind. i can’t see. i don’t need to see. she’s all i’ll ever need to see. kill the sun. the sun doesn’t deserve to exist if she exists.’

you nearly tripped in a puddle trying not to laugh.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

by the end of the month, you’ve catalogued enough of his inner ramblings to write a novel titled ways sakusa kiyoomi wants to die via your smile or in between your thighs but we’re not gonna be talking about that.

and still, outwardly, he treats you the same—curt nods, sanitized distance, blunt remarks about your stacking of cones or folding of towels. if anything, he seems more irritable, but you know the truth now. he’s not irritated. he’s imploding.

‘she’s standing too close. my heart rate’s 120. is that normal? no. i’m going to collapse. i should push her away. no. pull her closer. SNIFF HER. no. god. i hate myself.’

you love it. you love him. every deranged thought makes your stomach flip like a volleyball over the net.

the problem? you can’t tell him. not yet.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

one night, after a particularly long practice, you stay behind to lock up. sakusa stays too, wiping down balls with almost surgical thoroughness.

you pretend not to notice, but your head is buzzing with his thoughts.

‘if she leaves first i’ll walk her home. no. too obvious. what if someone else sees? i could follow at a distance. yes. that’s safer. she won’t even know i’m there. god. i sound like a creep. i am a creep. but she’ll be safe. safe because of me.’

you finally turn, key in hand, and catch him staring. mask on, eyes dark, his hands stilling on the volleyball.

“you done?” you ask lightly.

he blinks. nods. shrugs. his usual minimalistic responses.

but in his head:

‘she spoke to me first. jackpot. should i frame this moment? yes. memorize her tone. record it in my brain. this is love. i’m in love. god help me.’

you grin, unlocking the door. “walk me home?”

he stiffens, like you’ve short-circuited his brain.

inside, though—

‘she asked me. she asked me. she asked me. play it cool. play it cool. say yes. oh my god say yes before she changes her mind. say yes, kiyoomi. now.’

“…fine,” he mutters, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

but you hear the truth.

and for once, you let yourself bask in it.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

as a manager, you’re used to wrangling the itachiyama boys, but you didn’t account for sakusa kiyoomi sitting next to you on a two-hour bus ride. his posture is perfect, his mask covers most of his face, and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else—except you can hear his thoughts, and they’re a disaster.

‘her thigh is touching mine. it’s touching mine. don’t move. if i move i’ll lose it. oh god. she smells like candy. peaches. i want to bite her. not literally. no literally. i want to taste her. i should die. i should throw myself out the bus window.’

you almost choke trying not to laugh, pretending to look out the window, but the jolt of the bus sends you crashing into his shoulder.

his brain combusts.

‘holy shit. she’s on me. she’s ON ME. don’t breathe too loud. don’t scare her away. oh my god her cheek is so soft against me. i could hold her. no, no, stay still. wait. please don’t move. please don’t ever move.’

you straighten only when the bus steadies. sakusa doesn’t move at all, like one wrong twitch will undo the memory.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the day passes in blurs—lunch, hiking, komori’s endless chatter and his thoughts about chicken nuggets again—but you can feel sakusa’s eyes on you constantly. his thoughts stick like glue.

‘she’s walking too far ahead. what if she trips. what if she gets hurt. i’ll carry her if she does. i’ll carry her down the whole mountain. bridal style. yes. everyone will see she’s mine. no. that’s insane. no it’s perfect. god, please trip. wait no. don’t trip. i’ll die if she’s hurt.’

you nearly trip on purpose just to watch him spiral, but you hold back.

night falls, the cabins go quiet, and you slip outside for fresh air. you don’t expect sakusa to already be there, leaning against the railing, mask under his chin, hood up.

the sight nearly knocks the wind out of you—his face bare in the moonlight, the two moles on his forehead gleaming faintly. unfair. completely unfair.

he startles when he sees you. “couldn’t sleep?”

you shake your head. “you?”

he shrugs, stiff as ever. but his thoughts betray him, screaming loud in your skull.

‘she looks beautiful in the dark. her hair, her eyes, everything. she’s here. with me. alone. i could kiss her. i could ruin her. no. don’t. she’d hate it. she’d hate me. god, i want her so bad. please want me back.’

your chest squeezes. you’ve spent weeks listening to this nonsense, his yearning rotting holes in your brain, and you can’t take it anymore.

“kiyoomi,” you whisper.

his lips are already on yours, hot and needy, but once you gasp his name—

“kiyoomi—”

he unravels like thread.

a low, rough sound rips out of his chest as if you’ve just set fire to every ounce of restraint he’s ever had. his hands, which were clutching your waist, slide lower, fingers digging into the dip of your hips, tugging you flush against him until there’s not an inch of space left.

he’s kissing you like he’s starved, like every second apart from your mouth is unbearable. his tongue tangles with yours, deep and filthy, swallowing every shaky breath you give him.

‘she said my name. my first name. god, i’m gone. i’m hers. i’ll never recover. never. more. closer. please closer. i’ll fuse myself into her if that’s what it takes.’

you whimper and his body jolts like he’s been electrocuted. immediately his mouth abandons yours, dragging wet, desperate kisses across your jaw, down the curve of your neck.

“hey uh—kiyoomi—”

he groans into your skin, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear before he sucks there, sloppy and unrestrained. his hands roam—up your spine, splaying across your lower back, then sliding forward to grip your waist again, thumbs pressing circles into your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

‘she’s letting me touch her. she’s letting me taste her. mine mine mine mine. no one else gets this. no one else can have this. i’ll kill anyone who tries. god, her skin is soft. i want to bite. i want to leave marks. claim her. please let me claim her.’

he kisses back up your throat, leaving a trail of heat, before smashing his mouth to yours again, even rougher this time. it’s clumsy, hungry, his tongue pushing deep into your mouth until you moan against him—and he swallows that sound whole, like it’s the only sustenance he’s ever known.

his fingers creep higher, curling just under the hem of your shirt at your waist, not daring to go further but desperate for bare skin. you can feel his hands tremble against you.

he pulls back only to pant against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.

“say it again,” he begs, voice wrecked. “say my name again.”

“kiyoomi,” you whisper, shaky and soft.

he growls—actually growls—before kissing you again, deeper, harder, like he’s trying to crawl inside your lungs and live there. rawr

one hand fists in your hair, tilting your head so he can devour your mouth from a better angle, his tongue sliding against yours in dizzying, relentless strokes. the other hand grips your hip so firmly you know it’ll bruise.

‘she’s mine. she’s mine forever. i’ll never let her go, i can buy a house with a basement if she tries to escape. god, i can’t stop. don’t make me stop. i’ll die if i stop.’

you break away for air, lips wet and swollen, and he immediately chases you, pressing messy kisses to the corner of your mouth, your chin, down your throat again, leaving you dizzy.

“kiyoomi—please—” you gasp.

he hisses, lips returning to yours, kissing you like he’s punishing you for teasing him with his own name.

by the time he finally forces himself to pull back, you’re both gasping, his hoodie clenched in your fists, his curls damp against his forehead. his eyes are wild, blown black, his mask long-forgotten.

he rests his forehead against yours, chest heaving.

“you don’t get it,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “you don’t get how much i need you.”

you smile, dazed, lips tingling. “i think i do.”

and then you kiss him again, because there’s no universe where you’ll ever get enough of this.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: i had WAY TOO MANY drafts for this, i’m starting to love this man way too much. suna fic coming soon because i just had an idea rn.

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

you always thought oikawa tōru was the human equivalent of glitter: shiny, clingy, impossible to vacuum out of your life. he orbited you like a malfunctioning moon, all smug smiles and hair flips, asking if you “needed help with your homework” even when you were clearly reading dostoevsky for fun. you’d flick a page, eyes flat, and he’d stand there, volleyball tucked under one arm, radiating the energy of a golden retriever who’d just discovered existentialism. you assumed he’d tire out eventually. gravity quits on comets, right?

then you sneezed in the library, smacked your head on the edge of the philosophy shelf, and woke up with a brand new party trick: every brain within ten meters broadcast in dolby surround sound. most people sounded like dial-up internet. but oikawa—oh, oikawa—he arrived right on cue, waving a get-well banana, and the moment he stepped into your radius his skull detonated into a symphony of yearn.

‘she’s wearing the turtleneck again. she looks like a sexy librarian who grades souls. i would let her red-pen my entire existence.’

you blinked. he blinked back, angelic. “just checking for concussions,” he lied, voice syrupy. his thoughts continued, unabated:

‘if she told me to commit tax fraud i’d do it twice and say thank you. i’d drink the bathwater of her conscience.’

you stared. his ears went pink. he tried to smirk, missed, and looked like a malfunctioning ken doll. interesting.

for science, you decided to test the bandwidth.

“thanks for the banana,” you said, monotone. “it’s the perfect shape… for scale reference in my still-life drawing.”

his brain blue-screened. ‘she could hold that banana like a scepter and i’d pledge my firstborn to her monarchy. she could spit in my mouth and call it art critique and i’d frame the saliva.’

you bit the inside of your cheek to stop a smile. he scratched the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated by the carpet pattern. “anytime,” he croaked, then fled, volleyball forgotten. it rolled after him like a loyal dog.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

day two, he waited outside your calculus class wearing a turtleneck of his own—cream, cashmere, collar folded with surgical precision. couple cosplay, but make it accidental. you exited, spotted him, and his brain screamed like a kettle:

‘she’s here she’s here she’s here plot twist i’m the homework and she can do me on the desk.’

you paused, cocked your head. “matching outfits, oikawa? how tragic. people will think we planned it.”

his mouth opened, closed. ‘say something cool, you absolute casserole. tell her you own seven identical ones so you can always be her sweater half. no wait that’s insane. i am insane. i’m two syllables away from writing her name on my ribcage in sharpie.’

instead he coughed out, “great minds dress alike,” then tried to wink and both eyelashes tangled. you walked past, letting your shoulder brush his. the contact detonated a thought so vivid you nearly tripped:

‘if she touched my collarbone i’d evaporate into rose petals and re-form as her personal footstool.’

you hid your grin in your scarf. this was better than cable.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

by friday you’d collected a greatest-hits album of his mental discography:

— ‘she uses a fountain pen. i want to be that pen. i want her fingers to cramp around me.’

— ‘her serious face could solve global warming. i would commit arson just to watch her frown at the flames.’

— ‘if she asked me to jump i’d ask how high and then keep ascending until gravity filed a restraining order.’

every time you glanced up, he was there: leaning against your locker, pretending to text; lurking at the vending machine, buying strawberry milk because he saw you sniff a strawberry lip balm once; practicing jump serves on the quad and peeking between his arms to see if you watched. (you did. you’d perfected the art of staring without looking, like a very focused houseplant.)

you started leaving breadcrumbs. nothing dramatic—just little cheese cubes for the yearn-mouse. you asked him for a pencil even though you had six. his brain short-circuited so hard he handed you the one tucked behind his ear, half-chewed, and whispered “it’s lucky” like he was bestowing excalibur. when you used it to underline a passage in your book, he almost fainted.

‘she touched my spit. indirectly. that’s basically a wedding in some cultures.’

you underlined extra hard, slow strokes, just to watch him vibrate.

the real fun began when you learned to reply without speaking. you’d lock eyes, project a single word into the forefront of your mind—boo—and watch him jerk like you’d shot a confetti cannon in his cortex. he’d grip the nearest solid object, breathing like he’d run a marathon on Jupiter. you did it once while he was mid-serve. the ball rocketed straight into the net, bounced off, and beaned him in the back of the head. his team howled. you sat on the bleachers, serene as a nun, thinking ten points to gryffindor. his subsequent thought arrived warped with static and desperation:

‘she’s hacking my soul and i’m paying for the premium subscription.’

that night he texted you:

oinks: psst did you cast a spell on me or am i just naturally this pathetic

you: define pathetic.

oinks: i googled “how to look sexy while unconscious” just in case you ever knock me out

you: bookmark it.

oinks: already printed and laminated.

you snorted so loud your roommate asked if you were asphyxiating on your own joy.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

saturday brought a home game. you arrived late, slipping into the back row of the gym. oikawa spotted you instantly—of course he did, his brain had probably installed facial recognition for the back of your head. the score was tight, second set, and his serve had been off. coach was yelling. fans were restless. you leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and broadcast one calm sentence: ‘win, and i’ll let you walk me home.’

the change was supernatural. his spine straightened like someone had threaded him with steel. next serve? ace. then another. and another. the ball obeyed him like it owed rent. the gym erupted but you heard only the single laser beam of his thought:

‘for her i’d serve the earth into a new orbit.’

after the final point he didn’t even wait for the customary handshakes. he vaulted the barrier, landed catlike, and beelined straight to you, hair damp, eyes glowing. the crowd blurred into static. you lifted an eyebrow. “good game, captain.”

‘she said captain. i’m pregnant.’

he swallowed. “walk you home?” voice husky, trying so hard to be casual he practically vibrated out of his skin.

you let the silence stretch until he nearly combusted, then nodded. “try to keep up.”

outside, streetlights flickered on one by one, like they were gossiping about you. he carried your backpack like it was the nuclear football, hands trembling. you strolled, shoes scuffing autumn leaves. every third step his shoulder bumped yours, always apologizing, always doing it again. his mind was a slot machine of escalating madness:

‘if i offer her my jacket she might say no but if i freeze to death she’ll have to step over my corpse and that’s technically contact.’

you stopped under the ginkgo tree outside your dorm. gold leaves kept falling like slow confetti. he faced you, cheeks pink from more than cold, and blurted, “so, hypothetically, if i asked you out on a date—not now, i mean, like, in general—would you laugh in my face or just stab me politely?”

you pretended to ponder. inside his skull, alarms klaxoned:

‘ABORT ABORT she’s calculating the trajectory of my rejection. i’m a dead man. tell my mom i died a fool. bury me in my away jersey.’

you stepped closer. his breath hitched. you could practically hear his heart rearranging furniture. “hypothetically,” you murmured, “i might say yes… on one condition.”

‘i will lick the floor of every prefecture if that condition is me.’

“you have to stop trying so hard to look cool.” you flicked his forehead, gentle. “you’re already unbearably cool, tōru. it’s exhausting.”

his brain went silent—true, stunned, white-screen silence—before rebooting into a fireworks finale:

‘she used my first name. i have ascended. i am the sky now. clouds are my subjects.’

he exhaled shakily, eyes shining. “i can… be unbearable without trying. that’s literally my default setting.”

“prove it.” you turned to go, then glanced back. “tomorrow. seven. bring your worst jokes.”

‘i’m going to write this day on every ceiling so i never forget to look up.’

you left him there, frozen mid-wave, leaf stuck in his hair like a coronation crown. inside your own chest something warm and ridiculous pulsed. mind-reading came with spoilers, but nothing had prepared you for the moment the yearner became the yearned.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

at 6:58 the next evening he showed up wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, hair half-air-dried, carrying a single daisy he’d clearly stolen from campus landscaping. no volleyball bag, no audience, no performance. just him: stupidly tall, stupidly hopeful, freckle on his cheek you’d never noticed because he’d always been backlit by ego.

he offered the flower. “it’s small because the rest of the field is still growing. i didn’t want to be greedy.”

you took it, brushed his knuckles on purpose. his thought arrived soft, almost shy:

‘if this is a dream don’t wake me up unless she’s thirsty then wake me up so i can get her water.’

you smiled—full, real, the kind that cracked your reserve like ice on a lake. “come on, daisy thief.”

as you walked side by side, you let your pinky hook his. he jolted, then relaxed, fingers sliding between yours like they’d rehearsed this for years. his head quieted to a single repeating line, gentle enough to lullaby:

‘i’m holding her hand and she hasn’t run. universe, invoice me later.’

you gave a gentle squeeze. he squeezed back, probably committing the pressure to muscle memory. somewhere in the distance, the ginkgo leaves kept falling, but neither of you looked up. you didn’t need to. the sky was already in your palm, and it was laughing—soft, incredulous, wonderfully alive.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: i was @ the market w my father yesterday so i couldn’t write much! a man gave me a free whole salmon 😭 also met the son of my father’s friend again, i didn’t really pay him any mind but he ran to me to say hi once we left his father’s store, reasoning that he had to buy noodles but he walked away empty handed ???

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© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)