❝ The Lights Are On, There’s No One Here. Puffing With The Dragons, I’m Livin’ For The Thrill,

you ever think about how they'll probably see this picture in a yearbook when they're 60 years old and reminisce about their time as a part of the karasuno volleyball club? cuz i do all the time

“don’t let it bother u” baby i’m gonna be bothered by this for the next 10 years

─── 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄

+ sae x f!reader | wc 5.3k

notes: i’m in love with this man, and wrote this on a whim :’) hope y’all like it !! feedback & reblogs are greatly appreciated !! <3

summary: you’ve known sae since you were both sixteen. he’s always dreamed of going overseas and facing the world, will he ever be ready to come home?

𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

sae can read almost everyone flawlessly, you included.

he’s not close to you, not at all. physically? yes, because you’re his seat partner. but in all other aspects? no, definitely not.

you’re scared of him, he can tell. whenever he moves, you get self-conscious, immediately pulling your own chair in, giving him way. then you check on him as he moves away, because you’re scared that somehow you’ve managed to offend him.

you never did. because to offend sae, you’d need to be someone who can even bother him in the first place.

sae doesn’t care about what you do though, he just happens to notice you. out of convenience, because he sees you every monday to friday and sits next to you for every class.

it’s the same routine thing every week—you sit next to each other, barely say a word all day and then before he knows it, it’s the end of school day.

it doesn’t even matter. you don’t matter.

nobody really does.

he peeks at you out of the corner of his eyes, your eyes peering down at your paper with the utmost concentration. he quickly looks away though, because the last thing he wants is to get caught and be labeled as a cheater on a history quiz. especially when he’s not cheating.

yeah, you really don’t matter.

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

soccer, soccer, soccer.

that’s all sae can think of nowadays. just do whatever he can to improve his skills, everything else is up for debate.

you’re still his seatmate, still ever so distant. he gives you credit though, for greeting him every morning now even though you look terrified and nervous all the time.

“good morning.”

today is no exception. sae’s eyes flick up to you and then back down to his desk, and that’s all of the acknowledgement you get, as usual. it’s nothing personal, he just doesn’t want to get into small talk at all.

but he’ll give you points for trying, even if he doesn’t exactly know what’s going through your head right now. somehow, he can’t read you as well anymore.

that’s how you usually are now, the newer version of you. a little more upbeat, a little friendlier, less awkward but still as shy as he first pegged you to be.

well, now you’re just slightly more amusing. somehow, sae starts to find himself wondering how you’d react to different situations.

it’s almost the middle of the school year and you’d kept up with your usual greetings everyday. sae keeps up with his usual stoic demeanour on his part.

until today.

“good morning!” you’re extra chirpy today, he notices.

sae blinks at you once, twice, and you’re still smiling at him, and he’d like to know whether you’re still that same nervous mess inside, so he opens his mouth this time.

“morning, y/n.”

simple, easy, basic courtesy.

but somehow you’re looking at him as though he’s a fucking freak.

to be fair, that’s exactly what he expected. but it’s now been a whole minute and you’re still staring dumbly at him.

“what?”

you shake your head, laughing sheepishly as you take your seat beside him, “nothing, it’s just… you never bothered talking to me before.”

sae shrugs, because it’s not like he bothers now, per se. he’s just—what’s the word—bored? “i can shut up too if you prefer that.”

“no!”

you look so embarrassed by your quick outburst that sae almost snickers. that’s the most reaction you’ve nearly managed to get out of him yet.

“i mean,” you stutter, looking for the right words to say, and maybe sae is getting a little bit of an ego boost right now because he can tell you’re flustered. “you’re pretty terrifying most of the time so…”

he knows what you mean, but he acts like he doesn’t. “oh, so you like terrifying? okay, i can do that.”

the way your face instantly switches to a straight expression is fucking amusing, and for a split second his guard falls and you get to hear him snicker.

luckily, the bell rings right after and mr hayato is never late. sae never got to hear what you thought of that.

every single day after that passes by a little bit easier, your non-friendship inching a little closer together, sae might even consider you an acquaintance now.

he converses with you a lot more fluidly (as much as he allows himself to—he doesn’t like you being too comfortable, likes to keep you on your toes), and he finds himself teaching you things he notices you’re absolutely horrible at.

like logarithms, because no matter how much you try to wrap your head around it, you refuse to ask anyone for help. you’re a little stubborn, but sae can live with that, just has to speak to you in a way that doesn’t seem like you look like you need help.

“no, you’re forgetting that the log of e is always one, there, see?” sae sighs as he explains, because you’re quite muddle-headed. “it’ll be much easier once you get all the definitions in your head.”

“were you born a genius or something?” you ask innocently upon catching his test scores. a 94 out of 100, compared to your 63.

that day, neither of you notice the fact that other people are beginning to notice your growing friendship.

sae starts tutoring you whenever he can, because apparently you’re hopeless without his help. (he says this to your face. he’s always straight with you.) and then he finds himself noticing you in ways he never did before.

how you look absolutely angelic when the sun hits your face. he notices the way you puff out your cheeks when you’re thinking hard. even the perfume that wafts through the air. you smell good.

this is ridiculous.

“hun, do you want any—”

fuck. sae’s head whips around to see an older woman at your door, almost a carbon copy of you, eyes wide as her gaze falls onto him.

no, he’s not particularly nervous or feels like he should be, but something tells you if your mother is anything like you, she’d misunderstand. this is just a lot more trouble than it’s worth. you’re a lot more trouble than it’s worth. what’s he even getting out of tutoring you?

“oh hi there! and who might you be?”

he can see stars in her eyes, all hopeful and excited as she shifts her gaze between you and sae and back to you again.

“mom! he’s no one—” ouch, he’s tutoring you and you introduce him as no one? “a friend and he’s tutoring me for some math stuff so could you…?”

it’s like the gears are turning in your mother’s head when she eyes sae knowingly. god, he has to do some damage control. don’t want either of you expecting anything much out of him.

“i’m itoshi sae,” he introduces himself, shaking her hand. “i just make time to tutor some of my classmates to earn extra credit.”

not even close to true, but neither of you need to know that. he’d much rather spend his free time getting in some training or going to the gym but he decided maybe he could spend a few hours out of today to help your dumbass with numbers.

he’s an expert at sidestepping small talk and in no time at all, your mother’s out of the room. you still seem embarrassed, he can feel the heat emanating from your cheeks.

“concentrate,” sae sighs, and he wonders why he’s even doing this for you. he’d rather go home right now, he thinks, maybe kick the ball around with rin, or just lie down in bed because waking up at 4am to train every morning is taking its toll.

you mumble a hushed apology and rub the sleepiness from your eyes. the both of you had been at this for a couple of hours now, maybe looking at numbers too much is making you tired too.

sae acknowledges you’re a fast learner though, if you have a proper teacher. he’s not surprised that ms kina’s teachings are lost on you—she’s not that good at explaining concepts. sae is, though. he usually doesn’t bother sharing but hey, maybe now is just a glitch in the matrix, maybe now he’s just trying to do good samaritan things and help you out so you don’t fail the damn midterm test.

“okay then, see you,” he says, picking up his bag and slinging it around his shoulders, only to have you grab his wrist. “what?”

you look a little bashful once you realise what you did, and then you let go of him immediately. you look like you really want to say something, but you don’t, you just shake your head.

don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.

sae’s putting his bag back down before he knows it, and he groans internally. “say it.”

“if-if you don’t mind, maybe we could schedule a tutoring session every week?” you’re so, so timid and so, so soft.

he blinks once, twice, realising what you actually mean to say. you don’t want the tutoring session, apart from logarithms you’re fine with pure numbers, but you want time. with him.

it boosts his ego a little, if he’s being honest.

“i’m too busy with my soccer trainings,” he tells you, nonchalant until he sees how quick your expression falls and then he has to hate himself for continuing, “i have some time on friday evenings though.”

like a puppy, you’re instantly chirpy again, saying how maybe he could tutor you after he’s done with whatever stuff, and how you’d get a head start and grab some seats at a cafe or something.

you’re both seventeen when your weekly tutoring sessions start. it’s beyond himself why he agreed. all he knows is that he doesn’t particularly like being the reason your expression goes sad.

first week in, you’re still too nervous, too jumpy.

the second week, you’re a little too full of nonsense, daring to laugh at him, or with him, depending.

by the fifth week, your bare arm is already brushing his and you’re not even flinching.

you’re both seventeen when sae realises that maybe he cares for you. in the way lovers do. in the way he gets you to walk on the safer side of the sidewalk. in the way he sends you home every friday. in the way he actually responds to your goodnight texts and wakes up waiting for your good morning.

in the way he listens when you tell him that your mother is actually sick, that you want to take care of her. that your dream is simple—to find your passion one day, and to be able to earn enough to let your mother live peacefully, to help her fight whatever she has to because you don’t want her to be alone.

in the way, for the first time in his life, he reaches out to you, putting his hand on top of yours as he lets you cry on his shoulder.

your birthday falls on a friday this year, and he tells you not to bring your books that day in class. you look at him with pure shock, but then quickly adjust yourself and bring up a grateful smile.

“yes, sir.”

that night he meets you up on the rooftop of your complex, in the middle of the carpark, and you’ve never looked any happier than you did when you saw him holding that petite round galaxy cake in his hands, the sparkler candles so pretty in the night.

“happy birthday.”

𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

the next school year starts and sae enters into it still close to you as ever. you haven’t met in just over a month, what with sae’s intense training camps and your family holiday. but the both of you still talk to each other daily, and he finds himself waiting for your response every night.

it’s like the both of you are in a relationship, but neither of you are saying anything about it. whatever this relationship-non-relationship is, sae thinks he likes it.

but it’s barely three months into the school year and sae has to break your heart.

“it’s the opportunity of a lifetime, i’m sure you understand right?” his coach rambles on, disgusting with how he’s talking with his mouth full and chips keep falling out of it.

sae nods, because he does. he’s almost sure he’ll go for it. it’s not everyday kids from japan get offered a spot to play for a european club.

“great! so let’s get your parents involved and get you to spain.”

“yeah, sure.”

it’s frustrating how he’s not more excited. it’s there, but it’s faint, because it’s lingering on the traces of his feelings for you. he’s never really thought this far, and maybe that was his fault. he’ll keep that in mind; he can’t risk this situation again. he can’t risk getting your hopes up and being the reason that they’ll never recover.

minimise damage, yeah, that’s what he has to do.

you go from talking endlessly in class to being quiet because sae is trying to concentrate. you go from meeting every friday outside of school to every other friday, to once every month, to none at all. you go from texting a good morning and a goodnight every day to barely getting responses from sae, barely ever even get your messages read.

then one day sae just doesn’t show up to school at all. and you finally hear that he’s been scouted for a club in spain, that he’s going to be away for god knows how long. and then you realise that maybe that’s why he’s been distant lately, because you refuse to believe that the sae who took so much time out of his busy schedule for you, the sae who made the effort to buy you a birthday cake and spend all night on the carpark just listening to you talk on and on about insignificant things because you were nervous, the sae who you fell in love with—you refuse to believe it wasn’t real.

that’s why you hold your hopes up and ride your bicycle to his house, which you’ve been to once before, just outside though, because you’d asked him where he lived and he finally obliged. it’s still beautiful as ever, neat garden lined with flowers and a soccer field in the back.

when you knock on the gate, you see a familiar face come out; it’s itoshi rin, his younger brother. you only know that because sae’s spoken about him a few times, and you saw a picture of the both of them together on his phone.

“oh, um, hi, who are you?” rin asks, cautiously, because evidently, he’s never seen you.

“uh, i’m one of sae’s… classmates,” you decide, and it stings that you realise you can’t even say that anymore. how did it all spiral from cloud nine? “is he home?”

rin blinks a few times. his lower lashes are slightly longer than sae’s, he’s carrying a soccer ball, and you just know he’s been training all day because he’s sweating from head to toe. sae has said rin wanted to be a striker just like him.

“oh, didn’t you hear? my big bro got scouted, he left for spain last night.”

it shouldn’t be this upsetting—he isn’t even your boyfriend. no matter how much you wanted him to be. he was just… someone you studied with, spent time with, made efforts for.

but something forms in the pit of your stomach when you hear that sae’s already gone, that he’s already halfway to spain without even saying goodbye, without giving you any warning.

you’d thought whatever friendship you had with him was worth more than a silent goodbye, than a one-sided decision.

“o-oh, okay, thanks!”

you bolt off before rin can say anything else, it’s better that no one can see you crying anyway.

that night once you’ve sort of calmed down, you open up sae’s message thread, which as of late is mostly a string of messages from you and sae only replying with oh or i see or i’m busy.

the last time he even bothered replying to you was last week when you asked if he wanted to watch a movie together and he said a simple no.

“you’re an ass, itoshi sae,” you cry to yourself as you bring up the keyboard on your phone, your tears falling onto the screen.

i hate you, itoshi sae.

𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

soccer is the same; thrilling, tiring, demanding.

it’s been a year since he left japan and he’s still surviving, still thriving, still being revered as a genius midfielder. sae knows he has what it takes to bring victory to a good enough team, that’s what he came here for anyway—to be the best in the world.

“good job out there, sae,” the captain claps him on the back, but sae’s mind isn’t there.

it’s been a year since he left japan and he still pulls up the last message you ever sent him.

i hate you, itoshi sae.

perhaps it’s good that you do. there’s no place for your dreams in spain, or anywhere else in the world except for japan. you need to move on from him. maybe you already did, from what he hears from his classmates who still check in on him from time to time.

the first time sae hears about how some other guy asked you out, he can’t say he doesn’t care. but he’s relinquished his right to be jealous, so he barely responds to the news.

but maybe he’s beginning to see where he fucked up, because he shouldn’t have gotten close to you in the first place, should’ve just left you alone.

instead now he’s left with this sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. is this how it feels like to really miss someone?

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘

you’re now in college and you’re past whatever happened in high school. itoshi sae still lingers in the crevices of your mind, with his teal eyes and his pretty lashes and the way his hand felt when they were on top of yours.

some part of you thinks you’d never get over him, but you have to make peace with that. just because he never bothered to give you closure doesn’t mean he should be allowed to ruin your life.

besides, you’re pretty sure he read what you last sent him. there’s really nothing else for you to do if he doesn’t even bother talking to you.

you’d been trying to properly move on anyway, and that’s exactly what you try to do later that night, after accepting ryusei shido’s invitation to dinner.

he’s like the opposite of sae, though. he’s all expressive and goofy and wild because he’s got you trespassing on private property just to borrow their garden and he likes to drive fast, really fast, because he loves the wind in his hair.

if you had met him first, you’d probably be in love with the rush he gives you, the adrenaline pumping through your veins. when he kissed you, if only you didn’t have itoshi sae in your head, then maybe you’d have kissed him back.

when you’re twenty, you find out that maybe you can’t move on without giving itoshi sae a piece of your mind.

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐎𝐍𝐄

sae’s career has been rapidly progressing, he’s part of the starting team and is hailed as one of the world’s up-and-coming top soccer stars.

the earlier game cemented it.

his team won, with the commentators naming him as the most valuable player, assisting in all the goals scored by his team.

when he’s pulled aside for an interview, he can’t help but wonder whether you’d be watching through the television, hanging on his every word. or maybe you’d already moved on with this shido guy he hears about.

fuck that shido guy.

and when an interviewer asks whether there’s anyone special in his life that motivates him, he finds himself wishing he could say your name.

“nothing of that sort.”

interviews pass by quickly, as they always do for him because he’s not much of an interview guy, with his stoic expressions and lacklustre responses. he’s on the way back to the locker room when he hears a familiar voice calling out to him.

“sae!”

he spins around to find his mother and father there, surprising him. they must’ve heard he was playing and booked a flight out. rin’s not here though.

“rin’s busy with some soccer matches of his own back at home,” his father explains, as if he read his mind. “he couldn’t make it, but he’s surely watching the match from home.”

how silly of sae to have wished that it was you calling out to him, for that split second. you’re still in his head, and that’s annoying.

“oh! sweetheart,” his mother coos after she’s done gushing over his game, “we ran into one of your friends earlier! what’s her name—ah wait there she is!”

sae furrows his brows, following his mother’s gaze and finds you there, hugging the walls, sheepishly waving your hand at him. he’s starting to doubt his vision, maybe you’re just his imagination, maybe his mother’s looking at someone else.

“hey, sae,” you greet him, mellow and polite.

he’s still standing there like he’s the one who’s starstruck, like you’re the famous one. are you really here?

“what are you doing here?”

not the best greeting, but that’s the most he can muster when he hasn’t seen or heard from you in over three years.

you smile, and he thinks he might melt, but he doesn’t because he’s just told—lied to—the world that there’s no one special to him.

“what’s wrong with supporting one of my friends?” you say, as though this is a neighbourhood soccer match and you didn’t have to fly halfway across the world for it.

“itoshi! get in here!” by the sound of his voice, it’s the captain talking. sae doesn’t even want to take his eyes off of you, but he has to.

“go,” you tell him, “i’m staying near the airport, if, uh, you wanted to do anything afterwards.”

does he?

sae swallows the lump in his throat and nods. “yeah, okay.”

that night, he figures out which hotel you’re staying at and pays you a visit—it annoys him how fast his heart is beating and how your sudden presence threatens to mess up his life.

he knocks on your door, and you open it, beaming at him when you see him. “i thought we were meeting at the restaurant,” you say as you let him in, closing the door behind him.

“i was just passing by, sent my parents to the airport and thought i would just drop by,” he answers, lying through his teeth. his parents are still somewhere in spain and he just wanted to see you sooner, that’s all.

“well, i’m still getting ready,” you tell him, straightening your dress and looking at yourself in the mirror.

how is it possible you keep getting prettier everyday? your hair’s a little longer now, and you look more mature, you’ve learned to do makeup, and your dress hugs your body in just the right places. he’s cursing himself for staring at you.

“i thought you’d be too busy to come out with me tonight, honestly,” you confess, putting on some lipstick.

sae has to look away, “and i thought you hated me.”

that has you stopping in your tracks; this conversation happened earlier than you expected, but you’d been gunning for this all the same.

“yeah, well you left japan without saying a word to me, like i was just anyone else.”

he understands why you’d think that. that was what he was going for anyway, and it reminds him what he should be doing instead of entertaining you right now. sae should be rejecting you, you and your efforts, should turn away from you like you’re another one of his fangirls.

“why?”

but the shakiness in your voice takes him off guard.

“why what?”

“why didn’t you say anything?”

“i didn’t have to,” sae responds, simply, like he doesn’t owe you a damn thing.

“was i imagining it?” you ask, finally turning around and looking him in his eyes.

no, no you weren’t.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“then why are you here, sae?” you burst out, and he stills in his position, feet glued to the floor. “you wouldn’t give a second thought to people you don’t care about, so what now?”

“i was just taking an old friend out to dinner, that’s all.”

he’s stubborn, so so stubborn. he’s hoping he’ll hold out.

“i don’t get you,” you mutter softly, to yourself or to him, he doesn’t even fucking know.

sae really shouldn’t, but he thinks about how he might never see you again and tries, “what do you want?”

“what are you talking about?”

“do you know what you want?” sae turns it around on you. “you flew halfway across the world to get here, for what? for me?”

he’s intimidating when he speaks a little louder than usual, and you shrink back just slightly.

“i-i wanted to talk to you,” you try your hardest to form an excuse but it’s not working.

“and what did you want out of that?”

you fall flat, and you feel like giving up. you know the answer, but you don’t want to admit it. you don’t want to tell him that you wanted him to want you too, you don’t want to admit that you’ve been thinking about him nearly all the time and what could’ve been.

“just forget it,” you relent, averting your gaze, but the next moment you feel an unfamiliar sensation on your lips, the taste of his on yours.

sae doesn’t know why he’s doing it, but his body moves on its own; something he got from playing that manages to bleed into his daily life, apparently.

you taste so much better than he expected, and you feel like you belong in his arms, like you’re made for him because there’s absolutely no one else in the whole fucking world who could ever bring itoshi sae to his knees.

he’s been in denial all this time, yes, and he’s tired of it. if you came all the way here, he’s not wasting it. he pulls away from you, absolutely dazed by the wanting look in your eyes.

you’re twenty one years old when you first hear itoshi sae telling you he loves you.

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐖𝐎

“someone’s chirpy,” your mother says from the couch, looking up from her ipad. “i sense… a date with sae.”

you roll your eyes, throwing one of the cushions at her. “mom, shut up,” you groan, still embarrassed whenever she calls you out for it.

sae’s still in spain most of the time, but the both of you make it work. you make a point to video call at least twice a week, and he responds to you like a normal boyfriend does. it’s back to that good morning, goodnight love you shared back in high school. he makes as much time as he can, and you appreciate him for it.

“i’m glad you’re happy, sweetie,” she tells you, and you smile gratefully.

you’re more than relieved now that she’s managed to fight the cancer off. it’s the only reason she pushed you to go see sae last year. you technically wouldn’t have done it without her.

a knock on your door signals that he’s here, and your mom gives you a knowing look before she excuses herself to her room.

when you open the front door, you feel a burst of excitement when you see sae there holding a bouquet of flowers.

“happy birthday, pretty.”

even when he’s busy, even when he’s swamped, he’ll never stop making you feel like you’re on top of the world.

both of you are twenty-two when sae decides that you’re his world.

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

this is the year you find out long distance is actually really really hard.

sometimes sae loses the match, and sometimes he can’t separate friend from foe from you. he gets frustrated, and so you do too. he has less than kind words when he’s venting, and you happen to be on the receiving end.

sometimes you get stressed from your finals projects, and you push him away, and sae leaves you to it. sae doesn’t check up on you as much as you’d like to, and you’re a little too stubborn to tell him that you mind.

sometimes sae would get interviewed and would have to address dating rumours, whether it’s the upcoming supermodel from america or that renowned sexy sports photographer from brazil—it’s hard not to get jealous, especially when you’re kept private.

you can’t blame him for that, not when everyone likes to send hate to the pretty girl he’s supposedly dating.

this is also where you find out that itoshi sae knows you better than anyone. it’s where he always leaves you a reminder he loves you, even when you’re fighting. it’s where he sends you a goodnight text even when you’ve hung up the phone hours ago in anger. it’s where he keeps japan in his weather app just so he can tell you not to be a klutz and fall down when it’s raining. it’s where he declares on international television that no, he’s not available but that’s none of their business.

even if you yearn for him to be next to you at times, sae’s off doing what he’s always wanted to do, and you’re not going to let yourself be a burden—so you do what you want to do, because the last thing you want the headlines to blast is the fact that itoshi sae’s girlfriend is a good-for-nothing.

twenty-three is the age where you start writing articles for a local magazine company, where you take lead on fashion articles while occasionally helping with the sports section.

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

both of your careers are in full flight.

so is your relationship.

sae’s always proud of you, of your achievements, of your efforts even if they didn’t bear fruit. you’re doing so well, making yourself a name in Japan with your articles, with your wonderful insights and funny wit.

he always reads your articles, tells his assistant to get a subscription on the magazine and send it to sae’s hotel, always reads the articles you write. he doesn’t tell you about that though. doesn’t want you getting a big head.

and every time you talk on the phone about your articles and how hard it was to write or how you’re afraid people will take it the wrong way, he acts like he doesn’t even know which article you’re talking about. (he absolutely does.)

“hey, when’s my contract ending again?”

sae’s assistant looks up from his ipad from his seat across him on the private jet. he blinks twice before rifling through his different folders.

“oh, next year.”

a ghost of a smile appears on sae’s face and his assistant thinks he’s hallucinating.

“good.”

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

sae is twenty-five years old when he finally decides he’s ready to come home.

it makes the headlines—how he quit the club and refused to play for them anymore, the reason being that he wants to go back to his roots.

back to you.

because now, at your front door, after he knocks once, twice, and you open it, surprised, sae’s never been more sure that he’s making the right decision.

after all, you’re the only one in the world capable of bringing itoshi sae to his knee.

“will you marry me?”

somno hours with atsushi

Atsushi spreading your legs while you're asleep, pushing your panties to the side, and lining his hard cock up with your hole. He lets a glob of spit fall from his lips down to your cunt, watching as it slowly slides down your hole and the way it flutters needily makes him hum softly. He presses your thumb against your clit and rubs small circles, listening to the whines that slip from your sleeping body. Then slowly he pushes in you and hisses softly feeling how tight you are around him. And he'd rock his hips slowly biting his lip so he doesn't moan too loudly, but he can't help the whines that slip out as he picks up the pace, happily using your hole while you sleep.

Though he's still very careful to be quiet as not to wake you, but the moment that he fucks deeper into you and cums he feels you stir and watches as your eyes open, they're glossy and slightly puffy as you looks up at him. "Atsu..?" You mutter softly. He smiles softly and brings his hand to your cheek, his eyes glint greedily taking in how cute and confused you look, "Go back to sleep baby, 'm just using my pretty little hole, nothing bad." His voice is soothing as he rubs small circles on your cheek watching as your eyes droop closed again. "Good girl.." He mutters softly and slowly starts rocking his hips again, listening to the sound of your sleepy moans again as he uses you til he’s satisfied.

it's always the bad ones that are attractive as hell

little bit of poison in me

characters: dabi | todoroki touya, takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut and angst

notes: okay FINALLY!! very loosely inspired by tag you’re it by melanie martinez!! uhh dabi’s a drug dealer, keigo’s in his third year of university and a track star, reader’s in her first year of university. please, please pay attention to the warnings below! if keigo’s your comfort character and you cannot handle him being physically abusive and a drug addict, then you might wanna sit this one out! promise he’ll be painted in a more sympathetic light in part two. | aaah dedicating this to @rat-suki​, because ur the only one who’s actually known the details of this fic since november, and because i put a lil something inspired by new moon in there for u ehehe <333 | title credit: tag you’re it by melanie martinez

warnings: 18+, noncon/dubcon, physical abuse, drug use & abuse + graphic depictions of addiction, mindbreak, overstimulation, manipulation, lowkey yandere vibes (which will get worse), daddy kink, a brother a lil too obsessed with his sister + questionably close sibling relationship, generally toxic relationships (possessiveness, jealousy), rough sex, semi-public sex, cumplay/cum feeding, minimal prep, degradation/dumbification, choking, kinda brat taming???

words: 14.8k

synopsis: 

“Do you wanna come home with Daddy, princess?”

He’s caging you between his body and the murky convenience store window as he asks, both palms pressed flat against the grimy glass.

No. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t, can almost hear your brother’s voice in the back of your mind telling you not to. But you’re too enticed in sapphire to care, drawn into pretty, almost glittering blue fire, letting the flames lick your skin as you immerse yourself in it, deeper and deeper and deeper, and allowing it to wrap itself around you, to consume you, to knock the very breath out of you as you gaze into it.

“Okay,”

Keep reading

"where are you running off to?" [nsfw]

note: crawling or moving away from hq boys while they’re going to pound town. this is definitely not self-indulgent I just think the phrase is extremely hot

warnings: dubcon, hair pulling, manhandling, vulgar language, degradation, slapping, choking, spit roasting, mentions of implied female body parts

featuring: iwaizumi, bokuto, kuroo, tsukishima, oikawa, kageyama, atsumu

bokuto, who a man of his size, often forgets just how strong he is. what doesn't help is his never wavering stamina to go with it. his grasp on your hips is firm and surely is going to leave bruises behind. he pounds into you loud and messy, the sound of skin on skin drowning out your whimpering and crying. each time he slams back into you, your breath is knocked out of your system. "k-kou, 'is too much!" you squirm, wiggling away from his body. you attempt to push at his thighs and the frosted-tipped-haired man grumbles, quickly pulling you back so your ass is flush against him. when you try to move away again, he simply pulls your body up before turning you around so you're now facing him. you think he's finally listening to you but then he takes your legs and throws them over his shoulders. pressing them up further to your chest so that you are in a mating press, he groans when he sinks back into you. there's an obscene squelch from how wet and messy the two of you are and you can’t help but clench around him. he bites and nibbles on your ear before saying, "baby, don't be difficult. let me fuck you like how I know you need to be fucked, okay?"

atsumu who gets antsy at a team dinner because he can’t get over how beautiful you look. from the minute you stepped in you have had several people turning their heads to look at you. he’s very proud of having you as his significant other and puffs out his chest, bragging about you to whoever he can whenever because he knows he’s lucky. but eventually he starts to get pouty when he feels like eyes have been lingering on you for too long. the setter politely announces you two need to leave early, only for him to drag you inside the backseat of his car to fuck you out of possessiveness. your legs are over his shoulders as he rams into you. eyes roll to the back of your head as he hits your sweet spot repeatedly. but after both of you cum once, atsumu’s pace doesn’t falter. it’s clear you both are too sensitive right now but he ignores that. you find yourself scooting your shaking upper body towards the door and against the window. atsumu only pouts before he grabs your neck and pins you even harder to the seat. "w-why are ya trying to run away? depriving me of ma pussy is so rude baby. its mine, right? and this fat cock is nobody’s but yers, so just sit tight and take it.”

oikawa taunts you for whining and saying that "it's too much". he prides himself in the fact that he knows his dick is a lot to handle but he also prides himself in knowing that you're a slutty whore who can take whatever, and whoever-even his best friend at the same time as him. you didn't know that iwaizumi had been watching the two of you fuck. and you didn't know that oikawa brought him to join you two. that’s how you find yourself stuffed and filled with two cocks. both men relieving their stress by using you. oikawa takes your sweet ass and iwa fills your pretty mouth up with his delicious cock. the athletic trainer grunts as he fucks your mouth, blessed that at least once he could experience what it felt like. oikawa’s eyes are zeroed in on your cunt and how you suck him in. you feel so full and overwhelmed that you try to move back from both men. your restlessness doesn’t go unoticed by oikawa and he slaps your ass. “don’t move, not until all your holes have been stuffed full.” the setter snaps. he thrusts so hard into you from behind that you end up taking more of iwa in your throat. he moans loudly at the motion and the gagging come from your mouth. he then laughs and tilts your head up so you’re looking at him before saying, “yeah princess-mmhm fuck-don’t run away. it’s rude not to finish your meal.”

kuroo who absolutely gets drunk off of watching the two of you fuck in front of the mirror. he loves seeing and hearing all the cries and whimpers that come out of you, and bursts of pride run through him because he knows he’s the cause of it. but one thing that will drive him absolutely insane is eye contact. when he looks at you through the mirror while balls deep in your cunt, he can’t help but move his hips faster. harder. this motion causes you to cry out and attempt to move away from him due to how harsh he is. kuroo only scowls before he grabs you by your hair and pulls your body flush to his chest. your back arches against him and he doesn’t hesitate to ruthlessly drive into you so that you’re seeing stars. the fucking is obscenely loud but he doesn’t hesitate to bend down and say into your ear, “where are you going? i’m not done with you yet. not until you get to fully see how fucked dumb you can be from my cock. that’ll teach you not to run away from me.”

kageyama who came home from practice still high on adrenaline. you’re making dinner in the kitchen and greet him sweetly when he comes to say hi. something is odd about the way he is unusually quiet. that confusion is quickly gone once you feel him slither his arms around your waist, hard on pressing into your back. next thing you know, you’re bent over the kitchen counter whining out pleas of, “slow down tobio” and, “too much too much!” while he’s pounding your ass. you try to squirm your way from between him and the surface and feel his grip on your hips tighten before pinning you harder against the counter. now you could really feel every inch of his cock inside of you. kageyama whines and buries his head in your neck, kissing the sensitive skin. he shuts his eyes tight as the only thing he can think of is your addicting cunt and it’s warmth. “baby please, need to feel all of you. need to be buried so deep in your pretty pussy. you can let me have this, yea? don’t runaway, need to be as close to you as possible. gonna fill you up so good.”

tsukishima who cant stand how annoyingly attractive you are. it’s much worse over time as your relationship has established because you know exactly how to rile him up. so when you show up to one of his volleyball practices for the sendai frogs, short skirt and thigh highs, flirting with everyone in plain sight–he sees red. he’s eerily quiet on the drive home, neither talking nor looking at you at all. when you reach the front door you feel bad by that point and open your mouth to apologize. “i-” “shut the fuck up.” he snaps. the next few events happen fast when he’s storming over to you, carrying and throwing you onto your shared bed. he pulls your underwear to the side, pushing his shorts and briefs to his ankles before sheathing into you hard. his hulking figure consumes you and it’s all too much for your senses, causing you to babble and cry. you try to discreetly scoot yourself up in the bed so he won’t notice but freeze when you hear a cold chuckle and harsh yank on your body. “who the fuck said you could runaway? brats like you need to fully take their punishment. stay fucking still or i’m gonna fuck your ass so hard you’ll be struggling to remember how to walk.”

do not copy and or repost. likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated though. (c) 2022 hyque

purge me, purgatory

character: caleb warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudo-cest, noncon that turns into dubcon, a hint of dacryphilia, toxic masculinity, reader is a bit of a brat, size difference, manipulation, praise, caleb can get a little mean, nightmares, toxic relationship, power dynamics, pet names words: 5.3k

notes: i started working on this piece before caleb had even been released and i am SO glad i finally finished editing it. this also wasn’t supposed to be nearly as long as it became but alas, such is my curse (◞‸◟；) please heed the warnings above and stay safe!

You know Caleb has nightmares. You’ve seen the toll they take on him: exhaustion hanging heavy over hunched shoulders, staining sunken eyes with rings of purple, face twisted into a grimace as he collapses in the chair across the table from you, an untouched bowl of apple oatmeal steaming in front of him.

“Another one?” you’d always say, voice so kind and cautious, so wan and worried, bottom lip caught between your teeth muddling the question. 

“Yeah,” he’d always respond, dragging a hand down his face as if he’s trying to scrub the fatigue from his features. “But don’t worry about me, pipsqueak. I’m okay.” 

You know Caleb has nightmares—but they’ve never been as bad as this one. 

Because tonight, it wakes you from your slumber, roused gently from sleep’s embrace by the rough whimpers seeping through the thin drywall separating your bedroom from his. 

They sound painful, terrified little noises that keep catching on the uneven hitches of his breath or splintering sharply in his throat, unintelligible pleads sprinkled throughout, too muffled for you to make out the content and chopped up by hiccups.

A dull, dense pang sears through your heart at his yelped out No!, emotion growing thick in your throat and stinging your eyes. Fingers curling in linen, you hug your blanket to your chest, a feeble attempt to quell the ache.

There’s nothing worse than hearing your big brother—your one and only protector, always—in such intense agony. 

And it isn’t stopping. 

It’s too much to bear, your nose beginning to twitch with the threat of tears, and you kick your legs free from your duvet, bare feet hitting cold hardwood a moment later. 

“C-Caleb?” your timid voice soaks into the wood of his bedroom door, followed by a soft rap of knuckles. “Caleb, are you alright?” 

You’re met with a deafening silence, so thick you swear you can feel it weighing down on your chest, lungs crushed beneath the force, ears ringing with it.

“Caleb?” you press your ear flush to the door, eyes squeezed shut in concentration—the ruffling of sheets, the quiet groan of a bedspring, and then, a sniffle. 

Something cracks in your chest, splits itself open so big and so wide it has you hunching over in pain, shoulders curling inward as if your body is trying to keep from tearing apart, one hand flattened over your sternum, the other gripping the brass doorknob.

Another sniffle and the knob is turning, the door falling open, your body stumbling through the threshold. 

Your breathing is laboured, ragged and unevenly shoved from your lungs by a rapidly palpitating heart, a choked version of his name mangling itself in your throat.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, but his voice is thin, weak, fragile, fingertips thumbing aggressively at his eyes, flesh mopping up remnants of teardrops.

It’s a tone of voice that you’ve never heard before, a tone that turns your blood to shards of ice in your veins, a tone that has unease blooming at the base of your spine, crawling up the notches one by one. 

Because Caleb has never been afraid before; you’ve never seen Caleb afraid before. Out of the two of you, he’s always been the strong one, the brave one, the ‘I-can-and-I-will-take-on-anything’ one. He’s always been your guardian angel, your watchdog, your shield from all the bad and scary things in the world. 

You thought he always would be—it is what he promised, after all. 

But right now he looks so small surrounded by a crumpled sea of cotton, tufts of hair clinging to his sweat-drenched temples, muscles tense and rigid, like a predator ready to pounce at the slightest hint of danger.

It has you rushing towards him, falling into his waiting arms—trembling, but safe—and clutching at the collar of his worn t-shirt. Instinctively, your face nuzzles into the crook of his neck, cedar and peppermint streaming down your throat to fill your lungs with him. Your chest swells with his essence, held deep within your core, a natural sedative, your heart beginning to slow.

Home; your big brother will always smell like home. 

You allow yourself another moment to steep in his scent before you finally pull back to look at him, hands clasped tightly around his neck, fingers toying with the strands of hair at the nape of his neck—a nervous habit for you, a calming sensation for him.

“What happened?” 

“Nightmare,” he chuckles, but the word is shaky. “Pretty standard stuff. Nothin’ to be concerned about, pipsqueak.” 

And his facade of nonchalant is good, but it isn’t good enough to fool you.

Frenetic eyes search his face, noting the sheen of cold sweat glazing his skin, the salt that has dried his lashes in thick spikes, the panic swimming in violet irises, concern weighting the corners of your lips. 

“Caleb,” you begin slowly, “you woke me up.” 

His brow furrows, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I…Did? Has that ever happened before?” 

And that’s all it takes, really, to have Caleb switching into his Big Brother Mode, stern and straight to business, the need to know if he’s disrupted your precious sleep before much more important than the terror he was experiencing mere moments ago, as if your comfort matters more than his own. 

“No,” your fingers push into his hair and his head dips, a hum vibrating in his chest. “This one was bad. I can tell.” 

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, his neck curving more, his forehead nearly bumping against your collarbone.

“I’m worried it’ll come back the moment you close your eyes,” you admit, nails raking along his scalp, a shiver coursing through his body, following your ministrations. 

“How many times do I gotta tell you? You don’t need to worry about me.” 

And although it’s supposed to be a reprimand, it comes out soft, no heat to his voice as his head follows your touch, tilting to the side and allowing your fingers more room to move.

He has told you, many times before in many different tones, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever actually listen. 

It isn’t your fault; you can’t help how much you care for him.

“Just because I don’t have to, doesn’t mean I won’t,” you huff out, a bite to your voice. “It doesn’t matter how many times you say it; it isn’t going to stop me from caring about you, so you might as well—”

He looks up suddenly, brows knitted and eyes hard. 

“Who’s the big brother here, huh?” violet scours your face, his gaze bright and sharp, searching for an answer. “Who’s job is it to take care of who?”

“It is our job to take care of each other,” you say, palms flattening to the sides of his head and inhibiting him from looking away. “It’s a joint effort, Caleb.” 

The hinges of his jaw flex beneath your touch, a forceful sigh flaring his nostrils, his shoulders deflating a little in your stark stubbornness. An argument is nipping at the tip of his tongue, desperate to pry past his lips and reassert authority, but his teeth clench, molars grinding together. 

“Why don’t I stay with you tonight?” you continue, thumb smoothing out that thick vein in his forehead. “Might make you feel better if you’re not alone—kind of like the way we used to make blanket forts in the living room during really bad thunderstorms.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that—” 

“Come on,” you whisper, brushing a strand of damp hair back from his temple. “Let your little sister take care of you for once, yeah?” 

“I’m fine—I’ll be fine—”

“You always say I make everything better, so…” you shrug, eyes searching his. “Let me make this better. Please.” 

The sincerity straining your voice is potent, so much so that he swears he can feel it surrounding him in a suffocating embrace, soaking into his skin and permeating his muscles with something dense and heavy. It weighs him down, roots him to your aura, immobilizing him physically and mentally, the sweetest poison.

Swallowing, he looks away from your piercing eyes.

“It’s not—”

“Caleb,” you whine out, petulant, his name dripping out stringy and thick through a pout. “What is with this reluctance to allow me to take care of you every once in a while? It’s not fair.” 

You sound like a fucking child, and for a moment Caleb is transported back to your shared youth, that telltale pout a lethal weapon he has encountered many times before, that telltale pout a lethal weapon he has yet to find a defence from, an antidote for.

And you, well, you know this—he knows you know this, your infamous brattiness finally making an appearance, usually a foolproof way to get what you want from him, even it if comes with a hefty dose of reprimand. 

Your gaze, glassy and hard, is framed by furrowed brows, nose scrunched up in typical distaste.

His stare searches your own, and you hold your expression open for him—so willing, so wanting—his own eyes darkening with something you can’t quite place. A shiver skitters up your spine, but you swallow against the unease, continuing. 

“I want to help,” you say. “Please.” 

It isn’t right—he doesn’t need your help, shouldn’t need your help, fated to the role of big brother and, by extension, Man of the House; if anything, it should always be him comforting you. 

Well, that, and the undeniable fact that having you in such close proximity—so intimate, sharing a bed after a nightmare—is tantalizing, and that makes it dangerous. 

But he doesn’t know how to say any of that, how to thread those thoughts into sentences and push them from his disinclined tongue.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. 

Either way, it doesn’t matter, because in the end you get your way, just like you always do—just like he always lets you. 

“Alright,” he finally says, the word nothing more than a defeated huff of breath. “Alright.”

Disappointment sinks hard and heavy in his chest, and Caleb bites his cheek, disgusted with himself. It’s stupid to feel such dismay; he should be used to this by now. Maybe he had hoped that this time, he would be strong enough to deny you. How utterly silly of him to believe he was capable of such a feat.

“Gosh,” you roll your eyes, playfully nudging his nose with your own. “Don’t sound so excited.”

But your amusement is not contagious, Caleb’s expression steadfastly dismal, your smile fading as your brow crinkles in confusion.

“Hush, now,” he says, but his voice is gentle, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “You need rest.” 

The numbers glowing on his nightstand indicate that yes, you do need rest, you both need rest, and you nod, allowing Caleb to manhandle the two of you beneath his blankets.

The delicate scent of warm toffee and fresh orchid engulf him, one of Caleb’s strong arms curled around your waist, slotting your back up against his chest.

“Sleep,” he instructs, the order rumbling his ribs, his voice low and gruff. “My little protector.” 

“Shut up,” you mumble, but your eyes slip shut. “You’ll be thanking me in the morning.”

But Caleb’s not so sure. 

Because despite your presence being warm and comforting and full of home, Caleb can’t fucking sleep. 

Because you are too fucking close. Abnormally close; inappropriately close, and it’s driving him up the Goddamn wall. 

He’s tried everything—first shuffling away a little, just to put a couple inches of space between your bodies; close enough for you to still feel his presence, and for him to still feel yours, but not too close to be considered indecorous. 

When that didn’t work, when your body sensed the loss and instinctually sought out his own, Caleb shoved himself so his back was pressed flush to the drywall—as far as he could possibly get without physically removing himself from the bed entirely—but that didn’t help, either. 

Because you’re like a little magnet, attracted to his body heat, burrowing through wrinkled sheets to glue yourself to his form as if it is natural, normal, entirely intuitive. 

Even in sleep, you’re greedy. 

Caleb supposes he’s even worse. 

Caleb could, realistically, turn away from you—present you with his sculpted back and protect his front from your unconscious attacks; or leave the bed entirely, opting to sleep on the too-small, too-scratchy sofa in the living room downstairs so he doesn’t have to worry about hands with minds of their owns—hands desperate to touch and grope and mark, hands that can’t keep to themselves. Caleb could wake you up and firmly insist that you go back to your own bed, exercising his Big Brother Authority and overruling any and all of your rebuttals and arguments—but he doesn’t, because he can’t. 

Because he’s fucking weak, weak to his own wicked whims, a slave to his sins, drowning in his own desire. It’s too good of an opportunity to give up, his deepest, darkest indulgences presented to him on a platinum platter, crafted by the devil himself. And Caleb isn’t strong enough to resist it’s enticing allure, ironclad willpower melted to sticky silver in the heat of your body, seeping from your flesh into his, poisoning his blood and his brain.

That’s what you do to him; you eat up his logic and spit it back out, mangled and gross, you consume his highly prized self respect and military-grade discipline and reduce him to something desperate and degenerate. 

And eventually, finally, his worst nightmare comes true. 

It’s stifling in his bed, the fabric of his t-shirt damp with sweat—yours, his, does it matter?—and plastered to his body. His tongue has turned to sand in his mouth, dry and grating and heavy. Swallowing does nothing to alleviate the discomfort, the action rough and sticky, the gummy walls of his throat sticking together with the motion.

Water would be nice, but there’s no way for Caleb to slip from your embrace—a thigh thrown over his hip, a palm pressed to his sternum—without ruining your peaceful slumber. 

And you do look oh-so-peaceful; so serene, so ethereal, so fucking breathtaking that it’d be a crime to spoil such a sight.

Moonbeams stream through the window, painting you in strokes of translucent silver. It catches on the beads of sweat adorning your neck, dewdrops that glitter with the steady throb of your jugular, and Caleb feels saliva begin to flood the underside of his tongue, thick and slimy. 

Sweat has water in it, doesn’t it? 

It happens before he even has a chance to think it through, a primal desire his body knew needed to be met, tongue unfurling from its cavern slow and sick to trace along that jagged pulse.

Your neck arches into his taste, offering him more—such a good little sister, you are—and he takes, a slave to temptation, tongue flattening against your flesh and licking one long, wide stripe from the notch of your collarbone to the hinge of your jaw.

It’s delicious, better than anything he could’ve ever imagined, and Caleb laps at you again, harder this time, rougher this time. 

Your essence, salty sweat and bitter perfume, explodes on his tastebuds, and something rattles, roars to life, deep within his chest. It ignites a hunger within him that cannot be sated— dark, desirous, depraved as it claws at his sternum, no matter how much he takes, it always wants more, his desperate attempt to feed it only working to make it more voracious.

It awakens the monster rooted at the core of his soul, a sordid creature borne of something illicit and sinister and wrong many years ago. It sparks the ever-simmering addiction kindling in his rotten, charred heart—a craving that flares higher, burns brighter with every passing second, leaving him intoxicated and stupid, drunk on your aura.

If he doesn’t cut it out he’s going to lick your skin raw—how many licks to get to your sugary sweet center?—your saccharine sweat staining his tongue. 

His mouth latches over your collarbone and sucks, tongue swirling around the knob as his teeth scrape, nipping superficially. Tiny tangles of capillaries snap beneath the force, violet flooding the tissues beneath the thin barrier of skin—and oh, how sweet your blood must taste, how shameful to have it trapped beneath your flesh. 

A soft moan vibrates in your throat as Caleb seals the mark with another heavy lave, pressing a singular kiss to the rapidly developing bruise. Pulling back slightly, violet eyes sweep across the mess he’s made of your flesh, fleeting marks that will fade much too quickly for his liking.

A callused thumb ghosts over the bloom, an involuntary whimper catching in his throat. 

“So pretty,” he breathes to himself, caressing the mark again. 

A delicate shiver quivers through your flesh, procured by his airy words, and Caleb coos, tongue washing over your skin again in a crude caress, his hot breath cool against the glaze of saliva he’s painted in its wake. 

“Y’like that?” he whispers, the question barely more than a wisp wafting over your soaked skin. “Y’want me to do it again?” 

You answer with the softest mewl and a groan rumbles his ribcage, his hips snuggling between your spread thighs, a dainty wheeze pressed from your chest as his weight bears down on you. 

His tongue lolls out from between his teeth, thick strings of drool dripping off the tip to drizzle along your neck, sopped up a mere moment later as the slick muscle rolls along your flesh, following the scrape of his front teeth. 

Another gentle tremble ripples through your form—such precious responses to your big brother’s mouth!—and he runs his teeth along the curve of your throat again, revelling in how such simple actions can pull such gorgeous reactions from you, entirely subconscious. 

That must mean you like it, right? Such responses clearly connote your enjoyment, don’t they? You ought to know, on some subconscious level, that it is your big brother doing this—that it is Caleb’s lips and Caleb’s tongue and Caleb’s spit, that it is Caleb that you are reacting to.

It’s impossible to quell the slow gyrating of his hips as he feasts on your flesh, aching cock grinding against your thigh in messy little circles, fully hard and tenting flannel. He can feel the small pool of pre-cum steadily garnishing the slit, leaking through his PJ pants to leave shimmering smears of his perverted pleasure along the silky skin of your inner thigh.

He’s getting greedy—he knows he is, but he just can’t seem to restrain himself, your essence too alluring to resist; a compulsion, uncontrollable and unquenchable.

He should stop before you wake to your big brother gnawing at your neck and humping your thigh; really, that’s what any good, decent big brother would do. Your rest is important, after all. 

He should do a lot of things.

But he doesn’t, because he can’t. 

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. 

The sensations are overwhelming; something he’s spent several years denying himself, something he’s spent several years dreaming about—it doesn’t count if it’s just in his head, right?—and he finds himself drowning in it, embraced in the ecstasy.

“God, fuck,” he whimpers, curse cracking in his throat. “You feel so—so good.”

Forehead pressed into the crown of your head, his breath is sweltering and damp along your hairline, rough little moans spilling from his lips with each rut of his pelvis. 

“Y’so perfect for me, letting me use you like this,” he manages to gasp out, eyes squeezed shut, imagining how stunning you must look in the throes of pleasure; dazed eyes glazed with lust and rolling back in your skull, lips licked raw and mouth dropped open as the sweetest symphony plays on your tongue, spine bowing off his mattress as pure rapture climbs the notched vertebrae.

Oh, what he’d give to see such a sight, just once.

He wishes he could trick himself into thinking that a singular instance of experiencing such beauty would be enough to keep him from committing such a heinous act of indecency ever again, but he knows that isn’t true. 

Because already he wants more, gluttonous for your body, yearning to be buried in the warmth of your sweet little cunt; and he’s barely taken anything at all yet. Caleb can’t imagine what sort of creature this monster would evolve into under such circumstances. Too much is never enough. 

Caleb sure as hell can’t trick himself into believing such nonsense, but he sure as hell can trick you. 

He doesn’t realize you’ve awoken until he hears your tiny voice, muffled by his chest, fingers pressing into his tensing abs. 

“Cae—Caleb?” his hips stutter at the sudden sound—so quiet, so scared—his cock twitching against your leg. “What are you doing?”

“Shh,” he hushes you, body sliding down yours so he can search your face, so you can see the sincerity, the desperation, shining in his gaze, his cock pressed hot and hard against your core. “Just—” his hips roll once, a groan catching in his throat as his shaft is enveloped by your swollen lips, so easy to feel through the flimsy fabric of your pyjama shorts. “—Enjoy it.” 

“Wh-What?”

“Come on, just this once.” 

“Caleb,” you begin, and the fear in your voice, tinged with a sick sort of curiosity, has another moan clawing at the back of his tongue, hips rolling into yours slow and purposeful. “This isn’t right…” 

“No one has to know,” he slurs out, nuzzling his cheek against your temple in a crude form of comfort. “We keep so many secrets—what’s one more?”

“No, Caleb—” your hands furl into fists, pushing into lean muscle, and a dark, decadent sound of amusement drips from Caleb’s lips. Oh, how pathetically precious the you think you could ever shove him off. 

But your squirming is beginning to annoy him, that telltale aggression building in his chest—an anger only you seem to evoke, especially when you’re being uncooperative—and he snarls, pulling back a little to fix you with an unimpressed look, his hips pinning you to his bed. 

“Tell me it doesn’t feel good,” he glares at you, his words a cross between a growl and a whine, and it’s hard to tell if it’s a demand or a plead. “Go on, fucking tell me. Say ‘it doesn’t feel good, Caleb. Your cock doesn’t feel good, Caleb’. Come on.” 

Your lids clamp shut in the face of his intense, invasive stare, tears blossoming along the seam of your lashes, a pitiful squeak catching in your throat as your head shakes.

“No? Why not?” A hand wreathes itself around your jaw, blunt nails biting into your cheeks, the pain causing your eyes to spring open. “Is it because you can’t?” 

The question has that same taunting tone he’s used since you were kids—that infuriatingly blasé I’m-better-than-you cadence, the one that proclaims that you’re stupid and he’s superior, that he always wins—and a fierce flame of determination ignites within your ribs, eyes hardened and teeth barred. 

“It—It doesn’t feel—Oh, oh, Cae—”

And you’re trying, trying so desperately to force those words from your tongue, to spit them from your lips and devour the smugness glinting in his eyes, but then he’s moving again, the slick head of his cock rubbing over your clit in precise movements—back and forth, back and forth. 

That isn’t fair, but when has Caleb ever played fair, really?

He’s got you completely trapped beneath his body now, his knees digging into the mattress as he shifts his weight, forcing your thighs open wider.

“What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.” 

“I—It’s not—It doesn’t—” A mewl of frustration slices your sentence, chased by a groan of defeat. 

“C’mon, angel, spit it out already if it doesn’t feel good.” 

Squinting in the face of his mocking stare, you steel yourself, throat rippling with a thick swallow of resolve. 

“We shouldn’t—” The sentence splinters with a whine, your words pulled taught between virtue and desire. 

Tears cloud your eyes, rendering Caleb nothing more than a shimmering blur, and you blink rapidly in an attempt to clear them, tiny droplets caught by your lashes. 

“You’re a terrible liar, y’know that?” he breathes, the question damp on the shell of your ear. “I can feel how turned on you are, silly little girl.” 

His hips rock forward once in accentuation, the movement slow and purposeful, as if to prove a point. His clothed cock glides over your drenched cunt with ease and the head strokes your swollen clit again, another torrent of heat rushing to the apex of your thighs. 

“And you know what this tells me?” his voice drops to a whisper. “It tells me you like it.”

Pins of humiliation erupt across your cheeks, tingling heat flooding your face. A soft sob stutters your chest, head shaking in weak denial—a denial that you like it, or simply a denial that this isn’t moral, neither of you can be sure.

“Besides, don’t you wanna take my mind off that stupid nightmare?” His voice drops an octave, deep and devious, chills skittering across your skin. “This—” he rolls his hips once in emphasis, “this will help.” 

“Cae…” 

And he can hear it; can hear the internal struggle reflected in your voice, a tug-of-war between the need to please and the obligation to do what’s right.

“Come on, be a good little sister for me—you said you wanted to make me feel better, right? This will make me feel better. This will make me forget all about it.” 

This will bring him to the crest of bliss, the closest to Heaven he’s sure he’ll ever get. 

“I…I don’t—” 

“Why can’t you just enjoy it with me, huh?” Caleb murmurs, dragging the words along your jaw then planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Give in to it. Just this once.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing before you’re nodding into his neck, body gone slack beneath his own; you’ve always been so easy for him, so eager to obey even with venom in your mouth and fire in your eyes. Caleb supposes that’s just a big brother’s influence. 

Because no matter how much you retaliate, how much you taunt and tease him, you have always wanted to be his good little girl. Praise from Caleb is sacred, precious, and rarely doled out. It must be savoured, protected, cherished. 

And so you allow your big brother to find comfort in you, in the warmth of your body, in the melody of your moans, praying that this short-lived ecstasy will be enough to cleanse his mind of its nightmares.

“There’s my good girl,” he hums, pleasant and triumphant, the reverence sealed with a chaste kiss to the edge of your hairline. 

Then he’s pulling away and sitting back on his heels, an arrogant little smirk materializing on his lips at the discontented whine that sounds at the back of your throat. Violet stares down at you with such passion it nearly burns, his callused palms pushing your knees open wider, following the V of your thighs until finally, finally, he reaches the apex. 

“Fucking Christ.”

Drenched silk outlines the contours of your cunt—No undies, huh? How naughty—and Caleb reaches out, tracing the shape, pointer finger ghosting over every bump and dip and curve. 

“Gorgeous,” he breathes to himself, gaze hungry and unblinking, enchanted by your body—enraptured by your arousal, captivated by your reactions; the way every graze of his fingertip sends a delicate wave of pleasure tremoring through your flesh; the way his touch makes your lashes dither, unsure if they want to stay open or snap shut. “Let me see it.”

Potent lust leaves his voice husky, and while his sentence is a statement, it comes out as a plead—desperate, desirous. 

Vying fingers pull your sleep shorts aside to reveal your glistening cunt, a whine vibrating deep in the back of his throat. Chest heaving with yearning, his trance stays unbroken, his mouth parted and his tongue pulsing with each of his heavy breaths. 

For a moment everything is still, silent, Caleb revelling in the radiance of your body.

Then something snaps, the final thread of thin resistance broken, and he’s surging forward, teeth catching on your upper lip as his mouth collides with yours, procuring the prettiest little yelp to crack in your chest. He swallows it down greedily, tongue breaking through the barriers of lips and teeth to lavish your mouth in his spit. 

His hips are moving again, shoved snug between your spread thighs, sharp hipbones carving bruises into supple flesh. Each forceful roll of his pelvis has his cockhead catching on your hole—so close, so close—a vicious shudder coursing through his form.

And he can feel it, he can feel your cunt through the thin flannel of his pyjamas—teasing him, taunting him, tempting him, each gentle contraction begging for him to stuff it full—another groan rattling from his mouth into yours. 

It’s all simultaneously too much and not enough, the soft breaths of his name exhaled hot and heavy onto his waiting tongue and the eager fluttering of your cunt desperate to suck him in and the nails scrabbling at the back his neck and—and Caleb feels like he’s going to burst out of his fucking skin, flesh starting to split at the seams, if he doesn’t get more, now. 

He’s hardly aware of what he’s doing, moving on pure instinct as a hand snakes between your bodies and paws at the waistband of his pants, the heel of his palm pushing it down just enough to free his aching cock.

A faint Caleb, no, wait! tugs at the back of his consciousness, blotted out by sheer lust as his palm wraps around the base of his cock, head bumping purposefully against your hole. 

The cry that shatters in your throat as he shoves himself into your cunt is nothing short of gorgeous, his own responding whine straining his throat. One quick, hard thrust to bury himself to the hilt is all it takes before his cock is throbbing, filling you with copious amounts of cum—so much, too much, and Christ, when has he ever cum like this?

It’s so intense that it has his whole body tensing, pleasure whiting his vision and wiping his mind and all he can smell, feel, taste is you, you, you—toffee and orchid shooting straight to his brain, your body knotted with his, hips rocking up in desperate little movements as you try to fuck yourself on his spent cock, your sounds of pleasure sweet on his tongue and he licks into your mouth, starved for more. 

“Caleb, Caleb, Caleb!” 

“M’here, baby,” he slurs against your mouth, rubbing his lips into yours. “M’here, come on, make a mess for me.” 

He isn’t even sure you cum—something he’ll berate himself for in the morning—but in the moment it doesn’t even matter, his brain so poisoned by the pleasure that it’s turned to a pulsating mush, intoxication flooding his veins as he submerges himself in you. His hips stutter as his cock twitches with those last few ribbons of cream, almost as if he’s trying to fuck his seed deeper into you, before his trembling muscles finally give out, Caleb collapsing on top of you. 

“God,” he gasps out, lips moving against the crown of your head. “Th-Thank you.” 

The gratitude is punctuated by a kiss to your hair, his breath hot and erratic on your scalp. 

“Thank you,” he says again, a singular arm twined around your waist as he manhandles you both onto your sides, your body cradled close to his chest.

And for the first time in a long time, Caleb falls into a peaceful sleep. 

yandere oikawa with a darling who hates him, so he tries bullying her into dating him. but darling is super resistant so he noncon tries to breed her 🤐

i want oikawa to bully me

warnings: yandere, implied noncon, bullying

You could handle anything—you've fully convinced yourself that you could and you would.

Oikawa is rude, snarky, narcissistic, cocky, downright annoying and you would rather be dead than even be in the same vicinity as him. How he has the audacity to ruthlessly bully you when you rejected his advances is a concept that you'd never get, but Oikawa doesn't care. This is his world and he likes to believe that you're just living in it.

"You're full of shit, Oikawa," you spit at him as you pack up your belongings at your desk. You wonder how his brain works—he always insults you, but without fail, he’s asking for a chance to have you right afterwards. 

"Princess, I wouldn't be this mean if you were mine," Oikawa smirks. It feels like bile will start burning your throat if you stay any longer.

"As if," you scoff, "Like I'd wanna be with a bastard like you. I’ve said it multiple times and I’ll say it again. I will never be fucking yours." You get up and pull your bag on to walk out of the classroom and leave Oikawa in the dust.

Except you don't make it out of the classroom. Your bag falls to the ground and the back of your head is pounding from hitting the wall. Oikawa grabs your arms and pushes you up against it, his limbs trapping you in as you gape at him in fear and surprise. But your fear is quickly turned into anger and you push at his chest. “Get off of me, asshole!” you screech. 

“Stop being so fucking stubborn,” he hisses at you, grabbing your wrists and holding them on the wall besides your head, “You keep running away from me without giving me a chance. I’ve waited for too long and if you won’t give me what I want, then I’ll just fucking take it from you.”

When he lost to Karasuno, he looks so down so you build up the couragr and cheers him up 😌😏😉😉

OHHHMYGOD YES

based on this post <3

⭒word count; 410

⭒warnings/tags; lingerie, some pda

It didn't matter how hard he tried to hide it; you knew he was upset.

The warmth of the setting sun kissed your exposed legs, a gentle breeze tickling between your thighs as you dug your fingers into the straps of your backpack. Iwaizumi walked you to your front gate as promised, his expression frostier than usual. Despite the faint scowl, he still looked handsome; as if carved from marble, rays of ocher light were delicate on his otherwise roughened features.

Stood in the sunbath, you struggled to find the right words to say.

"H-Hajime-senpai... Um–"

You had something to show him; you read about it in your girls' magazines, stressed over every bubble of text, and memorized the advice written in curly font— Ever since that game against Karasuno, you wanted to show him just how much you cared.

"I wanna help you feel better"

There was a slight blush that crept up to your cheeks when you reached for the hem of your skirt; painted nails grabbing at the pleats, raising the fabric ever-so-slightly above your hip bones. Revealing skin, freshly-smooth, you took your lower lip between your teeth and looked up to meet his softened gaze.

He blinked and swallowed deep, trying his hardest to avoid the precious sight that his innocent, little underclassman presented him with. Your new panties hugged the curves your hips, waistband digging into the plush of your tummy; see-through lace adorned with tiny, pink butterflies, made it obvious that you shaved your cunny just for him.

Leaning forward Iwaizumi brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, breath warm against your neck.

"You did that all for me?"

His voice was nothing more than raspy whisper, serving as a gentle reminder that you had yet to step into the house.

Lowering your skirt, you nodded, doe-eyed and heart aflutter. The magazines said boys liked surprises and you wondered if it were true— Turning your head, you press your glossy lips against his, hands sliding up the expanse of his chest before dainty fingers found themselves in his umber hair. The kiss filled his senses with the sweet, strawberry scent of your perfume; lingering was the delicate taste of cocoa when you pulled away, the gloss from your lips now on his. His olive-green eyes rounded, and he absentmindedly reached for his mouth to wipe away the sticky residue. You giggled and flashed him a toothy smile.

"Are you surprised, Hajime-senpai?"