When Hinata Gets Back From Brazil, You’re Not Sure What To Think.

You walked up to the tall middle blocker, bracing yourself for whatever line you might come up with. Flirting was never your strong suit, but you were blessed with shameless confidence.

“Hey there, handsome. You can middle-block me any time you want if you know what I mean.”

Suna squinted, looking both confused and offended. “I actually have no idea what you mean.”

With an understanding hum, you looked around for some inspiration and found nothing. Instead, you turned back to him with that same playful glint in your eyes. “That’s what he said.”

He gaped slightly, now looking quite concerned, which in total was more emotion than you’d seen from him through the whole volleyball game he just played. “I’m curious if this is going how you wanted it to," he admitted.

“Depends. Will I get your number?”

“…I’m down.”

࿔‧ ֶָ֢˚˖𐦍˖˚ֶָ֢ ‧࿔ Wrong?

- SUNA RINTARO X READER

- SYNOPSIS: your pretty little morals make him laugh.

tw : vaping, teenage vices, (unresolved) sexual tension, mentions of fucking, cheating (but reader says otherwise), suna feeling you up.

╰┈➤ THE WORLD WAS STILL DARK when Suna woke up and cycled to school in a black Nike compress shirt and cyclings, his Under Armor duffel bag slung over a single slender shoulder. This was his routine. He'd tie his running shoes in front of his front porch before rising to stretch his slim calves over the gate, extending his toned arms above his head until he heard the familiar crack of his spine.

The early morning air was crisp around him, biting his cheekbones as he rode his mountain bike across the streets. A low treebranch slapped his face, wetting him with dew.

The lamps bathed him in deep orange all the way into the main road bicycle lane. There were few cars rolling by, and fishermen coming to bring their buckets beside the bridge. He liked to start his day like this - the sky black, the breeze chilly and new, and the satisfaction that he was better than other boys his age.

Discipline doesn't come easy to Suna. He acknowledges he's a lazy bastard, that's why he drags himself every four in the morning out of bed. It's hard. The first thing he does is reach for the vape under his pillow and take a long drag as he stare at his ceiling.

He humors himself he's better than others - but look at him. Suna laughs quietly to himself.

The campus of Inarizaki comes to view. He wheeled past the opened iron gates and padlocked his bike to the rails, Chase Atlantic blasting in his earpods. The school was quiet like this, halls empty and dark. Dead. He loved it.

Suna made his way across the baseball feilds to the volleyball gymnasium. He didn't need to sneak in like he did when he was a freshman now that he secretly stole Kita's keys to commission a duplicate. But he wasn't stupid to reveal himself like that. He doesn't go in before the others do. Suna just likes the thought that he has something not everyone had.

He settled behind the gym where the sinks were. He dumped his duffel bag on the counter tiles and leaned against it, his long legs slightly crossed.

He liked the quiet like this. It makes him think he's untouchable, like he's the last man on earth. It wasn't lonely at all. If it was, call him a cynic because he loved his loneliness.

Suna pulled out his dispo. It was menthol, four percent nicotine. He found the flavored ones too fucking childish for him. If you're going to destroy yourself, do it properly. He took a long hit, his eyes half-closed, before slowly breathing it through his nostrils.

This was his routine. Suna wasn't like other boys, that's for sure.

Footsteps padded at the side of the gym, catching his attention. The guard. He puffed a last plume and waved the vapor away before pocketing it. He pretended to be on his phone.

At the side of his eye, a figure emerged all in white. What the fuck?

Suna quickly realized it wasn't the school guard making rounds, so he didn't bother turning to look. The figure approached quietly in his periphery. Hips formed under a swaying white tennies skirt, curving down into a pair of legs glowing in the early morning darkness. A girl.

The girl stopped right beside him to hold a waterbottle under the faucet, the sound of the rushing water loud in the silence.

"So . . . " He scrolled listlessly through his ig feed. "Tsumu comin' early or nah?"

You shrugged. "You're his bestie aren't you? Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"Don't wanna ruin my streak ignoring his messages," he responded. "That's why I'm asking his bitch."

You paused from filling your bottle, looking up at him with a scrunched little nose. "Who are you talking to right now?"

"You."

"Me?" You pointed at yourself with a pretty acrylic nail, the point chunky with sparkling pearls and hello kitty heads. "That mouth of yours, Suna Rintaro . . . you never make me forget why I don't talk to you."

"What can I say? I'm unforgettable," he grinned lopsidedly, turning finally down on your direction.

You were dressed in your all-white badminton wear, complete with snowy white Nike socks and white Pumas. He recalled it was your tournament with another school today, representing Inarizaki.

You looked so preppy and bratty like the bitch you actually are. Atsumu wanted his girls just like that, the ones with lash extensions so thick and lip gloss so shimmery, it's as if you're on your way to conquer Tumblr.

You're the epitome of those girls. Just look at you.

"You're insufferable," you scoffed. "Have a vape? You smell like menthol."

He easily fished out his dispo from his pockets and handed it to her, watching with intrigue as she breathed that shit deep in her lungs.

He whistled. "Tournament getting on your nerves?"

"For two weeks," you puckered your lips into a glossy o, exhaling the white smoke out. "Coach had me swinging until six. He said I haven't been in . . . form lately."

He hummed. "Tsumu knows?"

"Of course he does," you remarked. "He agreed with my coach and said I could do better. So I did. I missed only eight shots yesterday."

In the mountains of Hyogo, the sun was slowly creeping up, changing the sky from the darkest blue to a striking orange. Beside him you were belching his vape like a fucking chimney.

"Easy," he said.

"Atsumu doesn't allow me to smoke," she responded. "Can't blame me I'm like this, can you?"

"Yeah," he tilted his head, narrowing his gaze on the way your eyes were in daze under your extensions. You're a really pretty girl, he had to admit. "I have my vices too. You know what they are."

A small chuckle out of your mouth. "Each one worse than the last."

"I'm only human, darling," he grinned, taking the dispo and taking a hit himself. "Like you are - that's why you shouldn't feel guilty about this little tryst of ours. God knows you need it."

"Don't call it that," you frowned. "We're not having sex. It's just - " you shook your head. "You don't care about what I do."

"Why would I?" He raised a brow. "It's fun to watch someone either destroy or make themselves. The escalation is just so thrilling."

You sneered that little badminton girl sneer of yours. "Fucking adrenaline junkie."

"Fucking Jane," he drawled.

You scoffed and snatched the vape from him, breathing it deep and doing a waterfall. Suna liked that. He languidly pressed a large hand on your tailbone to pull you between his long legs, his chin coming to rest between your tits.

"Give me some," he said lowly, opening his mouth.

You pursed your lips before inhaling the pen, slowly blowing it straight to his mouth. He sucked it in.

"Missed you," his voice rumbled from the bottom of his throat.

You reluctantly stared at him, unsure if you should answer the same. He smirked at that. He could see your morals warring with each other behind that pretty little face.

"I . . . " Your fingers come up to rub his chest. "I do too."

Heh. It didn't hurt him how disconnected and vague you are. In fact, he enjoyed it because he knew how it tortured you.

He tilts his head forward to merge his lips with yours slowly, lips sloppily curling on each other just before he'd roll his tongue in your cinnamon-smelling mouth. He liked how you tasted a bit of his menthol.

Suna's hand was rubbing your plush thigh, brushing higher and higher until his palm cupped the full roundness of your asscheek straining under the skort.

"Rin . . . " You whispered against his mouth.

He hummed, sending vibrations down your tonsils. "We could do it right here right now," he grinned, his tongue coming to swirl around your own. "It'll be quick. Promise."

"No," you squirmed, pulling away from him, a thin trail of saliva dripping down your chin. "It's wrong, Rintaro . . . I can't."

He tilted his head, poking his tongue against his cheek in interest. He nodded. He always found you disgustingly funny. He liked to think you were too proud to admit your wrongs and too weak to do your rights.

Is that why Atsumu really liked you so much? Atsumu has a hungry pride, and you let him eat yours away.

"Aight," he shrugged. 

For some reason, you hated him for that. "You don't care about anyone other than yourself."

"Oh?" He mused.

That made you hate him more. "Don't ever get anywhere near me again," you clenched your jaw. "Or I'll tell - "

"Atsumu?" He found himself smiling really wide. "Tell him what? About us? How you come to your Suna Rinataro in the dark corners of school to -"

"Don't make me sound like a whore," you narrowed your pretty little eyes at him, acrylics digging against your thigh. "I'm not. We're not fucking, are we? We're not doing anything."

"Yeah," he smiled, inhaling his dispo and opening the corner of his mouth to blow it sideways. "Not doing anything."

You were satisfied with that. He knew you liked the assurances of words even though you knew it was empty and by all means a lie.

You glanced down at your phone, typing for a second before lifting your face to him haughtily. "I'm going now. Atsumu will be here in a few, and I promised I'd see him before leaving."

"Give him a little kiss?" Suna taunted.

You sneer. "Yes. That."

He watched you walk away from him with that swing of your hip under your white skirt, off to saunter back into the light of your sun.

But Suna stays, merely shrugging. He liked it here, deep in the dark of the school with his dispo and himself.

copyright belongs to @shirotaangel

resting your poor, drunken head on mikey’s muscular shoulder. and he smells nice. like his usual musk and the cologne he sprayed on earlier. smells so warm. smells like your mikey.

he keeps talking to the guys that’re over tonight. not quite a party, kinda a kick back. you know you saw keisuke and mitsuya earlier. that was about four drinks ago.

mikey rubs his cheek against the top of your head. you can’t help but hum and giggle into his neck.

you hear his voice over the chorus of the party, the familiar voices of all your friends gathered for a long weekend. you can’t exactly distinguish what he says, just relish in the familiar timbre of his voice.

and then he’s moving, leaving a little cold spot near you where he was. and then his hand reaches out to you. you take his forearm instead, standing and somewhat colliding with his chest. mikey says something again to your friends, you can feel it in the rumble of his chest, and then his hands are around your waist, body at your back, as he guides you up the stairs.

mikey kisses your cheek as you sit on the bed. you drape your arms over his shoulders in a messy but firm hug. you love being pressed against him. love being near him.

“did you have fun tonight?” his voice is soft and all encompassing in the small room.

you hold him tighter in affirmation, not daring to be parted from him for even a second. “yea,” you nod into his neck.

“me too,” mikey runs his hands up and down your back, massaging you in a reciprocated hug. “can’t wait to be home though,”

you sigh at the thought of your warm fuzzy bed, the familiar heater and your comfy pajamas. “me too…”

─  The two of you have argued before, there was nothing new or strange about it. Sometimes, though not very often, you'd get upset at something he had said or done. He’d act without thinking, or speak without consideration; words sharpened by negligence, actions spurred on without thought. 

Like a wheel that is fated to see no end, spinning and turning on its axis — over and over, again and again — you watch the cycle of anger unfold. He’d drag a hand across his face and tell you to stop overreacting. You’d get irritated and he’d change his tone with you. Lower. Stricter. Harsher. 

“This was nothing” or “That didn’t mean anything,” — “You’re overthinking,” he’d say. 

And though it was a vicious cycle, patient and damning, you’d learned to adapt to its maliciousness; to the parts of it that drew out the worst in you. You’ve molded yourself to its shape and tried to understand where it stemmed from. Twisting and turning, pulling and pushing — the worst parts of him met the miserable parts of you.

You tried. You really did try. 

But the carelessness in which he'd started to approach said arguments was new, and his dismissive manner was starting to thin your patience. 

He ignores you as you walk behind him, trying to keep up with his long strides in the heels you’d worn for the night. 

“Why won’t you listen to me?” You plead with him as he stops abruptly at the penthouse door, shoving the key into the slot aggressively. You were getting tired of arguing about the same thing — worn out from having to bring it up so often. Why wouldn’t he listen? Why did he refuse to understand?

The door had just barely closed behind you, when he turns around, slamming the wall beside your head with a heavy hand. 

“Enough.” 

Ran’s eyes are filled with fury and impatience as he stares down at you. A terrible rage fills his lavender hues and you hesitate. There was no room for your anger in this house. No room for you when he was so domineering and present. He’s never been this loud with you — has never been so upset or mean. His tone startles you. 

And though you’ve argued before, though you’ve disagreed at times, you find that you don’t know how to deal with his anger — anger that has never been directed towards you to this extent. You just don’t know. 

It’s unsettling. There's a hole in your chest that is torn open, a passiveness settling inside.

You’re upset that he has consistently brushed you and your concerns off to the side. You’re upset that your worry had been interpreted as childish jealousy. You’re upset that the only time he had decided to take you seriously was to yell at you — to shut you up. 

He runs a hand through his hair as he pulls back and heads to the kitchen, shrugging off his suit jacket and throwing it onto the couch. He leans against the counter and lights a cigarette in an attempt to calm his nerves. 

He'd expected you to start crying — half expected you to apologize even. You never liked fighting with him. He was never one to blow any argument out of proportion either. But this — this had to stop. No matter how many times he’d dismissed it, no matter how many times he’d told you not to worry about it, you still brought her up. Enough was enough. He looks up at you briefly, eyes flickering towards you as he exhales. 

There's a blank look in your eyes, a fragmentation he couldn’t understand. It felt as though you were looking through him. The parts of you that sought to intertwine with him and understand — that hollowed themselves out to make room for him — they fall back in defeat. 

Your eyes aren't glassy; they don’t even sparkle. 

He clenches his jaw and looks away. Guilt and haunt reach for his throat, as he shakily exhales the smoke.

You turn around, hand reaching for the wall as you bend to unclasp your heels. The right shoe comes off first. The left one follows after. He watches as you walk away with the shoes in your hand, fingers threading through the straps.

You don't say a word. He doesn't hear you make a sound.

The cold air of the restroom makes you aware of the slight wetness on your cheek. You stare at your reflection and you can’t help but wonder if the woman in the mirror was in the wrong. Were her feelings misguided by insecurity? Was her envy so green and her thoughts so vile? You tell her not to worry; that it’ll all be alright. You stare at your bruised toes as you fidget and sigh. You don’t even have it in you to cry.

You spend time with the other woman, washing away her fury; cleaning her anguish. Her breathing has steadied and she watches you from beyond the mirror as you wipe at your face, baring yourself to her. She’s satisfied and you turn your back on her temporary satisfaction, slipping into a loose dress and finding your place on the bed. 

He hasn’t bothered to come check up on you. To apologize to you.

 You push her nagging voice out of your head, stretching your legs out and picking up your phone instead. You scroll mindlessly for a minute or so before you decide to call a friend. It’ll help distract you, you think. You’ll call your dearest friend and she’ll make you laugh. You’ll laugh and you’ll smile and the filth encompassing your heart will wither away at your joy. 

Yes, that’s it. That’s exactly what you’ll do. 

“Hello?” She says. 

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

Silence from your end. 

A minute. Then two. 

“Ah, I get it. Do you want me to pick you up? We can go eat somewhere.”

“Yes, please.” You aren’t hungry at all. She knows that too. 

“Give me 20 minutes, I’m finishing up a shift right now.”

“Okay.”

More silence, this time from her end. Another minute. Another two. 

“Did he…he didn’t hurt you, right?”

You shake your head, the rustling making its way over to her end. 

“No, never. Not physically at least.” You try to smile, but the other woman insists on tugging at the corners of your mouth, pulling them down.

‘Break,' she says. ‘Break and ruin,' she wants to scream. 

You hear a dramatized sigh of relief through the phone.

“Ah, thank God. That bastard scares the shit out of me, honestly. But I’ll kill him if he ever lays a hand on you, you know that, don’t you?” 

You laugh and she smiles. 

“He wouldn’t, I promise. He isn’t so bad.”

“You’re not seriously defending him right now, are you?” 

You find it in you to laugh a little harder. She bids you a temporary farewell and you feel a little lighter. This is okay. It'd be okay if you both took a break…if you were separated from one another for a little — just until you were both able to calm down and think things through. 

You stand and rummage through your nightstand, putting a few things in the nearest tote bag and pulling it up over your shoulder. A light cardigan is folded over your arms as you quietly leave the bedroom. Ran is still in the kitchen, leaning over the island as he wipes a hand over his face. There's a glass of water beside him. You think he's trying to sober up, even though he didn't drink much at all. 

He looks up at the sound of your feet against the tile and his eyes soften at the sight of you. He’d been waiting for you to come out of the room, not wanting to push you too far. Still, you won't meet his gaze. 

It’s then that his line of sight falls to the bag on your shoulder. Panic fills the emptiness he’d been left with since you’d walked away. 

"What're you…No, wait a second. Hold on —"

He rounds the corner and slowly approaches you.

"Wait, we can talk about this."

Your brows furrow as you slip on your shoes, voice soft as you respond. 

"You said you didn't want to anymore."

Defeat, he thinks. Defeat is what laces your tone…like you’ve given up on him. On you and him.

"No,” He shakes his head as he steps a little closer to you. “We can talk about it. Let's talk about it, baby."

His eyes are trying to read you in a panicked frenzy, but still, you won't look at him. You take a step back, grip tightening on the strap of your bag.

“I think,” you bite your lip, brows furrowing as you try to find the right words. “I think it's best if I spend the night somewhere else."

“Fuck no.” 

You hold a hand out, a weak attempt at stopping him from getting any closer. He steps forward. You step back. He reaches out for you and you deny him. 

“Come on, love. Please.” 

What you say next comes out of you so quietly — so dismissively — had he not been so close to you, he might’ve missed it. You find it in you to finally meet his gaze as you utter the word. 

"Enough."

His karma comes in the form of six letters — the ones he’d spat at you so harshly less than an hour ago. But you’re still kind, even now. How quietly the word tumbled from your lips, how beautiful you were in all your anguish. His karma grins at his misery, and rejoices at his self-induced tragedy. 

"Please," he begs.

How pitiful. How cruel.

He grips your wrist when you turn to open the door, caging you in between his arms.

"Don't," he pleads.

You try to turn in his arms, tugging at his rolled-up sleeves, nails scratching at tattooed skin. His biceps flex as he holds you to him tighter. Closer. Don’t go. Don’t leave. You feel the rise and fall of his chest behind you — the racing of his heart as he holds you against him. You sigh, deciding to ease his mind. 

"I’ll come back, Ran. Just one night.” 

"No, no. Don't walk out on me."

He shakes his head at the thought, in misery and denial at its implication.

“I'm sorry."

He apologizes and you freeze in his hold, fingers stilling against his forearms. 

“I'm sorry," He says again. "I won’t raise my voice at you again. I'll never talk to her again. Won't even look at her, baby. I’ll cut all ties right now. Please just don’t go."

He keeps one arm wrapped around you as he reaches for his back pocket, pulling his phone out in the process. You blink, watching as he brings the device over to you, his fingers unlocking the screen as he looks over your shoulder, chin propped against you. You watch as he removes her from his Facebook. You watch as he blocks her on Instagram. You watch as he goes to delete her number. It’s then that you start to cry. You cry so hard, your shoulders tremble and your hands shake. You cry and you cry until you're overcome with the urge to vomit.

“Don’t cry, love. Don’t cry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

How did he let it get this bad? To ignore the pleas and worries of the one that gave him reason and meaning for the sake of maintaining a business relationship he didn’t give a shit about ─ To brush your pain off for the sake of an organization that only brought him misery...The twisted cynicism was almost laughable. Over and over, you'd asked him to listen to you. And over and over, he’d dismissed you.

It's his fault. It's all his fault.

No one else but him. 

His arms fall to his sides and he stands there, watching you.

You wipe at your cheeks haphazardly. His hands tremble as you step back. 

"All I asked was for you to establish clear boundaries with her."

Your hands shake as you point an accusatory finger at him. Your breathing falters, salty tears meeting your tongue as you try to find your words.

The other woman licks at your wounds. 'Destroy him,' she says. ‘Leave him,’ she whispers. You dig your nails into the skin of your palm at the violence of her words.

"But you made me seem like I was crazy for wanting that."

His eyes widen as he stares at you.

No longer covered in the green of her envy and guilt, she lines you with her red. You become one with your sorrow and fury. 

"Why couldn't you establish one simple boundary until I was about to walk out? What kind of girlfriend is supposed to be okay with seeing another woman press herself up against her boyfriend?"

You quiet for a moment, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand and his heart breaks at the sight of your stuttered breathing and tear-stained face.

"Cutting her off means nothing. Not when you brushed me off every time I brought it up.”

“Love ─,” 

You cut him off, mumbling to yourself as you pick at the skin of your nails. 

"God forbid someone even looks my way. But with you —" you snort and it's void of any emotion. 

His face darkens at that. 

"Watch your mouth," He steps closer.

You look away.

Lithe fingers grip your jaw tightly, forcing you to look up at him — into his eyes. Eyes that only desire you, that only love and lust after you. You, you, you. Always you. Only you.

She was nothing more than an old Bonten business partner, but you? You were everything.

He presses his lips to yours. Neither of you wavers in closing your eyes, the haziness of his own meeting with the anger in your irises, but he kisses you anyway. He kisses you and he kisses you. You don't kiss back.

The bag slips off your shoulder and you move to lift it back up. He refuses to let go of your jaw, lips moving against yours as he speaks.

"I love you."

"Liar," you whisper against him.

He groans and kisses you harder.

"God, I love you."

You shake your head in his grip but his hands are firm, squeezing your cheeks lightly, forcing your lips into a subtle pout. 

"Get this shit off already." He pulls your bag down to the floor and throws you over his shoulder.

“I don’t want to stay here tonight.” 

“Yeah? Where exactly were you gonna go?” He squeezes your hip as he walks towards the bedroom. He knows the answer, knows you would’ve been safe had you actually left. You might have smiled more tonight had he let you go with your friend; might’ve been spared of the tears you’d shed instead. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let you go. 

You rub at your eyes in exhaustion. 

“I’m not sleeping beside you. I don’t want you.”

He smacks your ass harshly before sliding a palm beneath your slip, stroking the skin gently.

"You're a liar, baby."

Please be lying, baby. 

You grip his shirt to keep from falling.

"I hate you,” You whisper out. 

He tightens his hold on your waist.

"No, you don't, princess."

His voice is low, strained. He prays you don’t hear the tremble in his tone. 

He sits you down onto the bed, kneeling before you on the floor. You go to pull your legs up but he stops you, palms gripping your ankles as he places his forehead onto your knees. 

“Don’t leave me.” 

The room is quiet, save for the low hum of the humidifier he’d forgotten to turn off before the two of you left. It’s a steady sound — soothing in its own right. You don’t say anything as his fingers rub at your calves, as he nuzzles his face into your skin.  

"I’ll do anything.” 

You’re stunned into a deeper silence, staring down at him in shock. It’s laughable really, how terrifying he is to others. Tall and threatening, dark eyes and a prideful smile — the Bonten executive’s standing was respected by most. Feared by all. 

And here he is, kneeling before his girlfriend, begging her to stay. 

You bring a hand down to brush through lavender strands, releasing a shaky breath, as you play with his hair. You speak and your voice is soft, not disturbing the still air around you. He freezes, listening intently. 

“She’s in love with you.” 

He can’t help the slight sound of indignation that he lets out. 

“No, she’s not. She’s just-”

“Just a business partner. I know.”

There’s a tremble to his hands as he leans forward on his knees, hiding his face in your lap as he grips your waist tight. 

“I’ll talk to the rest of the executives tomorrow, we’ll find someone else to ─”

You shake your head.

“That’s not what I’m asking from you.”

He looks up at you in confusion, fingers tight against your hips. 

“Then what?”

“I can’t —” You whimper and his heart breaks. “I can’t be with you if she’s going to disrespect me like that, if you’re going to let her disrespect me like that, every time we see her.” 

He watches you with a certain softness in his eyes as he climbs up onto the bed beside you. 

“What’re you talking about, baby?”

“Is it okay for her to touch you like that? You’re okay with that?” 

You pull away from him, folding your legs up to the side as you pick at a piece of lint on the comforter. 

He hadn’t thought much of it. The woman in question had been a long-time Bonten business partner, she’d known most of the executives for a decade. Her behaviors and antics, they were all used to it by now, aware that they had to put up with it to build a false sense of trust, to lul her company into an aura of security. Of all the execs to take a liking to, she’d chosen your boyfriend. Expensive nails that didn't belong to you were often wrapped around his bicep during events, and you’d watched off to the side ─ hoping, wishing that he’d say something. Anything. 

But nothing ever came out. Nothing was ever said. 

And you’d taken the brunt of it. Time and time again. 

“I can’t ruin Bonten’s relationship with her,” He had said once, the first time you ever brought it up. “Her company is a pivotal part of our projects.”

Watching her wipe the wine stain from his lips tonight, with you seated right beside him ─ it made you wonder how far she’d gone when you weren’t around. How far she was willing to go? How far would he let her go?

You look away at the thought. The light catches onto your tear stained cheeks and he hates himself.

He furrows his brows as he stares at the pattern you were making on the comforter, the trail your fingers created and left behind. He eyes the bruised skin of your cuticles and the chipped paint of your nails — a telltale sign of your anxiety. How had he missed that? He eyes the missing ring on your right hand and his breath hitches. When had you taken that off?

He feels sick. He’d noticed that you’d declined to go with him to Bonten events as of late. You stopped attending, telling him you were too tired. Too busy. “Another time,” you’d say. “Another time,” he’d smile and agree, kissing your forehead before he made his way out and left you alone. 

You’d lied to him to keep from arguing about this anymore, to keep yourself from doubting him. You’d lied and he’d fallen for it — thinking nothing strange of your behavior. And when you’d finally given in, deciding that you missed your boyfriend and that it was well within your right to go out to dinner with him — you had to sit and watch idly as she sat on the other side of him. On this cruel and unforgiving evening, you’d watched as she touched him and stared at him. You’d listened as suggestive jokes were exchanged and loud laughter was thrown across the table. You'd watched with a quiet that only the broken could understand. He’s a fool for not pulling your hand back into his once you’d pulled it out — an idiot for not following after you when you’d excused yourself to go to the restroom. He’s a moron for not seeing the hurt that you were in and the knives that dragged through your skin as he turned a blind eye. 

Cold metal is pressed to your skin and you shiver at the feeling of his rings against your cheek. His eyes carry a sadness you don’t recognize. 

“You’re my woman. You.” 

“Then act like it.” 

You move to your side of the bed, turning off your light as you send your friend a text. You’ll explain everything when you see her, you say. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.’ 

—

You sleep with your back facing him that night. Ran can’t find it in him to sleep at all. He’s scared, terrified that you’ll try to leave in the middle of the night — that you’ll leave just as wordlessly as you let your pain settle into your bones, and that he wouldn’t notice again. 

He’d been too careless with you recently. Too comfortable and neglectful. 

You turn in your sleep, unconsciously facing him, and he leans up on his arm to watch you. Carefully, gently, he lifts your hand up to meet his lips. Soft kisses are pressed to your knuckles and cuticles, to your palm and wrist. 

You don’t stir. 

He leans over to press a kiss to your forehead before it becomes too much for him. He’s overwhelmed and it hurts. It hurts to know that you hurt, and it hurts to know that you hurt because of him. 

Ran sits up and heads over to the living room, closing the door behind him quietly. 

He leans his head back against the couch, arm coming up to cover his eyes. A part of him thinks it’s ridiculous for a man of his power and standing to get worked up over his girlfriend like this. The other part of him doesn’t understand. He’d never been one for long-term relationships. Commitment had never been the issue either. They were just too much. Too much to deal with, too much work to be done — to care and to have to care, to trust, and to be trusted. It was all too much. He never bothered with the matter in its entirety.

But then he met you. And he’d asked you to stay. So you did. 

Caring came naturally to him then. Loving was even easier.

He sits alone in this dark room and thinks about you and him. He thinks and he hurts, and he's reminded of the words Sanzu had thrown at him last night. Ran is more than ashamed.

— 

“You’re losing her.”

“What’re you on about?” He had said, lighting his coworkers cigarette before leaning back to light his own. 

Sanzu had gestured to where you were standing, away from the crowd. You had an arm loosely wrapped around the street pole as you watched the Tokyo night traffic, waiting for your boyfriend to take you home. 

“She doesn’t look too happy.”

He frowns at Sanzu’s words, irritated by his comment. For an outsider to speak on his relationship with you, for another man to act like he could read you (and for him to be right about it too), Ran’s blood boils as he crushes the cigarette between his foot. He'd turned to look at you then, at the blank look on your face, wondering briefly just how much you kept to yourself. You had smiled weakly when he took your hand and led you to the garage. You said nothing else for the rest of the car ride. Until he prodded at you. Until it was too much for you to ignore. Until you came to the conclusion that should he want any other woman, you’d rather he let go of you first. Let me go, let me go, let me go. If I’m not enough, please let me go. 

He’d gotten pissed at you for that and had sped up his walking once the two of you got out of the car. The front desk personnel lowered their gazes as the two of you walked into the building, and you had quieted down out of respect for your relationship. 

─

His stomach churns and he soaks in his self-hatred. You could've reassured her. Could've held her hand a little tighter, could've kissed her a little longer. You fool. He hopes it isn’t too late. He groans and leans forward, running his hands through his hair aggressively as he covers his face with his palms. 

He’s too in his own head to notice that you’d woken up — that you’d been standing nervously at the end of the hallway, watching him. He lets out a choked sound and your heart falls victim to his silent pleas. You make your way to him, silently asking to be let into his arms and onto his lap. He startles but quickly makes room for you, staring at you with wide eyes as you place yourself onto his thighs, settling against his chest. 

Loving arms wrap around his neck as you turn your face to his chest. Undeserving palms stroke your back, pulling you in by the waist, ever closer. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He stares down at you in shock at the words you’d chosen to utter. 

“What? What’re you –?” 

You look at him and the darkness accompanying his eyes ─ at the lilac hues rimmed with red and purple, and subtle traces of blue as his veins surface beneath his skin. He was tired. So tired. Fragile fingers stroke his cheek, finding their way to the fine lines around his mouth. His stubble pricks your palm as he nuzzles his face into your skin. It's fascinating to watch a man of his stature — a man of his strength and power — fall weak to your touch. He wonders if you knew that he’d give up all that he was for a chance at forever with you. The money didn’t mean shit and his position was for naught if it meant you were hurt — if it meant you would leave. ‘If you leave, take me with you,’ his core wants to cry out. His arms wrap around you tighter as he hides his face in your neck and you blink in surprise. 

“Why the fuck are you apologizing?” 

Your hands find the hairs at the back of his neck, twisting the black and lavender strands, tugging them gently beneath your fingers. 

“I don’t want you to hate me.”

He freezes. Your voice muffles against his hold. 

“I know you have obligations. I don’t want to get you in trouble.” 

Or worse, you want to say. I don’t want to get you killed over something so…

You shake your head at the thought.  

Even now, you’re still thinking of him? Even now, you’re putting him before you? He thinks it’d be fitting if he were to dig through the earth and call out to the devil himself. With bloody fingers and a dirty face, he’d call out and he’d say, ‘Come get me, come take me. This woman is too good for me.’

“I love you, I trust you. I won’t bring it up anymore.” 

You press a kiss to his throat, directly onto his tattoo, before you wrap your arms tighter around his neck, broad shoulders comforting you. He falls in love with you all over again. He keeps one arm firmly wrapped around your waist while the other trails up and down your thigh.

“Baby.”

You hum in acknowledgment, waiting for him to continue. 

He pries you off of him, gently setting you down in his place on the couch while you look at him in confusion. You settle into the warmth of where his body once was, watching him curiously. 

Ran kneels before you for the second time that night. His head is bowed slightly and his palms are flat against the cotton of his pants 

“This is all on me. Not you. I’m sorry, love.”

“Ran, get up.” 

You sit up, anxiously reaching for his arms but he shakes his head. 

“Please just listen." He swallows, gaze fixed on the ground. "I’m a real shit boyfriend. Put you through so much shit you shouldn’t have to deal with. I know you deserve better.” 

So much better. 

“But I love you. I need you. I’m selfish and fucked, but I need you. ”

You tilt your head at him as your lip quivers. His shoulders tremble slightly and you reach for his cheeks, hands on either side of his face as you lean forward. 

You kiss him then, for the first time all night. A languid kiss. ‘Feel all of me,’ it says. ‘Feel what you do to me.’ His brows furrow as he squeezes the skin of your thighs. You whimper against him and he smiles against your mouth, teeth touching, bones aching. 

He pulls you off of the couch by the waist and onto his lap as he embraces you. The two of you find refuge in the floor of the apartment. 

You stay on top, seated right on his hips as your tongue meets his. He bites the column of your throat and you tilt your head back in need, giving him access to the skin he wanted to mark.

“I belong to you,” he whispers against your skin. You sigh, fingers in his hair as he kisses and bites, as he licks and whines. He reaches for the palm you had spread against his jaw, moving it to his hips. 

“Ah, fuck.” 

He groans in your ear at the feeling of your skin against his, at the raw affection exchanged between the two of you. He missed you, he missed you — he doesn’t deserve you. You snap his train of thought in two as you slip your hand into his pants, watching the rise and fall of his sternum. You trail your eyes back to his face and find that he’s already staring at you. One arm reaches back for the collar of his shirt, and you fixate on the flex of his bicep as he tugs it off to reveal his chest.

“My woman,” he grunts. 

You nod distractedly, cheeks heating up at the intimacy. Something in him snaps when you slip the straps of your night dress off, lifting the hem to expose your underwear to him. 

“Shit, you’re —” He cuts himself off to slip the flimsy cloth to the side. You stroke him as he prods into you, moaning into each other's mouths, staring at each other with desperate eyes. Love and lust and need and want. He wants to fill you with all the words he couldn’t properly say. Again and again, he'd find you. Should he be damned to a fate where you aren't beside him, he'd spend forever looking for you ─ for the home he'd found within you. Never again would he let it get this bad. Never again will he make you feel unwanted or unloved. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful.” 

He kisses your chest, words vibrating against the skin as he speaks. 

“I’m sorry, pretty. I’m sorry.” 

“I forgive you.” you cry out as he touches you deeper, rubs at you faster. 

“Real shitty guy, aren’t I?” He lets out a strained laugh as your hand falters against him. “Not good for you, am I?”

You shake your head, eyes shut tight as a familiar feeling washes over you. 

“I – oh,” You cry out, unable to finish your sentence as you collapse in his arms.  “I love you. Please, please.”

“Please what, baby? What is it?” 

He lays you down, hovering over you as he bites at your lower lip, appreciating the curve and swell. 

You spread your legs and he swears. 

“Please.”

“Yeah. Shit, yeah. Anything for you.” 

He can’t find it in him to strip you completely. You don’t care enough that his pants are still somewhat on. But with each snap of his hips, he finds you and you find him. 

He’s a sorry excuse of a person, a vindictive, hurtful soul. A damaged man with the world at his feet and his heart in your hands. He’d handed it to you himself with a hammer in tow. Should he ever go too far — crush his very spirit and rid of him of whatever is left of his soul. 

But he knew. He knew that he’d be forced to sit and watch as you tenderly held the flesh. He’d sit with his legs crossed and his cheek in his palm, watching as you soothed the erratic pulsing.

‘What about the dark spots?’ He had wondered. ‘The filth and the corrupted gloom. How will she handle that? Will she throw them out? Look at them in disgust and try to change them?’

(He receives his answer time and time again — answered over and over by the one person who didn’t realize they were even being questioned.) 

He'd watched as you held his heart, with all of its twisted calamities, and placed it right against yours — as if it wasn't stained, as if it wouldn't taint you for as long as you stood. And for the first time in a long, long time, Ran Haitani had resisted the urge to cry. 

—

He doesn’t let you go as you try to get up from off the floor. 

“I didn’t pull out,” He mumbles. “That’s my bad.” 

“I know,” You whisper back, into the darkness of the room.

“Are you baby trapping me?” He lifts an eyebrow, cracking one eye open as he grins at you.

“You’re the one that wouldn’t let me go, perv.” 

You flick his forehead and he laughs beside you lazily. The two of you are eye to eye and a complete mess at that. 

“I need to go clean up,” you say when he shoots his hand out to your wrist to stop you from standing. 

“No, I want to go again.”

“You’ll fall asleep midway.” 

He grins and you laugh. 

“Hey.”

“Hm?” There’s still a hint of a smile on your face as you pull your gown back into place.

“Tonight…” he turns to face you, eyes heavy with sleep. “I won’t let that happen again.”

You don’t look at him as you fiddle with the straps, tugging at them till they seem somewhat right.

“Look at me.” 

He sits and tilts your chin towards him. Hesitance. Worry. (And though you’ve forgiven him, there’s still pain in your eyes.) 

“I was in the wrong, and I hurt you for a long time. It won’t happen again.” 

You stare back into his eyes — into the aftermath of your apocalypse. You want to tuck him into your ribs, to cage him in and hold him tight. And though he was older and had lived a life that had picked him apart more times than he could count, you don’t think you have it in you to surrender him to the darkness. Your naivety has you following after him eagerly — no matter where he takes you, no matter where you go. You’d pick up the parts he threw out on the way, and you’d ease yourself into the emptiness of his soul. You’d placate his hunger for love and give him a place to belong. 

He stares at you, anxiously waiting for a response. All you can do is nod. 

He sighs in relief. You kiss his nose softly before you stand, giggling as he groans at your insistence on leaving the confines of his arms. He lays back down as you steady yourself, eyeing your hips before he reaches up to lift the hem of your nightgown, whistling when he eyes the damage he’d done.

“Nasty old man.”

He laughs and it’s full of life – filled with love and joy and you. 

“You're into nasty old guys?”

You laugh as you walk away, turning to look at him as he grins at you. 

“Just this one.” 

He groans as he gets up, long legs chasing after you as you run away. It’s late, much later than he ever liked to stay up. But he’s home. He’s in your arms as he lets you fall back onto the bed, rejoicing in your laughter as he attacks your stomach with sporadic kisses. You’re here, and he’s home. 

You lay on your side, holding him to you, as he nods off against your chest. A tattooed arm is thrown over your waist while the other falls slack near your thigh. The pain of the night lingers idly, wondering what will become of itself. You’ve killed the envy inside you, held hands with the fragility of the red woman that had insisted on coming out of you.

Ran Haitani is a large man, not small by any means. But underneath the prying moonlight, you think he looks vulnerable. Men of hurt will only know hurt, while the good of the world remains a foreign entity. He’s lucky, in that sense. There is a woman to hold him as he sleeps, a woman he trusts enough to fall victim to. And if he came home to you covered in blood from head to toe, covered in the sin of the world, baring the weight of their tragedy, he’d stare at you and say “Disgusting, isn’t it?” And he’d watch you shake your head, ‘No’.

“It isn’t so bad.”

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ keep it on the low !!

ᝰ.ᐟ if there's one thing every celebrity needs to master, it's the art of the soft launch. building up the anticipation by teasing your fans, leaving little easter eggs that only the two of you could possibly pick up on, playing coy whenever questioned about your relationship status... looks like you and him could write the how-to guide on this art form. alternatively: a headcanon post on how the two of you soft launch your relationship. ( sfw + fem!reader )

features osamu miya, kiyoomi sakusa, wakatoshi ushijima, tobio kageyama, tooru oikawa author's notes blue lock version!

౨ৎ OSAMU MIYA. you are: a famous influencer notorious for being bad at cooking. you could burn water at this point. it's okay, though, because at least your makeup tutorials and your day-in-the-life vlogs are always entertaining and fun. you always joke that you feel bad for your future husband, convinced that a life of takeout and restaurants is the only sustenance your future family is going to know. you posted: a tiktok of a man cooking in a kitchen that isn't the familiar one your fans have seen from your vlogs. he's wearing a black apron, a black t-shirt that hugs his biceps, and the veins in his forearms pop out as he quickly dices the vegetables on the cutting board. you don't show his face, but you do caption the video when he tells me it's okay i can't cook <3. suspiciously enough, the owner of onigiri miya has his own tiktok page where he posts cooking videos, and his kitchen looks exactly like the one you're recording in. matter of fact... osamu miya always wears that plain apron, too...

"thank you for the meal!" your feet don't hit the ground when you're sitting on this stool, and you're literally kicking your feet as you stare down gleefully at the plate of food he's prepared for you. the meal is great, and for dessert, you decide to read the flood of comments tagging miyaosamuofficial on your latest video. you won't confirm or deny, but when osamu convinces you to stay the night, you know that you'll be more than happy to share a when he cooks you breakfast <3 video next.

౨ৎ KIYOOMI SAKUSA. you are: a cheeky pop princess. with your promiscuous persona, your flirty songs laced with sexual jokes, and your minidresses that you flounce around in while on stage, you're the girlie that has parents gasping when they take their daughters to one of your shows. while there's been speculation that you're already in a relationship, since clearly there has to be someone inspiring all these ovulation songs, you've never confirmed anything. you performed: a special dance routine at your latest concert. while you normally wear extremely bright colored bodysuits or pastel babydolls, tonight you're dressed in a sparkly black and gold getup. all your male dancers are wearing fitted black shirts with three golden scratches down the back, and you make a show of grinding against one of the dancers, running your nails against his back. you're staring into the crowd, smiling cheekily. that same night, grainy footage is captured of kiyoomi sakusa standing in the crowd, watching the whole show. the mask he's wearing covers his facial expression, but he barely blinks throughout the entire show, as if he doesn't want to miss anything.

"and there's a special guest here tonight." your chest is rising and falling from how out of breath you are after an hour and a half of nonstop singing and dancing. this is your ending speech for the concert, and the crowd is going insane. "i really hope he enjoyed tonight's show as much as i know all of you did. the love songs... they all are about him." the screams from your fans are deafening, and kiyoomi's glad that his mask covers the blush that creeps on his face as he hears your confession.

౨ৎ WAKATOSHI USHIJIMA. you are: literally ushijima's wife. you're a fairly private person to begin with, and it's not like you two have been married for long. you've been engaged for nearly a year, and you do attend most of his games, but ushijima specifically requests that the suite you watch him from doesn't get filmed. he wants to protect your privacy as much as possible, until you're okay with being shown to the public. he posted: a picture of you smiling on christmas day as you open up a gift from your husband. the boulder on your finger can be seen from a mile away, and as dorky as ever, ushi captions the photo with a happy wife happy life 👍🏻

"what does this mean?" ushijima shows you his phone screen, and you squint at it before laughing. one of the tweets tagging ushi reads leave it to ushijimawakatoshi to fucking hard launch his wife one random xmas morning. "it means you posted about our relationship out of the blue. usually people soft launch before they confirm anything." "soft launch?" his eyebrows furrow adorably as he tries to piece together what you just told him. "like, if you were to soft launch us, you would post a picture that maybe doesn't show my face but people might infer that you're in a relationship based off the photo you took." "that's dumb." he says, in his familiar ushijima cadence that had you falling for him. "i'd never take a photo of you without showing your face. why would i want to hide you?"

౨ৎ TOBIO KAGEYAMA. you are: japan's favorite nepo-baby model. with a face card like yours (and connections from your parents), it's no wonder why you're gracing every billboard in the city, and you're the spokesperson of a premier skincare brand. your fame gets you international publicity, and you're selected for the latest skims campaign. with an entire country in love with you, it might be a hard pill to swallow for your intense fanboys when they find out you're in love with japan's best setter. he posted: so many reposts of your campaigns. tobio still wants to support you, even if he knows that you two can't go public with your relationship just yet. he's actually branded (and sometimes mocked) as one of your biggest fanboys, and it doesn't help that during your skims campaign, he reposted every single ad featuring you.

"tobio, baby, you're so sweet, but you don't have to repost every ad." you tell your boyfriend, watching as clicks repost to yet another one of your photoshoots. "but i want to." he says. you kiss his cheek happily. "and that's exactly why i stayed back and did some extra photos on the skims set, just for you. these are pictures you might not want to repost, though." tobio isn't sure whether his eyes should stay glued to the personal photoshoot you did just for him, or to the real life you who's ready to show him what the set looks like in person.

౨ৎ TOORU OIKAWA. you are: currently visiting your beloved boyfriend in argentina. people know that you two are together, even though neither of you have confirmed it explicitly. it's pretty obvious, though, considering you're constantly seen with him, and he talks about how lucky he is that his girl is his number one supporter. someone posted: a viral video of a toned man wearing aqua blue swim shorts taking pictures of a beautiful girl laying down on a beach towel. not only are the two of you so hot that you look fresh out of a perfume ad, but to have a boyfriend so devoted to getting your best angles? iconic, truly. fans don't even realize that it's you and oikawa until someone points it out.

"tooru, are you taking multiple photos or just one?" you try not to move your lips too much when you speak, uncertain of when he's going to snap a pic. "you trained me well." tooru whines. "obviously, i'm taking several at once." "and make sure the lighting is good!" you remind him. "it doesn't matter how i take the photos, baby. you're still going to look good in them, regardless." "aw... are you sweet talking me because some of the pictures are blurry?" when your boyfriend starts showering you with more compliments, you know the pics are definitely not going to be instagram-worthy. he's lucky he's so cute.

Can’t Wait To Blow My Candles Out

dilf!Ken Ryuguji x f!reader

Genre: Smut Notes: happy birthday to my love 💕 Warnings: 18+, dubcon, age gap, divorce mention, cheating??, coercion, size difference, fingering, oral (f receiving), virgin!reader, virginity loss, shower sex, dacryphilia, breeding kink, creampie, impregnation, corruption, pet names, sir!kink, daddy!kink, praise, mutual masturbation, forced orgasms. Words: 5k

networks: @planetonet @tometpd

The collapse of a marriage was something Ken Ryuguji never thought he’d experience in his life, but also knew was a long time coming. He’d been married to his wife for ten years – and in that time he’d fathered two sons to her. Two sons that she took with her to her mother’s house after their final blazing row. He couldn’t blame her. The penthouse given its current atmosphere was no place for two young children. But God damn it, he’s lonely.

Happy birthday, Ken Ryuguji.

Keep reading

caution: incredibly slutty use of birth control. MDNI.

Across the room comes the piercing, repetitive sound of an alarm.

You look to Sanemi in question, whimpering as the warm comfort of his body abruptly pulls away from you. The little cry of protest you make at the loss of his warmth tugs at his heart, but he’s got an obligation to see to. Jaw tight, Sanemi ignores the own ache he feels as he crosses the floor of the hotel room to rummage through your luggage, his cock painfully hard where it bounces against his abdomen.

It takes him only a second to find the small card lined with those tiny white pills. Quickly, he pops one free and holds it between his teeth, reaching to silence the alarm blaring on his discarded phone.

Pill wedged carefully between his teeth, Sanemi makes his way back to you and climbs onto the bed, knocking your legs apart with his knee.

He ignores your questioning look, too focused on the slightly swollen lips of your pussy, the glistening slickness of your own arousal mixed with his cum.

Fuck, he’ll never get enough of it.

Giving himself a firm pump, Sanemi lines his tip back up with your entrance and slides home once more. He resumes his pace with ease, fucking you as though he never stopped, while you writhe and moan beneath him.

“Hey,” he commands around the pill still perched between his teeth. The moment your eyes, hazy with pleasure, find his, Sanemi grabs your jaw. His fingers squish your cheeks as he surges toward you, closing his mouth roughly over yours.

Your lips part for him and Sanemi forces your birth control into your mouth, parting with one flick of his tongue against yours. He pulls back, his hands sliding under your ass, tilting your hips up as he settles in his knees.

Stunned, your mouth remains slightly open as you stare up at him, pupils blown wide.

“Swallow it.” Sanemi commands, forcing himself to hold your stare instead of letting his eyes fall to your breasts as they bounce with his movements. “Your birth control. Swallow it.”

When he does not see the telltale bob of your throat, Sanemi unlatches a hand from your ass and brings it to where your bodies are connected.

A graze of his nail of your clit makes you buck, but Sanemi slows his movements. “Swallow it.” He orders again, noting with some relish, the indignant scrunch of your eyebrows as he stops moving all together. “Do it, or else I won’t come in you.”

He’s dead serious and you know it. Still, the threat of him not filling you up the way he knows you need quickly turns your eyebrows up, your eyes widening with a plea.

Hastily, you swallow under Sanemi’s discerning eye. The moment the pill slides down your throat, you hold your tongue out for him, eager.

A pleased smirk settles on his lips and you clench around him. “That’s my girl,” he purrs, carefully drawing his hips back until only the tip of his cock remains inside you.

Sanemi’s hands anchor your hips. He rises slightly on his knees, bringing your lower half with him and pauses. A flick of his eyes to yours, and he slams forward, impaling you on the thick, full length of him.

what a whore.

── 𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 : hinata shoyo.

content: fem!reader. public sεx in the back booth of a cafe. dirty thoughts, teasing, fingering, a little overstimulation, shoyo is a liiittle mean but he's just so eager to have you!! mentioned pussy eating at the end.

— . ｡˚ ♡ you just can't wait to have shoyo's fingers in you. and neither can he.

one of the first things you notice about hinata when you meet up with him after his years away in brazil, is that his hands are big.

he'd already been growing taller and filling out when he left — but that was nearly three years ago, and seeing him for the first time after so long felt like a dream — because despite looking the same, he also looked just that different. it wasn't just his hands, really — he was big. 

his neck was thicker, the expanse between his shoulder and neck offering much more space for your arms than it used to, as you wrapped them around his neck in a hug. his arms, his chest, his stomach, as they press against yours in the embrace, they feel bigger, more muscular than you remembered.

but what you notice the most, what would be a subtle change compared to everything else — is that his hands are so big. maybe because you hadn't seen his hands properly in any of the pictures he'd sent you, but it was the most surprising change about him.

his fingers that just used to be long and lithe, are now thicker — knuckles tough and edges calloused, the backs of them rosy and tanned and the palms hard and smooth, pink at the rounder points.

and as he holds your hands in his, gives you a smile that pours love and longing and happiness and tender adoration into you as he tells you, “hi, baby. i missed you.” — all you can think about is that you want your pussy stuffed with those fingers of his.

and eventually — because he is after all, your beloved shoyo that would do anything for you — you tell him.

hand in hand, walking the distance from your place to the café you used to frequent together, you tell him that his hands are so nice. 

his fingers are so thick (“look! see how big they are compared to mine?”) and then while you're talking to each other over cups of coffee, you finally tell him — albeit slyly and mostly as a tease, you admit that you want his fingers in your cunt.

what you don't expect is for him to immediately oblige.

you're sitting together at the very last booth of the small, cozy little cafe, away from all the windows and concealed from clear view — and you'd thought it'd be cute to fluster him with a dirty little comment, and get him hooked for when you both get home.

but when you tell him, “they'd feel so nice curling deep into my pussy, don't you think?” hinata stares at you for only a few seconds — before he has you pressed against the back of the booth, one legged hooked over his knees and the other dangling over the edge of the seat as he forces your legs open.

“mhm,” he giggles at your wide eyed, stunned expression, wrapping a muscled arm around you and adjusting your position so effortlessly, as his other hand slides past the waistband of your skirt to palm at your clothed cunt. “let's see how it feels, then. oh — pretty pussy's wet already, huh? missed me much?”

you're too dazed by the contact and the delicious feel of his touch on your clit to form words and tell him yes, yes yes you missed him so fucking much, more than he knows — but you think you missed him more than even you know.

his eyes are brighter than you remember as well, you see as you blink up to meet his gaze— 

his body language, his confidence, it's so different compared to how he was before.

you'd only gotten together in your third year of highschool, and really you'd only fucked once before he left for brazil — but you'd loved him long enough to know.

this isn't the same hinata that you kissed good-bye at that train station years ago.

correction: he is the same — but he's also more. 

you stare, stars in your eyes — and he gives you a handsome, rogueish grin as he slips two digits under your panties and into the slick mess of your hole, like he knows every single thing he's doing to you right now.

to your body, to your mind, to your soul.

it's overwhelming enough, to have the love of your life return home to you after more than two years of being so, so far away from you.

overwhelming enough to see that he has changed so very much, to see that suddenly the sunny, sweet boy you'd fallen in love with has become a fire, a hot searing flame that's ready to sweep you off your feet and singe you, burn you with his kisses and his touch.

but right now, you can't even think clearly about it all — because fuck, fuck, fuck, he's sliding his fingers into you, and it feels even better than you thought it would.

“sh—shoyo,” you whimper, cheek pressed to his chest as he shields your body with his, just in case. “wait, wait — didn't mean right now, i—”

“hush,” he hums into your ear, thumb gliding up to find your clit, and when he presses into the sensitive bud, you can only obey and hush — pressing your lips shut tight to prevent the gasp of pleasure that builds in your throat from getting away.

the café had been pretty quiet and peaceful when you'd both walked inside, and even as you ordered from the counter and brought your trays to the back booth — but suddenly, you're so afraid that people might come and see. afraid that a waiter might come over and see.

“sho—” you try, but he shushes you again, and you feel so hot, it's all so sudden you can't think.

“couldn't wait, sunshine, 'm sorry.” he mumbles into your hair, pulling you even closer, and you feel a little cramped as he tugs your legs even further apart, fingers sliding knuckle-deep into you. “was thinking things the whole time, you're so gorgeous now, can't wait when you're so hot.”

“i—” you whimper again, grabbing his shirt and curling it in your fist. “me too, shoyo, me too.” there's an impatience in the both of you that was hardly satiable when kept apart from eachother, but now, with the two of you like this, there's no way to keep it at bay.

the stretch of his fingers in your cunt is impossible. so much compared to your own fingers, so hot and hungry compared to the toys you use (ones he'd bought and sent home to you during his time in brazil).

he fucks his digits into you like he's been dying to do this to you, like he's desperate to hear those pretty sounds you make in his ear again, like he's been thirsting to make you cum like this forever.

you're going to hit your orgasm so quick, you can already feel it.

you're going to cum slumped in the back booth of this little café, that you'd visited so long ago on your first date with hinata. this little café where you'd first kissed him. this little café where you'd had a valentine's day brunch with him, just two months before he left.

“shoyo,” you can't help the moan that slips out, pussy only clenching around harder his digits when you see the way his eyes cloud with lust upon hearing your voice. “shoyo, shoyo — gonna cum.”

you hope nobody hears you — and you hope that if they did, they'll stay the fuck away and mind their own business, and let hinata take care of you.

you need it. he's so warm, so hot, and he's fucking you so good with just his fingers — thumb rolling your clit just fucking right while he curls his fingers into your velvet walls, giggling under his breath when your pussy squelches messily each time. 

“that's right, baby,” he coos, kissing your hair. “cum for me. nice and hard, mkay? else we might hafta try again.”

his voice cracks so well at just the right moment as he says it — and you don't know if it's the zap of need that courses through you at the sound of his voice breaking, or if it's just the bliss he's giving you with his fingers that makes you cum instantly, but you do.

your pussy wraps around his fingers so tight — your own hand flying up to clamp over your mouth and muffle your cry, as your body finally unfreezes and you crash into your high.

knees knocking together and squeezing hinata's arm between your legs, you fall lax against the leather seating of the booth — cushioned by his body because he still has his other arm secured around you — and you cum. “fuck, shoyo.”

“that's good,” hinata encourages, his whisper hot in the shell of your ear. “fuck, so messy. so messy, baby, how do we clean you up?”

you can't help it — and he's making it worse, curling his fingers in, knuckles digging into your walls as he tries to go even deeper, never relieving the pressure he's out on your clit, god— “shoyo, fuck, fuck.” you’re afraid you might shatter into a million pieces right there on the damn seat. you haven’t had someone else touch you in a long time, and getting an orgasm ripped from you like this is almost too much. “sho—shoyo, please.”

“please, what?” he giggles, still unrelenting, like he’s missed having you like this, like he really can’t be a good boy and wait until you get back home before he eats you up and makes you his girl all over again, for the first time in years.

“not here,” you say breathlessly, gulping down the cry of pleasure that springs up your throat when he lets go of your clit for a moment, only to flick his thumb at the ravenous bud again. “not here, please. i can’t—”

“can’t what?” he asks, almost impatient. he bites at your ear, and you feel so fucking hot, so dizzy with pleasure, but you can’t. not in the back booth of a god damn café, where you could just be caught with MSbY’s newest outside hitter fitting his fingers into your starving little cunt.

you grab his wrist and tug, giving him the most serious look you can with all the stars in your eyes. “can’t be like this, shoyo. not here. please? wanna go home. want you in me. at home.”

his lips pull downwards into a disappointed pout, but he only presses his body closer to you, hot and heavy, his weight so new on you. “you promise t’ let me fuck you like this in your bed then?”

the fact that he can make you blush harder with a few words even as he’s got your pussy full of his fingers is astounding, really. but you feel your face heat up as you nod, telling him you promise. you need it more than him. you need him so, so fucking bad.

with a delighted laugh, shoyo pulls away, almost too quickly and you’re forced to stifle the needy whine you want to let out because you know he’ll be on you again in no time if you act like that. he pops his fingers into his mouth, sucking on your slick, eyes dulling with lust as he gets a taste of you. “let’s go, then. we can have this date later.”

“wh—what about our food?” you can’t even ask before he’s getting up and pulling you to your feet. he gives you a quick kiss, and your eyes widen when you taste yourself on him. god, it’s almost embarrassing.

“i’ll pay for it now, we’ll tell them we’re coming back in a bit.” he grins at you, taking you by the waist and pulling you up against him. “i can think of something else i’d like to eat right now.”

by the glint in his eyes and the lingering taste in your mouth, you know exactly what he means the instant he says it. and you can’t help but blush again. god, he’s such a fucking charmer. “mm, alright. let’s go then.”

“that’s my girl.”

CRUSH (ushijima wakatoshi x reader)

summary: wakatoshi has a crush.

word count: 720

warnings: fem!reader, its all just fluff

tags: @keiva1000

Ushijima knows he has fans. He might be simple-minded and a little oblivious, but he’s not stupid.

He knows girls stare at him from the balcony during practice. And he can hear their giggling when he passes them in the halls. Tendou often calls him Shiratorizawa’s Golden Boy, which Ushijima wholeheartedly disagrees with, but never voices out loud. Tendou often says strange things. He doesn’t mind.

Ushijima doesn’t understand his popularity. Sure, he is a good player. The best ace in the prefecture. But most of these girls have no understanding of volleyball. So why are they spending hours upon hours in the stands, watching him play?

“They’re not watching the match, Wakatoshi-kun. They are watching you.”

Hm. Strange. His play is very consistent. Watching him do the same thing over and over has to get boring, especially when they aren’t watching for the sake of the game.

But then he sees you for the first time.

You are in his third year English class. In his three years of high school, Ushijima is sure he has never seen you before. Because if he had, there was no way he would forget you.

He is curious. And a little enamored by you.

You are, by all means, a regular girl. You sit on the same chair every day, bring your own bento instead of eating from the cafeteria. It is always wrapped in a pretty multicolored patterned cloth, done up in a knot on top. You have a small stuffed cat chain on the zipper of your backpack. And you wear your hair differently every day. Some days it is tied up, some days it is let down. And some days it is half-up and half-down. You have one pink bunny hairclip that you wear maybe once every two or three days that Ushijima thinks is very cute. Your uniform is always immaculate.

There are so many tiny details about you that Ushijima has learned, and he finally understands why girls would stay hanging over the gym balcony to watch him for hours, because he could watch you for hours too.

You are very smart, he could tell. You always answer correctly when the teacher would call on you, and he has glimpsed at your notes. Simple, but neat and easy to understand, just the way he likes it. There are no crazy colors and highlighters, and your handwriting is neat and beautiful, just like the rest of you.

You are also quiet. You have a select group of friends that you talk to, and while you are nice to anyone who interacts with you, you don't go out of your way to stand out. Again, Ushijima loves that. It seems he loved everything about you. All the minor details that make you a little bit more unique to everyone else.

When you show up at his game, he nearly loses his focus.

It in’t an important game by any means, just a practice match with another local university team. So why are you here? Have your friends dragged you along? Or are you here by your own volition? Ushijima feels how sweaty his palms are when he clenches his fists, and it surprises him.

Is he….. nervous?

Why? Because you are watching? How ridiculous. Ushijima has never once doubted his own strength, or his ability to win. How could your presence alter that? The thought annoys him, and he is determined to prove that you being here would not be a hindrance to his play.

Turns out, he needn't have worried. It seems your presence had sharpened his senses more than ever. Shiratorizawa won in straight sets, and of the 50 points they scored, 39 had been from Ushijima’s hand.

“You were on fire today, Wakatoshi-kun.” Tendou comments as the final whistle rings. Ushijima unintentionally glances at you in the stands, cheering for the team. Cheering for him.

His heart is beating a mile a minute, and he doesn’t think it is because of the game he had just played. He hears Tendou let out a dreamy sigh.

“Ah, the miracles of having a crush.”

He feels his lips tick up in a tiny smile as he throws a towel over his shoulders. Tendou is wrong. Ushijima doesn’t think he has a crush.

He thinks he is in love.

Take a seat || Miguel O'hara

Pairing: Miguel O'hara x F!reader

Summary: Never in your wildest dream did you imagine having your husband ask you to sit on his face.

Tags: Face sitting, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, smut, NOT BETA READ.

Words: 1.2k

saw someone plead for this one lmao. They asked so nicely so I delivered, idk if this is how it usually goes tbh. This shit's so rushed but I guess I have to squeeze everything out before school starts again tomorrow aaaaaaaaaa

other than that, enjoy! Thank you all for your love on my fics aaaaaaaaaa im running out of header pics da;flkhwah

mi vida - my life || dios mio - my god || mi bella esposa - my beautiful wife || cariño - honey

“You want me to do what now?”

Miguel sighed exasperatedly as he facepalmed, embarrassed. “Don’t make me repeat mys—”

“No no no, I heard you loud and clear.” Which doesn’t mean you understand why all of a sudden. “But why?”

“Should I have any reason why I want you to sit on my face?”

In a gazillion universe, you’d never thought you’d hear those words come out of his lips. Sitting on his lap, you stared at the man incredulously to which he scowled at.

Usually, oral between you both are usually done with you underneath him as he pinned your thighs open and wide for him since he likes the control. To hear him ask you to sit on his face mid-foreplay shocked you.

You pinched your thigh, unconvinced by his sudden change of mind and Miguel sighed once more.

“Is it that hard to believe, mi vida? Dios mio, if you don’t want to do it, just say it—”

“No no no, lay back down, I’m just processing.”

Excitement thrummed madly in your veins as you pushed the man back into the mattress. Excitement got you removing your underwear in a second before sitting back on his chest. It’s not fast enough apparently, when his strong arms hook under your legs and pull you directly on top of his lips.

Your breath got stuck into your throat. The mere feeling of his hot breath on your skin caused ripples of heat from your abdomen to your fingertips. You’ve always had orals before, it was something he’d never forget, yet there was something about sitting on top of his face that got you aroused more than ever.

“Go any slower and I would’ve thought you’d want to back out.”

“Not my fault. You’re so impatient.”

“A pretty girl sat on top of me, naked and wet, begging to be devoured. Do you think I’d ignore you, mi bella esposa?”

His dark voice, along with his fogged red eyes staring at you through his eyelash sent shivers down your spine, cheeks flushing beet red. You almost slapped the growing smirk off of his face at your flustered state.

“You’re so annoying.”

“And you smell absolutely delicious.”

His arms locked around your thighs and you immediately knew you were done.

His tongue felt like silk gliding through your folds before rolling your clit in figures of eight. You sighed, throwing your head back as pleasure slithered down your spine at his every exhale fanning your skin. 

There was something about the stings his stubbles brings as it scratches your skin along with the stimulation of his tongue that drive you crazy. 

You swear you’re not a masochist by any means, yet when it comes to Miguel, every joy, sadness, pain and pleasure felt like a reward from the high heavens that you couldn’t help but accept with gratitude.

Your hand found stability in his dark locks, pulling and tugging his head closer to your heat, causing him to groan, the vibration seeping into your bones.

His hands roamed your body as if desperate to find a treasure in the unknown, nails dragging the skin from your back and down to the globes of your ass. The sting they left in their wake stirs your nerves awake, the pain mixing in with pleasure. You sighed, falling to lean on the piles of pillows as you dragged your clit with the point of his tongue.

Miguel wandered lower, tongue rolling around the rim of your entrance, sending electric jolts down your legs. You shivered as the sensation of his fangs rubbing against your folds, always so close yet so far away.

You gasped when the appendage plunged into your entrance, his large nose pushing into your clit as he pulled you closer to his face.

“Fuck…!”

“You taste divine, cariño.” He groaned. “Give me more.”

Bringing his hand down hard onto your ass, you whined. The stinging pain it left had your body singing for more and you knew Miguel was aware of the effect it has on you with how hard you clench on his silky appendage.

“Move.”

“Huh?”

Another sharp slap echoed in the living room, harder than the one earlier and you cried, hips stuttering forward on his flattened tongue.

“Ride me, cariño. Like you’ve always wanted.”

And you swear you’ve never heard anything more romantic than that.

With a smidge of hesitance, fearing you’d suffocate him, you rolled yourself on his tongue, eyes locked onto his darkened ones that dripped with desire. Still unsatisfied, his hand lands another hit on your skin and you move more desperately against him.

You cry as he starts to pick up the pace of his tongue, putting pressure onto your bead and shaking his head aggressively underneath you. He swats you once more when your hips stutter from the stimulation before clawing your flesh and grounding you further into his mouth.

“Harder.”

“I’m trying—Ah!”

Sneaking a hand below, he immediately inserts two digits inside of you. He spared no time hastening the speed of his thrusts while licking enthusiastically onto your clit making your eyes roll back.

Chasing the pleasure his fingers and mouth offered you, your hips rolled uncontrollably against his face. The obscene squelch echoing in the room would have embarrassed you, yet you couldn’t find it in you to flush.

The tight knot in your abdomen tightens as heat explodes from your chest and reaches down the tips of your limbs. You couldn’t do anything but cry as you tether closer to nirvana.

“I-I’m close.”

“Come for me, mi vida. Give it to me. I want it all.”

With his grounding arm reaching up to rake through your back along with his fingers and tongue, the knot unfurls and you come with a cry. 

Suddenly, he had both arms wrapped around your waist, preventing you from fluttering away from his ministrations. You gasped and pushed at his head but he paid no heed to them, rolling and shaking his tongue onto your clit as if trying to coax another climax from you.

“Miguel…!”

His nails digging into your flesh was the only answer you received and maybe the tug on his lips at your trembling thighs as well. It didn’t take long before pain started to blur with pleasure and your hips rocked against his tongue despite the protest of your heat with one hand tugging on his hair and the other holding on for dear life onto the headboard.

You didn’t have the mind to worry about his nose being blocked by your mon pubis, focused solely on your orgasm. With how he ground your hips onto his lips, you knew he didn’t mind.

And with a weak shout, you unravel, flesh and bones, on top of him. There’s a sound of something breaking in the haze, but paid no heed to it as you fall bonelessly onto the mattress. Miguel pulls away, gasping for air just as you turn to face the ceiling.

Your arousal drenching his face evoked something feral within you, the simmering desire in your stomach stirring awake once more. His eyes turned to the headboard and chuckled, reaching over to run his fingers over the dent with amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I guess a Spider-Man will always be a Spider-Man.”

“Oh shut up.” You groaned, chucking a pillow on his face.