#dark oikawa tooru

[envy-of-the-apple]

Hello! I love your writing, especially that mad dog Drabble! Could you maybe do something similar for Oikawa? Noncon if you’re comfortable with that too. Thank you so much!

I wrote this awhile ago and then I never got around to publishing it and now I refuse to reread it because i cringe at my old writing but i remember spending a shit ton of time on this so here's my three year old trash fic. enjoy.

(Warnings: dark content, non-con touching, rape, non-con/sexual harassment, verbal degradation, forced orgasms, public-sex, overstimulation) 

18+ content 

 Tutoring Sessions 

You knew Spanish. 

Not an expert by any means, but you could probably get by if you were stranded in a Spanish-speaking country. You were good at it. Decent. 

You just weren’t the teaching type. You could barely learn, let alone, pass your skills on to someone else. Teaching required patience and diligence. That wasn’t you. 

But, really, what could you say when the Captain of the volleyball team himself asked you to tutor him? He looked so desperate too, looking down at you with pleading eyes. He asked for an hour-no-just thirty minutes. All you had to do was correct his grammar, jot a few vocabulary words for him, and maybe teach him extra conjugations. 

Looking back, you should have declined. You should have made any bullshit excuse you could think of. You should have laughed nervously, apologized- have done anything to get out of his attention. 

You shouldn’t have let him coax you into the fourth floor of the library, trapping you with his tall body in an isolated booth. 

At least then his hand wouldn’t be currently rubbing your thigh.

His movements were slow, casual, as his fingers made lazy circles up and down your leg. You couldn’t tell if it was intentional if he was touching you on purpose or mindlessly moving his hands. His face betrayed nothing, solely staring forward at the sheets of paper. 

“So, I just replace the ‘ar’ with ‘aron’?” He asked, his hand slowly moving higher and higher, “Why can’t I use ‘aban’?” 

You bit your lip, “Because it has a definite ending. The-the sentence is ‘they spoke with me yesterday’. The action ended yesterday, that’s-that’s why we use the preterit form.” 

Your breath hitched when his hand trailed underneath your skirt, skimming across your panties. Your hand balled into a shaking fist. 

You wanted to tell him to move, you wanted to shove his hand off you, but you weren’t confrontational. Instead, you elected to push down the feeling of unease in your chest, trying your best to ignore his ministrations, praying that he’d drop his hand by himself.

He didn’t.

“Right, you use preterit form for a definite ending,” He’s murmuring now, a sultry rumble that sends shivers down your spine, “I keep forgetting that." His laugh twinkles through the air. It's a jarring contrast to his warm hands.

“So ‘Hablaron me ayer’?” 

He took that moment to slide past your panties, lightly rocking on your heat. You sucked in a short breath, gritting your teeth. You couldn’t pretend like he didn’t know what he was doing, not when his fingers were sinking deeper and deeper-

A finger tapped on your inner thigh. Play along.

“It’s-it’s ‘me habl-ah-hablaron ayer’. The object comes first-” You flinched when his pointer finger stroked over your hot skin, “And-and then the subject.” 

You wished he’d stop making you talk. You wished you could just push him off you. You wished so many things, things Oikawa wouldn’t grant you. 

“Okay,” He’s grinning now, a little less put together. His breathing is a little ragged, hitching whenever you uncomfortably shift. Though he’s still resolutely staring at the pages before him, his eyes are shining. Eager, “-makes sense,” 

You just realized how empty the library is. 

You can feel his calloused fingers crawling under you, searching for something. His middle finger curls a little, softly brushing over your sensitive clit. 

You stumble forward. He says something, but you’re not listening. Not when his fingers are hovering over your hot button, delving down to push and prod. 

Your reached up to cover your mouth, instantly silencing any noises you knew would come spilling out. He laughs at that, finally finally breaking the act of playing innocent. 

Or maybe it wasn’t such a good thing. He’s looking at you now, a knowing smirk on his pretty face. 

Repulsion burns through you. It’s quickly replaced by humiliation as a wet squelch erupts from the place he’s touching you, making you lurch. 

“I wasn’t expecting that,” He hums in satisfaction, “You already dripping? You must really want this, huh?” 

He stares at you, daring you to reply, knowing fully well you won’t. No, you wouldn’t say anything, you wouldn’t do anything either. You would just sit there and take it. 

Exactly what he wants. 

He’s moving at a rhythm now, rubbing your clit with his thumb as his fingers inch down your folds. Your nails are digging into your trembling palm, but you don’t tell him to stop. You don’t say a word. No, that would be acknowledging what he’s doing. It would make it real-

your thoughts vanish as a slender finger sinks into your pussy. Your sigh is muffled by your clammy hand, digging further into your mouth as he starts fucking you in earnest. He’s going too fast; your mind is spinning. You can’t keep up with the waves of pleasure coming in and out and in and out and in again. 

Your hand slips and the moan that escapes your mouth surprise you. It was loud and so dirty, you couldn’t believe it was your voice-it was you who made that noise. 

His finger curls, bending in your tight walls and you feel like wailing. Oikawa strokes against a spot deep inside you that has you seeing stars. 

You unconsciously lean against him. Oikawa draws you in closer, forcing you to rest against his shoulder as a second finger sinks into your heat. You whine as it pushes through your sopping walls, completely stretching you out. 

You think you hear him snarl a quiet fuck but you’re not paying attention. Your head is pounding, matching the brutal thrusts of his fingers. It’s devouring you it’s too much and you want to stop, you want to breathe. Oikawa isn’t keen on helping, not when he’s rubbing fast circles on your clit, stretching his fingers inside you when he feels you’re not making enough noise. He wants something from you. 

And you’re forced to give it to him. 

There’s a hitch in your breath, the tiniest pause, before you clench around his fingers with a muffled scream. He hushes you, allowing you to bury your face into his shoulder as he keeps fucking your pussy until you collapse in his chest. 

You’re panting when he finally removes his fingers, wiping the slick haphazardly on your inner thigh. You shift uncomfortably when he pulls away, feeling your hole clench again. The orgasm fades away and all you’re left with is the shock of what you’ve done and utter humiliation. 

He lifts your chin, forcing you to look at him. His brown eyes were dark, coated in lust. He’s sneering at you. 

The kiss surprises you. You weren’t expecting his lips to be soft as he gently melts into yours. It’s so tender, a stark contrast to what he was like before. Maybe it was because you didn’t really put up a fight, your lips falling open when he stroked his thumb on your sensitive skin. 

It’s still intense and when he pulls away, you take your first real breath. 

“See?” He hums, a hand settling on yours, “That wasn’t so bad, right?” 

“Oikawa-” 

He’s pulling you out of your seat before you can finish your sentence, dragging you away from the abandoned table filled with unused highlighters. Your legs are still weak, you stumble around a little. Oikawa doesn’t mind, towing you like he’s carrying nothing but air. 

He slips into an empty storage closet, with you reluctantly trailing behind him. The door closes behind you with a dull thud, and you’re forced to stand with him in the darkness. 

When the light comes back on, he’s towering above you. His chest presses against yours, pinning you against the wall. His smile is manic, filled with a hunger that you know won’t be satisfied with just one taste. 

No, he wants to devour you whole. 

It’s the realization, that he will ruin you, that make your eyes sting. Hot tears creep down your cheeks as your lips waver. 

He coos at that, “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll be okay. I took care of you, right? I made you feel so good?” He shuffles closer and you can feel something hard and stiff press against your thigh. 

“Now you gotta’ do the same for me. It’s a fair trade, right?” 

He’s kissing you again. It’s rough, this time, as he bites on your bottom lip, hard enough to tear skin. Your yelp is muffled as he shoves his tongue into your drooling mouth. You taste the smallest hint of something metallic. 

His lips move down, covering your jaw with soft butterfly kisses that made your head spin. When they find your neck, he clamps down on your soft flesh, licking at biting at everything he could taste. Your breath hitches, a sound that’s in between a gasp and a moan. The sensation of his teeth against your neck causes you to lean your head against the wall, reluctantly giving him room. He purrs at that.

“Good girl.”

His hands are fiddling with your buttons. You barely have time to speak before he impatiently rips your shirt, sending the round objects scattering.

A half-hearted apology is mumbled into your skin. His fingers skitter over your bra, you cry out when his cold hands push the material up to feel your tits.

It’s still not enough. His body is feverish, you feel so hot against him, so pliant, so beautiful. You’re crying, whimpering, softly whispering for him to stop but do you even know how desperate you sound? Your voice sounds so needy, it’s hard to be sated from just touching.

Oikawa yanks down your skirt, letting them pool at your ankles. Your thighs are still glistening from his previous ministrations and your panties are wet, still soaked.

He feels pure euphoria watching them slide down your legs, landing on the ground next to the other piles of clothing.

You’re standing before him, barely clothed, shivering. He gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek, mumbling a soft ‘be good for me, okay’, before he reaches down to his pants.

He doesn’t pull it down all the way, just enough to reach inside and pull out his throbbing cock. It’s already an angry red, a single drop of precum leaking at the tip.

He gives it a few cursory pumps, before he stills.

“I really wanted to see you cum, bet you looked so pretty. Do you mind doing that again, just for me pretty please?”

He grinned when you didn’t reply. You can’t understand how someone so beautiful could hide so much cruelty. 

“No? That’s okay, I’ll just make you. Again.”

In one single movement, he hikes your leg against his hip and thrusts his cock inside you.

You wail as he pushes himself inside, already starting to set a rough pace. It hurts, much bigger than two fingers. Whatever he did before clearly didn’t help make it feel any less painful. You give a choked scream, hot tears clouding your vision.

He’s not quiet either, leaning his forehead against the wall behind you, moaning shamelessly. He’s saying your name like a prayer, repeating it over and over again until it sounds like that’s the only thing he can say.

“You have to relax, baby-fuck you’re so tight.” Oikawa hisses, hiking your leg higher to fuck you deeper.

The pain fades. You wish it stayed, keeping you sober while he pushes you against the wall, greedily palming your tits, sucking on your neck.

But it disappears and a loud moan leaves your lips, too breathy to be made from anything but pleasure.

You instinctively cover your mouth, trying to muffle the sounds your traitorous body is making.

“Nope, not this time,” He cheerily says, ripping your hand away, “I wanna hear you scream.” 

He angles his hips, his cock sinking into that spot and you do scream.

The pleasure that waves up and down your body blinds you. Your body isn’t listening to you, anymore. Your cunt keeps sucking him back in with each thrust. You can feel beads of precum roll down your thigh. Oikawa’s head is resting on your shoulder now. His weight makes your shaky legs buckle, digging your back further into the hard concrete.

He kisses your hand, encouraging you to drape it on his shoulder. It limply falls beside his neck, barely brushing against his hair.

You shift your hips and his cock stutters almost stopping his rhythm before Oikawa’s cooing something dirty into your ear, reaching down to rub your clit until you’re crying out again.

It’s addicting, he realizes, having your cunt flutter around him like this, leaking out his precum. It’s a feeling that makes him piston himself into you over and over again, relishing in the way your pussy tries to suck him in, like you were begging for more.

“O-oikawa,” You finally gasp when you finally regain the ability to speak, “Slow down please please slow-slow down.”

His laugh is breathy, “You want me to slow down, angel? What, are you close again?”

You don’t respond, but it’s enough to make him go faster, ignoring your pleas in search of your gradually rising voice.

He hisses when his knee hits the wall, grimacing.

“-Wanted to do this at a bed, you know,” He grunted, “Somewhere soft. But-but I didn’t wanna-hah-scare you, you’re so anxious it was so-fuck- hard choosing a place-place you’d actually show up in.” 

He rubs your clit, feeling your walls grow tighter and tighter. He pulls back to look at you, eyes shut, your lip caught between your teeth, your face filled with lustful pleasure.

“Cum for me, baby. Show me how perfect you are.”

You follow his orders, your orgasm making you cry in ecstasy. It makes you go limp and you almost sink to the floor before Oikawa catches you, keeping you upright as he chases his own end.

He doesn’t stop, not even when you beg him to slow down that it’s too much. No, he just hushes you again, stumbling over a tensed ‘Just a little more’, before he’s going faster and faster until you feel something warm, wet, and sobering fill your cunt. 

He’s slows down then, his eyes shut in bliss as he rocks his hips forward, milking as much as he could. When he finally pulls out, he does it with a hiss, making you flinch as his skin hits your sensitive clit. 

He doesn’t catch you this time, letting you drop to the floor. You tumble to the ground, your hands barely catching your fall. The tile is so cool against your sensitive skin, it almost makes you forget the milky liquid spread on your legs, the finger-print shaped bruises on your thigh. 

You don’t think you have anymore tears left, but they still fall, running down your cheeks. 

He’s instantly over you, brushing a hand down your face. 

“Oh, don’t cry, baby, you did such a good job,” Oikawa cooed, wiping your tears away. 

He’s not comforting you. His smile is too satisfied to make you think he had any semblance of pity. You briefly wonder what he’s seeing. You, exhaustedly crumpled against the wall, your legs curled, cum seeping out, your neck and chest littered with teeth marks. No wonder he looks so pleased.  

He pets your hair, shifting it back in place and it’s so domestic-so loving that it makes you sick. 

Oikawa grins, showing teeth. “How about next time we study at my place.”

[plagalkey]

oikawa's moving castle AU

(from HQ flash exchange)

[kolyasz]

[deluluass]

It's all over now, baby blue (2/12)

Ushijima Wakatoshi/Female Reader/Oikawa Tooru

Multi-chapter sequel to "Red, like Blood. Blue, like Love."

General Warnings:  rape/noncon; nsfw; depictions of post traumatic stress disorder; a lot of negative self-talk (reader pov) Chapter Warnings: corporal punishment (mentioned); suicide (mentioned as a joke); misogyny; domestic abuse (mentioned) Note: sfw chapter

“Wow. I never thought you to be the cynical type.”

A frisson of pride bloomed in your chest. It was quite an experience, like you’d just been dared to dive from a cliff and had actually come out of it alive. You could almost feel your feet airborne in crystal blue waters. 

Who knew one could experience sarcasm in that way. 

Not just biting back, but biting back with a semblance of wit. Sarcasm. You? You, of all people. 

The woman’s eyes twinkled through the smoke. She looked like a character out of those old cartoons– a wolf maybe, who’d been presented by the omniscient animators with a perfectly cut, savory crimson T-bone steak. All that’s missing was copious saliva dripping from her maw. 

“Very good,” she drawled. “Now there’s a bit of vocabulary from you. I thought you’d give me nothing past the eighth grade curses.” 

“Says the one who said bullshit twice.” 

Another one! You’re killing this, you absolute wordsmith! 

This drew a sharp cackle out of her. And a quieter one from you. You immediately shielded it behind your arms. If you were another character in that old cartoon serial, you would be a dog that wagged its tail at the slightest suggestion of a pat on the head. Only for you to be rewarded with a slapstick beat down: an anvil crashing from the sky, for example. 

The sound of dragging across concrete reminded you that you weren’t, in fact, a character in an old-timey cartoon series. You looked back up. She had tossed the cigarette next to her shoe and snuffed it with the heel. Cracking her back, the woman then plopped herself down on what looked like an aluminum platform and removed her blazer to drape it over its unoccupied length. 

No anvil crashed from the sky. 

Instead, the woman’s humored gaze seemed to have become fixed on her face, directed at your crouched form as she patted beside her: a wordless invitation for you to sit down.

He had yet to put his luggage in his old room, back towards the foyer, when a voice not unlike a brewing storm had asked, “So you’ve returned, huh?”

Startled, Wakatoshi pivoted on his heel. 

He had an unimpeded view of the mountain range, grassy giants lying on their sides miles beyond the estate, arm-like slopes dotted by rice paddies and cradled to sleep by the endless sky. 

The foyer overlooked the entire world. 

It had been by design, ordered into creation by his great-great grandfather who, like the men before him, had believed that the first Ushijima had descended from the heavens as a magnificent silver-scaled dragon. And so when he’d come of age, he gathered every carpenter and craftsman in town and had demanded for a foyer that was wider, bigger, more– cypress, redpine, elm– elevating the rest of the house with it, to allow for his unhampered comings and goings once nature had finally taken its course and granted him his forefather’s true form.  

Masako Ushijima was not that dragon, as she was not an Ushijima, merely married to one, but seeing her standing there after decades of his absence, with her back drawn straight as a whipping stick and nary a wrinkle on her forest green yukata, Wakatoshi could only think that his great-great grandfather had not made it– the foyer– this house – big enough.

A chorus of cicadas announced her arrival.

In that instant, Wakatoshi was two feet shorter. 

“Did that country rob your hearing too, boy?”

She phrased it like a question, but Masako Ushijima never implored, so jet lag and drowsiness aside, Wakatoshi immediately greeted her with a slight bow, before approaching her to take the hefty basket from her hand. 

“Good afternoon, grandmother,” he replied. 

She only stared at him. 

“I thought you’d be in the city.”

“Soon,” he said, basket in tow while he pushed his luggage to the side. Masako made herself comfortable on the porch, removing her strawhat and placed it where wood began to merge with the tatami mat indoors. “Training begins in three weeks. I decided to visit first.”

His grandmother turned away from the garden, then briefly glanced at the hallway leading to the room housing her late husband’s shrine. All of the lights were on, courtesy of the groundskeeper that had made sure everything was in order upon Wakatoshi’s arrival.

“I’ll say my prayers after you,” he added. 

“Call for tea,” she ordered, returning her gaze out into the pond. “The guest must always have tea before you deal with business, Wakatoshi.”

“Of course.” Wakatoshi nodded, both in assent and apology, though his grandmother hadn't been looking, then did as told. 

Once the basket was in the kitchen, and his luggage secured in his room, they made for the tea hall. His grandmother sat across from him, taking stock of Wakatoshi as he poured into his cup.

It was only when he returned the pot back on the table, attentive of any noise that he might create, that he noticed that he’d been relying on his left hand. 

He flinched. 

A natural response to a clicked tongue or a swift, sharp rap to the  knuckle, but an unnatural one considering that no such thing came, and that Wakatoshi was already twenty-seven years old.  

He fought the urge to switch to his right hand and bury the left under his folded knees, warmed by the floor cushion and a child’s secret prayers for time to move faster. 

It must have worked, Wakatoshi reaping the benefits of decades-long supplication. 

Now, there aren't any papers with crooked lines strewn across the desk, nor pencil shavings and eroding hills of erasers. And the time that his grandmother had said about having to act the part of “ a competent and respectable master of the estate ” had come. 

At long last. He no longer had to wrangle his right hand into keeping his lines even and circles perfect.  

“Any word from your mother?” Masako peeled an orange from the basket. The slices bloomed open as she placed it on Wakatoshi’s saucer.

His grandmother took another, skinned it, and left it for Wakatoshi. As always, he ate but only a single slice.

“She sent an email a month ago,” he answered. “By the time I read it, she must've already been in France with her college friends.”

She did not ask about his father. 

Much of the remaining hours before dinner were spent discussing about the tenants, the farm’s uptick in profit the previous year ever since his grandmother had left, the replacement of his grandfather’s accountant, scheduling visits to the lawyer, documents that needed his signature, and whatever knowledge about running the land that Wakatoshi had made an effort to learn while he was away. 

“You have to hire someone to manage at least half of it,” Masako uttered, cup now empty. “If you are to do that for the rest of your life.” 

Wakatoshi only grunted. “Professional athletes retire much earlier than most people.”

“And when would that be?”

Again, Masako Ushijima never implored, so Wakatoshi did not bother answering that line of questioning. 

“You can't leave everything to a hand,” she continued. “Or a wife.”

At that, Wakatoshi looked at his grandmother, and felt an odd stirring in his chest when she evaded meeting his eyes. For a passing moment, she’d hunched her back in what seemed like an effort to hide herself. 

This must have been what his grandmother saw everyday on the other side of this table, those many years ago.

Wakatoshi did not know what to do with that thought.

His grandmother cleared her throat before asking, “Have they glowed yet?” She gestured towards his hands.

A ghost of soft hair caressed his palms. Sinewy muscles and sweat. “No,” Wakatoshi murmured. Not in the way you’d approve of , sat on the tip of his tongue.

She waved through the topic anyway. “Perhaps you’re too old for it. Your parents had them when they were seventeen.” 

“Yes,” he said, “and then they separated.”

For the first time that day, his grandmother smiled. A mere shadow on the corner of her mouth. “Well, not even divine intervention could cure foolishness.” 

Foolishness . His grandmother would not have called it that had he been younger. The palms of the late Ushijima himself glowed bright blue when he was fourteen, resulting in Wakatoshi’s mother and two aunts. In fact, each member of his maternal family had been known to possess a soulmate, tracing all the way back to the Heian period, and Wakatoshi, without a single note of such import to the genealogy book, would be an aberration in the long line of recorded soul glows.

Wakatoshi has posed an inconsistency ever since childhood. Old age may have made Masako Ushijima more amenable to that reality. 

Regardless, Wakatoshi did not feel like sharing his opinion on this; about fate, soft locks pliant under his fingers, sinewy muscles, sweat, the heady rush of potential ��

“Whatever happens, I know you of all people will work something out,” she told him at length. “You– boy, have a way with misfortunes.”

His grandmother might have regarded him with something like gentleness, but Wakatoshi did not look. His attention stayed on the peeled oranges offered to him. Fruit flies congregated around them, hovering just so above the white strings that clumped together. There’d been nothing else to talk about after that.

She stood up to finally pay her respects, Wakatoshi trailing behind. Masako departed without further ado, other than a reminder to her grandson that he needed not call, nor visit her during his short stay in the countryside.

This agreement was broken, eventually, not by Wakatoshi, but by Masako’s niece, who lived with his grandmother a couple of towns away. 

“Hello? Is this Wakatoshi-kun? It's your grandmother… She's…” the woman imparted breathlessly through the phone. 

For the rest of the evening, Wakatoshi stayed at the local hospital, on a monoblock chair next to his grandmother’s bed, because she’d wanted to hold onto something until the lines on the monitor went flat. 

Wakatoshi did not let go even after they did. 

The funeral had been brief. He was on the train ride to Tokyo the moment it’d been done and over with, receiving calls upon calls from his manager about sponsorship deals and charity work. 

He put his phone down immediately, cutting off his manager’s goodbye. The glass window was cool against his forehead as he leaned into it. Eyes shut, he kneaded the first signs of a migraine away, then paused– only for a second, when from his left hand he’d caught the faint smell of freshly peeled oranges. 

That second dragged into minutes. Trees blurred past him. Ancient temples. Convenience stores. Corporate buildings.

Sleep didn't have any trouble finding him, and when he woke up again he had the vague recollection of being showered by dark, heavy clouds, and crash landing into his great-great grandfather’s house. In that big house, all alone, surrounded by silver blades that cut him until he bled dry. 

His back was aching and there’s a crick in his neck. 

Wakatoshi pulled his hoodie over, just enough to feel its seam brush over his misty lashes. 

Citrus wafted from his palm as it supported his chin. 

It was trembling ever so slightly. 

Inside the Japan Volleyball Association headquarters, while the rest of the country suffered through a heat wave, there was a brewing snowstorm. 

Goose prickled and one knee bouncing in an effort to chase the heat running away from your system, you kept your head down to your lap where your phone laid open. You pressed and pressed, like you're tap, tap, tapping at that dinosaur and helping the little guy evade deadly cacti. 

You could only wish.

You didn't have the mental wherewithal for that, even when there's nothing else to do because you’d forgotten to ask the reception about their WiFi password, currently too fixated on reading and re-reading the email you received a couple of days ago, first thing in the morning.

Greetings!, it began. 

Your eyelids had still been crunchy from sleep.

I hope that this finds you well. 

You had spent most of the week contemplating  suicide over having your pay deducted to account for the broken wares. 

My name is Hana Misaki and I am messaging on behalf of Japan Volleyball Association’s (JVA) sports promotion division. Your contacts were made known to me by your manager at– 

“ Don’t you have a rich and famous soulmate now? Quit. Go be a housewife or something,” he’d advised after a dressing-down about the cost of those dishes.

… Our team expresses our utmost enthusiasm to finally make your acquaintance. We would like to get to know you better and discuss a project that we wish to undertake with you and Mr. Wakatoshi Ushijima, whose representatives we have also partnered with. Should you be on the same page, please don't hesitate to reach out! 

Kindly tell me your availability this weekend and I will readily arrange an in-person meeting with you. 

Looking forward to a positive response!

Warm regards,

You scrolled past the replies below it, head still down. 

Great! Our office is located at–

The message preceding that one had taken quite a while to send. But–

“ When are you seeing him again? ”

Vibrant red lip gloss. The one that every late twenty-something office lady owned during the noughties. 

You're finally being useful, aren't you, kitten? 

So:

…How does 1:00 PM sound?

And there you sat, at exactly 12:50 PM in the afternoon, on a flat leather couch that didn't  have a backrest– chic and minimalist like the rest of the room, glancing from that sans serif text saying “ 1:00 PM ” to the clock at the upper left corner of your screen. 

12:51 PM

The cold had been tolerable when you’d stepped into the building. You even rejoiced, just a little bit, realising that they had their air conditioning cranked to the negative.

Sweat was trickling from your armpits courtesy of elbowing through a packed station. Although you were daring enough to even agree to this, your… confidence still hadn't reached the point of being uncaring of your own odor. Having artificial, icy breeze dry you out was a blessing.

At first.

12:52 PM

Now, you’re on the verge of a frostbite. 

12:53 PM

You could hear your own brain articulate in the silence.

12:54 PM

The door swung open and you could've fallen to your knees in sheer gratitude. Thankfully, you didn't embarrass yourself like that. You were on your feet instead, working through the greeting you’d practiced in your head. 

“Hello! Hi ! Sorry !” the woman– Hana Misaki, you assumed– panted as she entered the room. Her white button up was folded up to her elbows. 

You wanted to say, “Oh, it's okay! You're just in time!” but you could only nod along as she hurriedly checked her wrist watch before rushing:

“ Gosh , that took a while, didn't it?”

Combing through her mocha pixie cut with one hand and a tablet tucked securely in the other arm, she grinned sheepishly at you to say, “Had to iron out some kinks with Legal and–”

She finally looked at you– past you, and like a prey that had stumbled upon territory where the likes of her go to die–

“Eh?” she blurted out.

Hana Misaki did a double take. 

You winced in sympathy. 

“ Ushijima-san ?” 

An awkward chuckle. 

“Eh? Why?” she muttered. “I don't recall…” 

You absently brushed your exposed arms, hoping to exorcise that chill that had set in ever since he entered the room. 

Wakatoshi Ushijima was standing now, shadow devouring yours.

“Brandon-san told me that you wanted me here.” His voice would take some getting used to, you realized. You didn't know anyone else who spoke with a magnitude that rattled everything in its path.

His gaze on you, on the other hand…

A looming glacier, drawing closer and closer.   

How could you have perceived it to be anything but that when you’d first met; how could you have survived that initial encounter and even had the audacity to think of–what, what was it again, cutie? Green leaves on branches? Dandelion fluffs and– what? Comfort? 

Ha!

Misaki sibilated under her breath, “That …man… ” She sighed, cupping her forehead like she’s coming down with a fever. “How long have you been waiting here?”

Too long.

“Not that long,” Ushijima grumbled. You couldn’t see him, but the– dare you say it, childish petulance there made it tempting to do the unspeakable and look back at him. 

You didn't. You remained firmly where you stood.

She chewed on her lip and levelled a look at the both of you. Then, like admitting defeat to an empty row of crosswords, “I guess we’re bound to hold a meeting with Ushijima-san anyway, but– never mind that now.”

The smile she’d entered with returned to her face, though a bit pinched this time. “I’m sure you’re very busy, Ushijima-san. My apologies  for the mix up. I’ll make sure to have a chat about this with your manager. Our–”

Misaki looked at you. “– talk might take a while. Is that alright with you?”

Ushijima checked his wristwatch, one of those smart ones that cost more than your bladder, then replied, “I’ll leave in thirty minutes.”

“Right! Okay!” That might’ve been too chipper of a reaction. Couldn't say you blamed her. “Let's- uh- proceed, shall we?”

Gesturing for the both of you to sit down, Misaki then claimed the opposite couch, which, somehow– because life would not be what it was if it didn't throw a slipper at the old dog you call Sanity at least twice a day– resulted in Ushijima taking the one next to you. He was a few butts apart, but the impact of his proximity had been obvious enough. Misaki had to ask if she needed to shut the AC for you.

Of course, you told her no.

But, “It is too cold here,” the giant beside you said. “Please turn it down.”

It was taken care of in a flash. The chill was still there. He was still there. However, it’d been bearable once more, so you figured, maybe, it really was just the arctic room temperature all along.

You hazard a look at the man.

He was staring right back.

Nope . 

Half an hour you sat there in his presence and the man refused to talk for all of it. This was not going to get any easier for you. You relegated him to the furthest corner of your periphery. Again .

Misaki, however, seemed to be getting a different idea. 

Her cheeks suffused with a bright pink glow. You had half a mind to shake your head just to stamp the idea out before it could take root. It was too late.

“You two…” Something dreamlike in her eyes as she looked at the both of you. “You guys are  already…talking? Of course. Silly me! After all, you guys are– yeah! This is wonderful for us!”

She rubbed her palms together, almost like praying. You wondered if she was aware of it. Didn't seem to be the case. A sudden ache stabbed at your stomach.

“Huh?” You scrunched your brows. “Sorry, uh- um–” 

How to tell her, pretty girl? 

There are no pealing bells. No gentle tugging of some red string. No choir. Only the mechanical whirring of an AC unit and the burden of sharing a room with a stranger whose life must be shackled to yours– where children are hurt and things go terribly wrong. 

“No- I- I don't - I meant- no-” 

Your molars sunk into your tongue. The hairs on your neck stood on end. 

“ No ,” came from deep in the earth, rumbling. You felt Ushijima shift beside you. “We haven't.”

Deflated, Misaki shot an apologetic look. “I see. Well. There’s plenty of time for that.” She then introduced you to one another, and if Misaki noticed that you barely looked at Ushijima, she didn’t comment on it anymore. Addressing you: “I’m curious, how much do you know about volleyball?”

“Oh.” You straightened your back. “...Not much.”

Only that it hurts. 

“I see. May I ask what got you interested in this?” Then, frantically waving, “Y-you don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable, of course…!”  

“I– just figured that, well–” C’mon. You practiced this. “Aren’t we all curious about our soulmate? I wanted to- to know more about your proposal and see if… I like it.”

A beat. Misaki eyed Ushijima. It felt as if you got caught telling stories. But, “I am also curious,” said Ushijima. 

And that was that. 

“That’s great,” Misaki resumed. “How have you been since all that social media storm, though? It mustn't have been easy.” 

There was a social media… storm? Perhaps there was. Your manager did mention something about going viral and all that. You didn't know how to tell Misaki that, when not working, you spend most of the time on the internet watching three-minute videos of people melting wax, crushing wax, melting glass, crushing glass…

No sight of would-be celebrities on that part of the web.

“It..It was okay. I didn't have much trouble, if that's what you're asking. I was- yeah- I was ok.” 

Nailed it .

“We’re glad to hear that,” said Misaki as she propped her tablet on the coffee table, tapping every which way. “Inviting you here had taken a lot of deliberation in the sports promotion division, but eventually we decided that getting you involved presented a golden opportunity for us to, not only promote one of our association’s– no – one of our country’s –” 

She looked at Ushijima, chest puffing, but this time the gleam in her eyes wasn't the hope driven by childhood dreams, rather by something more tangible. 

“– most valuable athletes, but doing so would allow us to protect you, as well. That is,” she nodded towards you, “if you’ll let us.”

The lights began to dim at Misaki’s maneuvering of the tiny remote on the table. A paused video flashed over the expanse of white wall behind her, projected from the hanging cylinder above your head. 

It was a news clip, featuring a footage that was shot vertically. PROFESSIONAL GOLFER HIROO KOBAYASHI UNDER FIRE FOR ASSAULT scrolled at the bottom. Misaki pressed play and the sound of rustling overwhelmed the entire room. 

Sometime, somewhere, in a busy street, a man and his lover ran away from someone holding their phone. “ Th-there they are! ” A shout from behind the camera. “ Ryosuke! We just want a picture, man! ” You can practically feel the huffing and puffing against your neck. The man in the video wrapped his arm around the woman’s dainty shoulders. They rounded a corner, the camera followed. They reached a car parked by the side of the road, the camera followed.

“ Leave us alone! ” the lady wailed as her lover shoved her inside the passenger seat.

“ C’mon! Most dudes in the stream have been to all of your games! Fuck, man, I’m a season ticket holder! You got such a hot soulmate, least you can do for us is–”

The phone crashed to the pavement. Misaki stopped the video. It was replaced by an article.

“I’m pretty sure all of us here have heard of Hiroo Kobayashi.” She tipped her head towards the picture on the screen: the same man, but infinitely more presentable in a navy cap and sunglasses, golf club swayed to the air. You ransacked the dingy rooms of your memory for an image of the man, and crawled out with his face wrapped around a limited edition shochu bottle. There was a punchy line next to it. (“ Find love ”? “ Look for love ”?) It had been from a couple of years ago during your first week at the restaurant. 

“To put it politely, he hadn’t been a household name until his soul glow,” Misaki resumed. “She was a PA. He was filming a commercial. The cameras were at the right place at the right time. All of a sudden, his sport became interesting and people who didn’t know a golf ball from a ping pong ball flocked to his games.”

The article had said the same thing. You felt that the leather skin beneath your palms had gotten damp as she said, “It went well for a while, if you can recall. But, they insisted on keeping their lives private. Fine. Not fine . The video blindsided them.” Misaki crossed her legs together and sighed. 

“People had nothing to go by when it came to their relationship. There wasn’t an interview to gush over, not even a picture to refer them to. Just that video. And a battery charge. Not exactly a good look, no? Especially considering that Kobayashi had only a handful of fans to begin with. Middle aged men at that. Who was to come to their defense? Who would have an outcry telling people to back off and respect their privacy, that they’re humans just like us? A public apology could only do so much. They forgot: they weren’t just any couple. They were soulmates.” 

Another article, but this time his face wasn’t on it, just a graph with the title: THE DECLINING POPULARITY OF GOLF– A LOOK ACROSS THE YEARS. 

There was a blue line that turned into a series of mountains with knife-sharp peaks, the highest and pointiest one aligned somewhere between 1950 and 1960, then gradually falling  into less impressive mountains into the 2010s. 

“His soul glow invigorated talk within sports marketing circles,” she said, staring at the graph. “Their numbers weren’t terrible, per se, but–”

“Young people are not fond of it.” The reply was your seatmate’s. 

You almost jumped out of your seat, but Misaki wasn’t as nonplussed. She only nodded. 

“Yes, exactly,” the woman continued. “It’s too expensive to keep as a hobby. Those invested in Japanese golf had hoped that his soul glow would bring in a new audience. It wasn’t a stretch to bank on that . A public soul glow is always going to attract massive attention. Even more if it involves a person who merely sits at the circumference of the public eye.”

It went unsaid, but as Misaki glanced your way, you could hear her add, “ What more if it’s a whole nation’s Olympic favorite? ”

People who were initiated in the game– people like your mother who’d read everything Wakatoshi Ushijima after the news and told every living soul about it– didn’t just bet on him to win. At the ripe age of twenty-three he had already brought home one and then some. Never mind that those victories had been for a different country, they knew that having Wakatoshi Ushijima on their side could only mean one thing. 

As the meeting dragged on, your throat had gotten coarser and coarser. You were swallowing sand by this point. Misaki was building up to her thesis far too slowly for your comfort, but what they wanted from you couldn’t be any simpler. 

You’re a quick study, after all. Even more people to disappoint, cutie? How exciting.

“Anyway, long story short…” Misaki’s voice pulled your attention back to the screen, returning to the article with the golfer’s picture on it. “The phenomenon that they’d– rightfully, assumed to turn things around concluded with a scandal that they had to cover up. It didn't have catastrophic effects on the sport, obviously, nor on Kobayashi’s…career. But it did hurt . The audience that they managed to pull after the fireworks didn’t matter in the end.” 

She snapped her fingers. “Gone. Just like that.” 

Just like that.

Ushijima looked at his watch again. That one move had Misaki tripping on her next words. Despite the reassurance that he could leave without a moment’s notice and despite the fact that it was Misaki herself that gave it, her urgency to get her point across while he’s still here did not escape you. 

What a job. Taking orders from entitled drunkards would be much less frazzling than having to wrangle this man’s attention, much less his approval.

You scooted forward. “S-so–” You almost bit your tongue for the second time. Stupid. “Um- sorry-”

Misaki beamed. “No, no, please, go on.”

“So, what you’re saying is that– that you’ll–” She sat up, patient gaze urging you to complete a sentence. It was your turn to feel your cheeks burn. Misaki was quite the woman. “You’ll– help us, right? Like you said earlier. Promote and…protect? Tell us what to do, so he– we– won’t end up like–”

You waved a shaky hand towards the giant photo. “Them…”

Ushijima’s scrutiny was ice melting off your nape. Christ Almighty, when would that end. 

“Bingo!” She then leaned over for the tablet, but just as soon as she was about to switch from the content projected onto the wall, the door burst open to reveal a man with astounding hay blonde hair. He ducked when he entered, even when there were at least twenty inches of headroom through that doorway.  

“Where are my lovebirds?!” His voice echoed in your ears.

Misaki’s eyes became slits. “ Brandon-san, ” she hissed.

“Misaki-chan!” He walked right into the light emanating from the projector, blocking the golfer’s face with his own. A whistle, then to Misaki, “Damn… Hiroo Kobayashi, huh. Giving them the ‘ole bad cop, good cop all on your own. You really are a killer, aren't cha?”

“I am not !” 

“I’m kidding! Kidding!”

“I have to go.” 

Everyone turned to Ushijima. The space beside you was empty, you’d realized. He’d already stood up. It felt lighter, springy, like you could drift off of your seat. 

Brandon, the (in)famous manager, pouted as he fell dramatically next to Misaki, who scooted away in response. “But I just got here!” The older man exclaimed. 

“Practice,” the taller one told him, not even condescending to look down. Your chest was itchy all of a sudden. A cough, you anticipated, as you covered your mouth, but the sound that you inevitably made was…melodic. 

Amused.

Everyone then turned to look at you. 

“Is this the one?” Brandon whispered to Misaki. 

“She’s right there , Brandon-san.”

Between Ushijima parting from you with a slight nod and his excitable manager extending his hand for a shake, you chose to focus on the latter. 

“I’m so happy to finally, finally meet you! You really are a star, d’you know that? Of course you do! Lovely young lady like you!” He didn’t seem to run out of things to say, bouncing your hand in his as Misaki followed Ushijima to the door. “That walk out you pulled? Bra-va! Are you on TikTok? No ? What do you mea- You gotta see for yourself how the kids have been clamoring for your name! I mean just straight up hungry for it– address, birthday– all that fun shit! You’re a modern day Cinderella! Open your phone, c’mon, just look up–” 

You released a deep breath when Misaki sat back down and, as subtle as she was able to, tugged Brandon’s sleeve to release your hand. She gave a tight-lipped smile, tactfully hauling the conversation to the makeshift screen once more. 

From video to articles, now the subject on the wall was a spreadsheet filled with dates, objectives, and locations. The characters seemed to swirl before you. 

Day One . The row to its right read: Cafe date. The rows below it: Pottery class . Zoo. Teen Vogue. Fuji TV. In yellow highlights: PR classes. Workshop 1. Workshop 2. You squeezed your eyes tight. You could read a few more texts; take in a couple more information; say yes to one more request. You’re a big, capable girl. People could count on you, kitten.

You made sure to nod along to everything that Misaki said, even to the comments made by the man beside him. You nodded and you smiled. The world was so, so small, after all. And everything was so, so still. Your hands were someone else’s, not the same ones that kept fucking up everything they touched. You didn't need to worry. They were saying something about a contract…

Misaki stood, abruptly shifting towards the door.

“ – ma’am…!” she all but yelled.

It was like you were dragged back to earth. You blinked.

A woman was approaching their side of the room. It had gotten quiet, save for the clicking of heels.  Brandon was no longer talking, although that look on his face hadn’t let up, like no matter what happened he was confident that he could make any quip under the sun and the people around him would laugh and applaud. Why shouldn’t they, anyway? 

“Heya…” he began. The woman went straight for Misaki, as if she’d just walked by air. You thought you saw him silently mouth towards you. 

Brandon grinned, flashing a wide stretch of perfect square teeth . Rows of identical houses. The kind owned by people who had the tendency to say that they grew up comfortable and no, not rich. Just comfortable. 

Bitch , he might have joked.

And you? You smiled back, and was immediately beset by the need to bash your head into the nearest surface.  

Not right now though. That very same bitch was being introduced to you. “ From the International Volleyball Federation’s Development Commission, ” Misaki announced, voice hitching up like a wedgie. It was a lengthy title. All you could do was stare at her, and maybe you also had replied with an introduction of your little, bitchy self . 

The black strands of her bun fell in soft waves. Her eyes were forged steel, sparking off gold flecks that caused you to step backwards. They might sting if you get too close. Fresh blood had slicked up her full, plump lips. 

Her gaze flitted from your head to your dust grey shoe laces, and she spoke like she was on the verge of a sophisticated yawn:

“No, Hana-chan.” The woman glanced at Misaki then to the projector. “She won’t do.”

She might as well have told Misaki that the world was ending. All the jewel sheen dimmed out of the younger woman’s face, turning it pale as she blurted, “E-excuse me? Ma’am?” But, still with that tone– a cousin to that one that you often use with customers that like to remind you that their food hadn’t come in yet. 

You put your head down and, from the corner, saw Brandon clench his jaw. Maybe he didn’t feel like the holler of the party anymore. 

“You know what I said. Call the project off.”

You swallowed and breathed out for every heel that clicked farther away from you.

“That–” Misaki cried, running after her. “I- we worked so hard just to plan this…! Ma’am, with all due respect, but I’m not done presenting the deliverables to her. We haven’t even started yet and you already want to– We could do so much !”

“With this one?” She was benevolent enough to address you with a slight tip of her head. “I don’t think so.”

If it’d adhered to corporate decorum, there’s no doubt that Misaki would’ve been on her knees at this very moment. She may not have done it physically– not yet , but for all that you’d armored yourself with ignorance going into this, you have eventually come to understand that Hana Misaki had already done enough of kneeling for the day. And, it seems, all for the reason that she– this person whom you have never spoken to until today, was under the impression that you could be useful. 

“I don’t- sorry- I,” you began, foolishly. “I don’t get what’s…happening…?”

The woman paused, turned to you, and raised a sharply arched brow. 

You’re really in it now, little girl. 

Brandon, ever the knight, stepped in to say, “Now, ladies, let’s all be nice to each other, hm? What our little star here means is–”

“If it’s the money you’re after,” the woman told you, specifically, pointedly , “I’d be the first to tell you that your contract stipulates forfeit of your token, should you fail to comply with any of its clauses. Moreover, they have carte blanche to dismiss you from the project at any given point, should they see fit to do so. There's also the fact that Ushijima has a legal representative of his own . That’s how it usually goes with our partners like the young miss over here, isn’t it, Hana-chan?” 

Before Misaki could reply: “Yes, I am aware, ma’am,” you lied.

“A-also,” you prattled on, “Misaki-san did a-an excellent job with her presentation. I’m really ex-excited to be a part of this. She told me everything that I needed to know about the project, including all the activities that I have…”

That arched brow almost touched her hairline. 

“...to do,” you finished, gulping. 

“And what of Wakatoshi?” the woman pushed on. It didn’t need to be announced that she wasn’t taking any answers other than Misaki’s. Self-preservation compelled you to hold your tongue.

“He was here an–”

“Hour,” said Brandon.

“Thank you,” Misaki scoffed. “An hour ago for the presentation.”

“What did he say about the project activities, then?”

Misaki chewed on her lip, again. A nervous habit, you observed. 

“Well, regarding that, he still hasn’t told us what he thought. He had to leave early for practice–

“Yep, practice,” said Brandon.

“B-but, ma’am, I’m sure that he–”

“So he still hasn’t agreed?” 

“Oh, he will,” Brandon answered, grinning, his easy and excessively sure attitude having surged. 

“How do you know?” 

The woman, for the first time, had finally addressed the only man in the room, but he wasn’t as pleased by it as you assumed he’d be. Brandon smiled, of course, but there was that stiffness to it that made it look more like he was gritting his teeth when he told her, “I’m the boy’s manager.”

“They’re soulmates, ma’am,” Misaki added, a bit too quietly. “They're bound to…do all this…eventually.”

At that, the woman turned to her– the great, terrifying fullness of her attention directed towards Misaki, then she bared her teeth. You prepared yourself for fangs to protract out, her next meal laid out in front of her. It took you a minute to realize that she was grinning. Like Misaki had just told her a pun. 

“Hana-chan,” she sighed. “She’s not his type.”

Brandon rose from his seat. “ Hey !” 

Misaki scrambled to explain, apologizing to you in between, to which you made sure to assure her that you did not mind at all, but the woman was already making her exit, cackling lowly  along the way, prompting Misaki to trot on her heels. Once they were out of the room, their voices gradually dissipating from behind the closed door and into the corridors, Brandon released a firecracker of a sigh.

His face was still as ruddy as it’d been when he yelled and expelled tirades at the woman. You two were alone now. You should have followed Misaki, but there’d been no instructions given to you. Maybe you should wait. 

“Sorry about that, sweetheart,” he groaned, wiping his face as he did. “What a cunt .”

You kept your head down, legs pressed together, and trim, neat fingers pressed on your knees. You went to the trouble of cleaning them today. Strange, when that formidable woman had been in here judging your worth, there’d been nothing but the wariness that you usually feel at work, but now that she was gone…

You feel worse.

Cold sweat accumulated on your palms and armpits. 

“Y’know, we really don’t need that woman to do  this thing,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, I won’t lie to you, it would help a lot if Misaki-chan can wave her name around. Be easier to move, less bureaucratic bullshit. Piss on all that red tape.”

You made sure to keep your eyes on him, just so he knew that you’ve been paying attention. Nice and obedient. 

“But, fuck , really–” Brandon snickered. He swirled an index finger to his temple. “ Right? You saw her…!”

You nodded and smiled.

“Must’ve been all that beating,” he spat. “Jostled the old fuckin’ hag up there. Shit, if I were her husband too I’d–” 

It was the room temperature, you reasoned. Staying here for too long has finally done a number on your insides, freezing up your lungs and heart and all those veins transporting blood around to keep you alive and kicking. 

The man’s eyes widened, then he clasped his mouth like you’d offended him. 

“Ah, work gossip, sorry about that, darling,” he mumbled. “Anyway, you don’t worry your pretty head about that woman, alright? Out of everyone here, I know Wakatoshi best. He’s gonna be on board. You guys are literally made for each other. And for us too, really! You won’t give us any trouble, unlike a certain crazy we  know.”

You tried to laugh along. 

“Nah, you’re not like that.” Brandon pressed, leaning towards you. His eyes were as plastic blue as hard-shelled capsules, flat and waxy.

“You’re a good girl, aren’tcha?”

You stared, breathing shallow. And you nodded.

Misaki came back to the room with another set of sorry’s. Brandon got up. “Need to smoke,” he mentioned, although no one had asked. Both of you waited until he left. As soon as the door was shut, Misaki turned to you with a look that did more than enough to convey the lowness of her spirit. 

“It’s really okay, Misaki-san,” you convinced her. 

Her delicate features crumpled. “That was such a terrible way of ending our meeting. Truly, I am so sor–”

You shook your head, keeping your hands balled and locked to your side, just in case they were to do something insane like give the woman a comforting pat on the shoulder. 

“But, we’re not completely hopeless,” Misaki perked, like an engine forced to start, as she gathered her things from the table, turning off the projector as she did. “Once I get Ushijima’s approval then we’re good to go. I’m confident that he’s nothing but enthusiastic about this.” 

Him? He whose gaze was a frostbite?

In your head, Ushijima Wakatoshi and enthusiasm for anything besides volleyball get on together as splendidly as oil and water. Besides, you’ve seen the spreadsheets. Soulmates or not, you wouldn’t deny that this endeavor required a certain skill, or at least effort, towards playacting. 

There may be very little that you actually know about Ushijima, but that first encounter with him had revealed to you a forthrightness about the man that may not be conducive to making a spectacle of himself, especially of a passion that he clearly did not possess for you. 

Seeing your expression, Misaki broke into a soft chortle. 

“You don’t think he will, don’t you?” she prodded.

A reply was no longer necessary. Your face was answer enough. You smirked at her, a tad ashamed. Misaki then held the door open for you, and instead of bidding you farewell and other such formalities, she asked, pausing a while, “Would you walk with me for a bit?”

You ended up accompanying her to the elevator. 

She’d inquired about work, your family– the kind of genuine interest that you haven’t received from a stranger since…well…since highschool. It’d struck you as something so deeply alien.

So, when Misaki had requested you to come with her to the practice gym in that tone that you’ve often heard people use when asking someone they’d just met out for coffee, you had no other way of turning her down but to say, “Y-yeah, sure, I’d love that.”

Along the way, you passed by dozens of rooms divided by glass doors, while fresh-faced, well-dressed employees greeted the both of you with genial smiles. You were then led to a bridge that connected the current floor to another building. From its broad, glass windows that cut straight through the horizon, you caught sight of an indoor gymnasium hunkering down next to the parking lot. 

It was not as impressive as the rest of the building, bearing closer resemblance to a highschool gym than one owned by the country’s premier organization for a fairly large sport. 

Of course, “That’s not where they’re practicing,” whispered Misaki, giggling. “They built that gym way, way back when the association was still at its inception.The maintenance staff turned it into a dump site for faulty appliances since the new one got made. Other than those guys, no one would even dare get close to it, ‘cause of the…”

Misaki cringed and visibly shivered. “One of the interns said they saw a headless priest roaming inside.” 

It was such a wonderful thing that you did not believe in ghosts, nor did you have a habit of loitering around old indoor gymnasiums. The opposite, in fact. Cowardly, jumpy little baby that you are.

Down to a stairwell you followed her, then to a room that was more storage than anything. Two men were fixing some wiring that stuck out of the wall. “Hey, Hana-chan!” they erupted. “Ya can’t be here! Practice is still going!” 

She waved at them with playful, half-hearted excuses. They did not seem to mind as she went ahead to usher you gently out of the room– and into the indoor volleyball court.

You recoiled. 

Blinding white light exploded from the high metal vaulted ceiling. You grabbed the nearest railing, waiting for your eyes to adjust and whiplashed from your sudden emergence into the nosebleeds section. At least a hundred rows of seats sprawled empty under your feet. 

And at the very bottom, standing in one corner, was Ushijima. 

He had his back towards you as his teammate– MIYA on his jersey, draped a clean towel over his head.  

They were an eclectic bunch. A couple of them were barely recognizable from ads and billboards that you couldn't be bothered to look at twice.

HINATA and BOKUTO were audible all the way up the gym, unintelligible, however; not for the lack of clarity given the considerable distance, but because they conversed mostly in syllables, phrases, and onomatopoeia. Meanwhile, Ushijima and another pair of dark haired players in t-shirts were a static presence on that side of the court, although the one with the sea glass curls was far less sociable than the other who, in comparison, had approached Ushijima for a chat. 

An older man– their coach, you think– clapped to signal the players’ attention. The two men who’d greeted Misaki earlier rolled into the court with a flat screen TV propped on a wheeled stand, along with a white board littered with symbols and magnets. 

They gathered around as footage of another game began to play on the screen, their coach talking over it.

A head of rich brown hair walked by. 

You blinked and realized, with breathless gratitude, that you’d been mistaken. 

Seeing things. 

It has been turning out to be a long and eventful day. 

“I know,” blurted Misaki, startling you out of your observations. “I am aware that…our project may seem trite and- and insincere–”

You straightened. “No, Misaki-san, I don’t–”

“Maybe not to you,” she cut off with a soft, contrite glance. “I can at least admit that , to some extent. But…the truth is the volleyball that we have here is still…a toddler, still learning how to walk, so to speak. As funny as that sounds.”

“Yeah,” you couldn’t help but snort, looking around you. It certainly did not look like it.

“That’s why people like them, like me , who have made a career out of this, we feel some kind of- of protectiveness and… dedication over it, like we’re its parents, in a way. We all feel strongly about this– volleyball. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here at all.” 

You were looking at her now, and so was she.

“Our project is ultimately never about the clout or- or getting butts in seats. Though it is part of it, really, that’s not the goal.”

Misaki tipped her chin towards the court.

“What we want is for everyone to see what we see. And we’ll do…just about anything to make that happen.”

A bomb set off on the court. You almost ducked, heart stuck in your throat, bracing yourself for an onset of flashes, for claws to grab your limbs, for the world to end– instead, there was laughter.

Luminous, pealing laughter. 

Sunlight landed on its feet. The shortest player– HINATA, the one with the burst of tangerine hair, turned to his coach and teammates on the opposite side of the court, and yelled, “Like that?! He did it like that, right?!” 

The ball that he’d hit bounced off, caught by MIYA, as the dark haired player that’d spoken to Ushijima jogged to his side before proceeding to address the team. 

“Ushijima-san might’ve seemed..aloof and apathetic to this project,” Misaki continued as she gave a few pensive taps to the railing. “But please don’t be mistaken. He’s made of the same stuff as that one.”

Gesturing to the dark haired player who’d tossed the ball for HINATA, “Tobio Kageyama,” Misaki supplied. 

Standing next to Ushijima, with all of their steely attention freighted on the screen, one could almost tell on instinct which man a stranger would feel more comfortable to ask for directions from. Which was, to say, neither of them.

“Terrible case of the resting bitch face..?” you hazard. Misaki huffed out, humored. You resisted the urge to preen.

“Well, yes , but–” She pulled out her phone, and a few taps and scrolls later she’s showing you a list of videos under the YouTube search results of kageyama volleyball. “There. See.”

The first one was him behind an assortment of items: shoes, ear plugs, a nail filer, and a notebook. What’s in my bag? | ELLE Japan, the title said. The thumbnail below it showed his face smashed with pie; it was a game show, while further down was him sitting crossed leg on the floor with puppies littered all over his lap. A behind-the-scenes video for a commercial was the one that got a reaction out of you.

Curry guy!

Misaki said, “No one drags him to these things. He does them on his own as long as there's an invitation. He doesn’t even have a PR team. He goes to all the fan events, even when he knows that some of the people there only know him by ‘that hot volleyball guy from TikTok’ . Kageyama signs that poster, he stops for a picture even when he’s jogging, he’s early to the interview even when the questions are about his skin care routine and nothing else.”

“He wants to be famous,” you quipped. “I-I think that’s fine.” Does Ushijima want this? Misaki played the first video. It wouldn’t take some expert in human behavior to see that the man was not blessed with the mechanisms needed to sustain fame and keep feeding it until it grows into a monster that the human mind can no longer fathom. 

He was too…honest.

“Maybe.” Misaki shrugged. “Our division leader always told us that people should start learning how to play volleyball with a low net. Makes it easier to hit the ball, he said. Makes it more fun. And the more fun a thing is, the likelier you are to do it again. The next thing you know you’re begging everyone around you to play volleyball with you. I think this is Kageyama’s way of lowering the net for those who have never cared about it. And I think Ushijima knows that too.”

The team was huddled together now, commenting on one part of the game to the next. These were professional athletes, it suddenly occurred to you. A different ilk of beings, for them to choose to dedicate their lives to something like this, and that this place, at this very moment, was their natural habitat.

“Fans call them the monster generation ,” she continued, adding air quotes on the last bit. “In college, gathering funds for our volleyball club was like pulling teeth. Ever since they arrived, there's not a single game where the arena isn't packed. Even amateur games these days quickly become standing events. Kids are playing it more . Can you imagine? Those sweaty little devils? From school gyms to amateur games to the professional leagues. I don’t know. I just think it’d be a waste if I- we- couldn't even keep the ball going.”

Perhaps it’s the fact that the place is flooded by lights, but the more Misaki talked about this, the more incandescent she seemed. You couldn't bear to look at her anymore. You settled instead for staring down at the court. 

But even they were just as blinding. Even more so. 

You don’t feel this way about anything. 

Not even for something innocuous or banal like chalkboards. And even the world of chalkboards has its Kageyamas and Ushijimas. You're not that– not a Misaki and certainly not a Kageyama nor an Ushijima, and especially not for this sport. 

Maybe you would've found that thing for you, those many years ago, when you still believed that nothing in this world could ever hurt you, but as it stands now all time ever did was age you into an empty little girl that cries a lot. 

Misaki touched your arm. “I realize that we’re asking a lot from you. I’m- I’m sorry. You really don't have to agree if you think– oh –”

All of the players were up on their feet, arms crossed and yelling wildly at the screen, brows furrowed like they're gearing to beat the shit out of someone but with grins up to their ears. The coach was quiet.

Her low chuckle did not reach you anymore. 

They were watching—

“–Tooru.” Misaki was speaking again. Feeding more information. “You may not know him now, but, oh, you will . Soon. He's got a rapidly growing international fanbase. We expect his popularity to skyrocket over here after the Olympics.”

Your heart was climbing to your head. Each pulsating beat threatened to burst a vein open somewhere on its journey there. 

“Brazil men’s national team…” You knew. You always knew that he was somewhere out there. Putting more scars on floors. Because the ones here were never enough . “....toughest opponent…” Coffee brown hair slick with sweat– how could someone, after all these years, time and fate in his opposition, still be so… “... beautiful game. We’ve long had our eyes on him but he doesn't seem to be interested in….” Arms corded like a great and terrible whip you know how much pain those could inflict don't you “kitten… edits? they all adore him… in particular, the young women…” young women “Oh, god! It was just terrible! We tried to emulate his fans' activities online to promote one of our own players. Didn't work. Y’know? Those…videos of him…” The crowd roars! The team roars! For him ! Of course! And look at him? Isn't he happy! He's singing with them! Isn't he just happy! Do you think he remembers! “...licking his lips and his abs peeking out all slowed down to, like, a pop song or something?” Of course he doesn’t you dumb bitch do you think he remembers every floor that got scarred on his way to the top? “....Or him being quirky and funny?”

“Misaki-san,” you breathed. “Where's the toilet?”

“ Outside ” was all the direction you needed.

You ran– past doors and corridors and stairs, to where there weren’t any walls that were on the brink of collapsing around you, nor any lights that just about obliterated your sense of sight. All there was was a parking lot with about two or three cars waiting for their keys. And when you’d found that there’s nobody but you and a couple of death machines on wheels, you fell to your knees, then reached for whatever potted plant you could get your hands on.

Your lunch was tacky and unrecognizable around the soil. Some bits clinging to the base of the ferns.

It was once a pleasant egg sandwich that cost nothing. The couple-owned stall that sold it even wrapped it with an adorable mustard paper, but it was an inevitability, wasn’t it? For what was once nice and pretty to turn into something like this: chewed up, swallowed, then vomited back out by this world into a glutinous, putrid mess. Not him though.

Oh, no. When he dies he’ll be just as beautiful as the day he was born and everyone around him will be crying. Beautiful, magnificent, irresistible Oikawa Tooru. 

The whole world convinced you that highschool was over and that you should really, really get over it, but then there he is– beautiful, magnificent, irresistible, quirky, funny Oikawa Tooru, and if you turn around you’ll find that the paper that says “ UGLY LOSER ” is still stuck to your back. Always been there. And they all haven’t stopped laughing since. 

They’re still laughing now.

“You look like shit.”

You placed the pot back down with a silent apology, sighing and considering that psychiatric ward in the city if it has finally gotten bad enough to hear stuff that’s not there, but then the scent of a freshly lit cigarette burned your nose. You followed its source, finding her there. 

Beside you.

The woman. 

She’s got her back rested against the gray-painted wall. 

“I saw that.” Her crimson lips are wrapped around the end of the cigarette. “You ok, little girl?”

I’m okay, ma’am . That was what you wanted to say. That was what you needed to say. The only right answer there is. Instead, you said, “Fuck off.”

As if that statement had been lacking in heat– “Don’t call me that– little girl ,” you snarled, wiping your mouth. “Fucking disrespectful.”

Before you could fully comprehend your words and proceed to grovel, not only for your tactlessness, but for blatantly insulting a veritable authority in this organization, your hands dropped on your thighs, like you’d carried tons and tons of metal for the entire day and had only felt its consequences now.

They lay there, limp and trembling. Couldn’t even squeeze air. Then there was the whimpering. A small animal must’ve been caught at the end of a child’s stick. Somewhere around here. You couldn’t be sure, but it’s out there, crying for help. Mama, mama, save me, it must be praying. Your chest heaved, like it’s desperately trying to expel something. 

“What are you doing here, really?” the woman asked, as gentle as a woman like her could be.

No reprimand nor a tantrum like one of those customers do when you forget to address them with an honorific. 

You tried to shrug, hiding your face away from view as you choked on a giggle, because, really, what in the world were you doing here?  

“Destiny, I guess?” you answered, sobbing. 

Everyone had gone home with a goodbye or a firm pat on the shoulder. 

Wakatoshi was the only one left. Staying in the locker room like this was the closest thing he could get to stepping on Mars with how different it’d been when Hinata Shoyo and others were still here. 

He’d already changed, but he remained seated on the bench in front of his locker, waiting for a call from either Brandon or Misaki-san. When at last there’d only been a few more insignificant emails, Wakatoshi finally decided to leave. There’s nothing more about that matter to talk about then. For now, at least. 

You did seem upset earlier. 

You ran off with that look on your face. The same one when you’d first met. 

Maybe volleyball had scared you more than he thought it did.

That might be a problem in the future. 

Just as he was about to turn off the lights, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Wakatoshi pulled it out, then paused, when he found a call coming from the other side of the world. 

[moechies]

scummy oikawa thirst 🍧

scummy boyfriend oikawa</3 when he sees you talking to your ex out in public, and realizes that you never told him about it while you were back at home, he decides to teach u a lesson !!

he drags you to his home, where he locks you into his room and makes you listen and watch him fuck into another woman.

you’re balled up in a corner crying, and yelling out apologies through your tears, but hes completely ignoring you. you’re forced to listen to the girl moaning out your boyfriends name, while he’s telling the girl, ‘fuck, feel ‘smuch better than her,’ or ‘you wouldn’t betray me like her right?’ and even ‘m gonna cum in you..’ leaving your heart aching.

after she leaves his room, chuckling at your humiliating state, oikawa pulls you up onto his bed and whispers to you about how he forgives you, and that you’re so perfect. he pets your head and kisses your forehead, telling you how he never meant what he said to the other girl, and that you’ll be the only one for him forever; he just needed to teach you a lesson!

[hanmaitani]

Jealousy

PAIRING - Bodyguard!Matsukawa x Reckless!Reader, Oikawa x Reader WC - 2.4K GENRE - smu, angst CW - Jealousy makes you do stupid shit. Consensual recording of sex. Unprotected sex. Creampie.

PREV PART | MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

You panted heavily. Head thrown back as his hands guided your hips back and forth along his own. “Oh fuck, just like that.” He mumbled against the bare of your chest, tongue licking up against the salty skin of your breast before sucking softly on it, careful not to make a mark.

Your hands twisted into his brown curls and tugged, whining when his dick thrust against your insides and tapped against a sensitive spot. You tried not to feel anything other than the pleasure curling inside of you now.

You knew. There was no way that you couldn’t know. Keiko and Matsukawa always being unavailable at the same times. It was a subtle type of jealousy that crawled its way around your heart. One that you didn’t realize was there. One you couldn’t name. One that you wanted to leave.

You tried to handle it the only way you knew how. Revenge. Specifically, a revenge fuck. He was sleeping with one of your friends so maybe you’d repay the favor.

“Come onnnn.” You whined and begged, leaning on the center console of the SUV so your head poked between the empty passenger seat and where Hanamki sat in the driver’s seat.

“No.” Hanamaki was trying not to laugh, as your dramatic self flopped on the console, trying to give him puppy dog begging eyes. “I’m not going to fuck you.” You’d been trying for about ten minutes now, and failing for about ten minutes.

You huffed for a second before you smiled sickly sweet up at him, “I’ll let you cum in me?”

He couldn’t help the laugh he barked out then. Hanamaki sighed and pushed his shades onto the top of his head, subsequently pushing his strawberry tinted blond hair back as he turned to face you completely. “Kid,” he started, a small smile still playing on his lips as he ruffled your hair, “I know that you know this is just those self-destructive tendencies you’ve got.” He sighs again and it’s like you can feel his pity rocket straight into your heart. “I’m not gonna fuck you just because you and Mattsun are playing some game of who’s being more pussy about your feelings.”

You blink up at him in shock for a moment, trying to register what he’d said. “Wait.” You shake your head. “No, I don’t have feelings for Mattsun and he doesn’t have feelings for me, it isn’t like that.” But you’re speaking fast and it’s like you’re failing at convincing even yourself so you steer the other direction again. “This isn’t about feelings, it’s like…. A dry spell?”

“Kid, you know I’m in love with your brother, right?”

You roll your eyes at the unsurprising information, as though you’d not been watching the way Hanamaki looked at your older brother for years. “Yeah and? You like girls too, right?” It was rhetorical but he opened his mouth to respond until you kept talking. “You can’t confess, I can’t confess, so let’s just-”

“Thought there wasn’t anything to confess?” He looks at you like he’s just caught you in a trap and you freeze. He doesn’t give you the chance to redefend your point, however. “Listen, I love you. I have seen you at your worst, I’ve been there through it all. This,” he gestures to the state you’re in right now generally, “isn’t it girl. You’re like my younger sister. Woman up.” He ends it with a soft flick to your forehead as a pout grows on your lips. He flips his shades back over his eyes, his soft hair easily falling back down to cover his forehead as he turned back to the road. “Which club tonight?”

You knew that he was right. Hanamaki was never the right option. You’d decided you needed a different approach. That’s what brought you in front of a video camera again. You could see the image of yourself and your partner on the computer screen on his desk.

You couldn’t see your face, the camera cut off at just under your chin. It was commonplace to never show your face on camera, your father’s work putting you in the public eye too often for comfort if you were to be publicly found out. Your partner however, had no such qualms. His face was only not shown at the moment because it was pressed between your breasts, licking strips up your skin as he pulled your hips down onto him repeatedly.

Your thighs shook as they spread across his hips, having a harder time keeping your body up as he continued to fuck up into you. Your breath shook, you wanted to cum but you were so focused on trying to stay up, to keep your face out of sight that you couldn’t. You whined in protest and the request came tumbling out. “Oikawa, can’t st-ah. Can’t stay up.”

Oikawa’s head came up from between your breasts and took in the look on your face, a mix of pleasure and frustration. He chuckled a bit but nodded. He moved you easily, lifting you from his lap, keeping your face out of the frame as he slipped out from under you. “Turn that way.” He nodded his head towards the wall opposite the camera and you took the direction, turning your head and letting your hair shield your face as he moved behind you.

Your chest was heaving still, your breasts bobbing slightly as he held you up, your body tired from how long the two of you had been at it. It was the first time you’d met with him, he’d been just a follower, a number and user on your screen until recently. He had a huge following and you’d needed a boost to your account anyways. When he’d asked to collab you’d had the perfect idea.

He chuckled as he pressed your upper body into the bed, hiding your face again before pulling your hips up for him. You whined as he did this, not being coherent enough to move yourself and kind of loving the way he just moved your body how he wanted. Oikawa’s hand reached out for the camera, winking at it before directing it down towards his view of you.

“Dick just so good she can’t keep upright anymore.” You rolled your eyes at the cockiness in his tone but didn’t respond. The camera picked up the way your tangled hair spread around where you buried your face in the pillow, exposing the delicate skin of your neck. He trailed his finger, and the camera from there down your spine and how it curved for him. Down until he got to your ass, grabbing a handful and pulling it from the other. You whined at how you could feel your lower lips part from the grip, cool air brushing your wet core. The camera caught it too.

“Oikawaaa.” You whined his name as you reached back, your fingers finding his cock and trying to drag it back to your entrance. The camera caught the way your perfectly manicured nails guided his tip to your wetness and the way his cockhead spread your cunt open before he pulled back out, your wetness shiny on the rubber covering his cock. “Take it off.” It was almost too quiet, but he and the camera heard you perfectly. Especially when your fingers tugged slightly at the bit of space left at the top of the condom when he pulled back.

“Look at what a freak she is.” He was talking to the camera, not to you. “Want me to fuck you raw?” You whined in response, a show for the camera, you really couldn’t care. He was already pulling the condom off and letting it drop next to your knee before pressing his cock back to your entrance.

There was a slick squelch from your cunt as he bottomed out in one motion he groaned lowly and kept the camera trained on how your body swallowed his cock thrust after thrust. This was easier for you to do. Nothing you had to focus on except for pressing your fingers to your clit and chasing your own orgasm. It was easy then, feeling the coils twisting and tightening, close to snapping as his hips got quicker.

Your orgasm was underwhelming but was relieving after having unconsciously holding it off. Oikawa followed soon after, hips stuttering and then halting, tip still inside as he came inside of you. His cum leaked out around his cock, dripping down your thighs as he pointed the camera at it. He zoomed in on the way it pooled next to your knee, tauntingly flowing onto the discarded condom before he trained the camera back up to where it continued to leak out of you.

Matsukawa tossed his phone down on the couch in irritation as he stood over your form in your shared living room. “You fucked Oikawa? Are you fucking kidding me!?” You actually weren’t aware of how close he and Oikawa had been until after you’d posted the video. Oikawa had mentioned something about how ‘Mattsun will never believe this.’ It had made you freeze.

You rolled your eyes and feigned nonchalance, pretending like it didn’t make you a little bit proud that Matsukawa was upset about the situation. “It’s just good business, Mattsun.” A smirk formed around his name as you stared up at him, you could see his fists clench out of the corner of your eye. “Tooru’s got a great following.” You let the name slide off your tongue, Oikawa’s first name. It had Matsukawa’s jaw clenching, the vein on his neck seeming to pop.

“That’s not just business.” He growled in irritation. “You let him cum in you.” So he had watched the whole thing. You had to shove down your temptation to laugh at him.

“But Mattsuunnnn.” You drew out the last consonant in a bit of a whine, missing the way his breath hitched at the sound of his name falling from your lips like that. “Look how popular the video is. It’s gonna make soooo much money.” You put on your sweetest smile. You weren’t wrong and Matsukawa knew it. The video had done better in one night than most did in their first week up. “People like to see cum.” You giggled but gasped when he grabbed your arm and started to drag you towards the bathroom. “Hey! What are you doing!”

He rolled his eyes and placed you in a sitting position on top of the toilet seat cover. “Sit there.” You opened your mouth to speak but he cut you off again. “Quietly.” You rolled your eyes but complied, intrigued as you watched him riffle through the cabinets before taking out a bag you recognized from the back of the space. “Open.” He instructed as he broke one of the Plan B pills out of their packaging. You laughed at him but stuck your tongue out with a dramatic ‘ahhh’ sound and let him toss the pill into your mouth before giving you a glass of tap.

When you were done swallowing it you laughed and put your arms on the counter, leaning forward to watch as he turned to the medicine cabinet looking for his next goal. “Really? I would have done that after breakfast, you know.”

“No one wants a mini Oikawa running around. Have you even taken your birth control yet, today?” He dropped the foil packet on the counter when he found it and you barked another laugh.

“I’m not a baby, you don’t have to remind me.”

“Yeah? Well today’s is still in that packaging so if I don’t you’ll end up having one.” He snapped and you scoffed as you grabbed at the packet of pills.

“I’m not gonna get pregnant, Mattsun.” You assure as you pop the tiny pill in your mouth and take another swig of the tap water.

“Not if I can help it you won’t.” He says it like he’s protecting you. He pretends that’s the reason too. Because protecting you is his job. He won’t admit that some part inside of him just absolutely hates the idea of Oikawa possibly being able to lay a claim on you like that.

“So.” You kick your feet in the air over the side of the couch. You’re laying on it sideways so that you can still see Matsukawa in the kitchen making dinner for the two of you. “If I can’t see Oikawa again,” he had strictly forbade it after a long and heated discussion between the two of you earlier which led to him insulting Oikawa and telling you that you’d sleep with him again ‘over his dead body,’ “is there any friends you could hook me up with?”

Matsukawa doesn’t even bother looking over his shoulder to entertain you. His voice is monotone as he responds. “I don’t have friends.”

You snort lightly. “Fine, I’ll just ask Makki.”

“Makki doesn’t have friends either.” Matsukawa shot back his answer so quickly that you had to almost find it kind of impressive.

“You know, Tooru mentioned one guy that y’all used to hang around with a lot… what was his name?” You pretended to think for a second, tapping your chin and humming. “Wasn’t it Iw-”

“No.” Matsukawa answered quickly, cutting off the line of conversation before you could even fully finish saying his name.“Fine.” You groaned as you let your head flop back on the couch. “You know, I could set you up with one of my friends. I’ve got a ton that would like you.” You miss the way that the muscles in his back clench at the offer, a stiffness flooding his body as he glances at the way you’ve seemed to melt back into the couch, staring at the ceiling now. Your mind is spinning about who you would let have him. Something from the back of it screams ‘no one!’ You ignore that. The biggest thought in your brain is, instead… anyone other than someone who was so close to being you, but not you. Anyone but Keiko.

a/n oikawa be being a lil shit without even knowing it

TAGLIST - OPEN

@boosyboo9206 @faumpje @miyamizuna

@all-in-the-fandoms @pearl-blue-musings @qichun

[maybe-a-dinosaur]

oikawa tooru jorts hater.

he wants to like them but he just Can’t his enemies (takahiro) say it’s bc he looks dumb in them tooru thinks he needs to shut the fuck up. he wears other shorts other colors they don’t make him look dumb btw he just thinks that denim should stay in its lane and be jeans is that too much to ask. matsukawa big ass baggy jorts hanamaki shorter slimmer fitting cutoffs iwaizumi (though infrequent) to the knee well worn nearing tattered jorts oikawa mid thigh linen shorts. he’s not even mad about not matching or whatever actually he couldn’t care less they look dumb he’s pissed off at the concept of jorts they’re stupid!!!! he can’t rationalize it he just says “i don’t respect anyone wearing jorts” and he lives by that. they’re in style everyone’s wearing them Whatever he’s not and that’s what matters. oikawa tooru anti-jort and he will die on that hill.

[hayakawalove]

Freak Like Me

Summary: You trust Toru with your life. You tell him about one of your fantasy's, and the two of you try it out with stellar results.

A/N: Kinktober going strong! I've only written this kink once before, but I had fun with it. I hope you guys are having a wonderful month. If dark content isn't your thing, that's totally fine! I have lots of other fics that are much more tame. Kinktober was meant for me to test the waters with things I haven't written before. I'm liking it so far, so hopefully you all do too! Once you finish reading, I would love to know how you are feeling!

CW: Smut, Knifeplay, Consensual Knifeplay, Dark Content, Fear Play, Vaginal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Humiliation, Post Time Skip, Female Reader, AFAB Reader W/C: 1,159

Credit to cafekitsune for the banner

Toru Oikawa is not a scary man. Not by any means. He has kind eyes and a soft smile. Scary is the last word you would use to describe him. However, you find yourself coming up empty handed when looking for a different adjective as he enters the room wielding a blade. Scared is exactly the feeling rushing through your veins right now. 

“Sweetheart, we don’t have to try this.” He notices the fear in your eyes. 

His comment brings you back to reality. You did want to try it. It had been on your mind for a long time, and tonight was the night you were finally going to make the dream come true. 

“No! I want to.” You say, laying flat on your back. 

Toru walks further into the room, stopping short in front of the bed. It creaks with his movement as he crawls on top, his large frame easily overshadowing yours. The knife is pointed away from you as a safety precaution, yet part of you wishes it wasn’t.

“Okay,” he places a gentle kiss on the side of your throat. “Say the safe word if you change your mind.” 

Goosebumps crawl up your skin from his lips and from the low tone of his voice. You try to keep your body as still as possible as Toru lowers the knife, letting the dull side scrape down your flesh. The sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. It doesn’t hurt, but alarm bells are going off in your head nonetheless. Adrenaline shoots throughout your body as he slowly drags the knife down your stomach. 

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until he says something. 

Toru stops in his tracks, and reaches up with his other hand. He grabs your chin and tilts it up, making you look into his eyes. 

“You have to remember to breathe for me baby, yeah?” 

You let out a whimper and nod, slowly releasing the pent up air from your lungs. An easy smile spreads across Toru’s face before he looks back down once more to resume. 

“Good girl,” he croons. 

Toru presses the blade down a little harder, still using the dull side, as he brings it across your stomach down your soft thighs. You can feel your pussy begin to leak at the lingering sense of danger. Toru’s eyes keep flicking up towards your face to watch for any sign of apprehension, but he doesn’t find any. 

He moves the blade once more, and in doing so the tip briefly pokes into your skin. You let out a moan, and refrain from arching your back. He almost looks just as excited as you do. 

“Toru, more-“ you sob.

Toru breathes heavily and nods, tightening his grip on the handle. 

“Okay, but you have to stay still.” He orders. 

The firmness of his voice sends a shiver throughout your body. You silently agree and wait for him to continue. His eyes are laser focused as he looks down at your thighs. Toru flips the knife around, using the sharp edge to drag down your skin. He doesn’t press hard enough to cause any damage, if anything it feels like a soft tickle, but the threat of it is enough. Your eyes roll in the back of your head, and you let out a shaky moan. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so horny in your life. 

In contrast, Toru knows he’s never been so horny before. The drool seeping from the side of your lips and your fingers digging into the sheets is a sight he won’t soon forget. It’s taking all of his willpower not to toss the knife away so he can fuck you. 

Patience, he knows this. 

“Touch me, please, please,” you’re gasping as he trails the blade up your tender flesh. 

Any wrong move could be detrimental, but Toru’s been careful and measured his entire life. 

“You can’t wait, sweetheart? We just got started.” He teases, putting on a front as if his cock isn’t so hard it’s threatening to rip through his pants. 

“No-“ you whimper. 

Toru holds the knife steady as he peers between your legs. Strings of your juices decorate your puffy cunt, the sight ripping all coherent thought from his head. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs underneath his breath. “Okay, alright,” 

He sets the knife down to maneuver your body against his. The two of you fit together like perfect puzzle pieces, your back slotting nicely into his chest. Toru keeps your legs spread while he dips his hand down, collecting your wetness to plunge his fingers inside you. 

He revels in the moan you let out. His fingers start off slow, two of them carefully stretching you out as he fucks them into you. With each press of his hand, his palm grazes your sensitive clit, making you groan. 

“Bring it back, bring the knife-“ 

Toru lets out a chuckle, keeping his gaze focused on your pussy. He continues to finger fuck you as his other hand reaches for the knife, once again bringing it up to your skin. 

“So needy, baby.” He mumbles, dragging the blade up your side. “It’s nasty.” 

Even though it’s an insult, it doesn’t sound like it. The way the syllables curl in the air has your pussy clenching around his fingers. 

Toru speeds his hand up, easily locating the sensitive tissue inside you which he abuses. His cock is stiff behind your back as he fingers you, your clit getting stimulated constantly. You’re incoherent, but trying your hardest to remain still, the threat of injury still looming in the air. 

“Toru, please, fuck,” you groan. 

He brings the knife up to your neck, the dull side biting into your throat. It doesn’t register to you that there’s no danger involved, that Toru would never put you in serious harms way, your brain thinks it’s the sharp end kissing your skin. 

Toru grinds his palm against your clit, feeling as you inch closer to release. He wonders if you notice how hard he is behind you, how it’s taking all of his concentration to guide you through first. 

“You gonna cum for me?” He asks. 

“Yes! Yes!” Your legs tremble as he fucks into you faster. 

Toru presses the knife down slightly harder against your neck, and that’s all it takes to send you over the edge. You cum with a loud moan, your pussy gripping onto Toru’s fingers so tight that even he sees white. He fucks you through it, only tossing the knife aside when he feels you relax in his hold. He presses a kiss to the side of your head before pulling his fingers away, admiring the strings of cum decorating them. 

“Damn, you really are freaky.” He taunts. 

You pout in his hold, playfully smacking his leg. 

“Says you! Your dick feels like cement!” 

“Oh uh…right.” He plays off, chuckling. 

Maybe he was just as freaky as you.

If you want to be tagged in my future works, just let me know. Please tell me what you want to be tagged in.

[yandere-romanticaa]

The walk back home from school usually did not take you very long especially if you had the luxury of blasting loud music through your headphones. It was ultimately something small but it made you happy, calm even if the day was rough on you. The tunes would blare in your ears as you'd walk home without a single care in the world.

That was something that truly worried Toru Oikawa.

You actively decided to put yourself in the line of fire by closing yourself off from the world like this. Anyone could jump you, anyone.

Oikawa himself could hurt you if he really wanted to as well. The only difference was that he didn't want to. There's a certain power in that choice and it made it crystal clear to him that whatever you were up to was just silly and stupid. In school you were not like him, well liked and popular. Perhaps a wallflower was a decent description. No one paid much attention to you either, which gave him a lot of advantages he didn't even know he'd want or ask for. Due to his reputation it was always odd to see the smiling and cheerful Oikawa striking a conversation with you. He made sure to never be rude and always wanted to include you in any activity he possibly could. There was a period of time when he was actively campaigning for you to become the volleyball team manager and some of his guys liked the idea too. Iwaizumi, the sharp little cookie that he is, naturally, found this to be suspicious from the very start - Oikawa is not the kind of guy who does anything without rhyme or reason. He said nothing for a week or two but simply decided to watch his friend and monitor his actions.

It became obvious to him that Oikawa was head over heels for you. The feelings were not reciprocated, unfortunately.

Oikawa knew this. It stung. Hard.

He felt a twinge of pity for his friend. As annoying and insufferable as he was Iwaizumi Hajime was fully aware of just how overly ambitious and intelligent Oikawa was. He wouldn't say it out loud even if you held him at gunpoint but he wanted to help the poor bastard out.

Iwaizumi was easier to approach simply because he just wasn't intense as Oikawa. He had charm and charisma in spades but that could be incredibly intimidating sometimes, especially to outsiders. He took his time with you and slowly but surely eased you into the groove of the team.

Oikawa did everything he could to hide his seething jealousy but he wasn't doing a particularly good job. Iwaizumi simply knew him too well to fall for any of his tricks.

The same couldn't be said for you.

The setter is a quick learner and he adapted to you in lightning fast speed. He had his overwhelming moments too but they were all chalked up to Oikawa just being, well, Oikawa. He's just that kind of guy, there really wasn't anything that could change him.

You started to come to their practices and if you were feeling generous, you'd bring some refreshments and snacks along too.

God, did the team start loving you because of that.

Oikawa stood near the treeline, the shadows carefully concealing him as he quietly sucked on the red lolipop you gave him earlier. He toyed with the plastic wrapper which was still kept in his pocket as he watched you go along your merry way, completely oblivious to him tailing you. He was grateful to his best friend for helping him out. Oikawa was embarrassed at himself for just how much be liked you, just how much power you had over him. A few months ago whenever he would approach you he was always met with either a polite greeting or he was just flat out ignored because he said something that set you off or his fans got in the way.

Things were improving with you. Bit by bit, piece by piece. In Oikawa's dictionary the words "giving up" simply do not exist.

He has you in his grasp, you are so close to him that he could almost taste it, feel it. His body buzzed with adrenaline, like a magnet searching for his other half. You were there, you were right there, unassuming and vulnerable, all his for the taking.

However, charm and charisma weren't the only things he had in spades. Patience was one of his virtues as well.

[kenjicopy]

pedido pessoal entregue

título: Foi no Brasil

@biribinhaas n importa quantas vezes eu tente fazer uma dark, nunk vai sair uma dark kkkkk

[threadmonster]

I was hardcore offline while Haikyuu was in it's final arc and man, I hope the fandom properly appreciated that Oikawa's insecurities in highschool were so fucking bad he almost quit playing. That's some real shit. So damn relatable.

[iizuumi]

more mer au!!

[satoruxx]

you fiddle with your nails as you walk home at tooru's side, the sounds of mattsun, makki, and iwa bickering further up ahead cutting through the empty streets. you’re uncharacteristically nervous, because god knows you’ve never done something like this before—but you steel yourself because it’s worth it for him.

your feelings for oikawa tooru are all consuming—strong and deep and intense. they’ve been brewing for well over two years now, nourished by the increased amount of time you’ve spent with him. they overwhelm you, washing over your being with an intensity you’ve never felt before, and they drive you to stick by his side for as long as you can—desperate and aching for the boy who puts the stars in your sky.

you know that timing is important because tooru is nothing if not driven—singularly focused on the sport that gives him the air he needs to breathe. so you wait until well after his match with karasuno, giving your all to support him and the rest of the team because volleyball has become important to you after spending so much time with them. you give it time, wait until after the team has taken the time to lament over their missed chance, and after all the third years are ready to move on to the next phase of their lives, before you finally decide to spill your guts to him.

tooru stares ahead as he’s walking, pensive and unsmiling, and you’re dying to know what’s going on in his head. his eyes are bright, a contrast to his expression, and there’s a resolute glint in his irises that has you feeling oddly shaken. when you reach his house, the rest of the group waves back at him before continuing on, and you realize this is your chance.

so, dangerously, you put your heart on the line.

you tell him everything you've ever thought about him—how you admire his drive and his passion, how you have looked up to him for years and years. how you have never felt so deeply for someone before knowing him. it comes out in a rushed ramble of words, all those nights of practicing in the mirror doing nothing for you in the actual moment. you stumble a few times, your face getting warmer with every word, and yet as each sentence falls forth you feel a weight lift from your shoulders—the flesh of your lungs clatter against your ribs, anxious and eager.

tooru inhales, gaze darting between your eyes and then flitting downwards. even in the dark of the night, you can see the pinkish hue crawling up his neck, can see the way he fidgets with his own fingers. he stares at you, lips parted as a wide array of emotions flit over his handsome features—they finally settle into a strange combination of apologetic and resigned.

and then he tells you no.

he tells you that volleyball will always take precedence, that he has already mapped out his future, which is too far away from you. he tells you about argentina and how his mind is made up. he tells you that he's flattered, that he's glad you're friends but that's all he can do right now.

“i'm sorry,” he says with a grimace. he studiously avoids looking at you, but you can't stop staring at him—your stomach sinks as he turns to head inside.

it takes you months to muster up the courage to tell him. it takes him two minutes to say no to you.

the rejection stings in a way that is unfamiliar, and you take a shaky breath as you walk down the street to catch up with the others.

the humiliation makes itself known in the form of a painful lump in your throat—unmoving and heavy. when you glance up you see that the third years have hung back, waiting for you. makki is wearing a knowing grin, but it falters when he sees your expression. mattsun, ever observant, seems to immediately understand, and he wordlessly slings an arm over your shoulder.

all you can do is awkwardly chuckle, knowing that it sounds weak and throaty as you shake your head. “i feel stupid,” you admit, voice wobbling as heat burns through your skin—unpleasant and unwelcome.

“you're not stupid,” makki mutters, hands shoved deep in his pockets as his lips slant regretfully. you stare at the ground, nodding slowly under the weight of mattsun's arm. your lungs ache, and you know that if you open your mouth, you will lose it entirely. so all you can manage to do is look up at iwa with glassy eyes and trembling lips and a rueful smile that probably makes you look as pathetic as you feel.

you don't notice the way his fists are clenched at his sides, nails digging indents into his palms. he grits his teeth, gaze flitting to oikawa's house in the background, but he doesn't say anything.

none of them speak as they walk you home, and you try your best to keep the sniffles to a minimum, too embarrassed to look at them.

you've never felt pain like this before, and it's hard to get over it because everything reminds you of tooru. it's like someone has taken a knife and carved into your ribcage, grasping your heart before taking it out crushing it between bloodied fingers. but even despite the gaping hole in your chest you know that there are expectations to be met, things to be done.

that's the strange thing about your silly unrequited love—it hurts and hurts and hurts some more until it stops one day before you can realize it. even though your chest is still bleeding you go on with life—you go to university, you get a job, you pay bills. you get up in the morning and brush your hair and drink water and tie your shoes until the wound closes itself up. you start smiling a little wider and laughing a little freer until oikawa tooru is nothing more than an old name.

and of course there are instances where you are reminded of him and what could've been, whether it's seeing milk bread in a supermarket or passing by children hitting a volleyball over a net out in the sun. you know very well that your friends are occasionally still in contact with their old captain, not that this bothers you. after all, mattsun, makki, and iwa were very careful not to bring him up around you, which you're grateful for. so even hearing the name in passing becomes easier.

it is difficult until it isn't anymore.

you've all but forgotten him now, after years and years and years—nothing more than a distant memory.

so imagine the sinking feeling of dread pooling in your stomach when you walk into the restaurant on makki's birthday and see oikawa tooru sitting at the bar, drink in hand. his eyes are alight as he laughs at whatever conversation he's joined, dark hair falling into his eyes messily.

one step forward, ten steps back.

for a second you can't help but stare, breath stolen from your lungs because it feels like the knife is back and twisting itself into your flesh all over again. there is a panic rising in your throat, suffocating and overwhelming and jarring.

tooru lifts his glass to his lips, hiding his grin as his gaze lazily travels over the expanse of the room.

another surge of panic. the familiar sting of humiliation.

he pauses as he's about to take a sip, brown eyes widening when they land on you, and you see the sharp inhale he takes. his stare doesn't waver, too consumed by shock to look away.

and yet that's all you can do—tear your eyes away because you're different now and it's long gone and you know there is no point in going down that rabbit hole again.

it was a lifetime ago—it's done now.

but you will never know how long tooru thought of you after that night back in high school. you will never know that he felt sick to his stomach when he saw the way your face fell at his rejection. you will never know that he bit his tongue so hard it bled as he watched you walk away from him. you will never know that he spent countless nights in argentina wondering what you were up to and how you were. you will never know that sacrificing you for his beloved sport was the hardest thing he's ever done.

so imagine the sinking feeling of dread tooru feels when he sees the way your eyes light up as you find your way over to iwa's side.

@teddybeartoji this is for you mickey ily hehehehehe