Kiyoomi Sakusa has a secret. One that even Komori doesn't know, and he plans to take it with him to his grave.
Calm and collected, but competitive and proud at the same time—there's nothing he hates more than leaving things unfinished. The only exception to this seems to be his thoughts about you.
At first, he didn't get it. Why did the girl who hung around Komori begin digging her way into his thoughts? Did Komori initially say you two were friends? Well, it didn't matter. You were just another irrelevant, average person. Or, at least, that was what he believed until that day.
The day he randomly came across you hanging in a tree. Earlier that day, while he was walking to school, there was a bird—probably injured—chirping and crying for help. Although he heard the students and adults who walked past that road voice their pity for the bird, he fully expected it to still remain in the tree when he returned from school, because that's just how people are.
They talk and show pity for others, but rarely actually do something about it.
So then why did you go out of your way to rescue that bird from the tree? Even when you look down at him and suddenly lose your balance in surprise, his hands, already reaching out to catch you. You fall right into him, cradling the bird in your palm.
It was annoying. You were just one of those people who act carelessly, completely unprepared. Why save the bird when you couldn't even do it properly?
He only half-listened to your apology when you quickly got off him, luckily leaving the bird safely unharmed from the fall. He also didn't care about what would happen to you or the creature while he dusted himself off, got up to his feet, and quietly walked away.
However, it was unexpected when you came to him the next day, dropping by the gym to hand over a leather zipper pouch filled with cute, styled bandages, antiseptic wipes, and a mini tube of Neosporin. You apologized for the scratch he got on his palm from the crash, and also thanked him for saving you.
Though he corrected you and insisted that he wasn't trying to save you, he took the pouch and made good use of the items. For some reason, since then, you seemed convinced that he wasn't the blunt, germaphobic jerk his reputation proved him to be. You respected his dislike for germs and crowds, always making sure not to intrude on his personal space or casually touch his items with unsanitized hands. Overall, you were just really considerate, and you always had that helpful smile on your face.
When you first entered his thoughts, he always caught himself. Why think about someone random who doesn't concern him in any way? Your consideration is fine, and it would be nice if everyone else in the world had that basic decency. Maybe he underestimated you for being careless and unprepared; from what he observes, you aren't just an irresponsible klutz, and you actually carry yourself with care.
You are someone deserving of his respect overall. Which is all the more reason why he feels immensely ashamed for having such dirty thoughts about you. Thoughts that won't go away. Thoughts that progressively worsen over time, each getting filthier than the last.
It's strange. He just wants to touch your lips with his fingers to see if they are as smooth and soft as they seem when you chirp away like a bird. His eyes helplessly get drawn to them whether he likes it or not. Then, he wants to feel them with his lips, slightly pressed up against yours just for two seconds, maybe three or four… or wouldn't it be better if he parts your lips open with his and gently sucks on them? It would be more efficient to feel their actual texture that way.
And while he's at it, he could check out your tongue as well. How soft is it? How long? How flexible? How thick? How would it react to him diving into your mouth, holding your face in place while his tongue explores every inch until he is satisfied, before twisting and turning with yours? Tugging you forward and back, pressing down against you until he breaks away, chest heaving and face flushed from being breathless.
But what about your neck? Where your scent would probably linger for hours. Would it still look so perfect when he kisses it, sucks, and bites on it, leaving red, visible, angry hickey marks all over it? Somehow, the imagery only makes you seem even more attractive.
And if he should go further—your breasts. How would they look exposed to his gaze? Would your nipples harden instantly, or would he have to use his long, lean fingers and his mouth on them to get them all pretty, pink, and perked?
Your stomach to kiss over, your thighs to part, your folds to toy with until you're left soaking, your arousal coating his fingers. The same fingers he would then take to his cock, mixing your moisture with his precum, spreading it all around his length, sufficiently coating himself before lifting your legs up. He would press them together, closing your thighs before making good use of them, each thrust rubbing up and down your swollen clit. An intriguing part of you that he'd play with using his fingers, watching you squirm, toes curling, eyes closing, lips moaning his name while he sloppily fucks himself off between your soft, warm thighs.
Releasing his cum all over your stomach, some of it splattering onto your breasts as well. He'll let your legs go, leaning down to smear everything all the way to the part between your legs, thoroughly fucking you with his fingers while he presses down against your form to kiss you. He would leave you no breathing space until you're shaking, your legs unable to stay still as your orgasm crashes over you and you splurt all over his hands.
The same hand that he'd use to play volleyball the next day—but not before turning you over onto your stomach as he continues his lewd acts until he's had his fill.
Kiyoomi Sakusa lets out a long sigh as he brings his hand out of his pants and up to his face. Staring at his cum-stained palm, his eyes hover over the zoomed-in photo of you on his phone screen. The sight of the smile on your lips reminds him of how long he's had you on his mind now. Spending time jerking off in his bedroom instead of getting his proper eight hours of sleep. It is infuriating, but it still feels so good to return his hand to his pants. Not even bothering to clean it off with a napkin, he begins steadily stroking his third erection, silently groaning your name, black eyes fixed steadily on his phone screen.
It's definitely a secret he'll take to his grave.
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