Angst Ask: Oikawa Gets Into An Intense Argument With His S/o And Goes To Work Angry, Turning Off His

『The Pretty Third Year』

pairing: Oikawa Toru x Reader

anon request: can i pls hav a scenario where oikawa was practicing his serves and the f!reader was hit by the ball and when he came to her she saw his face and was like: “..god?” or smth like that skdhsj

a/n: ngl kinda got carried away with this one

wc: 1.1k

genre: just some fluff and hinting of future romance bc oikawa’s smitten lmao

warning/s: none

You had no care for the world at all as you stroll towards the almost empty volleyball gym, skeptical about your decision to give being their manager a go. 

“You won’t regret it, you’ll see, I bet you’ll get along with our captain,” Kindaichi grins. 

“Hm, now that you say it, Oikawa-san and y/n would click, childish minds and all that shit,” Kunimi nods, “up to you though,” followed by a shrug. 

Well, their words can’t have come from nowhere, even Kunimi agrees that you’ll love managing the team, and gaining a few more friends isn’t bad either. Poking your head through the doorway, you scan the place, immediately intimidated by the frowning third year by the benches. 

In an instant you hide outside, telling yourself that you could maybe make friends elsewhere and that being their volleyball team manager just ain’t for you. Right, you smile to yourself, relieved that you didn’t have to face any scary scowling third years. 

“Oy y/n I saw you, just come in!” You kinda want to punch an onion-head right now, but you keep it cool and stop moving, hoping the silence would be enough sign for him to leave you alone. 

“Maybe you’re imagining things.” Listen to Kunimi, please.

“Y/n just come in!” 

“Fine,” you grumble to yourself, legs begrudgingly carrying you towards the door. The last thing you see is Kindaichi’s horrified expression before you’re knocked to the ground.

For more than a few seconds, everything’s shifting and you couldn’t comprehend what was happening around you, your head hurt and you were beyond dizzy. Just when you’re about to fall to your side— your head no doubt bound to make contact with the wooden floor, a hand supports your head from behind while your back rested on something firm, warm and moist with sweat. 

Oh, it’s someone’s thigh. 

Your vision’s all blurry with your head pounding too much for you to understand the string of apologies and “are you okay’s” from Oikawa, who guiltily so— was the one to hit you with his infamous nasty serve. 

“Iwa-chan is she dead? Oh my god I can’t kill someone!” 

“Y/n are you alright?”

“Back off, give her some space, but seriously are you okay? Can I take you to the hospital?” Toru couldn’t hide the worry and panic in his voice as he looked back at your squinted eyes, his calf starting to ache from having to support you with his thigh but he couldn’t care less, no. 

Finally, you could see quite better, though you still had to squint your eyes as you looked up at the the third year who held you, the light a tad bit too bright behind his head. 

“It’s too bright,” you groan in pain, and you feel his hand brushing strands of hair off your face. “Is it now?” You hear him mutter mindlessly to himself under his breath before he slightly shifts, now blocking the light from your face. 

“Better?” He smiles, and when you could now see him clearly, it’s as if your brain and rationality flew out the window. “Pretty,” the word comes out in a genuine and awestruck tone, definitely clear and loud enough for everyone to hear. 

Oikawa Toru was indeed the prettiest person your eyes ever landed on your whole life— with his mint green Seijoh shirt, the material sticking to his chest because of his sweat, his handsomely disheveled hair that you could only imagine running your fingers through, and with his lips slightly apart as he breathed through them; chest rising up and down quite heavily, obviously because he’s been practicing too long. 

He smells so freaking great, and he was extremely close you’re gravitated to hold him. 

What really had you smitten and weak were his eyes though, with the way he looked at you, you could almost pretend he found you as interesting and beautiful as you did him. 

You snap out of it the moment you hear Kindaichi’s laughter. Oikawa was clearly surprised at what you had just said—speechless, eyebrows raised, and head cocked to the side in puzzle. 

Kunimi snorts from behind his captain, “she’s okay,” he says while trying to stifle his giggle. Oikawa’s caught in a dilemma, should he flirt and get carried away with the admiring look in your eyes or should he check on your condition first?

The latter, he tells himself. 

“Y/n-chan, was it? You okay? Does your head hurt?” He calmly asks you as he helps you completely sit up without having to lean on him. 

Toru being afraid you’ll collapse or get dizzy again, was still sitting at the balls of his feet, his thigh just behind your back and his hand unconsciously massaging your head. This doesn’t go unnoticed by everyone, of course— what a shocker, the Great Oikawa was genuinely this concerned even though you’re evidently okay now?

“Here,” he offers his hand, helping you stand up, the both of you failing to fight the fuzzy feeling in your chests at the contact. You may look like you were still battling the dizziness in your head but in reality, you were cringing so bad now that you’ve realized what you had just said. 

“Thanks, Oikawa-senpai,” you shyly mutter, your idiot friends giggling at your exchange. For obvious reasons, you can’t bring yourself to look up at Oikawa, “I’m really sorry y/n-chan, you appeared out of nowhere, you could hit me back if you like, though Iwa-chan already hit me hard too, wait, no, the point is, I’m really really sorry,” he brings his hands together as he slightly bows his head.

“It’s fine, please don’t worry about it,” you try to reassure him, instinctively grabbing his hands to have him retrieve himself from that position and at the same time planning your escape. “Uh, it’s late, I have to go,” you awkwardly say when he looks at you, and your eyes meet even if it’s just for a mere second before you looked away again. 

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, eyes darting to his hands which you’ve held just seconds ago— he doesn’t want you to go yet. 

“Yes, uh, goodnight, and uhm well, take care,” you flush, cringing at every word that came out of your mouth. Take care? Wow, you sound so stupid. 

Before he could say something back, you’ve rushed out of the gym, his heart ultimately deflating after seeing you go. With a sigh, he turns on his heels to get back to practicing his serves— he can’t help it, there’s nothing he could do to see you nor does he have any reason to talk to you again. 

Little did he know you sat right outside the gym, on the first step of the staircase, with your hand on your chest at an attempt to calm down your erratic heartbeat. The image of his smile, his eyes, his face— breathtaking. His voice was velvet and his supposedly platonic touches were so immaculate for you that you still feel the tingles and the warmth despite being out there in the cold. 

Your friends were right, you’d love to manage their team.

or maybe you’ll love him, an involuntary voice from your subconscious makes you grow flustered all over again. 

“That sucked,” Iwaizumi comments just to piss him off more, referring to his 27th failed attempt at a decent serve. Oikawa groans, running his hands through his hair in frustration, “how annoying!” 

“Oikawa-san, you’ll see her again, you know,” Kunimi nonchalantly says without looking up as he scrolls through his phone, aware of how he’s got his captain’s attention in an instant. 

“What? What do you mean? I wouldn’t care less if I don’t Kunimi-kun,” he tries to brush it off, though he was beyond curious— when and how could he look back at those pretty e/c eyes of yours and hear you call him pretty again? 

“Y/n L/n, Seijoh first year, class 1-2,” he says with an eye roll. Oikawa grins— so you went to his school too, now there’s nothing to be down about anymore. Maybe he’ll accidentally cross paths with you in the halls and maybe he’ll accidentally strike up a conversation too. 

“So you guys are friends?” He asks, the subtle smile on his face never shaken off. “I guess, and just so you know, she came here because we asked her to try being our manager.” 

“Our manager?” He smirks, spinning the ball in his hands now with oozing confidence and ease, “even better,” he chuckles before tossing the ball in the air, and with full force sending it across the net, successfully hitting the floor with precision, speed and power. 

“Someone’s fired up,” Iwaizumi says with an eye roll, but his comment was ignored as Toru happily hums to himself, picking up another ball from the ground 

“Can’t wait to know you, y/n l/n.” 

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Sakura has always woken up before you. It was something you found comfort in, those stolen minutes of sleep you could get while he grabbed breakfast from the bakery. Sometimes you slept long enough that he could do a morning patrol around town and be back before you even yawned awake. But you discovered one morning that Sakura had a secret routine he would do when he thought you were asleep. Something that you happened upon randomly one morning when you were in the grey space between dreams and waking.

Your boyfriend was a romantic, though he would vomit and hiss like a cat if you ever even thought of bringing it up to him. No, mornings were Sakura’s secret, and therefore when you happened to wake up before him and could fake sleep, they were a closely guarded treasure.

You’d feel his rough fingertips stroke up and down your back, and hear him sigh before feeling the tip of his nose nuzzle against where your hairline kissed your forehead. His lips would brush against your skin, trailing from your temple to your cheek.

And then he’d talk to you. His voice low and croaked with sleep, as he mumbled good morning. He’d brush your cheek and huff out a laugh, saying you’re cute when you’re sleeping. That you’re cute even when you snore. That he wish you didn’t kick him like a donkey in the night. That he wills you to have good dreams every night after you fall asleep.

“You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. I know I’m probably shit at showing it. I know I never say it. It’s your fault really, I can’t when you look at me like you do. But you are. I hope you know that. Maybe if I say it enough when you’re sleeping, it’ll reach you in your dreams and you’ll know.”

Sometimes you feel like crying when he talks to you. Sometimes you feel like snorting and kicking his shin. But always, you let him keep these moments to himself, and give him time to get his stubborn tsundere tough guy mask on before you make motions like you’re waking up.

Sakura has a secret you don’t know, though.

Your breathing is different when you’re awake.

Violent Delights

for my very dearest best friend (wife) @iwaasfairy i'm sorry it's super late, but august and april both start with 'a' which basically means they're the same month <33 iwaizumi hajime x female reader w.c 4.4k tw: yandere themes, non-con, drugged reader, blood/gore, murder, incest, sorta smut (nsfw)

M I N E

It’s funny in a way. Amidst the wreckage, the blood, what was left of your friends and the cooling puddle of cum splattered across your naked stomach, four letters carved into your bedroom wall seemed almost… harmless. Or at least the easiest to digest. Fixate on.

The detective asked about your ex partners, the dates you’d been on recently, whether or not you’d noticed anyone in your day-to-day paying you too much attention, if anyone made you feel uncomfortable, or said anything that seemed out of place.

But your exes don’t care enough to kill, and the two dates you’ve been on in the last six months never bothered to text you back. No one’s left weird, unsettling gifts, or stared too long in line at the coffee shop. There’s nothing. No precursor or warning, no giant red flag waving in front of you.

Mine. 

Hovering on the edge of numbness, blind hysteria just out of reach, you stare at the beige walls of the hotel room they’d put you up in, the angry gouges flickering in and out of existence with every blink. 

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Kaori was the one obsessed with all the true crime stuff. She’d be the first to tell you psychopaths and nutjobs – they don’t jump straight into drugging and triple homicide. There’s a pattern of behaviour. Escalation. 

Something you missed. 

Then again, considering it’s her blood still caked under your fingernails, there’s a strong possibility she wouldn’t be all that enthusiastic about the whole thing to begin with. 

You need a shower, a proper one – not the glorified sponging off they’d given you at the hospital. Enough to get you out the door, not nearly enough to scrub away the grime and rid yourself of what he did to you–

The others had it worse. You survived. He barely touched you.

Mine. 

The thought of scalding water, of scrubbing yourself raw does hold a certain appeal, yet hunched over atop starched white sheets, those same bloody fingernails sink into the flesh of your arms instead, grounding you in the tiny bite of pain. 

Minutes tick past and you don’t so much as twitch. Not until a sharp knock sounds at the door and a gruff voice calls out your name. 

You wait half a beat, but when nothing more is forthcoming, you slowly edge yourself off the bed, making your way to the door. Through the peephole you spy a dark haired officer, different to the one who’d dropped you off, staring back at you. 

They did tell you there’d be an officer with you the whole time, at least for the next twenty four hours. 

“Miss?” he calls again, and you distantly realise that while your hand is poised over the deadlock, you haven’t moved to undo it. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, your forehead meeting the wooden door with a muted thud, you curse that stupid, tremulous fluttering in your chest. They’re here for you, protecting you. You’re safe.

Open the damn door. 

“Y-yeah?”

Coward.

“Brought some food for you. Dinner.” There’s a rustling on the other side, and you raise your head to peer back through the glass in time to see him lift up a paper carry bag to the peephole. The idea of eating anything right now has your stomach roiling in protest. “Nothing fancy, but it’s good, I swear,” he says. Then, gentler, like he’s talking down a spooked animal, adds, “You need to eat.”

Still, you hesitate. All you need to do is open the door, grab the food and then at least it’s there if you want it later. Easy. 

Too quick, too jerky to be natural, you twist at the handle and yank the door open a scant few inches, enough for you to reach out an arm expectantly for the food. “Thank you,” you pre-empt, because hungry or not, you’re not completely without manners.

The officer lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, no. I’m not taking heat from the Cap when the guys on the next shift find you passed out ‘cause you haven’t eaten anything,” he scoffs. “C’mon, we can talk while you eat.” Not a suggestion – you barely have time to stumble back before he’s pushing his way inside and kicking the door closed behind him. The second he takes to flick the lock somehow simultaneously eases the knots in your stomach and sends your heartrate ratcheting.

It’s halfway to a miracle that you’re still standing at all. 

“Eat,” he tells you, his deep voice brooking no disagreement as he shoves the bag of food your way and grabs the lone chair in the room, dragging it closer to the edge of the bed and settling himself down. Clearly he has no intention of going anywhere until he’s satisfied you’ve eaten your fill.

With little else for it, you do as you’re told, reaching into the bag to find steamed buns at your fingertips, still warm as you pry open the wrapper– and wince. The familiar scent of pork, ginger and chives wafts through the air, unwittingly digging at old wounds. 

Suddenly you’re a kid again, strolling down the hill with your family, one hand tucked safely within your brother’s, the other grasping a steaming hot bun. You’re happy and whole and so, so young–

“Something wrong? You don’t like meat buns?” 

Not the time. Ignoring the bitter ache the memory conjures, you’re quick to shake your head, “No. No, thank you. It’s great.” You doubt he buys it, but then again you also doubt he cares so long as you get something in your stomach. 

One bite, chew, swallow. Another, chew, swallow – mechanical until it isn’t. The first bun disappears and you reach for the second.

“How’s your head?” he asks.

You swallow down another mouthful. “Fuzzy. Sore. I still can’t remember anything,” you  admit, in case that’s where this line of questioning is going. Nothing beyond waking up in your bed covered in blood and a stranger’s cum at any rate.

The blood work they did at the hospital confirmed you were drugged along with the others, the detective mentioning the near-empty bottle of wine they’d found, which they were in the process of testing too. He’d also pointed out the lack of evidence indicating any kind of forced entry, which paired with the former is something you’ve been trying not to dwell on. 

The officer gives a considering nod, “That’s to be expected, don’t worry about it. I still think it’s worth asking a few more questions if you’re feeling up to it?” Again, it’s phrased like a question, but already he’s pulling out a voice recorder, setting down on the mattress between you. 

“Um, sure. Yeah,” you croak. 

A small smile, “Good.” He leans forward to switch on the recorder. “We’ll start with the other victims – your friends. Tell me about them.”

“Kaori, she’s– she was my best friend. We worked at the same grocer when I first moved out of my parents’ place, when I got a job here she made the decision to move with me. That was about six months ago.” 

“And the other two?” 

“Her brother Koji and another friend of ours Takashi. They came up to visit; Kaori’s been back once or twice since we left, but I hadn’t seen them–” tears blur at your vision and your voice just… gives out. 

They’re gone. 

You drag a shuddering breath in and it hurts. 

Blindly, your hand reaches across the bed, blood tipped fingers sprawling over pristine white, and when they meet warmth – an open palm outstretched – you seize it and cling on with everything you have. You’ll unravel if you don’t.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you chant, each syllable shakier than the last.

He dips his chin, just barely, and squeezes your hand, “You invited them?”

A wordless, wide eyed nod. 

“You were close.” Not a question. He sounds like he’s mulling over the thought, though his expression is inscrutable. “Were you involved with any of them?”

This time, there’s the slightest hesitation before you shake your head. The officer frowns, “I need the truth. Your friends were attacked for a reason. Lying to me won’t help bring their families peace.”

The blood drains from your face, your heart lurching on a sickening thud. 

Your fault. 

Instinctively, you yank back your hand, or try to at least, but his grip tightens – enough to keep you from drawing away, not enough to hurt. Though neither his tone nor his expression hold any condemnation, it doesn’t change the truth of the matter. 

You didn’t drug them or pick up the knife and swing. You didn’t invite this psycho into your life, but the fact remains that they’re dead because of you. 

“I– it wasn’t like that. We weren’t… I didn’t–” 

MINE.

Tears threaten to spill and your bottom lip trembles. 

For a long, drawn out moment, he simply stares. There’s a twitch at his jaw and he sighs – more of a grunt, really – leaning back and pulling his hand from yours to rake through his dark hair. 

(Stupid, you think, how some part of you mourns the loss.) 

“Okay, alright. Fine. We’ll come back to that,” he concedes. “What about other friends? Coworkers you were close with?”

“No, I– I already told the detective I wasn’t seeing anyone.”

An irritated flash darkens his gaze. “I didn’t ask if you were fucking them.” And you must make a truly pathetic picture then, flinching like a kicked puppy, because he lets out another huff, closing his eyes for a beat and visibly working to soften the harsh lines of his expression. “Shit, okay– I’m sorry. It’s been a long day for us both,” he makes an odd noise, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, the sound entirely devoid of humour. “The guy who did this, he either already knows about the people precious to you, or he’s gonna do his damn best to find out, and if he thinks they’re threats, he’ll hurt them, or worse – he’ll use them to hurt you. I need you to tell me everything.”

And so, feeling the exhaustion of the day creeping over you, you do.

You tell him about the small group from work you occasionally go out for Friday drinks with, your old friends from uni, right down to the neighbour two floors below, who’d seen you hauling boxes the day you’d moved in and immediately offered to help. When you’d christened the kitchen baking you’d made sure to bring him some, and just last week you’d had tea with him and his grandma.

“What about school? Anyone you still keep in contact with?”

You try for a laugh but it sounds all wrong. “I wasn’t exactly popular back then,” 

His eyes narrow. They flit across your face like he’s searching for… something. You feel like a bug, pinned in place, squirming and uncomfortable, your face too hot. 

“Bullied?” he probes. 

Another nod. 

“How ‘bout family?”

Your mouth dries.

“My parents… I haven’t spoken to them in months. We don’t really get along.” The last conversation you’d had with them, if you could call it as much, lasted all of five minutes. Dry pleasantries and thinly veiled criticisms, wrapped up in yet another pointed reminder that things didn’t have to be this way – you were the one adamant on shutting them out. 

You doubt it’d raise a single eyebrow between them if you went the same again without contact. 

“Siblings?”

Another tear slips from your lashes and you swallow against the tight lump in your throat. The weight of his gaze feels oppressive, you’re too bare, too vulnerable, you don’t want to talk about this, so you shift your line of sight to the paper delivery bag, half crumpled now, and let your fingernails sink into the skin of your palms. 

Still, the words don’t come straight away, and when they do, they’re strained. Choked. Painted so thick is grief that you wonder if he understands them at all.

“No. I uh, I had a brother– a twin brother. He died.” 

You don’t talk about your brother, ever.

Kaori knew the bare bones of it. Koji and Takashi too – you had a twin brother, he died, and it fucked you up. Without ever uttering a word, they’d known not to press, that the wounds left behind weren’t quite as healed as the scar tissue led to believe. 

“How old were you?”

Seven, when you lost him. Twelve, when the letters stopped coming. 

“Fourteen,” you whisper, curling in on yourself. “He was sick.”

Stop asking, stop talking, stop, stop, stop. 

When you risk a look in the officer’s direction, his features are hewn granite, eyes set in a hard, angry glare that steals the very breath from your lungs. “Yeah?” he grunts, rising to his feet. “You stopped writing long before that.”

There’s just enough time for understanding to crash over you, for your lips to part, a feather light gasp of “Hajime?” to slip out before you’re flat on your back, wrists pinned to the mattress above your head, the officer– a ghost– Hajime looming over you. 

“What did I fucking tell you?”  

—

‘Sweetie, make sure you hold your brother’s hand.’

They’d meant when you were walking home from the bus stop, or crossing the road. When there was a buddy system so no one got separated or left behind. 

Hajime was always holding your hand. Not because your parents told him to, but because that’s how it was supposed to be. You were twins, he’d been born first (by all of six minutes) and you had followed. You were always following Hajime, and he was always going to look after you. 

Until he gets put into the Otter class with Mr Inagaki, and you go into Dugong with Miss Ino. 

Hajime’s nothing short of enraged. He throws chairs and yells and tries to kick the Principal, but it doesn’t change anything.

It would be good for you, they said, to have a chance to make other friends. ‘You can’t keep using your brother as a crutch, honey,’ your mother gently admonishes. 

Hajime scowls at that. Later, when it’s just the two of you hiding away in his room, he tells you she’s an idiot and a liar. ‘You don’t need anyone else. You have me.’

You knew that. You’d always have Hajime, but the other kids in your class weren’t as awful as he made them sound. Some of them were actually kind of cool, and they liked you, too.

For a while, you began to believe you could have both; Hajime and your new friends. 

Until one day you’re waiting for him at lunch when a boy from your class tugs on your braids and with a wide, toothy grin, loudly proclaims to the whole playground that even though you were a girl, and girls have cooties, it’d probably be okay if you wanted to be his girlfriend. 

You didn’t see Hajime coming up behind you. You’ve no idea where he found the scissors. The only warning either of you get is a sudden, splitting roar before he’s throwing himself at the smaller boy, tackling him to the ground. 

‘She’s MINE!’

Silver glints, flashing in the sunlight, and a high pitched shriek rips through the playground as he brings the scissors down on the poor, struggling boy. 

With a viciousness you’d never known of your brother, he swings again and again. It’s chaos. The other kids scatter and the teachers run to intervene. Hajime, spitting and snarling, red in the face and half-feral, doesn’t stop for them.

He stops for you. 

At the sound of a sharp little gasp, a line of red slashed along your forearm, Hajime stops dead, wide, horrified eyes fixed on yours.

—

‘Sweetie, what have I told you about snooping? I raised you better than that.’

‘But they’re addressed to me. Hajime wrote to me.’

‘Your brother’s not well, those letters– they’ll only upset you. I don’t want you reading them.’

‘… He says he misses me.’

‘I know, but he’s where he belongs, getting help. You want that for him, don’t you? To get the help he needs?’

‘I want to write back to him.’

—

There’s another letter waiting for you when you get home from school.

You hang your backpack near the door, still damp from being tossed in the pool, and eye the opened envelope sitting by your father. He doesn’t look up from his laptop when you reach for it, doesn’t lift a finger to stop you. Nevertheless, the displeasure radiates from him clear as day. 

“You shouldn’t encourage him. He’s not well.”

You’d scoff if it wouldn’t get you in trouble. Nothing you said could ever be taken as ‘encouragement’, and you’re under no illusions about who and what your brother is. 

The violence terrifies you. Sometimes he says things in the letters he writes that make your stomach all twisty and your palms sweat, but Hajime could be a monster, and you think you’d love him anyway. You wouldn’t have a choice. 

So you pluck at the envelope and tuck it close, making your way to your room without another glance at either of your parents. Sitting cross legged atop your bed, you eagerly scan the contents;

He hates the new therapist. They had a movie night planned, but some asshole started a fight and the whole thing got cancelled. The food’s still shit. He’s fed up and pissed off, whether he behaves or not, they won’t let him out and they won’t give him what he wants, so what’s the point in pretending?

The both of you turn twelve in ten days time – you owe it to him to come spend it together. 

—

‘Maybe it’s for the best, sweetheart.’

Dismissive. She’s always dismissive. Your hands curl in response, tightening before you force yourself to flex them out and bite your tongue. It’s not worth the fight. Neither one of them actually care, and nothing you say will ever change that. 

He’s angry at you. Or hurt. Both, probably. 

They wouldn’t let you visit. You’d begged – cried, even – and it hadn’t swayed them. The rules are that you aren’t allowed to go and see Hajime and you aren’t allowed to talk to him on the phone. The letters are the only communication you have, and when your twelfth birthday comes and goes, those stop too.

You’ve sent four letters since, no response. 

He’s shut you out entirely and while you can’t blame him for it, it’s painful.

You’ve always had Hajime, through everything. Him shutting you out feels like losing a limb– 

No, it’s more than that. It’s like slowly losing some vital function inside of you. Like your lungs are shutting down and you can’t breathe properly and your heart isn’t pumping the way it should. You feel guilty and horrible and at least twice, you debate trying to find a way to sneak out and make the two hour journey on your own, just so you can see him.

It’s a stupid idea, they wouldn’t even let you through the front door, but it’s the only idea you have and so you cling to it.

You keep writing to him– panicked. Desperate. Begging his forgiveness. 

He never writes back.

—

They sit you down at breakfast three months after your fourteenth birthday and tell you Hajime’s gone.

There was another fight, someone pushed him–

You don’t want to hear the details. They don’t matter and your ears are ringing too loud to make sense of them anyway.

Hajime is gone.

The cord between you was stretched and fraying already. He hadn’t written in over two years and probably hated you towards the end but he– he was–

Yours. A part of you. 

Gone.

And your mother’s asking about the English test you have second period. 

—

“What. Did. I. Say?” Each word is slowly enunciated, a quiet growl that drags an unwilling shiver down your spine. 

He smells of wood – of cedar, spice and musk, the notes melding, coiling with the dizzying body heat, the solid weight of him, bracing himself above you.

His lips are mere inches from yours. 

Not dead. 

Here.

There’s a thousand thoughts racing through your head, connections that light up, clicking into place like pieces of a puzzle, painting a deeply unsettling picture – all of which are drowned out by the revelation that Hajime is here.

You burst into tears–

and Hajime – your brother, very much alive and glaring at you from above – surges down to swallow them in a vicious kiss.

The moment your lips touch, all the tension in his body just… bleeds out. Hajime groans, low and heated, his hips rocking, grinding along your stomach, and if you weren’t too preoccupied short circuiting, dangling on the precipice of a panic attack, you’d feel the twitch of his mouth, curling into a small but no less satisfied smirk.

He relaxes, like he’s coming home rather than returning from the dead to land the killing blow.

“Mine,” he answers his own question, breath heavy and ragged as his teeth nip at your jaw. “I told you you’re fucking mine.”

The scratches on the wall. Kaori and Koji and Takashi, asleep in a sea of red. The viscous mess spilled over your belly. Your mother’s hushed voice, carrying down the hallway, ‘– only a phase. The books all say he’ll grow out of it before long.’

She hadn’t sounded convinced. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, desperate to block it all out as more tears spill into your hairline. Hajime won’t let you. He groans your name into the shell of your ear and licks at the tears as they fall. “Don’t,” he warns, fingers pressing tightly around your wrists ‘til they shoot back open with a gasp, “don’t you dare check out.”

When he rucks up your shirt to find you sans bra and a warm palm slides up to grope the soft, supple skin, a fresh burst of panic spurs you into action. Pinned under his weight as you are, you can’t move, and the idea of trying to physically fight him off is as laughable as it is terrifying – but when you were younger, you were the one – the only one – who could coax Hajime back from the edge, your hand in his.

Until he leapt from it entirely, and they took him away.

“H-Hajime?” A trembling, hiccuping whimper, thick with tears.  

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even pause – shuffling down your body to mouth at them instead – but hooded, simmering pools of green flick back up to your face, a hum of acknowledgement rumbling in his chest as he nips and sucks pretty, burgundy blooms across your breasts.

“I-if you ever loved me, even a little… Please, Haji– don’t hurt me like this–” you choke on another sob, pathetic mess that you are.

Hajime goes preternaturally still, eyes boring into you. 

You stare right back, fighting the urge to cower and flinch, to turn your cheek and stare at the discarded dumpling wrappers, letting him take what he wants. Praying that he won’t hurt you too badly if you give it to him without a fight.

Because it will hurt, you think. It’ll break you entirely. 

(Are you not already broken?)

When his head drops, you can’t help it – the sharp, terrified hitch in your breath – but his lips meet your forehead, then each cheek, before finally they brush over your lips with a tenderness he has no right to. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he vows, cradling the side of your jaw, “I won’t hurt you, ever.”

But that’s a lie, too.

“I love you more than anything.”

He kisses you again, soft and sweet and gentle, as if those promises weren’t sewn from violence and legitimised in blood. As if he isn’t breaking your heart with every sweep of his tongue, plundering your mouth.

There’s no fight in you left when he reaches for the waistband of your sweats and slowly starts easing them down. You don’t claw and shove when the hold on your wrists loosens and then disappears entirely, both hands needed to strip away his clothes. 

The sound of his belt buckle clinking, the soft hiss of a zipper, they wash over you, white noise lost to the pounding in your ears. 

But you don’t look away.

He strokes his cock – long and thick and flushed to the tip –  crawling up the mattress to kneel between your legs like a supplicant before an altar of the divine. 

Devotion demands sacrifice. 

“It killed me,” he starts, dragging the mushroom head along the slit of your pussy. He frowns a little, leans back and spits – a fat glob of saliva landing dead centre, adding to the mess his weeping cock’s already made. “When the letters stopped coming. I was angry, so fucking angry, all the time. I’d lash out and they’d put me in another cage, and I’d do it again, and again. They tried convincing me you’d moved on,” his eyes flash darkly, “which was bullshit. They’d have to carve me out of you with a knife.”

What shocks you isn’t the violent imagery, but the truth of it settling into your bones, inescapable and undeniable; you’ll always love your brother, even if that very love destroys you.

“I didn’t–”

The first thrust rips a strangled yelp from your throat. 

He’s too big, you’re not prepared to take him – and Hajime doesn’t care. His head tips back, shuddering out a breathy laugh. 

There’s no pause, no period of grace, seated deep inside of you, the walls of your pussy hugging him tight, Hajime won’t allow you a second to catch your breath and wait for the burning sting to abate. His hips draw back until only the throbbing head of his cock remains inside, and, upon grabbing a leg to hitch over his shoulder, uses it as leverage to punch forward, stuffing your tight little cunt to the brim.

The pace he sets is brutal from the outset. Bruising. He licks at your tears between kisses and moans when you clench and shudder around him. “Never again,” he pants into your ear. “I’ll kill them all if you leave. Every last fucking one. You’re mine. Mine.”

And you’d think it cruel, a punishment, if not for the way those green eyes burn. 

When his fingers twine with yours, pressing you down into the mattress, holding you there, you wonder if this was always an inevitability. 

Hajime led and you followed, hand in bloody hand. 

He’d never allow anything less.

haikyuu boys as tweets

ft. oikawa tooru, lev haiba, tsukishima kei, iwaizumi hajime, bokuto koutaro, miya atsumu, kageyama tobio, tendou satori, & asahi azumane

masterlist | navigation | part two

why did i do this? who knows 😎👍💗 enjoy some of my favorite tweets

giving them head.

featuring: Sakura Haruka, Kaji Ren

contains: gn reader, bl*wjobs, begging, facef*cking, sub!sakura, dom!kaji

note: all characters are aged up to 21+!

MDNI | 18+ content

word count: 600

masterlist

Sakura Haruka

Sakura’s never been good at expressing himself verbally, the words somehow getting stuck at the back of his throat every time he tries. But his emotions are written on his face, easy for you to read.

As you drag your tongue up his shaft, licking along the thick vein there, your eyes locked onto Sakura’s, you can see exactly what he’s thinking. His cheeks and nose are flushed, his eyes half-lidded, his lips slightly apart. You swirl your tongue around his sensitive head and he inhales sharply, his fingers tangling messily in your hair.

“Does that feel good, Haru?” you ask teasingly, pressing a chaste kiss against the underside of his tip and feeling his cock twitch in response.

“Mhm,” is all Sakura can say, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

He can’t look away from you, doesn’t want to even for a second. You lick up the precum he’s oozing and Sakura lets out a whimper, his hips thrusting up. You’re teasing him, making his cock ache with need as your tongue darts out again.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” you instruct him softly.

“Nnh, fuck,” Sakura grunts, hips bucking again, chasing your lips as you pull back slightly. “Wanna fuck your mouth. Please.”

“Like this?”

You wrap your lips around his tip and suck gently. Sakura’s eyes close briefly.

“Need more, please, please, baby,” he whimpers. “Need to cum in your mouth, please let me cum in your mouth.”

His begging makes you smile so you decide to give him what he wants.

“That’s a good boy,” you coo, feeling his cock throb against your tongue at your words as you slide him all the way in.

Kaji Ren

One of Kaji’s favourite ways to release stress is to take it out on your mouth.

You’re such a good girl for him, kneeling so obediently between his legs as his hands grip the back of your head. He pulls your hair up into a loose ponytail keeping it out of your way as he holds your head in place and fucks up into your mouth.

Your hands are splayed on his thighs and you try to keep your jaw slack as Kaji facefucks you. His fat tip hits the back of your throat but you’ve practiced this a lot and have a good control over your gag reflex. Your eyes water as you focus on breathing through your nose while Kaji abuses your mouth.

“Fuckkkk,” he groans, eyes squeezing shut at the feel of your warm mouth and your throat constricting around him. “Such a perfect little slut.”

Kaji plants his feet, readjusting slightly before fucking your mouth even harder. You try to keep up with him, your tongue running along the underside of his cock, making him growl. You drool over him, saliva dripping from the corners of your mouth as your mascara runs down your cheeks.

Kaji opens his eyes, drinking in the sight of you.

“That’s it, baby, fuck.”

Kaji’s cock twitches, his balls tightening. He can never last long when you let him do this. He pulls out quickly, long trails of saliva joining his shaft and tip with your lips. He wraps a fist around his cock and strokes himself quickly as you open your mouth, sticking your tongue out for him.

Kaji cums with a loud groan, watching as he shoots thick ropes of cum onto your tongue. His hips buck, the strength of his orgasm making him lose aim slightly, and you feel his hot load land across your face. You don’t flinch, enjoying the feel of Kaji marking you like this. You smile up at him before making a show of swallowing his cum.

Kaji pulls you onto his lap, a cloth at the ready to clean you up as he peppers kisses across your shoulder and whispers thank yous in your ear.

masterlist

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kinktober 2020 m.list.

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SURPRISE!! in honor of october being my birthday month, i decided to do kinktober!! this has been in the works since last week, and i decided not to tell anyone about it for the sake of surprising you all (and also bc i didnt want to tell yall and then not end up doing it). this is my first and hopefully not the last time participating in kinktober, so i hope i don’t disappoint. anyways i hope yall are excited!! <33

MY KINKTOBER WILL CONTAIN DARK CONTENT.

to be added to the taglist, go here.

#mikatober2020 — all kinktober content, including dark content

#mikaskinkymonth20 — non-dark content only kinktober content

#mikasdarkmonth20 — dark content only kinktober content

characters will not be revealed till the fics are published, purely for the surprise and suspense on what to expect. (idea taken from the great seita)

Keep reading

mimi i'm 100% sure u made me into a thirsty bitch for tsumu, like i'd read the fics and they were good! but idk he just never peaked my interest outside of that but today...idk i saw a post abt baby tsumu on twitter and i immediately thought what it'd be like with me in a mating press and him just going balls deep to make tiny tsumus sjfbdbfjshs breeding kink go brrrr😳

he would fill you up so good too, he’d hold you down and make sure you can feel every inch, sinking into you slow and deep to feel just how good your soft walls hug him tight. you tremble underneath him and dig your nails into his shoulders as he bottoms out, full, massive balls resting against you. 

“that’s my girl, look at that, you took it all,” he breathes, just barely starting to thrust in and out, wanting to savour the way your cunt throbs around him when he’s fully buried inside you. “squeezing me so tight, baby,” atsumu groans, “look at me.”

your eyes flutter open to dark, honeyed eyes, lidded and searching for any signs of hesitation in your expression. “pretty.” 

atsumu starts to pull out slowly, hissing through his teeth and shuddering when he stops halfway through his movement, fingers pressing into the backs of your thighs. “relax, you’re—ahh—can barely move, shit.” 

“s-sorry, tsumu.” your apology comes out slurred as you shoot him a dazed smile. “guess you’re gonna have to stretch me out, then...”

excitement flashes through atsumu’s eyes at the challenge and he pushes your thighs back further, pulling out only to thrust back in sharply. “yeah?” you both moan on the way back in, atsumu repeating the movement over and over until you’re begging, pleading for him to just fuck you already.

“pretty girl wants to get fucked, huh? i’ll do ya one better, baby.” atsumu finds his rhythm and thrusts into you, his slightly curved cock slamming right into your g-spot with every push of his hips. “gonna breed this hungry cunt,” he pants, speeding up, “fill your little womb up with cum and make you a mommy for me, yeah? how’s that sound?”   

front of the brain rn is bokuto coming in ur panties,,,,take that in whatever direction u would like to

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

— bokuto cumin in your panties (pregame) + thigh job + pussy job + messy panties+ praise + f! reader

he didn’t have the time to take care of you how he wanted, it was a shame.

seeing you paw at him before his match, whining about how seeing him practice on the court earlier made you so sticky and wet made him so fucking hard and of course he couldn’t just walk out into the his game like that... right?

he makes you stand still, crossing your ankles while he slides his cock inbetween your thighs, the tip of his cock just barely brushing against your cute little clit.

bokuto grabs your hips, towering over you from behind, not even bothering in tugging your bottoms off all the way, pulling you back onto him.

“sorry baby.” he grunts, his precum and your blooming arousal is the only thing that keeps him slick enough to pass over your puffy cunt lips.

“but- you know i won’t fuck your pussy...” koutarou grunts, the force of him grabbing at you makes you whimper, knees going weak, “unless i have time to make you cum over and over.” he hisses, the sound of his fat cock parting your folds over and over makes him dizzy.

taking you like this is proving to be an even better warm up than anything he did earlier.

“yes! i know- i know...” you whine, fingers digging into his own strong and veiny arms, knowing that he’s got you- knowing that he won’t let you fall or let anything happen to you while he fucks the tightness between your thighs.

“fuck- fuck... gunna cum baby...” he growls, nipping the sensitive piece of skin lining your shoulder, you can see by the reflection in the wide mirror in the locker room just how much he’s towering over you- how much thicker his body is... it makes you so dizzy and throb in need.

“please! please cum, your match is starting soon.” you breathlessly pant, hearing the way his teammates are lining up to leave and make their appearance on the court- it’s pure desperation, pure need to have him finish and cum that drives you to squeeze your thighs even tighter, buck back into him, singing his praises while he huffs and whines.

“shit! that’s my girl... pretty little thing... prettiest thighs ever.” koutarou breathes, detaching himself, roughly fucking his fist- the other hand pushing your back, making you tumble forward slightly, his thick thigh coming inbetween your legs.

he hooks his fingers back on the waistband of your bottoms, giving him access to your panties, catching every single spurt of cum, mingling with the arousal that had fallen off your cute cunt in the midst of it all.

there’s a tingle playing at the base of his skull, a feral and deep heat swirling in his tummy at the thought of you walking around with panties he just came all over.

regulating his breathing, carding a hair through his spiky hair, he slaps your exposed cunt, splattering the arousal dripping off you, tucking himself in his athletic shorts, signaling you to pull your ruined underwear up.

“ah.” you wince, grumbling about how sticky and hot his cum feels pressed against your pussy.

he simply winks at you, golden eyes shining mischievously while a thick tongue sweeps up the digits covered in the slick he caught from that slap against your pussy.

“gunna play extra good... knowing my cute little baby’s got my cum all warmed up and save.” bokuto chuckles, tugging you along as he makes his way to the court.