lads and Hq!!

If earlier today you told him he’d be spending half an hour inside some dark closet, back against the wall, pants around his thighs, and a pretty girl giving him the best birthday head of his life…he would’ve personally kicked your ass because how dare you toy with his emotions? But now, all he could do was sink his teeth into his fist to keep the embarrassing noises at bay as this wet dream played out in front of him, legs quaking as you took him deeper into the warm, wet cavern of your throat. If it wasn’t for the wall, he would’ve collapsed the second he saw you drop to your knees, making work of his belt and jeans like some depraved succubus.

His initial instinct was to stop you, hands grabbing yours, a wide and lost gaze searching your heated one for some sort of explanation. “Y-You don’t have to do this…”

You almost rolled your eyes. As if you weren’t the one who escorted him into this situation. Giggling softly, you put on a show of leaning forward, face buried in his crotch as you nuzzled a cheek against the bulge, making it jump beneath the fabric. You pulled your hands from his, manicured nails grazing his skin as they trailed up to the waistband. Tugging it agonizingly slow until he sprung free, nearly taking your eye out, you gave a small wink, “I’ll stop if you want me to. Just say the word, Tora…”

Needless to say, he let you do as you pleased.

Kazutora didn’t know if this was supposed to be a present or a punishment. You denied him release three times, going on four, rendering him a twitching, bucking, babbling mess. While one hand worked to pacify his cries the other gripped your hair, not pushing or pulling, although you wouldn’t be opposed, just there as an anchor to keep from losing his damn mind. “P-Please…please [_____]…”

You hummed around him, making his hips stutter. "O-Oh fuck..."

A spurt of his tangy release painted your tongue like a canvas, he couldn't stop dribbling like a faucet and you gulped down every drop without complaint. Every time you swallowed around him, he felt like he was going to pass out. This was unlike anything he's ever experienced, better than he imagined. All those late nights thinking of you in this very position, all the sheets he's ruined, the pillows, the toys he's worn out...pales in comparison to the real thing. Your warmth, your persistence, your sounds. It was too much and not enough at once. Delirious, he trailed his golden eyes down to watch you, nearly busting right then and there when he noticed your hand buried inside your underwear. "Shittt...are you...touching y'self...?"

Despite your mouth being full, you managed to give him a teasing grin. With one hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, stroking whatever didn't fit, the other made use of rubbing tight circles around your pulsing clit, not being able to resist with how absolutely delicious he looked above you. You always wondered the sort of faces he would make in a moment like this, your imagination didn't do him justice. Many nights you spent stuffing your greedy cunny with anything to satiate the growing need to ride such a pretty face until he got lockjaw, tonight having been the breaking point. As soon as the two of you locked eyes from opposites of the room, how nervous he became just from one look, you knew you needed a taste. The ovulating demon in your core wouldn't allow you to leave without one.

You pulled off him with a wet shlop, making a show of swirling his tip around your tongue, hitting it against the pallet all the while holding eye contact. Kazutora moaned with each impact, so sensitive to the touch he could probably cum from a breeze passing by. Planting a punctuating kiss on the purpling head, you licked your lips, lazily stroking him enough to stimulate but not enough to bring him there. The whine that slipped from him had you clenching around nothing, the tears hanging off his lashes exciting you to where you couldn't hold back your own desperation.

He shuddered, panting like a dog in heat as he groaned out, "Filthy fucking girl...quit...playing with me. Y-You're only torturing us both...Know you wanna cum too..."

You did. God, did you ever. A particular flick of your wrists made both of your breaths hitch, clit rubbed raw enough to where even a little pressure would make your hips shake, and you could feel him throb as more pre coated your hand. With a small pout, you squeezed him, almost making him choke. "It's your birthday...only focused on you right now, Tora."

He exhaled, squinting. “Yeah…it’s my birthday…which means…” Kazutora worked up the courage to grab a fistful of your hair and gave a harsh tug, enough to earn a small hiss from you that melted into a pleased groan. You leaned into his touch, encouraging him to take it further, which was all the invitation needed for him to practically yank you up to your feet. You gave a soft squeal, mouth stretching into an excited grin. When you were nose to nose, he practically growled, “…want my cake and ice cream, now.”

He knew it had to be Oikawa’s idea. With the comically large cake sitting in the middle of his living room, looking like a complete eyesore, IWAIZUMI felt it in his bones that shitty bastard’s name was written all over it. Thankfully it was an artificial cake made just for show, the card attached claiming it to be ‘better than the real thing’. He didn’t think too much about the meaning behind it. But, what he didn’t account for was you popping out of that bitch like a jack-in-the-box, scaring him to the point of thinking he wouldn’t see the next birthday. And to add the metaphorical cherry on top, you were practically naked as the day you were born with frosting covering your nipples, like some form of cheeky modesty.

“Happy Birthday, Hajime!” You cheered, jazz hands and all. 

Iwaizumi would stand there for a brief moment, dumbfounded. His heart rapped against his ribs like a bass drum, mouth slightly agape. But, once he eventually collected himself, the trainer hastily scooped you out of the box. At first, you thought he was annoyed at the presentation, about to scold you as he grumbled to himself. That was until you noticed the unbridled hunger and excitement in his piercing gaze as he maneuvered you both to the couch. 

It was the idea of a dumbass…but a damn good one. 

His hands gripped the globes of your ass firmly as you bounced away in his lap, sailor mouth suckling on your sugar-coated tits to muffle his obscene noises at the feeling of your walls strangling his cock. You struggled to keep balance against his bucking below, clawing at both the back of the couch and his shoulders alike. You were far too stranded in pleasure to complain too much about him not letting you service him on his special day. If anything, Iwaizumi made it a point that any attempt to switch roles would be shut down immediately with a mean smack and grab to both cheeks. 

You were his present, and he’d play with your pretty little body how he saw fit. 

“Mm, so fucking sweet,” he slurred, pulling away to blow cool air on the hardened peak, earning a shiver down your spine. You moaned as he flattened his tongue to lap up any traces of the melted frosting that he missed, nipping and marking your smooth skin along the way. 

Everything was wet, and sticky, and so hot you felt like you’d melt in the process as well. “H-Haji…’posed to be pampering you…” 

“You are, baby,” he all but cooed, halting his movement to scoot further down the couch where his lower back hung over the edge. You were still seated in his lap, hands fully perched on the back of the couch. The position resembled being on a hip thrust machine, with you being the weight. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, granting him more control over the pace. And a great view.  “You are.” 

He resumed with vigor. If not for his tight grip on your hips and thighs, you probably would’ve gone flying off from the force alone. From this angle, he pistoned damnear into your cervix, showing no remorse to your cries that reverberated off the walls. Iwaizumi could only imagine the amount of noise complaints he’ll receive, but will inevitably be ignored. Olive-green eyes intently watched your every move and microexpression– the trembling, the babbling, the furrowed brows, the set jaw as it hung open like an invitation–All indicators that he would soon get his birthday confetti. Using his thumb to pull back your clit hood, he rubbed tight circles on the nub, picking up his speed that nearly sent your eyes into the back of your skull. 

“Ah!oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!” 

Iwaizumi grinned wolfishly. There it is. His abs clenched tight as he pushed himself to hit that spot deep within you with utmost precision. Your hand reached down to grip his wrist, fighting against the overwhelming feeling. You curled inward on yourself, hunching over him as you whined incoherent praises, completely contradicting your attempt of trying to slow him down. He knew better than to do that, merely putting his sailor mouth to good use by coaxing you closer and closer to your end. He hissed out, “Filthy fucking cunt’s gonna make a mess f’me? Yeah? All over my cock? Say something, baby. Not nice to ignore the birthday boy.” 

You tried to respond, but only gibberish came out; practically speaking in tongues. Iwaizumi snickered. 

“What’s the matter? Ain’t ya supposed to sing me ‘Happy Birthday’? What, need me to start?” His thumb pressed into your clit making you clench up tight, a small amount of squirt coming out and splashing on his stomach. He cursed under his breath, chuckling breathlessly. “Alright. On three. One…” he used his thighs to lift you up in order to scoot back up on the couch, securing an arm around your middle to pull you flush against his chest, lotus position. Iwaizumi’s hips were relentless, chugging on like an engine as he felt himself getting close. He growled in your ear, “Fuck, two…” 

“Hajime!!” Timing be damned, the flood gates opened at your broken cry, seizing your body like an exorcism. What started as a steady stream escalated to that of a jet setting on a hose, coating his stomach, pelvis, trickling down his thighs to his calves, onto the hardwood floor and into the couch cushions; thank goodness for leather. 

He groaned in satisfaction, still fucking up into you as he slotted his lips onto yours. You keened in his mouth, nothing but tongue and teeth, dribbles of spit seeping out the corners and down your chins. His hands wandered everywhere, any remaining frosting being spread, leaving a sticky feeling that would’ve been less than ideal if he wasn’t balls deep inside you. 

Your nails dug into his back muscles as they flexed, earning a bite on your lower lip in retaliation to the pain. Although you were on the verge of collapse, you forced your hips to bounce in tandem, whimpering at the overstimulation. Clenching and squeezing around him as you dragged your gooey pussy up and down his shaft, you whispered a sweet tune in his ear. “H-Hah–ah–Happy Birthday…t-to you..Happy Birthda-mm!…to you…” 

Iwaizumi gave a shuddered exhale, bucking once, then twice, until he finally spilled his hot, frothy cum deep within your awaiting womb with a strained sound. A shiver traveled down both your spines, him eventually lifting you off while it was still going just so he could frost your front. He held it at the base to aim specifically for your tits. Your giggly-filled moan was all the assurance needed before he leaned in to lap at the mess, getting a taste of salt and sugar. A perfect combination. Carding your fingers through his damp hair, you guided him to share the concoction with you, kissing him earnestly while humming the birthday tune. He grinned in the kiss, pulling away to mutter, “Might’ve been.. the best gift I’ve ever had.” 

You kissed the corner of his mouth, content. “‘m so glad. I’ll be sure to thank Oikawa on your behalf.” 

He frowned, instantly annoyed. So he was right to assume this had something to do with him. Iwaizumi grumbled under his breath, “Tsk. Stop letting him talk you into his hair-brained ideas. You’ll catch the stupid.” 

“Didn’t hear you complaining.” You replied, teasingly.

“Oi.” 

It was hot that day.

Not a pleasant warmth. Sweltering. The kind of early-summer heat that made the pavement shimmer and turned the air into something dense and breathless. The shade offered little relief. The breeze, when it came, was sluggish and warm, like someone exhaling over your neck.

Wakatoshi sat at a table in the quad, textbook open but barely touched, pages rustling slightly in the air. Sweat prickled under the collar of his shirt. He had already calculated the optimal time to move to avoid sun exposure but hadn’t yet acted on it.

Then you arrived.

Late. As usual. But purposeful in your strut, sunglasses perched atop your head, a condensation-slick plastic cup in hand. Your dress—if it could even be called that—was made of some breezy, insubstantial fabric that clung and shifted unpredictably. It hit mid-thigh. Barely.

Wakatoshi registered the material first.

How it caught on the curve of your hips before releasing.

How it fluttered with each step like it wasn’t built to stay still.

His gaze drifted upward: collarbones sharp in the light. A neckline that dipped lower than your usual. The thin straps of your dress revealed the faintest tan lines. Your shoulders glistened slightly with sunscreen.

“Guess who just aced a test?” you declared, dropping onto the bench beside him with the smug energy of someone who knew the answer already. 

He blinked once. “Was the material challenging?”

You grinned. “For everyone else. I’m built different.”

The straw of your drink tapped against your lip before slipping past it. You sipped slowly, eyes half-lidded from the sun and satisfaction. The motion shouldn’t have meant anything.

But it reminded him of the video.

The angle of the woman’s neck.

The way her mouth parted just before she made that sound.

Your lips now, glistening with condensation and gloss.

He didn’t react. Not externally.

But his focus narrowed. Not quite arousal, but rather the slow, focused hum of awareness. The low thrum of tension coiling at the base of his spine.

Your legs crossed beneath the table. The hem of your dress hiked slightly higher. Smooth thigh, sun-warmed, visible in his periphery.

He thought of other thighs. The woman’s, in the video. The spread of her knees around a man’s waist. How her hips had flexed with purpose, how her breath hitched when she adjusted angle. He recalled the way the man had anchored her, hands steady at her waist, just like he imagined doing to you.

He looked away.

Your knee bumped his. “You’re unusually quiet,” you said, voice lilting with amusement. “What are you thinking about?”

He turned to you. His eyes swept over you once, deliberately. The slope of your chest, the sheen of sunscreen on your shoulder, the small flecks of condensation dripping down your plastic cup.

You noticed. Your grin widened.

“Wakatoshi,” you said in mock-gasp, “are you checking me out?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

You blinked.

Then blinked again. “That... might be the most honest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He nodded once, serious. “Your choice of clothing emphasizes your physical features. It is difficult not to notice.”

You laughed a little too loud, delighted. “Well, thank you, I guess?”

He said nothing, returning to his textbook. Or appearing to. He turned a page. Didn’t register a single word.

You were closer now. Your leg brushing against his with deliberate inconsistency. Your scent—some powdery, floral thing—hung faint in the humid air. Your fingers toyed with the straw in your cup, swirling the ice in slow circles.

Focus enhancement, the article had said. Improved clarity, reduced stress.

But all he could feel was heat.

Your thigh, warm against his.

The condensation sliding down your cup.

The curve of your lips.

He flipped the page again. Still didn’t read it.

His body was focused.

His mind was not.

The student center was full of controlled chaos. Some dozen folding tables lined with pamphlets, half-eaten cookies, branded water bottles, and way too many undergrads pretending to care about neuroplasticity for the sake of extra credit. Wakatoshi and Tendou were among them.

It smelled faintly of instant coffee and dry-erase markers. Somewhere near the back, a T.A. was trying to explain the Stroop effect to a small crowd clearly just there for the attendance sheet.

Wakatoshi stood off to the side, as immobile as a coat rack, a polite but uninviting expression on his face.

He had come because their psychology professor promised a small participation boost to their lowest test score, and Tendou had framed it as “a social exposure experiment,” which—given the turnout—seemed accurate. People everywhere. Movement. Light too bright overhead.

He did not like events.

And yet, he stayed.

Because he needed the extra grade bump. And also because you were here.

You didn’t have to be. The bump in your grade would be negligible. You didn’t need the extra credit. You didn’t even sign in when you arrived. But you showed up anyway, a little breathless, your lanyard askew and your eyes searching the room until they landed on him.

He looked away immediately. 

Now you were across the atrium, surrounded by three different people from your psych lab, laughing, gesturing, sipping something from a compostable cup. A club officer tried to hand you a flyer; you took it with a smile and didn’t even glance at it.

As always, you were dressed in your usual immaculate fashion. A white skirt with a black halterneck top that clung to your figure. For a change, you were wearing dark brown loafers.

“You’re going to burn a hole through her face,” Tendou said beside him.

Wakatoshi blinked. “What?”

Tendou took a loud sip of his drink. “You’ve been staring at her for the past five minutes. Maybe more. I stopped counting.”

“I’m not staring,” Wakatoshi said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Tendou raised a brow. “I can see your pupils dilate.”

Wakatoshi glanced back toward you. You were laughing now, head thrown back, touching someone’s arm without hesitation. Friendly. Unaware.

“She’s popular,” he said, more to himself than to Tendou.

“Mhmm,” Tendou hummed. “Smart. Funny. Hot. The trifecta. Everyone likes her.”

Wakatoshi didn’t respond. He just kept watching how easily people gravitated toward you, how you never looked uncomfortable, how you didn’t need anyone but still drew them in.

“She talks to everyone,” he said eventually, like it was something that needed justifying.

“But she wants you,” Tendou replied, grinning. “And you’ve got it so bad, it’s adorable.”

Wakatoshi frowned. “It’s not adorable.”

“Sure it is. You go all silent and broody and start using bigger words when she’s around.”

“I always use precise language.”

Tendou leaned forward, grinning, resting his arm on Wakatoshi’s shoulder. “You know what your problem is?”

Wakatoshi looked at him.

“You think you’re supposed to be unaffected. But you’re not. You’re just slow to act.”

Wakatoshi’s gaze drifted back to you. You were glancing over now, eyes scanning the gym. Searching. For someone. For him?

His posture shifted slightly. He looked away.

“I didn’t want to assume she meant it,” he said, quietly.

Tendou snorted. “Wakatoshi, she has literally told me verbatim that she wants to suck you dry. If that doesn’t mean that she likes you, then I don’t know what does.”

Wakatoshi didn’t argue. The image of you gazing up at him from between his thighs while you took him in your mouth was a pleasant one, something he’s referenced from one of the videos Tendou sent a few nights ago. He was also still thinking about how your hand had brushed his yesterday. Accidental, probably. But warm. And how he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“She asked me out three times,” he said finally.

Tendou raised a brow. “And you said no every time.”

“I wasn’t sure if she meant it.”

Tendou gave him a look. “Dude.”

Wakatoshi’s fingers tapped the corner of his textbook. “I thought maybe she wanted something else.”

“And now?”

“I think…” He trailed off. Then tried again. “I think I want to try. Dating. With her.”

Tendou nodded, uncharacteristically serious for a beat. “So what’s stopping you?”

“I do not know how to start.”

Tendou smiled like the cat who’d just watched the mouse walk into a trap. “Simple. You go over there, you say something slightly cryptic, and when she looks at you with those big eyes like you just said something wild, you double down.”

“That does not sound efficient.”

“It’s not. It’s called flirting.”

“I am not good at that.”

“Which is why it’ll be funny. For me.”

Wakatoshi gave him a sidelong glance. “This is serious.”

Tendou just grinned. “Exactly why you should stop thinking and do it. You’re not gonna logic your way into her pants.”

Wakatoshi frowned. “I do not want to start there.”

“Oh my god.” Tendou laughed, slapping his knee. “You do like her.”

“I am ninety percent sure.”

Tendou let out a whistle. “Dude. That’s basically marriage for you.”

Wakatoshi didn’t respond. He was watching you again. You had spotted him, finally, and now your face lit up—just slightly—as you waved in his direction.

Tendou nudged his shoulder. “Go. Talk to her. Tell her you want to evaluate compatibility or whatever freaky system you’ve come up with. Give me nephews.”

Wakatoshi didn’t answer.

He watched you. Your smile, your wave, the casual way you stood like you weren’t waiting for him, but would still welcome him.

Then he stood. And walked.

You leaned back, settling atop a desk casually in an empty seminar room to kill some time before the incentivized event ended, the neckline of your tank top shifting just slightly. Wakatoshi noticed. Not in the way Tendou would notice—leering or laughing or elbowing someone about it—but in the way a person notices a shift in weather. A measurable change.

The fabric dipped. Your skin caught the light.

He stared.

Not long. Just for less than a second. But it was enough that he had to reorient himself.

You were speaking again—something about your professor, the new people you befriended, how you hadn’t looked over the lecture slides for the upcoming test—and he was nodding, not really following. His attention had turned to the slope of your shoulder, the curve behind your knee.

He thought, absurdly, about friction. Skin against skin. Pressure and release.

His shorts were not helping. He strategically lowered his textbook above his lap.

“So,” you said, turning toward him, “what’s new with you?”

Wakatoshi hesitated.

He could not, in good conscience, say nothing. That would be a lie.

Over the past week, he had learned four anatomical terms, watched four hours of educational pornography, and orgasmed to the mental image of your thighs framing his hips. He had also updated his spreadsheet of training metrics to include a “stress relief” category. 

“New recovery methods,” he said finally, setting the textbook down beside you on the table.

You perked up. “Oh? Like ice baths?”

“No.”

“Supplements?”

“No.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Then what?”

He paused again. A long, deliberate pause.

“Private methods.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

He did not elaborate.

You stared at him, trying to decide if he was joking. He wasn’t. Wakatoshi didn’t joke around. He looked you dead in the eye, calm and unreadable.

“Okay, now I have to know.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on,” you laughed, nudging his arm. “You’re dying to tell me. I can tell.”

“I am not dying,” he said evenly.

“Then tell me.”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. Your mouth curved into a teasing smile. There was a freckle on your shoulder he hadn’t noticed before. He wanted to touch it. That was new.

You waited for him to answer, head tilted, fingers brushing your knee in idle curiosity. Your skin gleamed faintly in the light, and he tracked the motion like a study in momentum.

His silence stretched.

You weren’t uncomfortable. That was another anomaly. Most people squirmed when he didn’t respond right away; rushed to fill the quiet. But you didn’t. You waited.

It made things worse. Or clearer. He hadn’t decided which. Maybe it was both.

“I don’t usually discuss these things,” he said at last, each word chosen with the same care he used selecting pregame meals. “But you seem to ask often.”

“Well, yeah,” you said, laughing. “I like you.”

You said it so easily. Again. Like always.

He had assumed, initially, that you were joking. A flirt, like Tendou said. Or maybe you wanted something. But it had been weeks. Months. And you still looked at him like that. Like he was interesting. Like you knew something he didn’t.

“That is inefficient,” he said slowly.

Your brows lifted. “Me liking you?”

“No.” He hesitated. “Me ignoring it.”

You blinked. The pause that followed was not the usual kind of awkward or empty silence. It was loud. Compressed. Like the air between two magnets about to collide.

“Wait,” you said, voice lower now. “Are you saying you like me back?”

He didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you. At the freckle, again, and your thigh angled toward him, and the slope of your collarbone. None of that was the point. But all of it was part of the calculation.

He considered this, briefly, like an itemized entry in a training log. An observation. A response. A possible next step.

You were still smiling at him, like this was a game. You always smiled like that: half-challenge, half-invitation. Like you expected him to flirt back. Like you thought he knew how.

He didn’t. But he did know how to act on a conclusion.

So he said, “I think I would like to touch you.”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

He watched you carefully. This was the point in most scenarios—he had researched—that determined success or failure. Consent. Mutual interest. Communication. He had memorized the checklist.

“I have thought about it,” he added. His voice was steady, factual. “Extensively.”

You stared at him.

He continued, unbothered. “I have also concluded that dating you would be beneficial to my emotional and physical health.”

“…Wakatoshi,” you said, quiet, stunned.

“I would prefer to proceed with intention,” he added, with a seriousness that took your breath away. “That includes physical intimacy.”

You exhaled, barely a sound. “And this is… you asking me out?”

“Yes,” he said plainly. “I like you.”

You didn’t speak. You only looked at him—really looked—eyes wide, the corners of your mouth twitching like you didn’t know whether to laugh or melt.

“Took you long enough,” you smiled.

“I apologize for not acting sooner. I wanted to confirm my feelings.”

Then your fingers brushed his wrist. Deliberate. Light. Just contact.

His eyes dropped to the place where your skin met his. His hand moved. His fingers twitched, almost brushing against your own.

“May I touch you?” he asked.

The question should have felt clinical. It didn’t. It felt loaded.

You nodded.

He moved slowly, like he wasn’t sure how. Like he’d visualized this but hadn’t yet tested it. His hand came to rest just above your knee, fingers spread wide over warm skin. He didn’t grope or squeeze. He just placed it there, letting his thumbs brush over your skin. Experimental.

You inhaled sharply.

He studied your face, gauging. “Is this alright?”

You nodded again. “Yes,” you managed. You looked at him, noting the focus in his expression. “You’ve planned this?” You smiled teasingly.

“Not precisely,” he admitted. “But I accounted for the possibility.”

You laughed, but it came out shaky. He was still watching you, expression unreadable but locked in. You could feel the heat of his hand through your skin like a pulse.

“If I kissed you,” he said, “would that be acceptable?”

“Wakatoshi, I’ve been waiting for you to do that for months.”

“I apologize for keeping you—”

But you’re leaning in and pulling him down to meet your lips before he can even finish. He tensed at first, unsure, but leaned in.

It wasn’t tentative, not clumsy, but direct. His mouth met yours with the same single-minded gravity he brought to everything. No flourish. Just pressure. Heat. A low hum in his chest as his other hand came to your jaw.

It wasn’t perfect. It was a little stiff. A little uncertain. But it was Wakatoshi.

He pulled back. “Was that acceptable?”

You stared at him, breathless. “More than.”

“I would like to continue.”

“Then continue,” you said, already leaning in again.

So he did.

This time, there was less hesitation. His hand was still on your knee, but it slid higher. An incremental move, like testing grip strength. You kissed him again, and again, and then your fingers curled around the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

The seminar room was quiet, lit only by the dim, fluorescents buzzing overhead. The chairs were stacked in rows, long tables pushed to the side for the event cleanup later. You were seated on one, and he stood between your knees.

You tasted like something sharp and sweet. Lip gloss, maybe, or the iced coffee you’d finished earlier. Maybe both. His mind noted it, catalogued it, and then pushed it aside to focus on your tongue sliding against his.

Your hands were on him now. First his shoulders. Then his chest. Then lower. And then—

You pulled him in by the belt loops of his pants.

It made no sense. He had studied this kind of contact—read about it, watched demonstrations, dissected techniques on seedy Reddit threads—but none of it compared to the real thing: your thighs wrapping around his hips, your hips lifting, your mouth dragging open against his.

He groaned. Out loud. Startled at himself.

You felt it too, your smile breaking the kiss just slightly, breathing fast, flushed. “Oh,” you whispered, voice light and delighted, “that’s new.”

He was not embarrassed. He was, however, beginning to understand why people talked about being undone.

“May I lift your shirt?” he asked, blunt as ever.

Your answer was to tug it over your head yourself.

That undid him more than anything else. He stared openly at the skin, curve, freckle. You had no bra on and he couldn’t look away. His hand tentatively lingered over your breasts, and with a nod from you, he cupped them.

He watched with fascination as the flesh gave way to his fingers’ grip. He squeezed it, wondering how it was possible for someone to be this soft, before his calloused fingers pinched and squeezed at your nipples, earning a whimper from you.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

In response, your legs tightened around his waist. He was hard now—painfully, obviously—and he ground against you before he could stop himself.

Then your hands slid down to his hips and pulled him closer again.

It was friction. Pressure. Fabric and heat and instinct. He could feel the wet patch underneath your white skirt. He saw a flash of your black panties when your skirt rode up. You rutted against him once, twice, until he had to brace himself on the table to keep from—

“Stop,” he said, hoarse. “I might—”

“You won’t,” you whispered, kissing down his neck, “unless you want to.”

He didn’t answer. Just kissed you again. Messier, now, mouth open, hands sliding up your sides with reverence and intensity.

Then the door clicked open.

“Hey, Wakatoshi, how’s the confession going—” Tendou's voice was bright, unbothered. Then he saw you. On the table. Shirtless. Wrapped around his best friend like a koala on a tree.

Silence.

Then, in a flat tone: “Wrap your manaconda.”

The door shut again.

Hard.

You buried your face in Wakatoshi’s shoulder. “Oh my god.”

Wakatoshi stared at the door. Then at you with a frown. “He didn’t knock.”

You were shaking now, from laughter or mortification, he couldn’t tell. “Manaconda,” you gasped. “Jesus.”

“I do not understand the reference.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you mumbled, pulling him down for another kiss. 

“You know,” Tendou said later that evening, kicking Wakatoshi’s door shut with his heel and tossing a convenience store snack bag onto his desk, “I thought I’d walk in on you two talking. Maybe even holding hands if you were feeling freaky. But no. I get full frontal boob grab.” He flopped dramatically onto Wakatoshi’s bed with a bag of chips. “I am traumatized.”

Wakatoshi said nothing. He was sitting at his desk, freshly showered and now in sweatpants and a sweater, typing a post-practice log into his spreadsheet like nothing happened. His posture was normal. His pulse was not.

Tendou watched him for a beat, tearing open a bag of chips. “So?”

“So what.”

“So how was it?”

Wakatoshi paused in his typing. “She consented.”

Tendou snorted. “Okay, Captain Consent. I mean was it good. You know. Satisfying. Emotional. Earth-shattering. Did you see God?”

Wakatoshi turned to look at him. “I do not believe in God.”

“Okay, but if you did, did He wink at you from behind her boobs?”

A pause. “She is soft. It surprised me.”

“Oh my god.” Tendou popped some chips in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “So, hold on. You’re dating now?”

“I asked,” Wakatoshi said evenly. “She agreed.”

“You asked. What did you say? Wait, no. Lemme guess. ‘You appear to be compatible. Would you like to commence regular intercourse and emotional cohabitation?’”

“I said I think I would like to touch her. Then I said I like her.”

Tendou rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “You know, if it were any other guy but you, that approach would’ve resulted in a taser and nut kick combo with a visit to the ER.”

Wakatoshi didn’t respond. He was still typing.

Tendou sat up. “You’re not even embarrassed I walked in on you mid-mating press?”

“It was inconvenient,” Wakatoshi said, voice flat. “You did not knock.”

“I didn’t think I had to!” Tendou looked affronted, sitting up from Wakatoshi’s bed. “You’re the one who told me you were just going to ‘talk’ to her.”

“We did talk.”

“Cool, cool. Just making sure ‘talk’ now covers shirtless makeouts, desk fucking, and potential expulsion.”

Wakatoshi’s brow furrowed. “She removed her own shirt.”

“Oh my God.”

Silence fell again, broken only by the soft creak of the bed when Tendou rose to stand. He walked over to sit beside Wakatoshi on the desk, chin propped in his hand. “So. When are you gonna do it?”

Wakatoshi paused. “Do what?”

“You know.” 

Wakatoshi blinked. “We already kissed.”

“Not that. I mean full sex. P-in-V Olympics. Are you gonna let her ride the manaconda express?”

Wakatoshi turned his chair fully to face him. “I do not understand the metaphor.”

Tendou sighed. “I mean, are you gonna have sex?”

Wakatoshi looked thoughtful. “Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

“I want to ensure I am adequately prepared,” Wakatoshi said. “And that she remains comfortable. It was a public space. I did not have condoms with me, so I did not proceed.”

Tendou looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded. “You’re disgustingly responsible. I’m proud of you.”

Wakatoshi turned back to his spreadsheet. “Thank you.”

Tendou paused again. His brows furrowed as he leaned in to read Wakatoshi’s laptop screen.  “Wait, stress relief is the new column?”

“Yes.”

“I knew you were jerking off to her.”

Wakatoshi didn’t flinch. “Frequently.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Wakatoshi knew you’d be in his dorm room, but he wasn’t expecting this.

When he walked into his room, he immediately noticed a few things that were off. First, the lights were off save for his desk lamp, bathing the room in warm sensual lighting. Second, the room smelled faintly of sweet powder and vanilla, with hints of your signature shampoo scent wafting about. And third, you.

You were sitting on his bed like a doll. Legs crossed by the knee, leading up to a white miniskirt, a black top with a deep cut that dipped into your cleavage, and freshly styled hair. Your lips were glossy, curled up into a pretty little smile as soon as you made eye contact with him. Your hair was styled in its usual fashion, framing your face.

“Hi, Toshi,” you cooed softly.

Wakatoshi stood in the doorway a moment too long.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, taking in the scene like it was a foreign diagram he hadn’t studied yet. Your perfume—vanilla and something floral—was faint, but deliberate. The shirt was new. Or at least he hadn’t seen it before. And your thighs, bare from the hem of your skirt down to your knees, were glossy in the warm light, like you’d applied something there too.

“Did you come from an event?” he asked.

You laughed softly. “No, Toshi.”

He frowned. “You’re dressed differently than usual.”

You tilted your head, letting the motion expose more of your neck. “Do you like it?”

His eyes flicked down, then back up. “Yes.”

You patted the bed beside you. “Come sit with me.”

He shut the door. Locked it. The soft click made your stomach flutter.

He sat carefully, almost formally, beside you. The bed dipped under his weight, and the back of his hand brushed your thigh by accident. Or maybe not by accident, depending on whether Wakatoshi had started recognizing intention in contact.

“You oiled your legs,” he said after a beat, voice low and neutral.

Your smile widened. “I did.”

He nodded once, then looked down at them again. “They’re very smooth.”

Your fingers slid over his beefy arm, slow, featherlight. “You can touch them if you want.”

His large hand rested on your shin first, then slid up with slow precision. Not lustful, but studious. But not detached, either. You could see it in his eyes. That shift. The recognition. You’d made yourself pretty for him, and he was starting to understand why.

His fingertips brushed the hem of your skirt.

You leaned in close, until your lips were just a breath from his. “Do you want me, Wakatoshi?”

“Yes.”

Your hand trailed up his chest, fingers splaying over his sternum. “Then let me show you how much I want you.”

He didn’t move when you kissed him. At first.

Then his hands found your waist, grounding you. His mouth opened to yours, not desperate, but searching. Focused. You deepened the kiss and he responded with a low hum in his chest, like something in him was finally catching up to your pace.

His eyes fluttered shut, then opened again, like he kept forgetting whether he was supposed to close them. He wasn’t used to kissing like this, with no end goal except the kiss itself. So he looked at you instead. Just to check. Just to make sure you were still there. Still letting him.

You swung a leg over his lap and settled on top of him, your skirt riding high. His eyes dropped to the exposed skin between your hips and thighs, then back up to your face.

“Are you trying to initiate sex?” he asked bluntly.

You blinked, then laughed, breathy and warm. “Yeah, baby. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

He nodded. “I thought so.”

His hands moved to your hips, steady and certain now. “I’ve prepared. I read about foreplay. And different positions. I bought condoms. And washed the sheets this morning.”

That made you pause. Then you smiled, sweet and wide.

“You’re so cute, Toshi.”

“I’m thorough,” he corrected.

You kissed him again, and this time, his hands slid up your thighs, under your skirt. His fingers brushed along the hem of your panties, pausing.

“Can I take these off?” he murmured.

Your answer was a whispered yes, your hips already lifting.

And with that, he pulled them down, slow and careful, his breath catching when he saw the soft glisten between your thighs.

“You’re aroused.”

“Very.”

His fingers trailed between your legs, experimentally. “You’re warm. And wet.”

Your head dropped to his shoulder as you gasped. “Toshi, please—”

“I’m ready,” he said softly.

You pulled back to look at him. His eyes were calm, serious, but dark with something new. Want. Something reverent.

“You’re sure?” you asked.

“I want to make you feel good. I’ve been preparing.”

You kissed him again, deep and slow, before reaching for the waistband of his sweats.

It was slow. Warm. Less practiced than usual. He let you take the lead, following your pace, your pressure, your rhythm. You tasted like mint and want, and when your hand slid up under his shirt to feel the heat of his stomach, he inhaled sharply through his nose.

“I want to take your shirt off,” you whispered.

“Okay.”

You did. You helped him pull the material over his head and drop it to the floor. He watched you the entire time, still and quiet, but not tense. He was focused and composed in a way that made your own pulse race harder.

When you reached for your own shirt, he stopped you.

“I want to do it.”

You swallowed and let your arms fall to your sides.

He peeled it slowly from your body, his fingers brushing the curve of your skin as the fabric lifted. He was careful, almost reverent. When your shirt slipped off your shoulders and hit the bed, his breath caught just slightly.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said.

“You’ve told me that before.”

“I meant it every time.”

Your lips parted. Your chest felt tight.

Then his hands found your waist and pulled you into his lap.

And just like that, the atmosphere shifted.

Wakatoshi didn’t fumble. He didn’t hesitate. Once his mind was made up, he was absolute. His hands were large, warm, firm against your hips as you straddled him. You could feel him growing hard beneath you, pressing through the fabric, the friction already making you ache.

He leaned forward, kissed the hollow of your throat.

Then your collarbone.

Then lower.

You were in his lap, warm and soft and trusting. He could feel your breath against his collarbone, your weight balanced carefully on him, as though you were letting yourself settle into the idea of being his. His hand followed the curve of your waist with measured pressure, memorizing the line of your body. The other traced your back slowly, charting the slope of your spine like he was training muscle memory.

He kissed your collarbone, then the upper swell of your breast. He worshipped your body like it was a sacred temple he dared not desecrate. He had thought about this. Thought about the mechanics of it. About respect, about care. About the weight of what it meant for you to offer yourself like this. The gravity of sharing your body with him.

Your thighs tightened against him. 

“Toshi,” you murmured, fingers in his hair. “You don’t have to go this slow. I want this.”

He paused.

“I know,” he said. That much was clear. He did know. He had known since he saw you sitting on his bed earlier, all intention and want. But knowing what you wanted didn’t silence the internal caution he had spent days cultivating.

“I’m still thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

He looked up at you. “You’re important to me.”

That truth settled in his chest like a weighted plate. Solid. Definite in the way Wakatoshi Ushijima always operated.

You froze. He registered the shift in your breathing, the surprise in your expression. You hadn’t expected him to say that. At least, not in that way, not now. But he meant it. And if he was going to take this step with you, it had to be with the full weight of intention.

“I read that the first time will hurt for you,” he added. “But I don’t want to do anything that will hurt you.”

He didn’t know how to say that the idea of you in pain—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally—felt antithetical to everything he wanted this moment to be. He couldn’t separate the physical from the emotional. That was never how he operated.

You rested your forehead on his. It was comforting. Reassuring.

“I wouldn’t let you do anything I didn’t want,” you murmured softly, cupping his cheek.

“I know,” he said again, quieter now. “But I’ve never done this before. I want to do it right. For you.”

Your expression changed. There was something vulnerable in the way you looked at him then, like you understood how seriously he was taking this, and you were trying to carry some of the weight with him.

“I know I flirt a lot,” you started, voice wobbling slightly. “I tease you. I play around.”

He didn’t react. Not externally. But internally, he logged that. Noted it as context, because he’d never thought of your flirting as unserious. He had just taken it at face value.

“I say shit I probably shouldn’t. But I was dead serious when I said I wanted you.”

You were nervous. That was clear. But you didn’t stop.

“I’ve been thinking about this since… God, since the first time I saw you during one of your games when you were still at Shiratorizawa. You walked into the court and I remember thinking, Yeah, I’d let him ruin me.”

His brain snagged on that. Ruin?

“Ruin you?” he repeated, puzzled. He wasn’t offended, just confused. The word was incongruent with the idea of care.

“Yeah.” You gave a breathy laugh. “Like… if you’d wanted me bent over a stray bench right then and there, I’d have done it without complaint and thanked you for it.”

He blinked. That image was not helpful. You’d meant it as a joke—maybe half a joke—but his mind couldn’t dismiss the sincerity underneath. Maybe he’d take you up on it next time.

You bit your lip. “What I’m saying I’ve wanted you,” you murmured. “Bad. For a long time. I need you. Just you.”

He was silent as he absorbed that. No filter. No euphemisms. Just the truth, bare and unflinching. He could understand that. He respected that.

“Even though you’re a virgin?” he asked. It wasn’t judgment. 

“So are you,” you retorted with a pouty frown. He was tempted to kiss it off your lips.

He nodded. “Yes. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

There was a pause.

“Unless I ask you to,” you added, with a smirk.

His face flushed. Visibly. He could feel the heat blooming across his cheeks and down his neck.

“I see.”

You took his hand and guided it up your thigh. He didn’t resist. Your skin was smooth. Warm. Like silk.

“I waxed everything,” you said bluntly. “Put on my best panties. Styled my hair. You think I’d do all that if I didn’t want to be touched?”

He didn’t pull away. His hand stayed right where you’d placed it, resting on that impossible border between control and surrender.

“I want to touch you,” he said honestly. “I want to learn how to make you feel good. But I don’t want to get it wrong.”

You leaned in closer, wrapped your arms around his shoulders, voice hushed and sinful against his ear.

“Toshi,” you whispered, “You won’t. I’ll let you know if it feels uncomfortable. So, can we please continue?”

Wakatoshi let out a breath, the air between you growing thick with tension. 

“...Okay.”

His hands gripped your waist gently, guiding you down onto the bed, his lips finding yours in a soft, lingering kiss. He wasn’t rushing this. He was giving you space, letting you dictate the pace.

But you wanted more. You needed more.

You pulled him down with you, wrapping your arms around him, feeling the hard heat of him against you, and in that moment, it was clear that he was ready. And so were you.

“Now, Toshi,” you whispered against his lips, your fingers digging into his back. “Make me feel you.”

Wakatoshi didn’t move away after you told him not to stop. If anything, he settled in deeper, shifting between your thighs with more purpose, like something had clicked into place. This was no longer just experimentation. He wanted to make you feel good, wanted to understand you. Wanted to perfect this.

He kissed you again, but slower this time. Not rushed, not hesitant. He wasn’t doing this to get to the next step. This was the step. He ran his tongue flat and deliberate over your clit, then did it again, and again, learning what made you twitch, what made your hips jump slightly off the bed. And when he found it—that subtle little motion that made your thighs tighten around his head—he stayed there.

You weren’t used to being seen like this. Certainly not with your skirt pushed up, your panties peeled off and tossed aside, legs spread wide and trembling slightly, with Wakatoshi Ushijima, of all people, calmly devouring you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His grip on your thighs was firm, not possessive, just… anchored. Holding you in place like this was his job. His mouth didn’t let up. He sucked softly, then licked again, his tongue moving with slow, methodical pressure. When you gasped and clutched at the pillow, his eyes flicked up—checking, always checking—like he was memorizing the exact angle, the pressure, the rhythm that made your voice crack.

You couldn’t stop shaking. You’d been trying to seduce him, to make him break first, but now you were the one unraveling, flushed and whimpering. Your thighs quivered around his head, but he didn’t budge. In fact, he dug in like a wandering traveler meeting an oasis.

He moved lower, mouth hot and wet as he dragged his tongue down your folds, then back up, then circled that sensitive spot again until you moaned without meaning to. His fingers finally came back into play, spreading you open with gentle precision. His thumb moved to help him get better access, and then one thick finger eased inside, curling just right.

You gasped again, voice trembling. “Fuck, Toshi—”

He paused. “Is that good?”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. His face was still between your legs, brows drawn in mild concern, lips glossy with arousal. He was deadly serious.

You almost laughed. But your body was too busy reacting, nerves lit up like wire.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “It’s really good.”

He nodded like it was a technical adjustment, then resumed with renewed focus. He added a second finger, slow and deliberate, keeping his mouth firmly on your clit while he pumped them in and out of you with a rhythm that grew steadier and more confident. He moaned softly into you once, just a small exhale through his nose, and the sound sent a shiver up your spine. Like he liked doing this. Like he liked how you tasted, how you moved against his face, how you were dripping for him.

You fisted the sheets again, this time in surrender. “Toshi, I—if you keep going, I’m gonna—”

“Please do,” he murmured. His voice was calm, almost clinical, but with a deep sincerity that made your stomach flip. He met your gaze with those earnest olive green eyes, hooded with something that can only be described as devotion and awe. “I want to see it.”

And you broke.

It rolled through you fast, sharp and hot, and you cried out as you came, thighs clamping tight around his head. He didn’t stop. If anything, he flattened his tongue against you, riding out your orgasm with precise strokes, making sure you didn’t come down too quickly.

When your body finally slackened, trembling and spent, Wakatoshi eased back, licking his lips absently as he stared up at you with a dazed kind of reverence. He watched the valley of your breasts heave up and down, glistening with sweat.

Your breath was ragged, and you couldn’t even look at him right away.

“Are you okay?” he asked, still kneeling between your legs, hair mussed slightly, lips pink and swollen. His fingers rubbed soothing circles on your thighs.

You finally blinked up at him, flushed and breathless. “I… didn’t take you for a munch.”

He tilted his head. “I don’t know what that means.”

You were still breathing heavily, chest rising and falling, limbs relaxed against the sheets. But Wakatoshi didn’t move yet. Not toward the nightstand, not toward you. He just watched.

Your skin was flushed. Your thighs trembled when he brushed his fingers over them. You looked sated, but not done.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then brought his fingers to your entrance again, slow and careful. He was testing. Assessing.

You were still slick. Warm. But your walls clenched reflexively around him when he pressed two fingers in again, and that made him pause.

Tight.

He furrowed his brow slightly, focused. You’d taken him before—his fingers—but not for long. And not anything more than that. He didn’t want to hurt you.

He curled his fingers gently, watching the way your breath caught again. You whined, softly, hips shifting to meet his hand. But even so, he felt resistance. Not enough stretch yet. Not comfortably.

You need more.

So he gave it to you.

Slowly. Gently. He kept his fingers buried deep, curling them slightly in time with each slow withdrawal, easing you open bit by bit. His thumb brushed along your clit again, not with the same intensity as before, but enough to keep you soft, responsive, welcoming.

You moaned again. Not sharp like earlier. Lower. Deeper. Content.

His focus didn’t waver. He counted his strokes. Paid attention to your heat, the angle of your hips, how easily his fingers moved now. You were loosening. That was good. You were relaxing into it.

When your thighs opened wider and you gave a breathy little, “Toshi, mm—yeah,” he finally pulled back, satisfied.

He reached toward the nightstand where he’d placed the box Tendou had insisted—pushed—he buy.

Just in case, Tendou had said, all smirks and too much eyebrow. Get the good ones. And the lube. Even if she’s soaked, it’s insurance. You’re too big to risk being a dumbass.

So Wakatoshi had bought the box. The lubricant too. Unopened, until now.

He grabbed the pack, tore one off the strip, and was just about to tear it open when—

“Wait—!”

Your voice. Sharp. Not afraid, not alarmed, just fast, urgent.

He looked at you.

You were sitting up slightly, flushed and panting, your thighs still spread, but your hand had come up to lightly touch his wrist. Not to stop him completely. Just to pause him.

You looked up at him, lips swollen from biting, voice smaller this time. “I wanted to suck you off first.”

He blinked. “Oh.”

For a moment, he genuinely didn’t know what to do with that. The logic train derailed.

“I thought,” he said, brows creasing slightly as he looked at the condom in his hand, “we were going to—”

“We are,” you said, dragging your fingers slowly down his forearm. “But I want to. First.”

Wakatoshi stared at you.

He’d been focused on sequencing—Step one, prepare you. Step two, protection. Step three, penetration—with care and precision, of course. He hadn’t accounted for detours.

You shifted onto your elbows and looked up at him with something between amusement and affection. “I’ve been thinking about it all week,” you added softly, fingers drifting toward his waistband.

He inhaled, sharp and quiet.

There was still logic to this. He’d read about oral sex in his research. Tendou had mentioned it too, though in less helpful terms. It wasn’t required for penetration, but it was part of foreplay. Could increase comfort and arousal. Could help.

But that wasn’t how you were framing it.

You didn’t say it was necessary. You said you wanted to.

Your fingers hooked in his waistband now, tugging gently.

His cock twitched at the contact. Painfully hard. He realized he was still in his boxers—how had that not come off yet? His erection pressed awkwardly against the fabric, leaking against the cotton, staining it black, and your hand brushed right over the damp spot.

Wakatoshi swallowed.

“…Okay,” he said finally, voice a little rougher than before. “If you want to.”

You gave him a look, half smug, half tender. “I really want to.”

That did something strange to his stomach. Tightened it. Not fear. Not nervousness. Just weight. Heavy with want.

He handed you the condom packet and sat back on his heels, watching as you slowly pulled his boxers down, breath catching when his cock sprang free. It was thick, flushed, already leaking. He kept himself neatly trimmed.

You licked your lips.

Wakatoshi felt his breath stutter.

He shifted back, settling against the headboard, thighs spread slightly, one hand resting on his own knee as the other gripped the base of his cock automatically. It was an instinct, more than anything, like he needed something to anchor him while he watched you move.

You crawled forward between his legs, bare and flushed and hungry, your eyes flicking up at him through your lashes like you were savoring the look on his face.

He wasn’t sure what his face looked like.

Probably tense. Or too still.

But inside, he wasn’t still at all.

Your fingers brushed his, taking over the grip at the base of his cock, and Wakatoshi let go without hesitation, watching with laser focus as you wrapped your hand around him. His hips jerked slightly when you stroked just once, testing the weight of him, the thickness, the wet bead of precum gathering at the tip.

You leaned in, and he held his breath.

Your mouth was warm. So warm.

Your lips took the tip in at first, tongue dragging slow and deliberate across the slit, collecting moisture, tasting him. Wakatoshi’s whole body stiffened.

His breath left him in one quiet exhale. “Ah—”

You moaned around the head, like you were the one enjoying it, and he felt the sound as much as he heard it. vibration and heat pulsing directly through his spine.

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare to. Just sat there and watched you slowly take more of him in, your pretty lips stretching wider, your eyes fluttering closed as you sank lower.

Too tight. Too warm. Too much.

He grit his teeth, nostrils flaring as your hand stroked in time with your mouth, twisting slightly at the base while you sucked at the head.

It didn’t feel like what he’d expected.

He’d read about it. Watched things. Heard Tendou talk. But this was different. This was overwhelming. This was you. Your mouth, your hands, the obscene wet sound of it, the way your jaw moved as you tried to take more of him, even though you had to pull back after a few seconds, panting, saliva stringing from your lips to his cock.

You didn’t look embarrassed. You looked ravenous.

He groaned low in his chest, not meaning to, hand sliding into your hair before he realized what he was doing. He didn’t push. Just held you there, fingers twitching slightly as you licked up the side of him, tongue tracing a vein with the same kind of precision he used on you. Focused. Exacting.

You wanted to make him feel good.

And you were.

“Don’t stop,” he said, low and sharp, voice cracking slightly on the end.

You didn’t. You just smiled a little, eyes gleaming as you took him back into your mouth. Deeper this time, your throat constricted slightly before you pulled back, swallowing around the head with a wet pop.

He bucked, hips lifting off the bed without permission.

Your hands steadied him, one gripping his thigh, the other wrapping around the base again, guiding him back into your mouth as you sucked harder this time. Slower, but firmer. Focused suction. Spiraling pressure. The kind of rhythm he felt building at the base of his spine, the kind that warned him he wouldn’t last long if you kept doing that—

He muttered your name, voice strained, head tipping back against the headboard. “Too—fuck—”

His abs clenched, legs trembling. Your name almost slipped from his mouth, but he bit it back, teeth grinding down on the groan instead as you moaned again, taking him so deep his vision blurred.

He wasn’t going to last.

You were too good at this. Too into it. Like you’d been imagining it for days. Like you liked the way he tasted. Like you liked watching him come apart.

He felt it rising. Fast. Hot.

But you pulled off just in time, breathless and slick-mouthed, stroking him with your hand while you looked up at him with flushed cheeks and a smug, ruined grin. A string of creamy drool connected your swollen lips to his angry tip.

“Toshi,” you breathed, thumb smearing pre-cum over the head. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

He nodded once, silent. His jaw clenched hard, trying to ground himself.

You licked a slow stripe up the underside of him, then kissed the tip. “Want you to cum in me next,” you said, and the words alone nearly broke him.

He reached blindly for the condom again, breath ragged, heartbeat in his throat. You were stroking him again, slower now, coaxing, keeping him right at the edge.

“I want to,” he said, more of a vow than an answer. “But if you don’t stop that, I’m going to come now.”

He was close. Too close.

Your hand was wrapped around him, slick and sure, your mouth red and wet, and his thighs were trembling from the effort not to thrust. His fingers had curled hard into the sheet at his sides, arm flexing, trying to ground himself, to last.

And then you pulled away.

Completely.

His eyes snapped open, a guttural sound catching in his throat, confusion and need ricocheting through him like a whipcrack.

You were still between his legs, flushed and panting, mouth kiss-bruised and shiny with spit, but your hand let go too. No more pressure. No more heat. Nothing.

Only the cold air against the wet skin of his cock and the thrum of unfinished release low in his abdomen.

His whole body twitched.

“…Why,” he asked, voice hoarse, “did you stop?”

You looked up at him with this petulant, desperate pout that didn’t match how wrecked you already looked. “I wanted you to cum inside me,” you said, breathless. “Not in my mouth.”

Wakatoshi blinked, head tipping slightly as if to recalibrate. He had the condom. He had reached for it already, the pack still sitting beside him on the bed. He’d planned on using it, just like Tendou said. Just like the article suggested. Just like you would probably expect.

But now you were looking at him like you were starving for it. Not just the sex. Him. Inside you.

“I’m ready,” you added, softly now. Still breathless. “You already prepped me. I can feel it.”

Wakatoshi was silent for a beat.

His chest rose with a slow inhale, like he needed more oxygen to think. He could still feel the lingering wet suction of your mouth, the heat of your hands, and the edge still sitting there, right at the base of his spine, aching to be chased down. But your voice. The way you said it—I wanted you to cum inside me—reset everything.

He reached for your hips and pulled you up without a word, his grip firm but not rough, guiding you until you were straddling him again, chest-to-chest.

You gasped softly as you settled over him, slick heat pressing flush to his length, your folds just barely brushing the underside of his cock. He hissed at the contact, hips jerking once, but didn’t push in yet. He was still fighting for control.

“You’re sure,” he asked, dead serious. “No condom?”

Your lips parted. “Yeah. Wan’ you, Toshi. Want to feel you.”

He nodded, hands tightening around your waist. He was hard and twitching under you, pulse thudding in every nerve ending, but he still took another breath.

“I won’t last long,” he admitted, low in your ear. “Not after that.”

You laughed, almost giddy. “I don’t care.”

And when you reached down to guide him to your entrance, he groaned—long and guttural—as your heat wrapped around the head.

Not yet all the way. 

He met your gaze, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Go slow.”

You were already gasping by the time just the tip slid in. His cock thick and heavy—the type that would have classified as a third misshapen leg—the blunt head stretching you wide with that first tight push. Your thighs were trembling as you tried to lower yourself more, but your body was fighting it, clenching up with every new inch.

Wakatoshi’s hands flexed at your hips. He wanted to help, but didn’t. Not yet. You were already flushed, brows drawn tight in focus, and the way your mouth fell open when you took even a little more of him—

He nearly came on the spot.

“Still good?” he asked, voice low and ragged.

You nodded quickly, even as your breath hitched. “Just… big. You’re really… big.”

He exhaled shakily through his nose, his grip tightening. That wasn’t the first time you’d said it, but now, buried inside you—not even halfway—it landed differently.

He had studied this. Had spent the night before rereading anatomical guides, looking up how deep the average vagina was, how girth affected stretch, how to angle properly. Had even bookmarked a diagram. Tendou had laughed himself stupid over it, but Wakatoshi had taken it seriously.

So now, when you whimpered as you lowered another inch and clenched hard around him, he took note of everything.

Temperature. Resistance. Lubrication. Your breathing. His own heart rate. The furrow of your brow.

“You don’t need to take it all at once,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “Go slow.”

“I am,” you whined, almost whimpering. “You’re just… a lot.”

He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to stay still as your walls squeezed him with near-painful pressure.

It took time. Minutes, not seconds. A part of him was worried that perhaps he should pull out and stop this if you couldn’t take it. You rocked your hips experimentally, trying to adjust, and he watched every small shift in your expression, every breathy curse, every twitch of your thighs as your body tried to take more of him.

He wanted to help. He needed to help.

“…Lift your legs,” he said suddenly.

You blinked down at him, eyes hooded. “What?”

“Your legs. Bend them back.”

He moved before you could argue, rolling the two of you carefully until your back hit the bed and he was above you again. His forearms caged you in, thick thighs braced between yours as he reached down, gently folding your legs up so your knees were pressed toward your chest, ankles hooked loosely over his shoulders.

“Mating press,” he said, voice a little breathless. “It increases the angle of penetration. And makes entry easier. Allegedly.”

“Did you seriously research this?”

“Yes.”

You laughed again, shaky and a little delirious, but when he rolled his hips just right, sliding in another inch, your laugh cut off with a moan.

Your legs quivered. “Oh my god. Toshi—yeah. That—keep doing that.”

Encouraged, he moved slowly, hips rocking forward, pulling back just slightly before easing in again. The position made you feel tighter, if that was even possible, and his breath started coming harder.

“You feel…” he gritted, trying to find the right word, “…hot. Wet. Tight.”

You clenched around him in response, and his arms shook slightly with restraint.

He bottomed out on the next push, inch by slow inch until your hips were flush, your thighs trembling, your whole body taut beneath him. You both froze.

He was fully inside.

It was overwhelming. Hot and pulsing and full. You could feel the twitch of every vein, the drag of every breath he took above you, and he could feel the flutter of your walls still adjusting, still gripping him tight like your body didn’t know what to do with all of him.

“I can stop—”

“Don’t,” you said immediately, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Just stay. Please.”

So he did.

He held still, trembling slightly from the strain, kissing the side of your neck while your body adapted. When he finally began to move again—slow and shallow thrusts at first—it was careful. Intentional. Methodical, like everything else he did.

And then you moaned—soft and stunned—and something inside him snapped.

He moved faster. Not rough, but deeper, his hips rolling with new precision as he angled his thrusts toward that spot he’d read about. The one just under the front wall, 1–3 inches in, most sensitive with simultaneous clitoral stimulation.

He didn’t need to touch your clit, though. You were already unraveling, hips rocking up to meet him, nails scraping lightly down his back as you choked out his name.

“Fuck, Toshi—”

He groaned in response, fucking into you harder now, fully locked into the rhythm, eyes fixed on where your bodies met. You were so wet it dripped down his shaft with every thrust, slick and obscene, soaking the sheets under you both.

Your mouth fell open on a moan as his pace stuttered.

“I’m close,” he gasped.

“Me too,” you said, voice breaking.

He shifted again, pressing in deep and holding, grinding just slightly as your body tensed and shook beneath him.

And then you were clenching hard, legs wrapped tight around his waist as you cried out, back arching into your orgasm. The feeling of you pulsing around him, tightening in waves, dragged him over the edge a heartbeat later.

His hips jerked as he spilled inside you, groaning against your neck, breath hot and shuddering. It felt like the world short-circuited. Blinding white heat and electric pressure curdled in his veins, his whole body drawn tight, then released all at once.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Just held you. Breathing hard. Letting the tremors ease.

He stayed inside you longer than he meant to.

Not because he was still coming—though he had, hard, and deep, and with the kind of full-body shudder he’d never felt before—but because the heat of you was still wrapping around him like a pulse.

You were still twitching faintly under him. Still wet and snug and full of cock, and the way your legs had locked around his waist mid-orgasm had kept him buried to the hilt. It felt like your body didn’t want to let go.

And neither did he.

“…Toshi,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “You’re still inside.”

“Yes.”

You blinked at him, flushed, hair damp with sweat, one hand resting on his back. “You okay?”

He nodded slowly, chest still heaving. “It feels good.”

You bit your lip.

He was so blunt about it. Not dirty, not coy, just honest. He liked how it felt. He liked you.

And he didn’t want to pull out.

“It’s also…” he murmured, lowering himself slightly to brush your lips, “efficient.”

You blinked. “What is?”

“If I stay inside.” He shifted a little, hips rolling subtly. “You’re already wet. Already stretched.”

You moaned, breath catching at the deliberate press of him from inside. Still thick. Still too much. Your body was worn out but already twitching in response, nerves frayed open and eager for more of him.

“I thought you’d be done after that,” you breathed.

“I’m not tired,” he said simply. “And I want more.”

There was no teasing in his tone. Just certainty. His expression was steady, like he was evaluating a training method, but his pupils were blown wide and his brow furrowed with the edge of restraint.

He wasn’t just hard again. He hadn’t softened at all.

You whimpered as his hips shifted again, dragging a little more friction against your sensitive walls.

“Toshi—wait—”

“Does it hurt?” He stilled immediately, watching you.

“No, it’s just—” You squirmed a little, overwhelmed by the pressure, still not used to how much of him there was. “It’s a lot.”

He brushed his thumb over your cheek. “Tell me when you want me to move.”

You stared up at him, dazed. “You’re gonna do all the work?”

He nodded. “Yes. I don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to keep up.”

You almost laughed—half breathless, half wrecked—because what the hell did that even mean, and also yes, apparently that was fair.

So you gave the smallest nod. “Okay. You can move.”

And he did.

It was slower this time. Less about urgency, more about sensation. The steady drag of him pulling almost all the way out and then pushing back in to feel the way your gummy walls curdled in all around him. It was measured, focused, like he was memorizing how your body responded in real time. Every twitch, every gasp, every time you moaned his name in a voice so wrecked it sounded like begging.

It was overstimulation in slow motion.

Your thighs trembled from the strain of the position, muscles sore and shaky, but he supported your legs with both arms now, adjusting the angle to ease the pressure. Every motion was deliberate. He pressed deeper with each thrust, until your breath caught and your hands curled into his forearms. Your nails dug red crescents into his skin.

You came again faster this time. Sharper. Like your body had already learned what to do. And even as you whimpered, trembling through the aftershocks, he kept going.

“Toshi—” you gasped. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he said, voice quiet. “Your muscles haven’t tensed yet.”

You were unable to reply properly, finding your eyes rolling into the back of your head from the earth-shattering sensations. He just rolled his hips deeper, burying himself again with a low exhale.

“I’ll stop if you want,” he added. “But I’d like to cum inside again.”

You choked on a whimper and a moan all at once.

He didn’t mean it dirty. He meant it. Plainly, factually. Like your cunt was his natural habitat now and he was just reporting back from the field.

You came again before he did.

And the third time he filled you, it was slower. Thicker. A deep grind and pulse of heat as he pressed flush and stayed there, your legs wrapped loose around him now, body pliant and trembling.

Neither of you moved for a while after that.

He kissed your forehead, then murmured, “I don’t think Tendou mentioned how long recovery is supposed to take.”

You smile tiredly, completely wrecked, as you clutched at him with weak arms.

Coach Suzaku pulled him aside after the game. Clap on the shoulder. Usual half-proud, half-gruff tone. “You’ve been sharp lately,” he said. “Footwork’s tighter. You’re reading the blocks earlier. Serving’s more aggressive. Keep doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

Wakatoshi nodded. “Yes, coach.”

He did not elaborate.

Because what he was doing was fucking his girlfriend in the backseat of his car before matches. And sometimes after. And once, technically, during, though he’d returned to the court before the second set started, so he considered that acceptable timing.

He hadn’t meant to test the correlation between orgasm and performance output. But the data was undeniable. Every time you were in the stands, he played better. That much was undeniable. He’d started noticing the pattern somewhere around the third time he’d fucked you in the locker room before warmups and then scored 28 points in a single match. At first, he thought it was just a coincidence. But the sample size kept increasing.

He played better when he could see you watching him.

He played better when you were wearing something short and you crossed your legs mid-rally.

He played better when you sent him a voice memo telling him he could finish in your mouth if he won the first set.

And he played especially better after you sucked him off in the car before away games “just to relax him.”

Wakatoshi hadn’t tested the inverse—no sex before games—just to really confirm the positive correlation in his performance, but he wasn’t really interested in finding that out.

Tendou, naturally, had taken full credit.

“I told you,” he said, grinning like a lunatic during post-match cooldowns. “Sex helps.”

Wakatoshi didn’t respond. Not because he disagreed. But because he was now tracking his ejaculation schedule on a hidden tab in his training log and had in fact seen a 22% drop in pre-game cortisol since the beginning of your relationship. He was averaging 36 points in five-set matches, 23 in three-set matches.

You were also currently texting him under the guise of “match feedback,” which included a selfie of your thighs and the caption: you win, you get to ruin me after.

Statistically speaking, it was a very strong motivator.

So he kept playing better.

And he kept fucking you.

And Tendou added “sexual performance consultant” to his LinkedIn profile.

And Wakatoshi didn’t mind.

now, it was time for the moment of truth. you sat yourself awkwardly down on the corner of the bed, and hesitantly reached for your phone. no new notifications: that didn't fill you with much hope at all. after inputting your password, you navigated to the app and searched for his contact, and suspiciously it wasn't it your 'recently messaged' tab.

your heart was already thundering in your chest, but this only made it far worse. all your messages and chat history with this guy had disappeared, and when you tried to desperately type one out to him, it was immediately marked as 'failed to send'.

you frown, body going slack as you fall back onto the bed and defeatedly drawl, "he blocked me.."

suna finally perked up from his oblivious post at the other side of his bed, "who blocked you?"

"the guy i was texting.."

"that sucks." suna responded bluntly. though you couldn't blame him, he clearly didn't understand the severity of the situation, so you tried to explain it to him,

"you don't get it! i actually really liked him, and we were having such a nice time talking until.." you trail off, failing to find the courage to admit the shameful truth.

"until?" suna pried.

"rinny! can i ask you something?" you inquire, swiftly sitting upright as you shift the conversation, "can i send you some photos and you can tell me what you think of them?"

if suna was being completely honest, he was only half paying attention to whatever it was you were saying, so naturally he didn't notice the sudden change in topic of discussion — or he just didn't care. your new request wasn't foreign to him though; often you'll ask him to review random pics that you plan on adding to a photo dump online. or asking him to rank what order you should add the pics to your instagram carousel. or in which of these three images are you serving the most cunt. stuff like that, thus he agreed.

"sure. send them and i'll look."

"yay." you hummed with delight, and eagerly forwarded him the pics, "let me know what you think. i thought they looked fine but now i'm having second thoughts.."

he tapped the notification at the top of his screen and was directed to the chat with you. in which, he was met with an influx of images he was not expecting.

you, his best friend, who he's known for as long as he can remember, perched on your bathroom counter and posing for a mirror photo — wearing nothing but a floral thong and no top. your back was facing the mirror so he couldn't see your chest, but the plump globe of your ass was fully exposed and unshielded by the skimpy sliver of fabric.

his blood rushed to his head, and also his dick. his whole body was tense and thus his eyes were glued to the lewd picture of you, not only because he was mesmerised but also since he was so rigid he couldn't bring himself to move his thumb.

the furious pounding of his heartbeat rattled in his eardrums. he's never seen you so bare before. of course you've worn revealing clothes around him before — like when you go to the beach together, or sometimes when you're just hanging out in a warm environment — but never in such a purposeful or pornographic manner.

don't get him wrong, you've always been alluring to him but he just assumed that was just a part of your nature and he was being a sly pervert for secretly viewing you in an explicit way. like when you'd pull your hoodie off and your shirt would ride up and he'd get a peek of your underboob. or when you'd sit with your legs up on the couch while wearing shorts and he could see the outline of your sweet folds. it was undoubtably hot but that was never the intention, or so he assumed.

even though your back was to the mirror in the image, he could still tell that you weren't wearing any top, and the placement of your other hand just underneath the rotund curve of your ass was so deliberate and hot. it's like he was seeing you in a whole other light; he didn't know you were capable of being so sexy on purpose — he always assumed it was more of an accidental thing for you.

it's like his whole impression of you was shattering. maybe you weren't the sweet girl with a grimy sense of humour he thought you were; maybe you were truly a slutty bombshell. it was surreal and nauseating yet he still ached to see more.

though, before he began scrolling through the several other images you sent him, he gulped and turned the phone to show you the screen, "uhm, did you mean to send me this?"

you furrowed your brows together and leaned forward to inspect the screen, afraid you might've sent him pics of your medical anomaly that you meant to show the doctor. but once you examined the pic, you sighed and sat back in place, "yeah, those are the right ones." you state plainly, and suna proceeds to stare blankly at you, entirely speechless.

it freaked you out a little, so you attempted to fill the uncomfortable silence, "what do you think? that's what i sent to the guy before he blocked me. i thought they were kinda cute.. but there must be something wrong with them." he still looks astonished, so you clarify, "and he asked for me to send them, by the way. i didn't just do it randomly."

suna nods slowly as if that were of any reassurance what-so-ever. you press him to continue looking, and he cautiously does so. his thumb moves on his own as he swipes through the multiple suggestive images you sent him. and his dick begins to throb looking at each one.

they are all so hot; makes him feel so perverted for enjoying it. many are taken in your bathroom mirror, a string bikini top with a measly little thong on. he recalls you wore that exact set to the beach with him one time, except you were wearing a floral sarong too. it was sheer but there was still enough fabric to obscure you're delicious ass. but in this picture it was all out for the camera.

there was even a couple shots from that one halloween where you went as a zombie cowgirl. the costume itself was cool but suna recalls it wasn't revealing or intentionally 'sexy' or anything like that — which is why his heart leaped upon seeing your various upskirt pics, that were probably taken after he walked you home after a night out. some were shot directly up your skirt, showing the plushness of your ass up close, while others were taken in your bedroom mirror. either with you lifting your skirt up teasingly, or full-on bent over for the camera. from certain angles, he could even see the imprint of your lips through your thin panties which drove him absolutely insane.

to think, if he was smart enough that night, he could've stayed over at yours and buried himself in that cute ass, that you were clearly so desperate to show off. could've ate that pristine hole and felt your soft ass cradle his face. it's as though he could hear the adorable little noises you would've made, ringing in his ears.

he been gawking at his phone screen for a while, saying nothing, so you pry, "i look fine, right, rin? c'mon, please don't tell me i look weird! i thought these pictures were cute, so i don't know why he didn't like them.." you whine with a frustrated pout. you really don't understand men, thus you were hoping suna would be of some assistance, but he wasn't even saying anything or providing useful insight. just gaping at his screen.

"uh, they look.." he started, voice trailing off as his eyes were still glued to your perky ass clad in nothing but a thong, and his mind began to run wild with fantasies, "uhm.."

you interpretted his lust-fuelled daze as disinterest, and sighed. "really? they're that bad. what's wrong with 'em? i don't get it.. oh! is it because i'm leaving to much to the imagination? are they not overt enough?" you bite your lip as you antsily scroll through your secure folders and forward him some additional pictures, "look, i have dirtier ones. whatdya think? are these ones better?"

as promised, the new images you sent him were dirtier. filthy, in fact.

now you were wearing absolutely nothing. suna choked on his own spit at the sight of you stood bare in front of your bathroom mirror, posing suggestively for the camera. your whole pussy was exposed and so were your erect nipples, that he had previously only seen when they were teasing him by straining against the fabric of your tank tops.

he knew you were attractive but it was shocking to realise that is the body you've been hiding this whole time. had he knew that earlier, he would've ripped your clothes off a lot sooner.

in some of them your hair was wet and the bathroom mirror was steamy, as though you had just gotten out of the shower. for the most part he's been hyper-focussed on your seductive body, however, he's suddenly beginning to notice things in the background. like the pattern of the bathroom tiles.. and the shape of the mirror.. and the colour of the countertops.. shit, were some of these taken in his bathroom?

there was no denying it. the reality came crashing down on him like a sack of bricks and knocked the wind right out of him. at some point, he was chilling in his room, probably playing video games or texting his friends without a care in the world, patiently waiting for his turn to shower, while you were in the adjoining bathroom, posing for nude selfies and showing off your slutty tits for the camera. in his mirror.

fuck, if only he knew. now he feels like an idiot. the things he would've done to that hot body in the shower, his dick aches just thinking about it. he'd need to finish in you so many times, until his cum was drooling out of you and he'd only stop once the water ran cold.

there were shots with your legs spread too. on halloween again, your skirt was hiked up and your panties were pulled to the side, exposing your glistening cunt. he'd do anything to lock his mouth to those puffy folds of yours. taste that sticky, juicy cunt. even without flash, your pussy was visibly soaked with your arousal. it coated your lips and stuck to your inner thighs.

and the sight of your tantalising hole was enough to make him light-headed. so puckered and cute for the camera. and it was about the tightest little thing he's ever seen. from the way your own juices soak your pretty pussy, he could tell you were undoubtly needy that halloween night. he hates himself for not burying his cock into that snug hole and stretching you out. pounding his fat dick into over and over, and making you take it. or his tongue, then he wouldn't stop until you squirt in his mouth, and he'd keep going for several rounds until you—

"hellooo? earth to rinny. anybody there?" you wave your hand in between his dry eyes and the phone, which momentarily rips him out of his horny trance.

"huh?" he groans, confused as to what you are disturbing him for, when he was so close drinking up your first orgasm (in his imagination.)

"do you think i should've sent the dirtier pics?" you pondered aloud, waiting for suna's much-needed input, "maybe he blocked me because he thought i was a prude, or something like that."

"you're definitely not a prude." suna utters his first coherent (and sfw) thought in the last ten minutes. "why.. did you send me these?"

"so i can get your opinion, dummy!" you roll your eyes, prodding at his shoulder, "that's what i've been syaing this whole time. it's not like i'm showing you my nudes for fun."

"right.." his brows twitch, trying his best not to even glance down at his phone screen, as he knows he'll be distracted again, "i think you look fine."

"fine?!—"

"—great! you look great." suna swiftly corrects himself, then continues, "why do you care that some guy blocked you? he was probably just an asshole."

"what if he blocked me because he thinks i'm hideous?" you whine.

"you're not." he states plainly. "but if you're that worried about it, i could help you take some better photos."

"really?"

"yeah." he slowly stands up from the bed, weary as to conceal his throbbing erection as he moves, "what're friends for?"

you smile gently up at him, and without further question, you begin to remove your clothes. in truth, you are a bit hesitant because you've never purposefully stripped for him before — yeah, sometimes you guys would change in front of each other, but that was never as intimate as this. however, you persevered because you felt as though during your embarrassing moment, you reached a new level of friendship and camaraderie with suna. one in which you could be more vulnerable with each other.

first to come off was your jumper, then your shorts, and next thing you knew, you were laying completely nude out in front of suna. he loomed over you, grasping onto his phone camera for dear life. his eyes were zeroed in on your tits, but you tried your best to ignore that and giggled, "how should i pose first?"

rintaro forced himself to gulp down whatever hedonistic thoughts were brewing in his mind, for now. he didn't want to risk appearing too eager, even if your naked body in such close proximity to him almost caused knees to give out under him. he needs to act casual. "lay on your front."

you do as you are told, and you mewl slightly as his cold hands runs over the back of your thigh, massaging your silkly flesh. he kneeds the doughy meat of your ass with his palms, then promptly spreads your cheeks to expose your puckered asshole. you can almost hear his devilish grin as he snaps a photo and hums, "there we go. so tight for the camera. you wouldn't mind if i.." his muses, as his fingers idly dance over your rear, playfully poking your ass until they sneak down to prod at your hole.

then, without warning, he shoves two digits straight in, takes the pic then yanks them back out. your back arches instictively at the lewd intrusion, "ngh, rinny!" you squeal, scrunching your features, "just take normal ones.."

"this is the sort of stuff guys like, though." he reassures, stroking your perky ass, savouring the sensation of your supple skin under his hand. "action shots."

"hmm.." you considered his suggestion, bearing in mind that he's a horny fuck that probably just wanted to stick his fingers inside you, "maybe my old pics are a bit vanilla.." you admitted.

"yeah. they're hot but you could look a lot hotter." he said, blinkly slowly, "you know what guys like? squirting pics."

"...really?" you raised an eyebrow, peering over your shoulder so he could see your clearly dubious expression.

"mhm. most guys are super turned on by it. you could land any guy if you had a pic like that." he explains with an absurd amount of sincerity and confidence, despite the fact he pulled all of that out of his ass.

"and how would i get a photo like that?" you slowly roll over onto your back, so you're looking up at him while he's stood at the edge of the bed, holding your thigh in one hand and his phone in the other — with his camera pointed directly at you.

"i guess i'd have to tongue fuck you.." he says 'begrudgingly'.

"oh i'd never made you do that, rinny." you're onto his agenda, since he does a terrible job at hiding it. the massive tent in his pants was making it too obvious that he wanted to fuck you. but you like to tease him about it. "i could just use a vibrator, while you take the picture."

his face drops, "uh," he splutters, not anticipating pushback, "girls can't squirt.. with vibrators." he blinks. the lies were somehow becoming less and less believable, despite how they weren't very convincing to begin with.

"that's a shame." you bow your head in attempt to suppress a chortle at his ridicoulous claim. finally, you decide to give him what he wants, "would you please tongue fuck me, then, rinny?" you bat your eyelashes at him.

౨ৎ TOBIO KAGEYAMA

your fans are speculating: that you and kageyama have broken up. fans are recording footage from you on your latest tour and claim that you're "clearly disassociating" and "somewhere else mentally" when it comes to singing your iconic love songs. you and kageyama have always kept your relationship private because he's not a very open person to begin with, and you don't want to give the media more material to misconstrue. you know that kageyama hates when some random person will annotate your verses on genius lyrics and try to make the claim that your innocent metaphor is you wanting to jump ship and leave kageyama. and you hate how it's your own fans who are making wild accusations of you no longer being with the man all your love songs are about.

you posted: kageyama, with his back turned to the camera so all that fills your camera is the surprisingly broad expanse of his muscular back and shoulders. he's not even flexing, and it's obvious that he's a world-class athlete. he's facing the closet, trying to find a shirt to put on, and it would be a semi-innocent photo, the pinterest-perfect photo inspo for every private not secret relationship out there, except for the fact that there are clearly faint, red lines — scratches — running down his back. you caption the photo with a "monday morning 🤍" (your insane fans spam the comment section to exclaim how they knew you two were still a thing... and to speculate that this photo is somehow an easter egg for an upcoming song/album. well, they're right: you two will always be a thing, and tobio dicked you down so good last night that you could write him a whole album.)

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"fuck," the word slips through his gritted teeth, and you can tell that your tobio is still upset about how your fans seem divided. half of them claim no one could ever make them hate tobio (you find those fans to be absolutely adorable), and the other half...

well, the other half are making slideshow posts to audios that go "some boys take a beautiful girl and hide her away from the rest of the world" and the ones that seem to go viral are always the ones that feature you and tobio.

"not hidin' you away." he mutters, never slowing down his thrusts. he admires the expression on your face as he fucks into you, his ego pleased with how receptive you are to his every movement. he has you speared on his cock, your tight little cunt full of him, your eyes getting so adorably teared-up because he's just a little bit too much for you to handle. tobio isn't good with words; he thinks you're the most beautiful girl to exist, but he can't verbalize it. so he just takes in your sweet, fucked-out face, the reaction only he's capable of drawing from you, and it all gets so overwhelming for him.

he has to bury his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of your body wash as he continues to bully his cock into your soaked pussy. "why's it bad if i want to keep you all to myself?" he's practically whining, and you think this would be so cute if only you weren't currently chasing after your release. or rather, tobio's forcing you to cum, whether you want to or not. it's not like you can stop him; tobio devotes himself to always ensuring that you finish before him. he likes the satisfaction of knowing only he can take care of you, and he especially likes the way his cock looks with you creaming all over it.

when he gets like this, all you can do is cling to him, your arms wrapped around his muscular build. when he gets rough with his thrusts, when his body gets just the slightest bit sweaty from the exertion (evidence of just how much work he puts into fucking you), you have to dig your manicured nails (the set he paid for) into the skin of his toned back. otherwise, you'd lose your grip, and your hands would slip off.

tobio relishes the slight stinging pain of your nails scratching down his skin. but the scratches aren't enough. he needs to make you cum. when you get so caught up in your climax, you start clawing at him as you lose control. he loves the scratches you leave on him; it's proof that he's yours just as much as you are his.

౨ৎ ATSUMU MIYA

haters are saying: that you're just using atsumu for content. you're a gold digger. you're not genuine. you're not "wifey material." spectators are claiming that atsumu is playing worse than before because he's too "pussywhipped" for you. well, he likes to cheekily admit to you that he is addicted to your pussy, but they're wrong about everything else. obviously. however, the haters are feeling very vindicated whenever they see atsumu hasn't been posting you as much. (you're traveling for a new vlog series on your page, but no one knows.)

he posted: a mirror selfie. which isn't breaking news. atsumu miya always breaks the internet when he posts a mirror selfie because the only thing worse than a hot guy is a hot guy who knows he's hot. no one is a stranger to the sight of a post-workout, sweaty, shirtless atsumu, who flaunts his tight abs and muscular thighs with a steamy mirror selfie. but this photo? this one is going triple platinum. it's going down in history. this selfie is taken in dim lighting; the curtains in the background are drawn shut, he's got one hand gripping his phone (making the phone look tiny in his big hand), and he's got one arm wrapped around you. it's not an innocent hug, though. he's cupping your ass, and the phone in front of his face does nothing to shield his satisfied smirk. you're clad in nothing but lacy lingerie from a designer who loves to sponsor you, and you're clinging to his side, almost like you can't even stand without his support. it's clear that the two of you definitely were... appreciating the work your favorite designer put in when they created that lacy set.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"what do you think?" you're smiling at him, knowing damn well what he's thinking.

atsumu looks up at you, reflexively licking his lips as he takes in the sight of you wearing a new set of lingerie that you just got delivered. it leaves little room for imagination, and the material looks so delicate, atsumu is already thinking about how he'll have to apologize to the designer for ripping it off of you.

"i think I'm the luckiest man alive right now." atsumu is shameless in the way he's admiring you, the way the setting sun still peeks through the curtains, enveloping your body in a delicious golden glow as you inch closer and closer to him.

in a matter of seconds, he's pulling you on top of him, placing wet, sloppy kisses over any centimeter of your skin he can reach. when you make a move to slip off the panties, he protests.

"leave 'em on f'me, baby. please?"

he fucks you with you still wearing the lingerie set. your breasts are spilling out of the bra, and all he did was move your panties to the side so he could stretch you out with his cock.

"fuckin' idiots, tellin' me you're not good enough to marry. i'll show 'em what a good girl you are, right? gonna put a ring on your finger, and make you my wife." he's fucking his cock into you, making sure that your cute cunt knows who it belongs to. "gonna fuck a baby into you, sweetheart. no one's gonna say shit about our family, huh? 'cause i won't let 'em."

your cunt clenches up so nicely with every comment he makes that atsumu knows he has to make all those pussydrunk promises come true.

౨ৎ TETSUROU KUROO

the tabloids are posting: paparazzi photos of you — the socialite daughter of the man who owns the msby black jackals, and jva's promotion division's golden boy, tetsurou kuroo. it's late at night, and the two of you are clearly leaving a party celebrating the success of another eventful volleyball season. you're wearing the iconic ysl heels with a black mini-dress that honestly should be called a micro-dress. your hair is a mess, you're walking like your knees are struggling not to wobble, and walking three steps behind you despite his longer stride is kuroo; his tie is crooked, his cheeks are flushed, and he has a grin that says something like i just fucked one of the richest bratty heiresses in japan, and i left her wanting more. the amount of blind items that are allegedly alluding to you and kuroo are being spread all over tiktok. one reads, "this sports club heiress was seen exiting a party with this semi-known marketing mastermind who works in the sports industry. apparently, they couldn't keep their hands off each other, and no one can recall seeing them together during the party; everyone only caught glimpses of them running away from the festivities together."

you posted: a photo slideshow on instagram of your absolutely iconic outfit from the party, only these photos were clearly taken before the party. your hair is done, your makeup is perfect, and your caption states don't believe everything you read. the last slide is a screenshot of an online headline speculating about your "new man" with a photo of a grinning kuroo from that night. the reason why this makes everyone go insane is because you're no stranger to a scandal — this is, however, the first time you've ever addressed a headline.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"hurry up," you hiss, your eyes darting from left to right as you make sure no one is nowhere near the secluded corridor kuroo somehow managed to find.

"y'know, i thought girls were supposed to like guys who don't blow their loads prematurely." even when he's bullying his cock into your slicked up cunt, savoring the way your sensitive walls are clenching around his dick, tetsurou has a very annoying habit of still sounding entirely in control. for someone who can't keep his hands to himself when it comes to you, he's irritatingly great at playing nonchalant.

but he's just a man, after all. he might tower over you, his large body shielding you from any prying eyes, and he might know your body so well that he can bring you to completion twice (once with his fingers curling against that special spot of yours, and another one so rudely wrung out from you when he slid his cock in your orgasm-recovering, overly sensitive pussy) in just the fifteen minutes he's been toying with you tonight, but you know that he must be feeling something. you saw him shift his pants the moment his eyes met yours from across the room, when his eyes travelled down your body and followed the way your dress emphasized the curvatures of your body.

"if you don't finish right now, i'm not going to let you cum inside." you threaten him, trying to steady your voice as you bite back a moan. it'd be a major issue if the two of you got caught, with the volleyball association's golden boy being buried balls-deep inside a sports team owner's bratty daughter.

with every sharp snap of his hips, kuroo is only forcing more slick to come gushing out of your pussy. he can't even take the time to admire the white ring you left around his cock; he's too focused on chasing after his release because he didn't get to where he's at by not being opportunistic.

"if i cum inside, you have to keep it in your panties the whole night. you wouldn't want that, would you?" he sounds a little breathless now, his pace quickening as his thrusts get sloppier. he's smiling at you, that damn annoying smile that makes you want to roll your eyes or insult him. but your body betrays you. his grin only widens when your pussy tightens up at the idea of having his cum soaking in your panties while you interact with people at this party. a dirty little secret shared only between you two.

he lets out a breathy chuckle at your body's betrayal. "okay, princess. since you want it so badly, i guess i better give it to you."

you could practically cum again the minute you feel the warmth of him finishing inside of you. you're a spoiled brat who gets what she wants, and while you refuse to admit it, you want him. all of him.

and he's going to give it to you.

౨ৎ WAKATOSHI USHIJIMA

the media is going crazy over: the fact that ushijima is the type of person who doesn't clarify anything because he just assumes that everyone can read his mind. he's blunt, sure, but he's not really the type who does much explaining. after the first game of the season, an interviewer asks him if he enjoyed spending the off-season with you, his girlfriend and one of the most beloved, fan-favorite WAGs of all time. ushijima stares straight into the camera as he states in his usual deep, flat rumble of a voice, "the off-season was successful, but she isn't my girlfriend anymore. thank you." and then he just walks off, like he didn't just drop the most insane piece of information ever?

he posted: a photo of an ultrasound that was clearly taken out of his wallet since it's thrown on the table in the background. he's holding it in his left hand, and the overhead lighting is reflected from the silver wedding band he's wearing. now that he's off the court, he's able to wear it. in typical ushijima fashion, there is no caption, but a picture is worth a thousand words. you're not his girlfriend. you're his wife, and soon to be mother of his child.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"mmph — 'toshi!" you squeal out, your calves burning from the stretch as your beloved wakatoshi has your legs bent and spread for him. he's just so big that you'd never be able to handle all of him, and yet, here you are, bent into a mating press every night since the two of you have gotten married. you try to beg him to slow down, but words escape you as he buries himself into your pussy, letting out a deep, guttural groan as the warmth of your cunt coats his cock. there's no better feeling than this.

even if you could request for him to slow down, it wouldn't have mattered or made much of a difference. your husband has a one-track mind. when wakatoshi is set on a goal, it's hard to break his focus until he sees it to the end. and right now, wakatoshi's goal is to fuck a baby into you, to see you round with life because of the seeds he planted.

he's hunched over you, abs tightening and flexing with every sharp inhale of breath he takes. he's gonna fuck himself empty, going to keep filling your cunt with his seed 'til he's shooting blanks. his eyes glance at the ring he put on your finger before returning to admire your blissful expression and the way your body seems to have gone boneless from all the fucking he's had you endure.

"just a little bit longer." he manages to say, before forcing his cock in even deeper. "just have to make sure it takes."

౨ৎ TOORU OIKAWA

everyone is claiming: long distance relationships never last. when oikawa makes the shocking announcement that he is no longer a japanese citizen, everyone immediately wondered what that meant for the future of your relationship. does that mean it's over? officially? if oikawa is leaving behind his hometown, then by default, is he leaving you behind too?

he posted: a photo slideshow, only most of the images were clearly taken by you. the first one is of him driving; the two of you are in his convertible, and he's wearing a white button down with most of the buttons undone. on the stark white of the shirt are kiss marks; the imprint of your lips lined with cherry-red lipstick are all over the material of his shirt and on his freshly-tanned skin. the other photos are of what you two ate for dinner, the sunset from the beach, and a selfie of you two looking more in love than ever. fans are quick to point out the massive hickey on your neck, and tooru tags you in a reply to the top comment that points it out, and he's saying "you missed a spot babe." you reply back, "i ran out of concealer because you gave me too many to cover"

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"i missed you," your boyfriend mumbles into your soft skin. tooru can get so clingy when he goes long periods without seeing you, and you indulge him because he's tooru. he's got his face buried in the space between your shoulder and neck, and his breath is warm against your skin as he speaks.

"everyone is saying i'm abandoning you, but that's not true." he whines.

"i know, baby. i don't care." you laugh softly, absentmindedly playing with the soft strands of his hair. he settles into you, and it's almost sweet, until he starts nipping at your skin.

"tooru, what are you doing?" you can't find it in yourself to chastise him too harshly, but you do have to restrain yourself from pulling back.

"jus' want to show everyone that you're still my girl." he peers up at you, licking his lips. "you'll let me do that, won't you?"

tooru bites and sucks at your skin, sharp canines grazing your soft flesh. he sucks at your most sensitive areas while he works his fingers in and out of your gushing cunt. when he pulls his fingers out and holds them up, so the sunlight can shine and really highlight how much of your juices is coating his digits, he smiles. his girl gets this wet just from him marking you up?

as he sucks on his fingers, relishing in the way you taste, he can't help but be happy to know that no matter how far away the two of you are from each other (for now), you're still his girl.

౨ৎ RINTAROU SUNA

your fans are telling you: suna doesn't care about you. suna doesn't put forth any effort into your relationship. suna literally streams on twitch during the off-season yet he can't seem to ever post you?? suna doesn't deserve you. suna—

suna is a lot of things, but nothing like the deadbeat, ashamed boyfriend allegations. in fact, all your well-meaning fans are so far off on how he treats you that you and him get a good laugh from the outrageous conclusions they've jumped to.

you posted: a photo of rintarou with his head on your lap, and you've got your fingers playing with his hair. it's a sweet photo, really. except for the fact that you decided to pair it with an audio that's a snippet of a song that goes "he's so pretty when he goes down on me" and a caption that reads this song is so relatable 🤍

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

anyone who thinks rintarou is a selfish lover, a lazy lover, someone who merely tolerates you or is ashamed to be with you... they clearly don't know either of you very well.

because even when he's exhausted from practice, rintarou comes home craving you. craving your sweetness, your warmth, your love — and your pussy. he's obsessed. rintarou suna loves to eat you out, and he does it with such passion, such enthusiasm, that it's hard to refuse him, even if he's been going at it for the past hour.

your juices are leaving a stain on the bedsheets, and your slick is coating your inner thighs. it doesn't help that rintarou is messy with his technique. he needs your legs spread for him, granting him easy access for him to just dig in. he's still in his practice jersey, and when he feels your grip loosening from the strands of hair you're tugging at, he'll slow down his pace, calming down to just tiny kitten licks while he peers up at you.

your head is thrown back in pleasure, and your hips have a mind of their own as they still jut forward, as if trying to bring your cunt impossibly closer to him. no need for that, really, seeing as how he craves to bury himself in your warmth, to suck on your cute little clit and have you humming all over his tongue.

“tsumu, this isn’t all that fun,” you huff, the wild need for him to truly ruin you growing by the second. “wan’ you to fuck me, and make me yours.”

“baby, yer already mine,” atsumu lands a slap on your wet asscheek, startling you enough for your legs to spread further. “good girl,” he praises, hushed and under his breath. he reaches upwards and pulls the shower head down, pushes it into your hand and changes the setting.

“use this on yer clit, ‘kay? when yer feelin’ like ya wanna cum, don’t. hold it ‘n we’ll cum at the same time, yeah baby?”

you nod, and he smacks your ass hard, leaning backwards. atsumu pushes a hand through soaked gold strands, chuckling lowly although his voice has a serious edge to it. “‘s not how we say yes, is it?”

“y-yes, tsumu. at the same time.”

he draws his hips back, then finds himself advancing forward brutally. he doesn’t think about anything beside you — you, you, you. with the scent of your body wash tangling in the hot air, the beautiful curves and slopes of your body, the noises you make for him only.

your chest heaves when the steady spray of the shower head soon reaches your clit, immediately proving to be overwhelming and intense paired with him fucking you.

“so god damn tight,” atsumu hisses, nails digging crescent moons into the plush skin of your hips as his own collide with your ass. the bathroom is full of steam and the rhythmic clap of skin against skin — it’s hard to keep from trembling with how good everything feels, all over.

frantic panting cuts through the sound of your whimpers as atsumu feels himself nearing his peak. it’s nasty, downright filthy, the way your nails drag down the wall tiles as you desperately hump your ass back into him.

gasps of your name and affectionate nicknames fall from his lips like a sacred prayer, blending into a whiny harmony as atsumu’s thrusts grow rougher.

“baby,” he chokes, voice tight. “ya better be close, can barely last.”

“tsumu, cum inside me,” you beg, skin burning and pussy squeezing uncontrollably, squelching growing louder. “p-please, i can’t— i’m gonna cum, ‘m gonna—” your body tenses, and the shower head falls to the floor with a clunk that neither of you register.

luckily atsumu looks down at the right moment, sees you squirt, pussy gushing onto his pelvis. as if your back arching and your clenching pussy wasn’t enough, he ends up cumming too hard, ribbons of white gushing deep into your awaiting pussy.

“fuckkk,” he groans, overstimulation setting in way too quickly and causing him to pull halfway out of your fluttering cunt.

“no, tsumu,” is all you can heave out, pushing back hard enough to send him into the wall behind him, muscled back hitting the tiles as he lets out a startled oomph. “wanna keep it inside, feels so good.”

— MIYA OSAMU

“samu,” you mumble into his lips, tossing a leg over his hip. he grunts, nose nudging your cheek as he pulls back. “yeah? what’s on yer mind, angel?”

“had a dream about a baby,” the words are spoken softly, and osamu’s fingers lightly graze your chin as he makes you look up at him. “i know it’s kinda stupid, but it was so..” your voice trails off sheepishly and there’s a pause before you admit, “you were such a good dad, samu, ‘n so sexy too.”

your bare bodies are bathed in the morning sunlight, warm and comforting as it peeks in through the curtains. this is the perfect moment with him, skin to skin, his cock still inside you as you kiss and talk about dreams of the future.

in his chest, feelings stir and ideas come to life in his head; osamu presses his hips forward with a hushed moan.

“well, i’ll give ya a baby, angel,” large hands smooth over your hips as he helps you turn away from him; then they pull you close, grabbing at your tits and tugging your nipples between his fingers.

“samu,” you sigh, words fading into a content moan as you feel his hips draw back, then advance forward, against your ass. “i want you to fill me up, give me everything.”

“only if ya take it all,” osamu huffs, tucking his face into your shoulder and closing his eyes as he starts to fuck his cock into you deeply. the thick tip kisses your sweet spot over and over, and if that wasn’t already overwhelming enough, your hand wanders towards your swollen clit.

somehow, osamu’s faster than you, releasing one of your tits and swatting away your hand before he’s finding your clit with his index finger and rubbing it in messy circles.

“s-samu, fuck— jus’ like that, don’t stop!”

your back arches against him, hips twisting as a heat spreads through your veins, fiery and intense in the best ways possible. the movement of your body and then the frantic clenching of your pussy is too intense for him; sharp whines escape his throat, muffled as osamu bites into your shoulder desperately.

“i-i— shit, ‘m gonna fill you up,” is all you can make out from his rushed mumbling, and you turn your head quickly, desperate for his lips.

“kiss me, samu. kiss me as you cum inside, please.”

it’s as though the words break him — his face twists as he kisses you, whole body tensing. he presses his cock deep, thickening and throbbing before he’s gushing cum and can’t seem to stop.

“ah, fuck,” he tosses his head back, fingers scrabbling at your nipples as his chest heaves against your back, heart pounding steadily.

you cum with a whine, grinding down on his cock in an effort to get him impossibly deeper. as you ride out your highs together, trembling deliciously, he can’t help but dissolve into giggles of pure happiness.

“angel, ya got that baby for sure, jus’ like ya wanted, hm? ah, i can’t wait for a mini-me or a mini-ya. yer gonna be the prettiest mom, swear.”

— KUROO TETSURŌ

“fuck, babe. you’ve got no idea about what i saw today,” tetsurō huffs, warm breath fanning over your tits as they bounce, controlled by your bra.

spices clatter as tetsurō sweeps his arm across the kitchen counter behind you, clearing the space so you can lean back a little easier. his grip on your thighs doesn’t waver, nor does the ruthless tempo of his hips.

“tetsu, what’d you see?” you gasp, tears threatening to pour over your waterline.

“well, i saw this family,” he grunts, thrusting into you particularly hard now that he’s recalling the memory. “the dad had their kid on his shoulders, and the mom was pregnant. they looked so happy, and it made me think of you.”

“is that so?” you ask, spreading your legs impossibly wider as an invitation. you bite your lower lip, rolling your hips against his in an effort to get his cock deeper.

“tetsu,” he raises his eyes from the mess between your legs to your face, earnest and flushed. “kiss me, baby.”

tetsurō obliges, lets you tug him forward by the chin, mesh his lips with yours. it’s warm and sweet, the aftertaste of the dessert you’d been making as his surprise for when he’d come home. your tongue slips between plush, parted lips and moves with his gently, quite a contrast from the rough way he’s fucking you.

“ah, shit,” he moans, struggling to kiss you back when he feels your sticky walls clenching down on his too sensitive cock.

tetsurō leans forward and buries his flushed face in your shoulder, kissing the tender skin a few times before nipping it and then finally biting down into your shoulder.

he practically loses it when you wrap your legs around his back, heels digging into muscle as you push him forward. in a hushed tone and into his ear, you say sweetly, “tetsu, fuck a baby into me.”

“oh, i fucking will, princess.”

although, despite his rough words, he’s wheezing and whining every now and then into your shoulder, hoping it muffles his sounds.

your hand slides up his neck and tangles into dark tufts of hair, pulling tight as your own orgasm approaches. your pleasure mixes with his own, and just before the knot in your belly snaps, you feel a strong pulsing deep within your pussy.

he groans loudly, burying his cock deep just as it starts to gush, painting your walls white. your nails dig hard into his scalp and the sting of pain only seems to make him get a little more vocal.

tetsurō pants into your neck, trying to find his bearings now that his limbs feel like jelly.

“hold me?”

— IWAIZUMI HAJIME

“h-haji, this was a good call..”

“oh yeah?” hajime’s voice rumbles in his chest, strong and steady against your back as he keeps your legs wide open. “have we ever tried this one?”

“i don’t think so, but we definitely will in the future.”

“feels that good, princess?” hajime chuckles, eyeing your reflections in the mirror mounted across the bed. for a moment, he considers the two of you puzzle pieces — he sees that his cock fits snugly inside you, and the thought that you may be made for each other briefly crosses his mind.

“of course it does,” a sheen of sweat glimmers on your face, skin glowing beautifully in the mirror. “god, hajime, y-you’re so deep..”

he notices your eyes falling shut, head tipping back, and he raises his hand to lightly smack your cheek. “mm, princess, gotta keep watching. i want you to see yourself cum, alright?”

“fine,” you huff, feet dangling in the air and bouncing every which way as he fucks into you, heavy balls smacking your pussy with each stroke.

“what made you wanna try this?” you ask, knowing you should save the question for later, but you’re too curious not to ask. why would your husband come home someday and randomly want to try a new position you’d never heard of?

“well, you know..” in the mirror, you catch the flush on his tanned cheeks. “we’ve both caught the fever recently, and this is a solid position for makin’ babies.”

you gasp sharply when hajime turns his hips ever so slightly, and the resulting sensation causes pressure to build in your pelvis. “shit— right there, haji, just like that..”

he grunts, body stiffening as he tightly holds you in place and fucks into you like it’s the last time you’ll ever be like this together.

“wanna get you pregnant,” hajime groans, abs flexing with the effort of maintaining his merciless pace, “i wanna—shit—wanna breed you.”

“you want it that bad?” you breathe, just barely keeping your eyes open and focusing on your bouncing reflection. “fuck me full, then, haji.”

hajime doesn’t question it, thinks of you with a swollen belly and milky tits all for him to hold and take care of. you, with your glowing skin and beautiful body from all the pregnancy hormones.

the idea of it all is too much to bear, not to mention cumming deep inside your cunt, this time with the intent to breed.

he can’t even muster the words to warn you that he’s cumming as hard as he is; after a choked, tight groan, he falls silent and rocks his hips into you.

“fuck it deep, haji,” you whisper, on the edge yourself. obedient and too far gone in his fantasy, he does exactly what you ask, whining very quietly from the sensitivity.

shaking on top of him and watching the reflections in the mirror, you cum hard, dissolving into unmatched pleasure. and you’re thankful you keep your eyes open, moaning at the very sight— hajime doesn’t even pull out, he’s still pushing his cock in and out of you, but cum races from your cunt in thick white rivulets.

“i’m trying,” he huffs, sensitive when he glances up and notices how intently you’re watching the mirror. his cheeks flush lightly when you both notice that most of his cum ends up dripping down his balls and out of you.

“don’t worry, princess. i’ll cum however many times it takes, sound good?”

— SUNA RINTAROU

“you want a few brats? oh, i just felt your pussy squeeze up. ‘s what you want, huh?” rintarou bites, harshness of his thrusts drawing whimper after whimper from your kiss-swollen lips.

“i want it, rin,” you feel one of his palms smoothing over the plushness of your lower stomach, just above your pelvis. “w-what’re you doing?”

he laughs at your stutter, keeps your legs steady over his shoulders. rintarou draws his hips back, leaving just his tip inside your quivering pussy. then, he presses down on your lower stomach and slides in, adding more pressure with each inch.

“rintarou!” you wheeze, jerking your hips to the side in a pathetic attempt to run away from the overwhelming pleasure he gives you with every movement, big or small.

“nuh uh, pretty girl,” his free hand grabs ahold of you tightly, tugs you towards him and then settles to rest on your neck. rintarou’s fingers are loose on each side of your throat, hand placed there in a demonstration of control. but what’s the point of that, when he’s already made it clear by hoisting your legs over his shoulders and folding you in half?

“you’ll take it, all of it.”

“but ‘m sensitive, i’ve cum too many times,” you can’t even recall a number or remember how long he’s been fucking you like this.

you’re both sticky with sweat, your thighs stained white with dried cum from previous rounds and marked with love bites he’d given you in his excitement to get a taste of your pussy.

it’s so fucking messy because rintarou’s the one who can’t stop asking to eat you out and push the cum back inside; you always say yes, then cum until you’re dizzy and can’t see straight.

you taste yourself from earlier on the corners of his lips when he bends forward and gives you a chaste kiss. “l-last time, okay? i’ll give you your brats, pretty girl.”

the sweet pout on your lips that’s quickly replaced with something else and wail of his name that leaves you when he starts jackhammering your pussy turns him on to the max.

incoherent babbling of what he’ll give you and how good you feel blend together, and before you can fully register it, rintarou’s folding forward with a deep groan. “shit, i’m gonna cum so fucking hard, i—”

he shuts up and gives you a few more thrusts before he’s pushing deep and cumming — he’s not done when he pulls out and covers your pussy in cum.

“r-rin, keep it inside,” you whine sadly, watching as he collects it on his tip and then plunges it back inside.

“jus’ needed some extra lube,” he says coolly, but he really just wants to cum all over you. “how’s it feel inside, pretty baby?”

“like i need some more.”

rintarou laughs at the way you turn away, cheeks hot in embarrassment because you were the one who wanted a break. “we are going out later, hm?”