Good Things Will Happen 🧿

people had been wondering where natsuo was and i wanted to draw a grown a fuyumi! had to look up some inuit clothing inspiration :))

Tension 3 | Matsukawa Issei X Reader (Haikyuu)

Warning: 18+ Alcohol Use, Drug Use, Unprotected Sex, Spanking

Hi, this is a long time coming! Sorry it took so long, something happened to me today that spurred me on to finish this so I can supply you all with (hopefully) a lil bit of serotonin ♡︎ thanks to @thisisthehardestthing and @rat-suki for helping me through this one!

part one || part two

You can finally breathe when you break out of the library doors, wiping at your eyes furiously as you hurry down the stairs and rush down the path towards your dorm. Only, you can’t go back there.

Your roommate is there. Having sex.

“Fuck,” you stifle a sob, head off the path towards the giant oak students study under when the weather is nice, shoes crunching on the grass.

Luckily for you, it’s a Saturday and the weather’s warm, so only a couple of people are lazing beneath it. You head to the other side of the tree— the trunk wide enough to obscure you from view of the library— drop your bag and sit down, resting back against it and pulling your knees into your chest.

Your tears slow, but wiping at them reminds you why you’re so upset, and sets you off again.

God, you’re stupid. Imagine falling for it twice. Twice! It shouldn’t matter that he’s tall, stupidly handsome, intelligent. Shouldn’t matter that his touch set your skin on fire, his words made you feel alive, valued, pretty.

Pretty.

You’ll never be able to have a man call you that, will you? It’ll be forever associated with Matsukawa Issei.

“I’m— don’t get mad,” you startle when his voice rings out gently, tense up when he approaches, hands up in surrender.

Your eyes narrow, your voice a hiss: “go away—”

“I’m just gonna sit here, and if you wanna listen to me, you can, alright? And when I’m done, I’ll go, and I won’t bother you again.” His voice is gentle, steps tentative as he gets within a couple of feet of you, drops to sit, crosses his legs.

Your brain is screaming at you to leave, but for some stupid fucking reason, your traitorous heart won’t give you the power to move.

“I… I wasn’t really with her in the library last week.” He says, voice hushed.

You roll your eyes, a blade of grass longer than the others, far more interesting to look at than him. Liar.

“I wasn’t, I—” he huffs, frustrated. You glare at him when he attempts to stand. “I’m gonna come closer… This is,” he’s struggling to find the words, and you get sick satisfaction from his fumbling.

But what if he knows you will? What if it’s just another act?

“Just say what you wanna say and go.” You whisper, shuffling away from him when he leans against the tree next to you, your fingers threading through the grass beside you.

“Hear me out, just— I didn’t wanna tell you.” He says, getting a little fidgety. “You’re too good, ya know? Too innocent and sweet. Pure.”

That makes you look at him— a glare, really— but you see him, crestfallen, hand digging deep into the pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a baggy.

Drugs.

Your heart almost stops.

He’s a dealer.

“They’re not adderall, but they might as well be.” He whispers, rolling the little bag between his fingers. When you look up at his face, he’s looking at you. “I was selling, we got caught. We improvised.” He glances around, before shoving them back into his jeans. “I’m not messing with anyone else, I swear.”

There’s a moment in which you just stare at the pocket of his jeans, envisioning the baggy, overthinking every conversation you’ve had with him, every thought you’ve had of him. You feel cheated, lied to; you’re just a naive little honour student with no idea of the great, big, mean world beyond college life. No idea how close to the surface the dirty underbelly really is.

Even when it’s sitting right next to you.

“Just dealing drugs, cool,” you mumble, finally tearing your eyes away from his jeans, tugging the blade of grass from the ground, dropping it amidst the others.

Then it’s quiet. Of course, there’s pride there: he’s not with anyone else, it’s you he wants; but there’s also the deceit. The slither of anxiety that whispers in your ear, that coils around your stomach and tightens until you’re physically ill; scared of what might come from falling for a man like this.

“Like I said, I didn’t want to tell you—”

“It’s fine. You said what you wanted to say, now you can go.” Still, you can’t look at him, can’t afford to get lost in his gaze again; you busy yourself with tugging at more grass, but the air’s heavy.

A sigh, and you see him run a hand through his curls out of your peripherals. “Can I at least give you my number? You can call me when you’ve thought about it.”

“Thought about what?” You mumble.

He’s exasperated. “Oh, come on, you know what I mean.”

“I really don’t,” you bite back quickly.

“About you and me—”

“Ugh, whatever,” you sigh, digging through your bag for your phone, pulling up the keypad and handing it to him. “Hurry up, I need to study.” You’re trying to sound annoyed and standoffish, but mostly you come off tired.

He takes the phone, and your brain screams at you. This isn’t what you should be doing; you should be cutting ties with him, running away, getting as far from him and his influence as humanely possible.

“Thanks,” he says quietly when he’s done, holding it back out for you to take. “I’m gonna…”

“Bye,” you cut him off, snatching it back. He sighs, hesitates. You can sense he doesn’t want to go, that he probably wants to talk more, but you ignore him, eyes glued where your fingers toy with the blades of grass until he sighs and stands.

“Okay, see ya.” He says quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets and walking away.

You briefly make eye-contact when he glances back, but you tear your eyes away from him to stare down at your phone, face feeling hot.

Caught gazing after him like a lovesick puppy.

What a shitty afternoon.

-

“It’s Tuesday,” your roommate laughs, eyes almost bugging when she sees you pull a bottle of tequila from a brown paper bag. “It’s a school night!”

“I don’t have any classes tomorrow,” you uncap it, bring it to your nose for a sniff and recoil at the fumes, unable to mask your disgust at the smell. “Are you coming with me, or not? You don’t have any classes until tomorrow afternoon.”

You need this. You need to let loose, to drink until you black out like you’ve seen your roommate do so many times. You wanna be that girl: the carefree one that dances on tables and makes out with strangers on the dancefloor; that has men ogling her and buying her drinks and drooling all over her. The life of the party.

The cool girl.

Mostly, you need to forget about Matsukawa.

“I… fuck,” she sighs, seeing the hope in your eyes. It’s not long before she’s flashing you her trademark grin. “I can’t let you hit the clubs alone, now, can I?”

A smile grows on your face, “you can, but it probably wouldn’t be all that fun.”

“You just wanna raid my closet.” She raises her brows, slamming her textbook shut and standing up, rounding her chair and pushing it into her desk.

Your face falls, “oh, no—”

“Oh, yes!” She cheers, taking the bottle from you and pushing you onto your bed. “You think I wanna go out out with you dressed like that?”

Honour student. You hear him taunt, see the curve of his grin in your mind’s eye, feel his breath hot and heady against your ear.

She chooses you something ridiculous—cream snake print and tight and entirely too short, with too high heels—but you go along with it, sipping tequila and blasting remixes of old school favourites as she perfects your wings and glosses your pout.

You finally tell her about Mattsun: about his fingers and the party, about his mouth and his strong arms in the library. About his wandering eyes and lips and cock. But as you try and come clean about the drugs, your tongue gets heavy, and you find yourself whining about Rina instead.

-

9pm comes and that bottle is gone.

You’re both drunk, but you manage to skip the club’s queue, giggling and stumbling straight to the dancefloor, hooking up with a group of girls your roommate knew from high school.

Minutes blend into hours and a moment of clarity—if you can call it that—has you alone in the bathroom, taking a raunchy selfie in the full-length mirror and collapsing onto the sofa in the hallway.

As you scrutinise the photo, you realise don’t look like you, not really, and it’s not the alcohol. It’s the hair, the lips, the eyes; the amount of thigh—too much, too much—showing, your provocative pose, the curve of your breasts in the dress.

Honour student, who?

“Come… find me,” you mumble to yourself with a sly smile on your face, scrolling through your contacts until you find it: Matsukawa Issei. You have a giggle at the fact that he’s saved his full name—that’s such a strange thing to do, isn’t it?—but without further ado, you press that little blue arrow, and with a whoosh, the picture’s sent.

You don’t even have time to stand up before your phone is buzzing in your hand. “Hello?” You laugh, bringing the device to your ear.

“Where are you?” He asks, bass pumping through the speaker of your phone. Oh? He’s out too? On a school night?

“Where are you, Mattsun?” Your voice slurs. “Because it doesn’t sound like you’re alone right now.”

“I’m—it doesn’t matter, I’m out, I’m… working. Where are you?”

“Oh,” you purr, leaning back into the sofa’s cushions. “I’m out, too. Not working, obviously.” Then you’re laughing, because he sounds… mad? Agitated?

Are you finally winning the game? Is this all it takes to win a round with big ol’ Mattsun?

“Fuck, are you wasted?” His voice is tight; your smile grows, laughter slows.

“Are you judging me?” A couple move past you, entangled in each other, beelining it for the disabled bathroom.

“Just—I’ll come get you, where are you?” His voice is easier to hear then, the background quieter. The couple tumble into the bathroom and lock the door behind them.

“I… don’t know what it’s called,” you admit, distracted.

“Check—” he’s getting more agitated, and it only makes you giggle. “There should be signage up around the place, what’s it say?”

“Uh,” there are posters on the wall opposite you, but you can’t read them from where you’re sitting. You push away from the sofa and stumble towards the wall, hand out against it for stability. “Oh, uh…” you trace your finger along the club’s logo in the top corner of the promo poster. “The Limelight.”

“I’ll be there soon.” He promises. “Don’t move,” then he’s gone, replaced by a lonely dial tone.

Suddenly, you’re sobering up. The thought of actually seeing him again? Terrifying. What have you done?

“There you are!” A woman—one of your roommate’s friends—grabs you by the arm. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” She stresses as you watch her fuss. What’s her name? The room is spinning. “There’s a group of guys down there buying drinks—like, top shelf shit. C’mon,” she links her arm with yours and drags you back down to the bar, the music getting louder with each step it takes for you to descend the stairs; all thoughts and worries drowned out by the bass constricting your throat.

She wasn’t kidding. There’s four of them, all in suits, all far older than any of you, and all handsier than they should be.

Two vodka martinis later has one of the guys dragging you to the dancefloor, his hands holding you against him as you sway drunkenly to the music, head spinning, eyes closed to save your corneas from the flashing green strobes attempting to blind you.

His lips are on your shoulder, your neck; a hand pulls your head against his chest and he’s talking to you, but you can’t hear him, his lips at your ear, your cheek, your mouth—

Then your world shifts; you’re pulled sideways, back forced against something hard, and when you begrudgingly open your eyes, Suit Man has his hands up in surrender, giving you one last once-ever, before shaking his head and getting lost in the sea of people.

“I thought I told you not to move, honour student.” He practically growls in your ear. That, you hear.

“Mattsun,” you smile, lifting your arms to wrap them around his neck, pulling his head closer to yours, wriggling your ass against him excitedly. Like a puppy, glad her master’s home.

“Issei,” he corrects you, big hands on your hips, holding you against him, fingers almost bruising; not that you care.

A giggle bubbles from your lips and you turn in his embrace, look up at him through your lashes. “Issei.”

Then he’s kissing you and you’re meeting his advances hungrily, pressing against him, pulling him closer, thirsty for him, needy and desperate.

“Why were you dancing with him?” He asks, holding your face in his hands, forehead pressed against yours. You’re surprised you can hear him, breathless from his kiss.

“Who?” You ask dumbly, head full of Issei, body practically vibrating against him. You go in for another kiss and he chuckles, his minty breath fanning your face, hands holding you still.

“You’re real pretty tonight.” He says, mouth going to your ear.

Pretty. Ah, yes, the word that has you falling to pieces in his hands. Even in your altered state, the word has your knees almost buckling, has you pussy fluttering.

“Am I?” You breathe back, lids lolling shut.

“And really drunk,” he points out with a laugh.

You pout, “well you’re… really… tall.”

“Why’d you drink so much?” He asks, thick brows rising. You’re about to answer when you realise he’s swaying you. Then you’re pressed against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, your own hands sliding down his back to rest on his ass.

The question echoes in your brain despite the music thumping, despite the bodies writhing around you, despite the alcohol burning in your veins.

Why’d you drink so much?

Because he’s wrong for you. He’s bad news. He’s a liar. He’s a dealer. The little baggie—

The little baggie.

Nimble hands find the curve of his ass, squeeze his rump. Nothing. You pull away from his embrace and push up on your toes to press your lips to his, tongue running along his lower lip. He accepts you with a groan, pulling you closer, huge hands fondling your ass, fingertips pressing at flesh as your tiny dress rides up.

As your nimble fingers slide into his front pocket.

As they wrap around the little baggie and gently tug it out.

As they lift the front of your dress and tuck it into your underwear.

You pull away, breathless. “Water,” you beg, and he’s got your hand in his, dragging you up to the bar. He orders a water, and a conversation starts with the man behind the bar; they know each other.

You take the opportunity to slip away, woozy brain begging that the two in the disabled bathroom are done with their business so you can… get a proper look at the baggie tucked in the front of your panties.

You’re too good. Too pure. Or whatever he’d said by the tree. You’d show him.

You make it back up the stairs and down the carpeted hall, thankful for the lack of suffocating bass, of writhing bodies. The door’s unlocked, and when you push it open, you find the large bathroom unoccupied and slide in, letting the door close behind you.

The wall to your right is entirely mirrored, the floor covered in glossy, marbled tiles that feel a little more expensive than the ones in the ladies room. Despite the single toilet, there’s a countertop with two sinks—deep and porcelain white—two gold taps and a long mirror, opposite the mirrored wall, allowing you to see the front and back of your outfit with the tilt of your head.

Fancy.

You resist the urge to splash your face, but you cup your hands under the running water and take a drink, the water soothing your dry throat. Then you stumble over to the toilet and drop the lid, taking the baggie from your underwear and plonking your ass on the seat, shaking the bag in the bright, warm light.

Six pills. Would he really miss one?

Shaky fingers open the bag, pull a pill out and look at it. You glance up at your reflection in the mirror; you don’t look like you, so why should you act like you?

That single thought is all you need.

The pill’s on your tongue, and you’re swallowing it dry, anxiety gnawing at your stomach, pride smacking it down. Who cares? It's not like one little pill is going to ruin you! You’ll still be you! Still be his pretty, little honour student, only you’ll be more fun, right?

Everyone likes a fun girl.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and wonder if he’s mad at you. Does he think less of you because you’re drowning your sorrows in booze and avoiding your feelings? Is he upset that he had to leave work to cater to you, despite you not actually asking him to?

Minutes drag, and you wonder if you should go and find him. You lift the little bag up to the light and picture yourself sliding them back into his pocket, like a little spy, or a ninja—

“You know, you’re supposed to pay for those.” Matsukawa says lowly, bottle of water in his hand. He pushes the door closed behind him, locks it with a definite click.

He looks mad, but still composed. Takes one step, two, three—

You drop forward off the toilet to your hands and knees, stopping him in his tracks. Then you’re pushing up to sitting, little bag dangling between your fingers, “can I pay with my mouth?”

He scoffs, but even drunk, you don’t miss the flare of his nostrils, the way his eyes drink in your submissive form. “Get up,” he hisses, snatching the bag, pocketing it, and reaching for your arm to pull you up.

“It’s now or never, pretty boy,” you purr, hands on his belt, eyes pleading with him to let you have your way. He hesitates, clicks his tongue. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? That day in the library? That’s why you followed me to the tree and told me your dirty little secret.”

His brow furrows. “Not like this, fuck,” and your name, your real name leaves his lips in a curse, and you know you’ve got him.

“C’mon, Issei,” you’re begging like a brat, “I’ve only done it a couple’a times, but I swear I’ll do well.” He groans then, hands going to your hair as your fingers loosen his belt, undo his pants and tug them down. You rub your cheek against his cock as it strains in his briefs, and a fleeting thought of ‘fuck, it’s big,’ crosses your mind before you’re nuzzling your nose against it, inhaling his scent and mouthing at him over his Calvins. “’s big, Issei,” you nearly moan, thighs clenching at the thought of this inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans, hands on your face, tilting your head so your eyes meet his. “You sure? You feeling okay?”

You just laugh, twist your head to nip at a finger playfully —which you miss on purpose— then you’re pulling his crisp white underwear down his thighs, marvelling at the cock that springs free and nearly slaps you in the face.

It really is big; by far the biggest you’ve ever seen, something you thought only really appeared in pornos, not real life. He says something about stopping, but you’re too invested, pussy tingling in anticipation, begging and pleading to be filled to the brim by this piece of meat.

It dwarfs your hands when you wrap them around his girth, pumping up and down languidly just to get a feel of him. Strangely enough, he smells clean. There’s a hint of sweat, but you get the feeling he’s not long showered, or he freshened up before coming to get you.

If you weren’t so drunk, maybe you’d be wondering if he was he with someone else? Would you be pulling back from him? Glaring up and him and asking if that was why he washed up? Instead of wrapping your lips around his spongey head and snaking your tongue out along the underside of his cock?

He’s way too big—a thought you numbly recognise is reoccurring—and you take him in too far, crouching down on your knees to get a better angle, so he can slide right down to the opening of your throat. You ignore the gag reflex trying to kick in, instead humming at the welcome gush of saliva into your mouth, the throb in your cunt, staring up at him with tented brows and watering eyes as the extra lubrication helps you up your speed.

“How do you feel?” He asks, voice gravelly, lidded eyes locked on you as you tangle your fingers in the hem of his shirt for balance. His finger strikes like a match down your cheek, lighting you on fire as you hollow out around him and pop off.

“Jealous,” you admit, reaching back down for his cock, feeling it hot and heavy in your hands as you sink down, butt on your heels.

“Jealous?”

“M-my pussy,” you mumble, unable to look at him. Shy. So damn shy. Why are all these butterflies floating around inside you? In your brain, in your stomach, deep in your cunt and tickling the surface.

He tilts your head up, makes you look at him. “I didn’t quite hear that.”

“My pussy,” you say louder, pouting. “Is jealous of my mouth!”

Then you’re being pulled up with a grunt that’s not your own, world almost spinning as you’re picked up off the floor and walked over to the sinks, placed on your ass between them on the cool stone. “I didn’t wanna fuck you here,” he says in your ear, large hands pushing your dress up, looping into the string of your thong at each hip, and pulling them down. “But you’re just too much for me.”

“Issei…” you mewl, wrapping your heavy arms around his neck, nuzzling into his face, kissing at his hairline.

“But you know that, don’t you? You know I can’t help myself around you; can’t help following you around like a lost fucking puppy.” Fingers swipe at your cunt and you moan wantonly, lifting a heel onto the counter to give him better access to you. “Shit,” he hisses, dipping two fingers inside you to pick up your essence, swirling it around your clit.

“Issei, pl—ah,” you cry, holding him tighter, surprised by how close you are to falling apart in his hands, despite him just rubbing your clit. “I’m—Issei, ’m gonna—”

“Cum? You wanna cum?” His voice is tight, naked cock rutting against your thigh slowly as you moan and keen into his neck, holding onto him for dear life, unable to let go.

You want to say yes, you want to beg him to let you cum, to tell him how good he’s making you feel, but all you manage are incoherent slurs and mumbles and moans. He’s too good with his fingers, smells too nice, is too broad and strong, and you can feel his muscles tensing beneath your wandering hands, hear his heaving breaths and feel them as they beat down against your skin.

Before you know it, you’re biting down on his shoulder and holding him impossibly closer, hips bowing off the counter as your orgasm shoots through your body, tears in your eyes.

“God, you’re fucking—” he grits out, trying get some space between the two of you, despite your iron hold on him. But you don’t wanna let go; you feel weird, jittery, too hot, but not warm enough. “Baby, here, I’m— c-can I put it in? Lemme put it in,” he breathes, managing to knock his forehead to yours. “Can I?”

You’ve never heard him sound so needy.

“Mmm, hurry,” you moan, wriggling your hips closer to his, desperate for friction.

“Fuck, c’mere—” he kisses you, hard. You’re kissing him back, feet hooking behind him as he slides himself along your weeping cunt, huge hands gripping your ass and pulling you closer.

You’re about to whine at him to hurry up when you feel the head of him prod at you, feel him start to push in. And he really has to push.

“You’re tight,” he grunts, breath hot and strained at your ear.

“No, you’re just huge,” you moan, wincing a little but leaning into the stretch, yearning for more. “C’mon, Issei, I can take it,” you almost purr, fingernails digging into the back of his neck, pulling him away from you so you can meet his lips in a searing kiss.

Each inch he sinks in feels like it’s supposed to be the last; you’ve never felt so full in your life. It’s dizzying, intoxicating, addictive. Your head falls back and he’s kissing your neck, tiny jerks of his hips pulling out a little, before pushing in some more.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he whispers against the column of your throat, core clenching at his praise, earning a hiss and a nip in response. “Relax,”

“I’m trying, but your cock’s s’ big,” you pout, dizzy as you pull your head back up to meet his eyes, nose brushing his. “I thought about this alot,” you find yourself admitting, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, before looking down at where the two of you are joined. “I’m glad I’m a little buzzed, I don’t think I could’a taken this sober.”

He scoffs, “next time, you will be taking this sober.”

You chuckle breathily, wince as he bottoms out with a deep sigh. “Next time?”

“Fuck yeah, next time.” He grins that grin that makes you weak in the knees, the one that makes you make bad decisions. “You comfortable?” His voice is quiet then, hushed, and you nod as he closes his eyes, lips meeting yours in something slow and sensual.

Then he’s rocking— out and in, out and in— and your eyes are watering behind closed lids, the euphoria of being fucked the way he’s fucking you overwhelming. Would he always be this tender?

“‘S so good,” he breathes, pulling away from your kiss, fingers bruising on your hips as his speed picks up, moans tearing from your throat at the friction of his pacing, at the fact that his cock seems to hit all of your sensitive places at the same time.

“Issei—”

“More?” He asks darkly, chest heaving. You can only whine and nod frantically, hands gripping at the collar of his shirt to keep you stable. “Use your words!”

“Deeper—” you manage to choke out, tears collecting on your lashes.

“Fuck,” then you’re lifted and flipped, chest hitting the countertop, his cock sliding back into your greedy cunt so fast you’re seeing stars. “See that?” He hisses, tugging at your hair so you can see yourself in the mirror, so you can see him plowing into you from behind. “That’s why I’m so fucking obsessed with you,” his eyes are narrowed, breathing unsteady, other hand full of your skimpy little dress. “I knew you’d fit me well, I fucking knew it.”

Then he’s really driving into you, tearing moans from your throat, sending tears down your face. He drops your hair and his fingers are on your clit, expertly massaging the bundle of nerves as he slams into you, cockhead ramming against your tender cervix, the sensation unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

“‘Ssei,” you’re slurring, fingers trying and failing to find something to grab onto, as he fucks you better than you’ve ever been fucked. You settle on pressing your hands against the mirror, looking up to catch a glimpse of him with his shirt in his mouth, muscled abs tensing as he stares down at what you can only guess is your pussy sucking on his cock.

“F-Feels s’ good,” he snarls, chesty moan slipping from his lips, hand letting go of your dress to slap it hard against your ass.

You yelp and tense up, teetering on the cusp of another orgasm, the sensation making him groan and repeat the motion, harder.

“Issei!”

“Cum for me,” he’s caging you in, leaning over you and breathing in your ear, sounding like he’s not gonna last long himself. You whimper out something incomprehensible, and he spanks you again, “I said: cum.”

And your body listens; toes curling in your heels, mouth hanging open as your whole body tenses, fingernails scraping along the mirror as you buzz with bliss, orgasm whiting out your vision, your eyes slamming shut.

“Jesus fucking chri—” he hisses, slamming into you a few more times before pulling out, hot cum shooting in ropes over your exposed back and ass, fingernails of the hand still holding your hip piercing into your flesh.

A jittery sigh leaves your lips and your body begins to feel a little heavy, drowsy. Which— even as inebriated as you are— you know should be wrong. The pill should be giving you a second wind, shouldn’t it? Should be masking the effects of the alcohol a little, should be… not making you feel like your bones are made of lead.

He cleans you up, dresses you, sits you back up on the countertop and puts the bottle of water in your hands, “drink this.” it’s not a question, it’s an order; then he kisses your cheek and steps away to wash his hands.

You take a couple of sips and lean back against the mirror, the glass cooling your back, head lolling against it, eyes drifting shut.

“Hey, hey,” he says, surprise in his voice, big hands— warm, so warm, and a little damp— on your face. You pry your eyes open and look at him, smile growing at the sight of how panicked he looks. “What’s wrong?” He frowns, wiping at what you’re sure is smudged mascara under your eyes.

His are brown, so dark they seem black.

“Your eyes are really pretty, Issei.” You whisper, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips. He smiles then, kissing you back, then holding the bottle up for you to take.

“Drink some more, okay?” He almost begs, brows tenting upwards.

“I can’t,” you whine. “‘s too much.” You pout, wrapping your arms around him instead, sliding your hips closer to do the same with your legs.

He puts the bottle down with a chuckle, indulges you in kisses. Down your neck, across your clavicle, back up your throat to nip at your chin playfully. “I’m taking you home,” his voice is deep, husky, makes you shiver.

“But you don’t know where I live,” you giggle as he licks and sucks at the sensitive spot below your ear.

“My place, pretty girl,” he whispers, lifting you off the countertop. “Can you stand?” Your legs are kinda shaky, but you make it work with a little help from his bicep, and one of his hands on your waist.

By the time you’re at the stairs, you’re walking better. He makes a joke about his cock turning you into a baby deer, and you laugh along, mind feeling a little mushy.

He dwarfs you in his jacket when you’re out of the club, the scent comforting, warmth so soothing your knees buckle a couple of times on the way to his car. But he’s there to help you, to chuckle about your weak knees. He helps you slide onto the tan leather of the passenger seat of his flashy black sedan, clips you in and closes your door, rounding the car to get into the driver's seat.

As he’s driving, you’re lulling in and out of sleep, brain still shocked as to why. “‘Sei,” you mumble, “why’m I so tired?”

“Tired?” He says something else, but you’re closing your eyes again, wrapped in the warmth of him, the smell of him, the comfort of knowing he’s looking after you.

He’s there.

Then you’re gone.

-

You wake up feeling like crap.

No light bleeds into the room, and you have to wait for your eyes to adjust to be reminded you’re not at home. You’re in some modern, flashy apartment, blanketed in something thick and fluffy, unable to move because something—someone heavy and muscled is holding you down.

Spooning you.

Memories from last night come back in waves: the dancing, the drinking, fucking in the toilet, the pill—

You gasp and push his arm off your waist, sitting up best you can, trying to ignore the dizzy spell swallowing you whole.

“Hey, hey, shhh,” his voice is deep, sleepy, a little slurred.

“I— Issei, I took a drug,” spews from your mouth like word vomit, panic igniting your veins. “I took some kind of mind-altering drug, and I’m gonna—”

His little chuckle stops your panic, stokes your confusion. “You took a Xanny, you’re gonna be okay.”

A Xanax? That can’t be right? “A what?”

“A Xanax. It’s why you were so sleepy in the car.” He props his head up on an elbow to look at you, free hand resting lazily on your thigh. “You’re gonna be okay, just sleep a little.”

“But you sell adderall.” You almost gawk, confused beyond measure.

“I sell a lot of things. You pocketed my Xanny stash, not my Addy stash, babe” He sighs, that ever-knowing grin on his stupidly handsome face.

Babe.

“Speaking of which,” he sits up then, cocky air to his voice, hand still on your thigh. “Why’d you do that?”

Fuck, you don’t know.

Shame trickles down your spine, and your mouth starts to feel dry. “I— I was drunk.”

“Hmm, okay,” he nods, dramatically skeptical.

“I was,” you stress, face heating up.

“And you do remember we fucked in the disabled bathroom? Like, at the club?” He asks, cocky grin growing wider on his face.

The shame makes your stomach roll. “I— yes.”

“And you wanted that. I tried to tell you no, and everything.” He chides.

“I remember.” You pout.

“You remember?”

“Yes.”

There’s a moment of absolute quiet.

You’re overthinking again, too scared to ask him what you want to, too frightened of what he might say. Of being played again.

Of losing again.

“And how do you feel about those choices now?” He asks, that hand on your thigh squeezing at your flesh. “Hm, honour student?”

“I regret the drug thing, obviously,” you mumble.

“Good, good, we agree on that,” his voice lowers, hand travels up your stomach, under the large shirt he’s dressed you in, to rest over your belly. “And the sex?”

“God, Issei,” you roll you eyes.

“Because I really liked it, and I really like you, and I’d like to make that a regular occurrence.” He admits smoothly, inching closer to you.

Your whole body burns with... something. “What? Me getting angry drunk at you, and then texting you for a booty call in a bathroom?” You ask sarcastically, toying with the hem of the shirt you’re wearing.

“That, or you just watch a movie with me here, and we eat pizza and make love in my bed.” His other arm snakes behind your neck as he draws closer, hand beneath the shirt gripping your hip and pulling you against his naked torso.

“Issei…” you groan as his lips meet your neck, slow, lazy kisses trailing up to your ear. “I can’t— I’m not fuck-buddy material.”

“Fuck buddy?” He laughs incredulously then, head falling back as he pulls you into his arms, hugging you tightly. “God, you honestly think I’m playing with you, huh?” You don’t answer, so he pulls your face up to meet his. “Just give me a chance—“

“I gave you two already—”

“And I’ll prove to you that— see that shirt you’re wearing?” You glance down at it: his shirt. “Yeah, it’s made of boyfri—“

“Oh god, don’t finish that sentence,”

“—end material.” He finishes proudly, still laughing.

“Issei, come on; we’re so different.” You mumble, unable to stop the shy smile growing on your face, the warmth spreading across your chest, neck, and face.

“Yeah? I think we’re smart enough to make it work,” he kisses your hair. “If not, I’ll just tutor you on it; I’m top of my classes, you know?”

“Shut up!” You laugh, trying to push away from him.

But he pulls you back down and kisses you, and it feels good, feels right.

Feels like winning.

Reblog if you're bisexual and sleepy

Top 10 anime men who will lay pipe expeditiously. Haikyuu Edition. *Reupload*

cw: piv, dirty talk, general adult themes. minors do not interact

Akaashi |Run Time: Within the first month| Not exactly a prude, just believes that being more intuned with your partner is necessary to satisfying sex. Plus he likes the build up between general interest and sexual tension. If we’re being honest, he’s probably been thinking of putting his hands all over you since the second date. But he’s courteous enough to let you know that he actually wants to get to know you first. Likes to call you after work during the talking stage just to ask you about your day. Invites you over on his off days to make sure you’re comfortable around him. But again, he’s been holding himself back for a while. And he’s not too coy for a little phone sex in the meantime. - But, boy does he completely lose it when you crawl into his lap during one of your hangout sessions. Your friends still don’t believe you when you introduce them to the guy that “fucked you within an inch of your life” before you officially started dating.

Iwaizumi |Run Time: Within the first few weeks| He likes to believe that the reason he doesn’t rush it is because he’s “old fashioned” and that he’s mature enough to understand that “it takes time for these kinds of things.” Whole time he’s just busy. Trust me, deep down he knows if he had it his way he’d have you folded over three ways to Sunday after the third date. But he has the physical health of like twelve overgrown toddlers to manage and the team moves around pretty often. So, it’s just quick coffee dates and video calls for a while. But trust me, the moment he has time on his hands you’re done for. I suggest clearing your schedule before you meet up! You’re gonna need some time to recover.

Oikawa |Run Time: Within two weeks| First week down though and you can see it physically hurts him that he’s not fucking you as soon as he wants to. Only reason he’s holding out though is because he actually likes you, so he doesn’t want you to think that’s the only thing he’s seeking out. - But you know that meme of that guy who looks like he’s this 🤏 close to having a stroke with all those veins on his face? Yeah. Soon as he knows you’re on the same page though he’s slutting himself out to you like his life depends on it. And he talks the nastiest shit. Will tell you everything he’s been wanting to do to you and then show you in frankly exemplary detail.

Hinata |Run Time: Within a week| To his credit, he’s the most unafraid to let you know how smitten he is with you from the jump. Gave you your phone back after putting his number in with his info under “Shoyo 💕❤️” and told you to call him if you’re looking for someone to treat you right. Literally told you the night you actually hooked up that you were only doing missionary to start off, and when you asked why he replied that you were “Too pretty to fuck in anything but,” With all the sweet talk he uses in the week leading up, you’re not wrong for being completely out of your depth when he fucks you like he hates your guts. But don’t worry, the love’s still there! You’re even prettier when he’s fucked the brains outta you <3

Kuroo |Run Time: Within the first couple of dates| Class traitor often forgets the line between courting a significant other and a sugar baby. Thought the best way to charm your pants off was to buy out the restaurant you’d have your first date at and surprise you with a birkin bag. Isn’t ashamed to let you know he gets off on watching you spend his money and when he’s booking a pent-suite for your third date it takes a very necessary pause during dinner to establish that 1.) Yes, he wants to be your boyfriend. No, he didn’t know that this wasn't the right way to do it. And 2.) He’s only been spending this much money because it’s the only thing stopping him from cumming in his pants the moment he gets within a foot of you. Weird guy. Rearranges your guts like no one’s business.

Bokuto |Run Time: The date after the first| He tries…so hard to hold out, he really does! It’s just god you’re so fucking sexy. Everything you do has his brain short circuiting and he’s starting to want you so bad that it’s making him itch. Your thighs are so squishy and your lips look so plump. Everything about you looks soft to the touch and since meeting you he hasn’t been able to blow a decent load without imagining it’s you squeezing him so tight. Really, the only reason he made it this far is ‘cause first date jitters are a bitch and at the very least he has the decency to let you know he likes you first. - But then you show up in this cute little dress that keeps riding up your thighs when you walk, and the way you pout as you try to pull it down has his head feeling all fuzzy. He tries to stay cordial as he opens the door for you to slide into his car, but the way you smile up at him as he closes it behind you has his resolve breaking into pieces. Lucky for him you’re perceptive enough to notice the literal dick print in his pants the moment he climbs in; and he lights up like a Christmas tree when you suggest a quickie before dinner. Spoiler alert: It won’t be a quickie. Get your refund back on that reservation, sis.

Atsumu |Run Time: The first date| You can’t blame the guy for being shamelessly attracted to you, can you? Who cares about old fashioned courting! It ain’t worth the money if you ain’t walking funny? - All jokes aside though, he’s a firm believer in if two consenting adults like each other enough, they should be able to fuck whenever and however they want. Doesn’t find you any less respectable for letting him put your legs behind your ears on the first date. Although that was after he’d already bent you over in his car, folded you over his kitchen counter, and had you leaving drool stains on his hallway area rug. Eh, you’ll plan your next date in the shower - little hard to talk though with your face pressed against the glass.

Matsukawa |Run Time: Scheduled a time and place for you to link before hand| Hey, if you wanna turn this thing into a relationship then he’s up for that too. But he’s not gonna stress himself trying to hold back from fucking your pretty little brains out. Soon as he gets the O.K. he’s picking a time and place and hightailing it over with no stops in between. And he’s not bullshiting when he says he’s gonna fuck you stupid. The guy digs you out like he’s trying to ruin you for anybody else. But it’s not entirely his fault! He gets sick of carrying that meat missle around too 😔

Hanamaki |Run Time: Straight up just asked if you’d let him| Hedonist to the max. And no shame either. The moment he gets the feeling that you might be sexually interested in him, he’s diving in with no goggles. I mean, obviously he cares about your interests and your pursuits in life; might even think you’re nice enough to take home to mom’s one day. But that’s not what his mind’s set on right now. Only thing in his head is if he should start with collapsed doggy or drill you in from the side just to get you drooling for him that much quicker. But hey, dick was so good you forgot he don’t got a job!

Honorable Mentions!

Sakusa (Surprisingly)| Comes off as a prude because he apparently has “High standards.” Can’t admit that if he finds you attractive enough, he’ll just straight up fuck you. |

Terushima |Likes to “Do you like my tongue ring?” Himself into some pussy.|

Sugawara | Plays the part of a good loving school teacher just looking for a companionship. Gives it up as soon as he sees you’re into him.|

Osamu | “m’not a scrub like my brother.” No, baby, you’re a whore.|

And finally number one…

Suna! |Run Time: Text him at 3:00am and he’ll be there by 3:05am| Standing at 6’3.2 and 176lbs, you have caught the affection of a man who truly believes that “a hole is a hole” once he’s found himself physically attracted to someone. That’s not to say that he’s particularly loose with what he’s got but if you’ll take it? Once hiked to your place in the middle of January with basketball shorts on ‘cause you sent him a “U up?” Text in the middle of the night. Woke up the next morning with a fever but god was that pussy worth it. Fucks like he’s trying to prove something so you’re in remission for the next couple of days afterwards. And then will have the nerve to wanna be the little spoon after the fact. - Tries not to look as elated as he is when you finally tie him down but with the way he turns your insides into mush the night following, you can tell he’s pretty excited to finally call himself your boyfriend.

reblogs are appreciated 💕 ps, tumblr pls suck my balls? 🥺

tempted to take a nap

DEI does not mean lower standards.

You are thinking of white privilege.

very vague sex, swearing

fake dating to lovers with osamu but there’s no big confession, u guys just end up in a commitment relationship, no words exchanged about it, just boom! ur in love and you don’t even remember it happening

maybe it started cuz there was this manager at his restaurant that would not leave him alone, and you two were pretty tight, maybe ur his college buddy or something. u swing by and he sees the girl and he’s like “can u do me a favour”

n ur like “what is it”

“can you lay one on me” and taps his cheek and makes a kissy noise.

ur like “bro why”

and he’s like “my manager won’t hop off my dick”

so u do and she goes over does the whole “i had no idea you guys were a thing 😆😆😆 how long when did this start???”

and he, committed to the bit, pulls you in by ur waist and goes “ah, a month now, always had a thing for this one since college” and ruffles your hair lovingly. you smile and lean into him and play the part perfectly.

fast forward a couple weeks, whenever you come in (which is often, that’s ur boy!) ur all cutesy and romantic n shit, even kissed on the lips once. he smacked ur ass in front of all the staff, which earned him an earful over text after you went home.

you’ve now developed cute pet names for each other thag started off as ironic but now you can’t drop them. you call him stuff like babe, my big strong man, sweetheart (alternatively sweetfart when you guys are alone), bb (pronounced like that) and he calls you stuff like babe, angel cakes, beautiful. it started off as only in front of his colleagues, but now he’ll whiz u texts at 8 pm like “hey angel cakes, got some left over udon from the shop if ur hungry” or “babe did you send me tik toks at 3am”

and now you don’t just huddle close with other people around, when you meet for coffee he’ll kick your feet under the table and give you hand a squeeze, and when you two have paid and left he’ll walk you back to your car with his arm around your waist. and before you hop into your car, you give him a tight hug and a peck on the lips.

fast forward a couple months now, it’s the staff christmas party, obviously hes gonna bring his girl!!! waitresses come up to u and tell you how jealous they are of you too, how they wish their bf looked at them that way, how they wish they could be that comfortable and in love with someone. you laugh and shake your head modestly, pretending like u don’t know that you two are absolutely perfect. you guys are getting real good at the charade... right?

He swings by and oh my god he is fine as hell. he’s in a fuckinh white button down that’s tight as hell on his big ass chest and shoulders, with them cute dress pants u helped him pick out for his.

you’re not looking too bad yourself. although he’s always let it be know he’s attracted to you, you look particularly cute in your little cropped sweater and that pretty little skirt. Your hair is beautiful (as usual, he’s not sure what you do it to get it so... pretty) and ur makeup makes him wanna grip your face and examine it for hours.

“Hey babe, hey guys, what are we talking about?”

wraps his big ass arm round ur shoulder n ur pussy is UNAPOLOGETICALLY pulsing.

“we were just talking about what a cute couple you two are mr.miya!”

He beams a bright calming smile and squeezes your shoulder, although before you know it his hand slipped down and gives your ass a little squeeze. the pussy pulses tenfold.

“aint we though?”

the party ends, and you’re not sure how it happens but you’re getting bent over his office desk and ploughed like a goddamn wheat field.

fucks u on the small sofa in the corner of his office, bounces u on his dick in his desk chair (his cleaner saw the stains and kept zip, hes real one), ate u out on the fuckinh kitchen counter (which is a fycking health and safety violation but hes horny and silly and it is his restaurant) (but like really?? ur bare ass was on the counter where he makes food and he has no problem?? alright), all moaning and groaning. when you guys are done, he asks if you want to stay the night at his. you take him up on that, and cuddle up close in his bed, too tired to do anything else, just watching a movie or two, you fall asleep on your sides with your back up against his chest and his arms wrapped protectively over you. and after that, you guys are literally inseparable.

It doesn’t fully set in you’re official until one day, about 7 months into the relationship, when a dude hits on you and you say

“ah, i’m sorry, i actually have a boyfriend”

the guy apologies and leaves and you’re left in utter shock, oh my god, you do have a boyfriend don’t you?

that is so weird, how did you not realise? i mean you definitely had feelings for him, and you knew he had feelings for you, and sure you fucked all the time, and yeah ok maybe you did meet his parents, but still. when did that happen?

you try to think back to when it all happened, but there was never an official thing, you guys just... got together out of no where.

When you swing by later that day, you break the shocking news to him.

“You didn’t realise we were boyfriend and girlfriend?”

his mouth is open in a look of confusion and concern.

“y/n it’s been 7 months”

“I know! it just didn’t fully sink, but we’re like, dating, you know? like actually dating, i’m committed right now. when did that happen?”

he scoffed, eyebrows still raised in judgement, and he came round the other side of the counter.

“i mean in my head, the day we got together was the day of the christmas party, that’s when we were official to me.”

He pulled you in by your waist, looking down into your face with a cocky smile.

“You think that’s just what i do with my friends?”

you rolled your eyes, suppressing the girly giggle in your throat.

“oh be quiet, i knew that we were dating, i just didn’t know, you know?”

“No.”

“Whatever. you’re my boyfriend, that’s all that matters.”

“And you’re my stupid little dumb dumb.”

“You can not be my boyfriend anymore if that’s what you want.”

He laughed and pulled you in tighter to him, smushing your cheeks against him.

“I hate you.”

he sighed, breathing your smell in.

“Love you too y/n.”

i am so tired. can we normalize knowing what plagiarism is and not rewrite another fic author's plots wholesale/entirely scene for scene :'(

miya atsumu x reader, 4.3k

A tale of Atsumu's descent into madness when he realises you're hot.

a/n: hello ! is this a repost because of tags and my mistakes? yes T_T anyway — this is still dedicated to @augustinewrites because she is a smart, educated queen and im very proud of her. like i said before, i sacrificed so much to write this because putting myself into the mind of a libra man…. yikes. i felt insane at one point. but i hope you enjoy! <3

Atsumu is sitting in your room half drunk, half sober. The room is still spinning, and he’s not sure whether he wants to projectile vomit on your carpeted floor or pass out from exhaustion.

“Tsumu!” you say, pushing your phone against his face. “Do you think I look hot in this?”

“No.” he answers without thinking. You pout aggressively, plopping down onto the couch beside him. He doesn’t deserve to be harassed about some scandalous picture of yours right now for two reasons:

One, it’s like half past one in the morning and that’s the time of night when he should be tucked into bed, snoring to his heart’s content.

Two, because it’s you and he’d rather die than call you hot to your face.

“You didn’t even look!” you wave your phone, and Atsumu turns his face to the side hoping you will simply disappear if he pretends you’re not there.

It doesn’t work. All it does is give you the opportunity to poke at his sides and pester him even more. He closes his eyes, “Why do you need my opinion? You literally do the same peace sign in each photo you take. And according to you, you always look good.”

“I do,” you reply, relentlessly poking at his shoulder, “but I need an expert’s opinion.”

Well. Atsumu would know something about looking good.

He sighs loudly, turning to face you once again. Prior experience says it’s better to give in now, because he was going to give up later anyway. “Alright, show me.”

You move to rest your cheek on his shoulder and hand him your phone.

Atsumu rests his head on a pillow behind him and squints at the screen, trying to see the picture better. When he does, the shock of what he’s seeing causes his fingers to go slack and the phone smacks him in the face.

“Idiot.” you laugh, reaching out to pat his nose. It doesn’t soothe the humiliation he feels nor does it alleviate the sudden racing of his heart. What the fuck?

“So? Do you think I look hot in it?” you ask again.

Atsumu swallows, as he looks at it again. It’s a photo of you at the gym, hair tied back neatly. It’s a simple photo really. You’re wearing simple black leggings and a sports bra he’s seen you wear before of all things.

And yet, the universe still feels unbalanced.

With horror, it dawns on him that it’s because you do look good in the photo.

Okay, it’s not like he thought you were ugly or plain looking before, but you looked good, in a cute kind of way usually. Not like, good good. Not, uh, hot.

When the hell did you start looking hot?

You grab the phone back, analyzing the picture again. “You’re speechless. That means I look amazing. I’m going to share it with the others so they can either sleep well tonight or wake up tomorrow to a good start.”

Atsumu lightly smacks your shoulder, because he was not speechless. “Shut up, I was just shocked. Is that supposed to be a thirst trap?”

You sniff. “I don’t do thirst traps like you.”

“My fans love them,” Atsumu argues. “Are you saying my thousands of followers are wrong? Are you saying they have bad taste?”

You copy him, and he simply shoves you to the other side of the couch, throwing him a look of betrayal. “You don’t look hot in the photo,” he says, “you didn’t even get the right angle.”

You frown, looking like that one very sad emoji, and it tugs at his heart. Ugh. He backtracks, “I mean, that angle is still fine! It’s about the vibe, okay? And you do look good. It’s a nice picture, Y/N.”

“But I want to look hot.” you lament.

Atsumu looks you dead in the eye, and smiles, like a liar, “Take better pictures next time then.”

You stand up, picking up the cushions on the floor. “I’m going to get ready for bed. Feel free to leave soon, because I won’t be here to entertain you any longer.” you announce, still frowning, and Atsumu pulls you back until the force of it has you sitting back down.

“Should I teach you how to look hot?” He asks, teasingly poking at your cheeks. “You should have asked me from the very start.”

You grumble, but let him give you a few pointers. Although at the end, you complain, “That only works because you’re a guy!”

“Try it first.” he says, pushing you to stand up again. You say a lot of things, but you listen well in the end.

When you disappear into the bathroom, he decides to leave and head back to his own dorm a few floors down, calling out a goodbye. When he finally gets settled into his own bed, he plays ten levels to candy crush to dissociate himself from the possibility of gaining further realizations.

Just as he’s about to complete his last level, he gets a notification from the Inarizaki group chat.

Suna: Holy shit, is that Y/N?

It’s a screenshot from Instagram of the selfie you showed him, with the caption, sweet dreams [kissy face].

He looks at it for a good five minutes, feeling unspeakable things, before saving it onto his own camera roll.

.

.

.

Sleeping it off did not help. Atsumu decides he needs to be lobotomized.

Ever since you had shown him that gym selfie, he couldn’t stop seeing it.

(The idea that you were hot, not the selfie, he wants to emphasize. Although, he was also seeing your picture all the time, because well… it was saved onto his phone, so every time he took his own pictures, he would see it. And well… if you look at something enough times, it becomes imprinted in your eyeballs, and you see it even when you close your eyes. Or something like that. Don’t judge him.)

You meet him in a cafe nearby for breakfast and greet him a sleepy good morning, and Atsumu’s brain immediately goes, hot.

You sigh in frustration at the library while you’re trying to study for an exam. Atsumu asks if you want to take a break, but you get this fiery dead set look in your eyes and say, no let’s keep going. Also hot.

You’re eating at a korean barbeque place for dinner and take the grilling tongs from him when he gets smoke in his eyes to flip the meat for him. Really, really hot. It’s alarming because it’s not the first time you’ve done that for him, but it is the first time Atsumu’s found it hot.

Once is a farce, twice is a coincidence, thrice is a pattern, and more than that? It’s a fact.

Atsumu finds you really hot. Cue [throwing up emoji].

But that’s not even the worst thing about it. Atsumu’s clearly not the only one.

He brings it up to Osamu first, wanting the company of someone who has been friends with you for the same amount of time to back him up on the ‘you are not hot’ agenda (fuck off, he can’t think of a clever name right now). He rocks up to his twin who’s on his way to the next class.

He offers him an onigiri he bought from the 7/11 down the street, and casually says, “Did you see Y/N’s picture in the group chat?”

“Huh?” he asks, a little absent-mindedly. Osamu doesn’t even take the onigiri he was being offered. “Y/N’s picture?”

“Yeah, did you see it?”

“The one Suna sent into the groupchat?” Osamu asks. “Yeah I saw, what about it?”

There’s no way to ask the question easily, but to just be blunt about it. Atsumu blurts out, “Do you think she looks hot in it?”

Osamu looks at him for the first time, just a quick little side eye, before he continues walking, “Is this another one of your weird competitions? If so, tell me now so I can mute my phone before you guys start blowing up my phone with messages.”

Atsumu is offended and tells him, “I cannot believe you think that I would participate in such a, such a—” he couldn’t say the word.

“Childish game?” Osamu smirks. “This is why you need to read more books by the way; your vocabulary is failing. Also, you guys literally sent a poll into the main Inarizaki group chat the other day asking who had the best outfit of the day. Even Kita-san saw it.”

Atsumu huffs, “I can’t believe he voted for Y/N.”

Osamu stops as he reaches the front door of his next class, leaning against the wall to properly look at his twin. Osamu smiles, “She did look good. Y/N’s getting prettier these days.”

“Pretty isn’t hot.”

“Hot is subjective.” Osamu says solemnly, “But to answer your question, yeah, she did look hot. Why?”

Atsumu smacks him, “You’re supposed to say she doesn’t look hot!”

Osamu hits him back, “You want me to lie? I’m only saying what anyone with eyes can see.”

“You’re biased. This is because you guys are close.” Atsumu reasons.

“Actually,” Osamu corrects, because he hates Atsumu with all his guts, “Since we’re close I’m more inclined to say she doesn’t look hot. But it doesn’t bother me, because it’s just another fact of life, you know?”

No, Atsumu doesn’t know. Also, “What the hell do you mean anyone with eyes can see? I just found out yesterday—”

“Oh,”, Osamu realises, “Is that why you’re acting like this? Because you finally found her hot? You’re literally the last one.”

The situation just keeps getting worse. What do you mean Atsumu is late to the discovery? What do you mean people have been looking at you like a hot piece of ass all this time? It simply can’t be true. Atsumu’s powers of observation was like, Avenger-level.

But when he asks Suna, the guy doesn’t even think anything of the question and answers, “Of course she’s hot. This is old news.”

Atsumu feels like he’s just been shot in the foot.

And when he goes to ask Aran, he finds that he doesn’t even need to ask at all. Because when he finds him, he’s sitting across from you in the library taking a break while watching you write notes. He’s drinking water, but his eyes are focused on you and all Atsumu can see is appreciation in it.

He feels like he’s been shot again. This time in the back. Which is kind of dramatic, he knows, but how else is he supposed to express the feeling burning in his body. Everyone has betrayed him.

How could nobody tell him? More importantly, how did he not know? He feels woozy.

He goes to make ramen for himself. Comforts himself by looking at his own selfies. He’s mid-slurp when he’s scrolling through the gallery and it brings him back to the cursed picture.

The noodles go down the wrong way, and he manages to close his phone just in time. Just so on the off chance he dies because of your selfie, his dignity will remain intact. The headlines will say, Legend taken too soon.

Unfortunately, he survives the ordeal and will now have to deal with the fact that you’re hot for the rest of his life.

.

.

.

It is now day fifty post ‘Y/N is hot’ realization and maybe there’s still hope for him.

He’s alive. Adapting. On some days, he could even say he’s thriving.

First things first, he deleted your picture from his phone. Second of all—

Well, he hasn’t found a number two yet. It’s alright. He’s always number one for a reason. He doesn’t need a number two. He’s not making any fucking sense.

But here’s something that makes sense: in order to get used to you being hot now, he’s decided that he should just look at you more. The more he looks, the more his eyes get used to the sight, you know?

A pretty sound theory, if you ask him. Except, everyone else keeps catching on and now Suna has enough ammunition to use against him for at least a year.

Like, the last time the Inarizaki group met up and had dinner together, he had become hypnotized by how soft your lips looked and completely ignored everyone else’s conversations. You were too busy complaining about one of your classes to notice.

Or that one time you went to his dorm for a movie night, and he realised how good you smelled as he sat next to you on his bed, and you were too preoccupied by the actual movie to see him subtly leaning closer and closer.

Or even that one time it was his birthday and you had baked him a cake (Osamu got a store bought one heh), and he forgot all about blowing the candles when he was too distracted watching you sing happy birthday to him.

All Atsumu has to say is that, thank god you’re an idiot.

He posts a couple of hot selfies to his instagram that day for an ego boost and calls it a day.

He chuckles to himself. He’s healing.

.

.

.

Atsumu’s feeling more at peace these days.

He’s moved on to the next step of his self-healing process which is… revenge.

Quite frankly, it’s not right that he’s paying this much attention to you, while you just happily skip through life as if everything’s okay. It’s kinda fucked up, if you ask him. You’re out here thinking about silly things like what you should have for lunch (curry, obviously), when you should be out here thinking about him.

So now you’ve forced him to take matters into his own hands and right this wrong. Seeking justice for innocent victims such as himself, if you will.

He spots you from across the room, giggling at something on your phone. It better be his newly posted selfie you’re giggling over. If not, it’s a declaration of war; it took him like, two hours to get the right angle and lighting.

“Hey,” he says, sitting down next to you. Very cool. “What are you up to?”

You hum happily next to him, “Talking to my friend. Kenji sent me a funny meme.”

Earth-shattering. Atsumu almost regrets choosing to take a drink of water then because he almost spits it out. “You’re texting Kenji?”

You smile, “Yep.”

“But he’s your ex!” Atsumu doesn’t understand.

“Yeah, but he’s also my friend.” You explain, unbothered. “I’m friends with a lot of my exes actually.”

“What?” Atsumu is dumbfounded. He’s here suffering because of you, while you’re happily reconnecting with trash?

This is one of the most insane things he’s heard all year. You beckon him closer and show him a group photo of you and at least three of your exes or friends or whatever the fuck they are, with arms slung around each other.

Anyway. “Cute.” Atsumu comments, “do you guys also get together and trade dating stories?”

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, you’re one to talk when your friends from the team are so…”

“So what?” he challenges. Slutty, his own mind supplies, but it would be funny to hear you say it.

“Listen,” you say as you put your phone down and look at him intently. “I’m just saying, my friends are nice; like sheep. Your friends, who I’ve known since high school and hang out with constantly, are like lions. They could eat me.”

Atsumu stares at your cute little face and thinks, I could eat you. “Is that your rationale for why you’re friends with all of your exes? Aren’t you afraid it'll get weird because you know, you’ve done stuff with them?”

Atsumu doesn’t know why he can’t let it go. Or why he says that, because now he’s just thinking of you doing those kinds of things with your exes. It’s not jealousy that’s bubbling up in his chest. Definitely not.

“It’s not weird,” you defend, “it actually makes it easier when I see them at parties.”

Atsumu narrows his eyes, “Makes it easier to do what?”

You blush, much to his discontent. “Don’t ask me what, Tsumu! I don’t ask you what you do every time you disappear to the bathroom before games and come out destressed.”

“What are you insinuating?” he asks, jabbing at your side. You yelp, trying to move away, “I literally go there to play candy crush in peace where nobody can bother me.”

“Yeah right.” you go to kick him at the same time he leans down and hit him straight in the face.

Atsumu is so stunned by it, he freezes, hands clutching at his nose. You look at him horrified, starting to panic, “Oh my god, did I break it? Is it bleeding? Oh fuck I’m sorry! Tsumu say something! Are you mad at me? Tsumuuu—”

Atsumu stands up, doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t have it in him and goes to the bathroom to inspect his nose. He should have gotten his nose insured or something, because dammit it’s one of his best features. And now, it might be gone forever.

He’s pretty horrified to find that his nose is okay. In fact, it looks more perfect than ever. But if he didn’t lose his nose, then why the hell does he still feel like he’s lost something.

.

.

.

Atsumu is spiralling, but only on the inside. He watched Frozen for the first time the other day and now he keeps repeating conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them show out loud as a coping mechanism. He’s grateful that it’s nearly Christmas time so he has an excuse every time somebody looks at him weird.

But the discovery that he likes you makes him pissy.

Not because he doesn’t want to like you like that. It’s a comforting realization actually. He was having a crisis about his sexuality and thought that maybe he was fruity. His homophobic grandfather was probably rolling around in his grave at the mere idea of it.

But alas, he is as straight as a pencil. And how he came to that conclusion you ask? You wore a top that showed a bit of cleavage one day and he immediately had to run to the bathroom and take three deep breaths.

He thought he had long forgone his puberty years but you were just a different breed. He was so disappointed in himself.

The reason he’s pissy is because he can’t believe he missed all the signs pointing towards his feelings for you. How long has he even liked you? When he looks back, all he sees is a long chain of happy memories, each one linked together with fondness and affection.

Maybe all he needs to do is accept the fact that you’re attractive, and attractive people like you, well, they never stay single for long.

Despite him not realizing his own feelings, his brain has been signalling this fact to him, encouraging him to get a move on, before some other hot guy swoops in. Or worse, one of your exes swoops in.

(Cough, Kenji, cough.)

He needs to secure your ass. The longer he waits, the more chances he gives other men. That’s why he’s so mad actually, while he was out here thinking about how toned Kita-san’s body had gotten recently, other men were ogling his woman. Other men are making you laugh, taking care of you.

Sue Atsumu’s competitive ass, but he doesn’t want to be second to anyone in your heart. He’s number one or nothing.

So he decided to confess immediately, because he’s already wasted enough time.

The problem is, the moment he decides this is the same moment you decide that you want him to die of annoyance first. And then suddenly, it doesn’t feel so urgent for Atsumu to confess his feelings.

It’s important to teach you a lesson first.

It culminates at Inarizaki’s Christmas dinner get together, held at Osamu’s studio which actually has a big enough kitchen to feed everyone. You try his patience on today of all days; teasing him about his roots that have grown out too long, poking at his shoulder before running away, throwing peanuts at him every so often.

Atsumu sees who he’s sitting next to at the table, and already knows that it’s only downhill from there. He can’t even get a cup of coke without you pretending to pour him some before taking it away.

And then, there was the whole stressful debate on mint chocolate ice cream over the table while he was trying to enjoy his meal. You didn’t even understand the question, too fixated on your dislike of anything mint flavoured, raging with a fork in your hand as you screamed at Suna over the table. (How did he ever fall for someone so insane?)

Atsumu loves mint chocolate but as soon as you say you wouldn’t date anyone who likes mint chocolate, his mind is made. Mint chocolate be damned because it could never give him the same happiness that being with you would. Besides, no other person is allowed to feed you ice cream, if it's not him alright? Case fucking closed.

After that whole thing, Osamu pulls his chair away as he goes to sit down and he falls backwards, like an idiot.

There’s so many other misfortunate things that happen, and on days like this, when shit keeps happening, you begin to resign yourself to the fact that anything may as well happen.

Which is the moment Atsumu lets his guard down.

He doesn’t know what the fuck Suna put in the juice, but it doesn’t matter. Once the music started playing, what always happens, happened. Atsumu loses his mind.

His body literally moves on its own. One minute he’s talking to Kita vibing, and the next he’s doing the jerk while Osamu and Suna hype him up and take a video. (He’ll regret it in the morning, but not now).

The worst part of it all? He’s blowing you kisses every five seconds. It doesn’t register in his mind that it might look weird, because he’s too busy having fun and trying to keep you quiet, nothing more.

And then later, he finds himself on the floor, out of breath after he puts on the performance of a lifetime: as Elsa from Frozen.

Everyone else is kind of concerned. Well, some of them. He thinks he hears Kita asking “Is Elsa okay?”

No, Kita-san, he wants to say, Elsa is going through it right now.

He can feel eyes on him, so he turns his head, and sure enough you’re sitting there watching him with a fond smile on your face.

Elsa is completely fucked.

.

.

.

A few hours later, when Atsumu’s soul has returned back to his body and shame from earlier has sunk in, he decides it’s time to go home. He is not staying here and allowing Samu to bully him into cleaning the mess when he has better things to do.

He walks you to your dorm, like the gentleman he is, and goes to leave when you suddenly invite him in. Not a single cell in his body wants to say no so he happily goes inside and makes himself comfortable on the couch.

“You looked like you had a good time today.” you tease, sitting beside him.

He feels his cheeks heat up, pushing away every memory of tonight before it can occupy too much space in his brain.

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

“You don’t remember all the kisses you sent me?”

“Shut up!” he groans before assaulting you with tickles to shut you up.

You squeal in delight, pushing his hands away as he climbs on top of you and laughs, sounding deranged. In a way, he’s got you right where he wants you.

“Stop!” After a few more digs as revenge for driving him crazy, he finally decides to take pity on you and stops, letting you catch your breath.

“You drive me crazy, Y/N.” he says, sounding sappy as he closes his eyes and leans his head back, missing how you turn to face him.

“If it helps, you drive me crazy too.”

It’s music to Atsumu’s ears.

He opens his eyes and turns to face you too. “I do?”

You roll your eyes, which would be irritating if you weren’t so pretty. “All the time. You’re so annoying, always teasing me that I thought I was gonna lose my mind. I was like, why does this stupid boy always target me? Does he not realize how much I like him—”

Now it was Atsumu’s turn to roll his eyes but it was getting harder and harder to fight the smile bursting onto his face, “Come on, you’ve always been the annoying one—”

“Actually, you start it most of the time,” you snort, cutting him off. “But honestly Tsumu, if you wanted my attention there’s better ways of getting it.”

Atsumu doesn’t know whether to continue his prior assault or kiss you.

Instead, he decides to take the challenge in your last words. “Is that so?” he says, breathy, his hands starting to roam all over your body, starting with the curve of your hips, until it rests on your waist. “Are you going to show me?”

You whimper and he laughs, feeling both adoration and vindication in his chest. You’re flushing red in embarrassment, an emotion he didn’t even think you were capable of feeling. “You’re so infuriating—”

Atsumu cups your cheek, “You’re so hot when you’re trying to be angry at me,” and then kisses you so eagerly that neither of you have any brain cells left to say anything afterwards.

Well, you do say one more thing. “So you did think I looked hot in that selfie—”

likes and reblogs are appreciated!

unicorns and pomegranates

summary: Suna x F!Reader. "Do you ever feel like you were born to serve and die for someone in glorious battle," Suna says, valiantly failing not to flick his eyes back to you. You're frowning at your drink, trying to pick a particle off its rim with a nail. "Sexually, I mean."

"You are not normal," Atsumu tells him.

word count: 1.4k

cw: angst to fluff, friends to lovers, mild objectification, suna has strange inclinations, intoxication, one or two references to sex, …hand mention

a/n: i almost titled this "stop picking fights with knights and come wear tunics with the eunuchs"

You can't believe you were actually looking forward to this team dinner. It's the stupid fancy gala EJP Raijin puts on annually, in a stupid beautiful venue covered in white marble and stupid crystal chandeliers. You'd been so excited when Suna said, offhandedly, I get a plus-one, you wanna come with?

You should've known it would end up like this, feeling self-conscious in your expensive clothes while Suna stands far away and doesn't pay attention to you at all. He's not your date, you're his plus-one, gifted a glimpse into the world of professional athletes for one night only. He expects you to mingle with his friends, maybe even get yourself a real date to the next team event. It's such a stupid, cruel joke of the stars that he's the only one of these talented, handsome men that you want.

You take a sip of champagne and try not to think about it. He'd come to pick you up in his ridiculous fancy red car and stared at you with his inscrutable features and said I don't know, I'm sure it's fine, when you asked what he thought. Glowing praise, you thought, sitting among models and Olympians.

Across the room, Suna is trying to pretend that he is a eunuch. Eunuchs don't throw their best friends over their shoulder and carry them home and make sweet, sweet love to them all night long.

"There's something wrong with your face," Atsumu says.

"Do you ever feel like you were born to serve and die for someone in glorious battle," Suna says, valiantly failing not to flick his eyes back to you. You're frowning at your drink, trying to pick a particle off its rim with a nail. "Sexually, I mean."

"You are not normal," Atsumu tells him, "but yeah, I get the feeling."

They lapse into silence for a moment. One of the guys who came stag walks up to you and jumps into conversation. Suna imagines spiking a ball into his face several times.

"Are you feeling like that because of—" Atsumu starts, but Suna cuts him off with a violent slashing motion across the throat.

"If you say the words out loud, they become true," Suna says. "Shut your fat mouth."

"She does look good," Atsumu muses. "Nice necklace."

"Don't look at her," Suna says. "I actually don't even know who you're talking about. She's wearing a necklace?"

He glances back. You aren't, which soothes his concern that he'd been so distracted by the generous amount of décolletage revealed by your top he'd missed major details of your appearance, which he planned to burn into his memory and then never speak about until he died. His last words were probably going to be "the top button was undone."

"Maybe you would be failing less miserably if you actually talked to your date," Atsumu says. "How did you ask her to be your date without actually dating her?"

"It takes a lot of skill to put yourself this deeply in the friendzone," Suna says. "Someday you'll understand."

"I hope not," Atsumu says with feeling. "Hey, look, they're doing shots."

The rando who’s talking to you is clinking his glass against yours, making unnecessarily intense eye contact. Suna frowns; staring at you like a weirdo is his job. You glance away from your drinking partner for a second, your gazes connecting, and that’s all the invitation Suna needs to cross the room in the space of a split second. He snatches your shot from you with two long fingers and tosses it back, grinning widely at the other man when he’s swallowed.

“That was mine,” you say without vitriol.

“That was vodka,” he says, feeling the warm buzz of it in his belly. “You’re allergic.”

“Not allergic,” you roll your eyes, “just a lightweight.”

It’s true. Vodka gets you way too drunk, way too fast. Why hadn’t you said anything to this other guy? You only ever drink such hard liquor when you’re upset.

Are you upset?

“I’ll buy you another drink,” he promises. He’s glad he took the drink from you. It’s having a strange, dizzying effect the longer he looks at you, your darkened eyes, your parted lips. He reaches up and sweeps the back of his hand just over the curve of your neck, a light touch. He’s pleased when it leaves goosebumps in its wake, a short-lived mark he can leave on you.

“It’s an open bar, dummy,” you roll your eyes. The guy you were talking to has faded into the distance, though you don’t even notice.

He’d meant to stay away from you tonight. He’d meant to be a respectful friend, one who didn’t steal glances at you that he shouldn’t, one who didn’t want to punch out anyone else who looked at you with lust on their face. Every time he steps away, though, you seem to be tossing back another drink, giggling and leaning on a new shoulder, and he’s back at your side, plucking your hand away and glaring at whoever tries to talk to you.

Finally, he follows you down the hall to the bathroom, where you spin and lean heavy on the wall, facing him. Your eyes are bright and teary, all the gloss rubbed off your downturned lips, but he still wants to kiss them, for some reason (because he’s a creep, he scolds himself).

“What are you doing,” you sigh, and he blinks, taken aback.

“Just watching out for you, I guess,” he says. You pout.

“You don’t even care,” you say, voice catching. “You’re hovering like a jealous boyfriend and I don’t even know why.”

“I’m not,” he protests lamely.

“I know!” You explode, pushing away from the wall and wobbling dangerously. He clamps a hand down on your arm and supports your body with his; you are a bamboo shoot and he’s the stake. “I know. You think I’m ugly, you’ll never like me. I get it.”

“What?” Your skin is warm to the touch, and you smell a touch sweet, a touch spicy. He wants to lick the skin behind your ears, where your perfume is spritzed strongest. You couldn’t be more wrong if you declared that Atsumu was going to win a prize for scientific achievement.

“This is stupid,” you say, and oh, oh, no, there are tears welling up and streaking down your face. He pulls you in firmly, playing with the short hairs on the back of your neck. You cry into his chest, even though he’s the reason. “I want to go home. I just wanted to have fun.”

“I know,” he says, voice low, like he’s talking to a wounded animal, “I’ll take you home.” For some reason this encourages a fresh bout of sobbing. “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

“I just wanted you to think I was pretty,” you hiccup on the last word, and his heart stops.

“I think you’re so pretty,” Suna says. “I think you’re gorgeous. You don’t think you’re pretty?”

“I know I’m pretty,” you say, and he keeps trying to step back, walk away, pull himself out of a situation he has to be misunderstanding. “I thought you did, too, enough to invite me to this stupid thing, enough that I was so excited to pretend we were together or maybe that we would be together for real someday. Fuck, I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not,” he begs you to believe him.

“I thought just because you’re beautiful and you look at me—sometimes—like you want me or something and you touch me all the time, it might mean something. I am an idiot. And a bad friend. I even like your hands, Suna, you’ve made me so crazy I can’t even look at your hands without thinking about your fingers—”

Suna grabs you before you can finish a sentence that will surely land you pressed up against the wall with one of the hands in question in your pants. He says your name, serious, voice grating against all his instincts.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” you insist, looking like you’re going to start crying again. “I—fuck. I love you, Rintarō.”

It’s the final nail in the coffin.

“I’m going to enter noble and valorous combat to prove my worthiness,” he says instantaneously. You peer up at him, expression simultaneously baffled and cutting.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Suna says hurriedly. “Let’s go home. You should lie down, and tomorrow I need to clear some things up, repeatedly. Possibly for the rest of our lives.”