Kaiser stayed sprawled on the bed, head still pillowed on your thighs, but his smirk had sharpened into something darker. His kisses had moved from playful nips to something heavier, hotter, more deliberate. He shifted, turning fully onto his stomach, spreading your thighs apart with his hands like he owned the right to. And the way he looked up at you from between your legs, smug, yes, but also glassy-eyed, reverent, made your chest clench. “Your thighs,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to the sensitive skin there, “your sounds, the way you squirm for me,” His teeth grazed you again, just enough to make you twitch. “You’re unreal, Schatz. Perfect. I could stay here forever.” Then, without breaking eye contact, he pressed his mouth lower. At first, he didn’t rush. His lips found the outline of your heat through your panties, pressing soft, wet kisses there like he was making out with you. Slow, deliberate, teasing. The warmth of his breath seeped into you, the pressure of his tongue flicking lightly against fabric until you whimpered. You pushed your hips up, needing more, but Kaiser pinned you with a low chuckle. “Patience,” he purred, dragging his tongue flat against you through the thin fabric, savoring. “I’m gonna take my time. Taste every fucking bit of you.”
When he finally peeled your panties aside, he didn’t dive right in. He hovered, breathing you in, lips brushing against the slick heat of you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Then he kissed you, open-mouthed and reverent, slow and filthy at once. His tongue slid between your folds, unhurried, savoring, almost like he was learning you with every stroke. “Gott,” he muttered against you, voice rough. “So sweet. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging, and that only spurred him on. He started slow, long, languid licks from bottom to top, tongue swirling lazily around your clit before pulling back just enough to tease again. He mouthed at you, sloppy and deliberate, like he was kissing you there the way he’d kissed your mouth earlier. Every little whimper, every shiver, he drank in like praise. But then his hunger snapped loose.
The kisses turned messier, wetter, filthier. His tongue plunged deeper, fucking into you, groans vibrating against your core as if he was addicted to the taste. His nose pressed into your clit as he lapped at you greedily, smearing spit and slick all over until you were a wet mess under him. He pulled back only to smirk up at you, lips glistening, voice hoarse. “Look at you, Schatz. Falling apart just from my mouth. You know how insane that makes me?” You moaned his name, and it broke something in him. He dove back in, tongue circling your clit, then sucking it hard, dirty and relentless. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you wide open for him, refusing to let you squirm away. Every sound you made drove him deeper, hungrier.
“Fuck, I love seeing you like this,” he groaned into you, voice muffled but desperate. “So beautiful, so fucking mine.” His tongue moved faster now, alternating between slow, teasing swirls and frantic flicks that had you gasping. He ate you like a starved man, drowning in the mess, moaning into you like your taste was the best thing he’d ever had. And in a way, maybe it was. And as he held you down, tongue relentless, your thighs trembling around his head, he knew he's addicted to you in every damn way.
a/n: can you tell i've been too whipped for kaiser lately, also if you're an osamu girlie go give this a read <3
He wasn’t looking for you. Truth be told, he never really had to. You just kept slipping back into his life in ways he couldn’t control, sometimes through a passing scent on the train, sometimes through someone ordering a dish you used to eat, sometimes through your picture hitting his screen like a punch to the gut. Like tonight. Osamu leaned back in the office chair in his closed-up restaurant, phone heavy in his palm, the glow of your new post sitting there. A bathroom mirror shot, simple, careless, nothing dressed up for anyone. But your hair framed your face in loose waves, your lips had that soft pout like you were annoyed at something, and the neckline of your black dress dipped just enough that his mind went places it shouldn’t. “Fuckin’ hell…” he muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. He should’ve scrolled past. He should’ve. But Osamu wasn’t built for pretending. Not when it came to you. You’d always had that pull on him, the kind of pull that made him grind his teeth at two in the morning wondering if you were out with someone else, the kind of pull that made him cook three portions of dinner even after you were gone, muscle memory refusing to give up. And here you were, younger than him but looking grown in all the wrong ways, leaning over a counter like you knew exactly what it’d do to him. Like you knew he’d picture your thighs pressing against the cool counter, your mouth tipped up toward his ear, breathy little laugh spilling when he told you not to play with him.
Osamu cursed again and tossed his phone on the desk, only to pick it back up a second later, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts. You hadn’t spoken in months, not really. A few dry check-ins, an accidental run-in at the market. Nothing that explained why his chest felt like it was trying to cave in now. What the hell was he supposed to say? Ya look good? Ya tryin’ to kill me? That wasn’t him. He wasn’t the type to beg, wasn’t the type to chase. He let go when things ended, that’s what he always told himself.
But his cock stirred at the sight of you, and his pride wasn’t enough to drown out the want coiling low in his stomach.
Maybe he wouldn’t reach out. Maybe he’d just sit there, sitting in his empty restaurant, scrolling back to that damn picture until his imagination filled in the rest. The way you used to arch into his hands. The way you’d tug his hair when he went down on you. The way your eyes would roll back when he said your name low and rough. Osamu wasn’t proud of it. Not the way he sat in the dark office of his restaurant, phone screen glowing with your picture, hand already wrapped tight around his cock. But pride had never done him any favors when it came to you.
The picture wasn’t even obscene. Just you in a black dress, leaning over a bathroom sink, mouth pouty, hair spilling wild. But he knew you, knew the little tilt of your chin, knew the mischievous bite of your lip, knew when you were playing innocent. And this? This was bait. A trap. And he fell right into it. “Yer a fuckin’ menace…” he muttered, voice low and strained, wrist working slow, milking every ache out of himself. His cock was hot and heavy in his hand, leaking freely, every stroke slicker than the last. And that’s when the thought hit him.
What if she walked in right now?
The scenario built itself in his mind, sharper and filthier than any porn reel. He pictured the restaurant door creaking open, the jingle of the bell breaking the silence. You stepping inside, curious, maybe bored, maybe coming by just to see him. He’d freeze, hand stilling on his cock, chest heaving, pulse jackhammering through his throat. But you wouldn’t back out. Not you. No, you’d lean against the doorframe with that smug little smirk, eyebrow arched. “Seriously, ‘Samu? In your office?” His fist tightened, stroking harder now as the fantasy dug in deep. He imagined his answer, rough, defensive, heat creeping up his neck. “Yer fault. If ya didn’t post shit like that, I wouldn’t be sittin’ here, losin’ my goddamn mind.” In his head, you’d cross the room slow, every sway of your hips making his cock throb harder in his grip. You’d stop just short of his desk, lean down so he could smell your perfume, your hair brushing his jaw. “Pathetic,” you’d whisper, eyes dropping to where he stroked himself, shameless. “Couldn’t even wait till you got home?”
A groan rattled out of his chest, his strokes growing rougher. His hips jerked up to meet his palm, cock pulsing at the imagined humiliation. “Shut up,” he’d growl in that low voice of his. “Come closer, or I’ll make ya watch from there.” And in his fantasy, you would. Because that’s the way it always went, you couldn’t resist pushing him, couldn’t resist testing just how far his hunger stretched. He pictured you straddling his lap, your dress riding high as you perched over him, one hand shoving his away so you could take over. Your smaller fingers wrapping around his thick length, working him slow and cruel, nails scratching just enough to make his thighs tense. “You’re already this hard,” you’d murmur, almost like you pitied him. “Bet you were thinkin’ about me bending over that counter for you, huh?” His head tipped back against the chair as his strokes sped up, precum smearing slick between his fingers. “Fuck, yeah,” he hissed, imagining how your breath would ghost over his ear as you taunted him.
In his mind, he’d grip your hips tight, voice breaking rough as he admitted, “I’d fuck ya right on this desk if ya gave me half a chance.” And you’d only laugh, that sweet, cruel little laugh that always got him harder. “Then beg for it, Osamu.” The thought made him groan, wrist pumping faster, precum spilling over his knuckles as the coil in his stomach wound tight. He imagined himself actually saying it, pride stripped away, voice ragged. Please. Just one word, rough and needy, spilling out before he could choke it down. That’s when you’d sink onto him in his fantasy, your heat swallowing him to the hilt. He’d feel the wet clench of you around him, your nails dragging down his chest, your lips biting into his neck as you hissed against his skin, “Pathetic man. Touching yourself to me like this.”
Osamu’s whole body shuddered, his hand working furiously now, chasing the edge. His hips bucked up off the chair as he lost himself in the imagined rhythm, the slap of your ass against his thighs, your voice mocking and sweet, the sound of his name spilling off your lips like it was the only thing you could say. “Fuck—fuck, ya’d—ya’d kill me, sweetheart,” he groaned, forehead damp with sweat. “Ya walk in right now, I’d lose it. Wouldn’t let ya outta here till ya couldn’t walk straight.”
The fantasy blurred with the present, his hand moving faster, his cock twitching violently, his chest caving in with every ragged breath. And then it hit him, sharp and hot, orgasm ripping through him in thick spurts that painted his stomach, his hand, his shirt. He groaned through gritted teeth, voice cracking with your name, body jerking helplessly as the release wrung him dry. For a long moment, he just sat there, chest heaving, sweat slick on his skin, hand still wrapped loose around his cock. The glow of your picture lit up the desk beside him, and he stared at it with heavy-lidded eyes, heart hammering like he’d actually been caught. A bitter laugh slipped out of him, rough and humorless. “Thirty years old, and I’m sittin’ here imaginin’ my ex bustin’ me like some fuckin’ teenager.” Still, his cock gave a weak twitch against his palm, and he knew one thing for sure.
If you really had walked in on him, Osamu wouldn’t have stopped. Not for a second. And that was the worst part of all.
hello!!! i love a fwb dynamic and snarky, outwardly cold tsukishima in that dynamic and your fwb!tsukishima. do you have any more thoughts on how that develops? who confesses first? how does it happen? does he get jealous?
i enjoyed that piece a lot. thank you!
you liked itttt? ah that means so much<3 and yes, anon, something about fwb!tsukishima is just so hot and interesting. here's how i feel the plot would build upon this piece:
By day, Tsukishima is the world’s worst friend. “Why are you chewing like a horse? Close your mouth, it’s disgusting.” Or when he'd say, “Those jeans are brave. Not everyone can pull off looking like a stuffed sausage in denim.” Or when you're sitting together in class and he comments, “Do you actually understand the assignment or are you just nodding along like you always do?” And yet, when you snap back saying, “At least I’m not emotionally constipated, Kei”, he smirks, satisfied. Because to him, friendship is verbal sparring with you just to see you lose it. He’d rather roast you till you say you hate him than admit he likes having you around.
Then night falls. And suddenly? The insults become foreplay. “You’re so pathetic,” he mutters against your ear as you writhe under him. “Begging like you’ve never had cock in your life.” Pounding into you with ruthless strokes, when he's got you screaming, voice hoarse, he'd say, “You talk too much,” pressing his palm over your mouth just to hear your muffled whimpers. “Finally, some peace.”
By morning, he’s back to sighing dramatically when you ask for coffee, muttering, “God, you’re helpless,” as he hands you the mug exactly the way you like it. And this absolute whiplash drives you insane. One second, he’s your snarky “friend,” the next, he’s ruining you in his sheets. And the line between the two blurs more each time. Take the day he caught you scrolling your phone in his living room. “Texting your little roster again? Must be exhausting keeping track of all those losers, or do you just go with ‘guy with the weird hairline but has a long nose’ and ‘dude who thinks Axe body spray counts as cologne’?” You threw a cushion at him. “Jealous, Kei?” He didn’t miss a beat. “Jealous of you scraping the bottom of the barrel? Please. I’d rather date a toothbrush.” You laughed, because that was his default mode. Salty, dismissive. But when his hand brushed your lower back later that night, and he muttered a low “you’re mine” against your throat? yeah, the toothbrush joke suddenly didn’t feel so funny.
The confession comes as an offhanded comment, obviously sideways. Because of course it does. It happens when you’re out with friends. Some guy leans too close, makes you laugh a little too loud. And Kei notices. He always notices. Later, when you’re walking back to his place, he drops it like a brick on your skull, “Do you enjoy embarrassing yourself?” You blink at him. “What?” He continued without a beat, “That guy was eating up your fake laugh like it was gourmet. You should teach a class in desperation.” You stop in your tracks. “Okay, what is your problem?” He glares down at you, glasses catching the streetlight. “My problem is you acting like I haven’t been fucking you so good you can’t walk straight the next morning. I find it stupid for you only to turn around and giggle at whatever human equivalent of a wet rat decides to hit on you.” The silence stretches. You raise a brow. “...So what, you like me? Is that jt?” He scoffs, brutal as ever. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t enjoy sharing.” But his cheeks are dusted with a faint shade of pink, and when you shove him, muttering, “You’re insufferable,” he grabs your wrist, pulls you in, and kisses you hard enough to shut you up. When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, he mutters against your lips, more to himself than a solid confession, “You’re mine. Got it? Day or night. Friends or whatever-the-fuck this is.” You grin, wicked and smug. “Sounds like a confession to me.” He groans, shoving his hand over your face. “God, you’re so annoying. I should’ve just stuck with the toothbrush.”
But that night, when you’re tangled in his sheets again, his hold on you is soft, but firm, he doesn’t let go. Not once.
a/n: shidou is so nasty and i absolutely love him for it.
You had been there nearly an hour already, slouched in one of those hard plastic chairs that were specifically designed to make people miserable, sipping on overpriced vending machine coffee and trying not to lose your mind. Three more hours to go. So, naturally, you did what any normal, bored human being would do: you opened Tinder.
It was just something to do with your thumbs, a numbing little game to distract yourself from the ticking clock above the boarding gate. That was, until a low, amused voice behind you cut through your bubble.
“Ouch. Hard no for that one, huh?” The words were lazy, teasing, so close you could practically feel the smirk behind them. You stiffened. Slowly, cautiously, you turned around. And almost dropped your phone. There he was. Messy pink-blond hair, tattoos peeking from the hem of his designer hoodie, grin wide and feral. Eyes that sparkled with trouble.
Shidou Ryusei. The infamous striker. Tabloid menace. Football’s problem child. And the man whose profile you had just swiped left on. “…no way,” you muttered under your breath. Shidou leaned forward, resting his elbows on the back of your chair, grinning like the devil had just handed him your soul. “No way is right. You swiped left on me? That’s illegal, princess.” Heat rose in your face as you snapped your phone shut like it was contraband. “It’s not personal.”
His smirk sharpened. “Not personal? You denied this.” He gestured to himself, dragging his hand down his chest like a runway model, his hand stopping near his crotch, almost paling himself. “You know how many people out there would kill for a match with Shidou freakin’ Ryusei?”
“Maybe I like living,” you shot back before you could stop yourself. For a beat, he blinked. Then he burst into laughter, throwing his head back so loud the businessman across the row glared. “Hah! Oh, you’ve got claws. I like that.” You sank into your seat, praying he’d get bored. No such luck. Minutes later, a tap on your shoulder. You ignored it. Another tap. Then the kick of his shoe against the back of your chair. “What!?” you hissed, yanking out an earbud. Shidou’s grin was positively wicked. “So, what’s your type then, huh? If not me.”
"I don't think I owe you an explanation, Shidou." He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Bet you like boring boys. The nice, sweater-wearin’, good guys that would say sorry before kissing you. Snooze fest.” You bristled. “Better than a feral man like you.” Shidou chuckled low, leaning closer until his breath brushed your ear. He was way too close. “Wrong answer. You don’t want boringwant someone who’ll make sure you can’t walk straight after dinner.” Your jaw dropped, heat surging to your cheeks and somewhere lower in your stomach. “You can’t just say that out loud!” But of course, he could. He had no shame. “Swipe left on me, huh?” His voice carried now, loud enough for the row beside you to hear. “Bet you’d swipe right real quick if you knew what I was packin’ under these joggers.”
“Shidou—” your eyes almost bulged out of your sockets. “What? Don’t act like you’re not curious. My goal ratio ain’t the only scoring stat worth braggin’ about.” Someone across the aisle snorted behind their newspaper. Shidou just grinned wider, basking in your mortification. “Come on, princess, admit it. You swiped wrong. That thumb of yours betrayed you. Wanna fix it?”
“No,” you bit out. His grin widened. “Fine. I’ll fix it for ya.” He mimed swiping right in the air, his hand exaggerated. “There. Matched. Now what?” You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet,” he drawled, leaning close again, “you’re still talkin’ to me.” The next twenty minutes were torture. Shidou was relentless, tossing gummy bears at your lap, telling football locker room stories that got progressively filthier, and worst of all, ramping up his jokes about proving that swiping left was 'the dumbest decision of your life.' “Think about it,” he said, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Ninety minutes on the pitch, easy stamina. Extra time if you’re lucky. Bet you never had a guy put up numbers like that.” You nearly choked. “Shut up!”
“Oh, princess, don’t act shy now. Body language don’t lie. You keep crossin’ your legs every time I talk about it.” He grinned wolfishly, eyes darting down just to make you squirm harder. Your ears burned. “I hate you.” He ignored that completely. “Tell you what. Since we’re on the same flight…” His grin turned positively evil. “Wanna reconsider that left swipe at thirty thousand feet? Mile-high club initiation package. Courtesy of me.” Your jaw dropped. “We are not—” but he cut you off, “Why not?” he interrupted, delighted. “Plane bathrooms are tiny, sure. But I like a challenge.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Bet I could still make you scream loud enough to get us both banned from the airline.” The businessman across the row coughed, shoulders shaking. You buried your burning face in your hands. “I’m moving seats.” Shidou just leaned back, sprawling with that predatory confidence. “Go ahead, princess. I’ll crawl over the armrest mid-flight. Flight attendants’ll think it’s turbulence.”
You were seconds away from filing an official harassment complaint just to save your dignity when the intercom finally announced boarding. Relief washed over you. Until Shidou’s sharp eyes darted to your boarding pass as you fumbled it. He snatched it out of your hand with reflexes honed on the pitch, smirk curling. “Oh, would you look at that. We’re neighbors up there too. Lucky you.” You snatched it back, glaring. “Unlucky me.” He just winked. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my hands to myself… unless you change your mind about that mile-high club.”
Loud. In front of everyone.
Every head in the gate turned. Your entire body threatened to combust. Shidou, meanwhile, strutted toward the boarding line like a king. “Three more hours, princess. By landing, you’ll be beggin’ me for overtime drills.” And the worst part? The way your pulse quickened told you that, deep down, you weren’t sure if he was wrong.
Moments later you settled down in your seatbwoth Shidou right bedside you. You loved your personal space but apparently now he loved it too, with how his thigh was practically stuck with yours, how his hands accidentally kept brushing on your thigh, dangerously close to your core. But at least he was quiet. The first thirty minutes of the flight had been quiet. Peaceful even. You had headphones in, playlist humming, trying to forget the last hour of humiliation Shidou Ryusei had put you through at the gate.
Then the turbulence hit. Not the plane kind, the Shidou kind.
It rattled your peace so fucking hard. Because the man was sprawled in the aisle seat like he owned the cabin, knees splayed so wide his thigh pressed into yours, one elbow propped arrogantly on the armrest. And of course, he’d noticed how you kept inching away, trying to reclaim personal space. “Keh,” he chuckled, leaning close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You can’t run, princess. We’re locked in together. Just you, me, and thirty thousand feet of opportunity.” You rolled your eyes, forcing your gaze out the window. “Opportunity for what? To be annoyed into insanity?” He smirked, feral. “Opportunity to fix that left swipe mistake.” You shot him a glare. “It wasn’t a mistake.” Shidou leaned back, stretching with a groan that drew a few glances from nearby passengers. Then his hand casually landed on your knee. Your breath caught.
“See,” he murmured, fingers drumming lazily, “I could be a gentleman and keep quiet. But where’s the fun in that? Nah. I’m gonna make you imagine every nasty fuckin’ thing I’d do to you if we weren’t strapped into these seats.”
“Don’t,” you hissed. “Oh, I’m already startin’.” His grin widened. “Picture it baby, tiny bathroom, door locked. You bent over that sink, panties around your ankles, me poundin’ into you hard enough to make the whole fuselage rattle. Captain thinks it’s turbulence, but really, it’s just me makin’ you scream.” Your entire body went hot, and you immediately buried your face in your hands. “Shidou—!” He laughed, shameless. “Ohhh, you’re blushin’ already. Cute. Wanna know the best part? You wouldn’t even last five minutes before beggin’ me to stuff my hand in your mouth so no one hears.” You snapped your head toward him, horrified and flustered all at once. “You’re insane”, you barked. “Insane for you,” he crooned, leaning back with a wolfish smirk. A flight attendant walked past, giving your row a suspicious glance. Shidou flashed her his brightest, most angelic smile, waited until she moved on, then leaned back into you.
“Bet you’d look so fuckin’ hot ridin’ me right here under one of those blankets,” he whispered, voice filthy silk. “Everyone else tryin’ to watch their little in-flight movies, and there you are, bouncin’ on my cock like you’re in IMAX 3D.” You nearly choked on your water. “You can’t just—”
“Course I can. What are they gonna do? Kick me off mid-air?” He licked his teeth, grin stretching. “Nah. They’ll just think you’re havin’ a real good dream.” Your thighs pressed together despite yourself. He noticed instantly. “Ohhh, I see that. Little princess actin’ all innocent, but your body’s screamin’ louder than the engines.” He dragged his hand up your thigh an inch. “Bet you’re wet already. Wanna let me check?” You slapped his hand away, heart racing. “Touch me and I’ll scream.”
“Good,” he purred, leaning closer. “I like screamers.” The audacity. The audacity of this man. He settled back again, but only to start tormenting you in a new way: dirty one-liners dropped every five minutes, just enough to keep you on edge.
“If you sit on my lap, I’ll give you more legroom. Fair trade, yeah?”
"You swiped left, but your pussy’s already swipin’ right. Bet it’s drippin’ just thinkin’ about sittin’ next to me for three hours.”
“Swipin’ left on me’s like refusin’ first class for economy. Dumb move, princess. Dumb move.”
"Bet you’d creak louder than these tray tables if I bent you over it.”
“Tell you what. If I get bored, I’ll just start jerking off right here under the blanket. Wanna watch? Could let you hold it, see what that left swipe missed out on.”
“Fuck, just thinkin’ about you gaggin’ on my cock while the old lady two rows down tries to sleep…” He groaned theatrically, drawing another glare from a passenger across the aisle.
You hissed, “Can you please shut the fuck up?” He grinned, eyes gleaming with feral delight. “Nope. But you should try sitting on my face, it might shut me up.” This man was impossible. Every brush of his knee, every low whisper, every filthy scenario poured gasoline on the fire in your gut. You hated it. You hated him. You hated that your heart was hammering so fast every time his lips ghosted your ear, teasing you with more of his filthy words that had you imagining things everytime you tried closing your eyes.
Shidou noticed, of course. He noticed everything. “Y’know what I think?” His voice dipped lower, huskier. “I think you’re fightin’ it. I think you want it so bad it hurts, but you’d rather die than admit I’m right. Keh, that’s fine. I love a challenge.” His hand slid onto your thigh again, fingers flexing deliberately. You froze, breath caught in your throat. Then he leaned in, whispering the final nail in the coffin:
“Two more hours, princess. And by the time we land, you’ll either be sittin’ on my face, to shut me up-ofcourse. Or you’ll be sittin’ there drippin’ and wishin’ you had.”
Your pulse thundered. Your mind screamed. And your imagination? It betrayed you completely. Because the second his hand left your thigh, all you could think about was what would happen if you didn’t stop him next time.
You were sitting at the dining table with your mom that afternoon, casually practicing German out loud, more to amuse yourself than anything else. You’d been working on stringing together simple sentences, and most of them were clumsy, stitched with English when you forgot a word. Your mom had been half-listening, sipping her tea and scrolling through her phone.
Then it slipped out.
“Mein Mann ist Michael Kaiser.”
The words left your mouth with the confidence of someone who thought they were simply saying “my man’s name is Michael Kaiser.” Except… the second your mom raised her brows and gave you that look, you realized exactly what you’d said.
Mein Mann. My husband.
You froze mid-breath, lips parting in horror as your brain replayed the German phrase like a mocking echo chamber. Your mom’s face did the thing—surprise melting into slow, dawning amusement. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes said it all. “Oh no,” you whispered, pressing a hand to your forehead. She hummed knowingly and went back to sipping her tea. “So… that footballer, hm?”
You wanted to sink into the floor and never resurface.
Of course, you told Kaiser later that evening. One look at your face and Kaiser knew his little ball of chaos did something very amusing, atleast for him. "Tell me Liebling, what's on that pretty mind of yours?", he said with a knowing smirk that made you want to push him off you, or kiss it away, or both. You couldn’t keep something like this from him, especially not when he’d drag it out of you with that insufferable smirk anyway. So when the two of you were curled up on the couch, his arm draped over your shoulders, and you finally admitted it, you braced yourself.
“Kaiser,” you began, fiddling with the hem of your hoodie. “I, uh… I kinda made a mistake today while practicing German.” He didn’t even look concerned. He leaned back, utterly at ease, one long leg stretched across the coffee table. “Schatz, you make mistakes in German all the time. That’s not news.” You should've been offended, really, but you actually made a very silly mistake so you won't even argue with him.
“Yeah, but this one’s… worse.”
His attention sharpened immediately, icy blue eyes flicking to your face. He tilted his head, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Worse how?” You swallowed, cheeks heating. “I accidentally said… ‘Mein Mann ist Michael Kaiser.’”
There was a pause.
Then a low laugh rumbled out of him, rich and amused, the kind that curled at the edges with genuine delight. He sat up, turning toward you fully, eyes glinting like you’d just handed him the crown jewel of banter material. "You called me your husband?" he drawled, one brow arched.
“It was an accident!” you blurted, burying your face in your hands. “I was trying to say ‘my man,’ not like… that! But my mom was right there and she figured it out and I wanted to die—”
“Mein Mann,” Kaiser repeated slowly, savoring it like expensive wine. He leaned in, close enough for his breath to brush your ear. “You declared me your husband to your mother in my native language without even realizing it? Schatz, that’s better than any proposal I could’ve imagined.”
You groaned, shoving his shoulder, but he only laughed harder, falling back against the couch. “It’s not funny,” you muttered.
“It’s hilarious,” he countered. His grin was wicked, but there was a softness buried under it, an unmistakable warmth in the way he was looking at you. “So, tell me, how did Mama react?” You scowled, cheeks still on fire. “She didn’t say anything. She just gave me this look. Like the ‘oh, I see what’s going on here’ look. And then she said, ‘so that footballer, huh?’”
Kaiser’s laugh was so loud this time that you had to clap a hand over his mouth. “Shh!”
He nipped at your palm playfully before pulling it away. “I like your mom already,” he said with a wolfish grin. “Smart woman. Knows quality when she sees it.” Rolling your eyes, you grabbed a cushion and whacked him with it. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re mine,” he shot back smoothly, catching the pillow mid-swing and yanking it out of your grasp. “See? Even your subconscious agrees. Husband-wife, mann-frau, it’s destiny.”
“Stop twisting it!” you protested, but your heart betrayed you by beating faster. Kaiser noticed. He always did. His smirk softened, turning into something gentler as he leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against yours. “You know, you don’t have to be embarrassed. I like the sound of it.” You blinked, startled by the sincerity under his teasing. “You… like the sound of being called my husband?”
“Natürlich,” he said, voice low and steady. “Because that’s where this is headed, isn’t it?” The words sank into your chest, warm and terrifying all at once. Kaiser wasn’t one to say things he didn’t mean. He was cocky, sure, but beneath all that glitter and bravado, he had this way of being ruthlessly honest when it mattered. You opened your mouth, closed it again, and finally muttered, “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet you love me,” he teased, brushing a kiss against your temple. “So, tell me, did Mama ask when the wedding is, or should I expect that next time I see her?” You shoved him away, laughing despite yourself. “Don’t you dare!” He grinned, satisfied, before tugging you back into his arms. “Fine, fine. But now you’ve started something, Schatz. Don’t think I won’t remind you of it.”
And he did.
Every time you stumbled over a German phrase after that, he’d smirk and say, “Careful, don’t accidentally call me your husband again.”
Whenever you introduced him to someone new, he’d add, “Future husband, actually. She already said it once in German, it’s legally binding.”
And worst of all, whenever he talked to your mom on the phone, because of course he charmed her into semi-regular calls, he’d end the conversation with a casual, “Take care of your daughter. I’ll handle the rest as her Mann.”
But as much as you groaned and whined, you couldn’t help the little thrill that ran through you every time he said it. Because deep down, you knew he wasn’t entirely joking.
And maybe—just maybe—you didn’t mind that accident after all.
tsukishima kei as your fuck buddy that cares a little too much? mmm delicious
You didn't really intend to stay over, but last night was a little too intense. You begged him, over and over to fuck you. And so he did, since you looked so good begging him for his cock, loved seeing you ho dumb over it. The morning light stretched thin across his apartment, golden beams filtering through the blinds, cutting across the mess of sheets on your bed. Your body protested every movement, a dull ache blooming in places you didn’t realize could be sore. You tugged on one of his hoodies which practically swallowed you and padded toward the kitchen, wincing as you lowered yourself onto the chair.
It was subtle. Barely there. But of course he caught it.
From where he stood by the counter pouring coffee, Tsukishima tilted his head, glasses sliding down just enough for him to glance at you over the rim. His lips quirked, not quite a smile but more of that irritatingly smug line he got whenever he was too amused to hide it.
“…You’re walking like you’re eighty.” His tone was deceptively flat, but you caught the undercurrent of satisfaction. “Don’t tell me you’re actually sore.”
You shot him a glare, though it didn’t carry much weight with how sluggishly you moved. “I wouldn’t be if someone had listened when I said stop.”
“Please.” He set the mug down in front of you, leaning one hip against the counter. “You begged me to keep going. Multiple times. Don’t rewrite history just because your body can’t handle what your mouth asked for.”
Heat shot to your cheeks. You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “Don’t remind me." He leaned down just enough to be in your space, voice dropping, dry and teasing. “Why? Embarrassed? You sounded cute.”
You peeked at him between your fingers, and there it was, that smirk he tried to keep restrained, like he knew exactly how far to push before you snapped.
“You’re such an ass.”
“Mm.” He straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. “And yet you were crying about how good I felt last night. About how it's the best. Remind me again who exactly begged who? That too on all fours even after rounds of being fucked to the brim.”
You wanted to throw the coffee at him. Instead, you stubbornly took a sip, hoping the cup hid how flustered you were. The ache in your thighs, the soreness between your legs, it all pulsed with the vivid memory of his weight pressing you down, his voice low in your ear telling you not to run from it. Telling you how you're his good fucking cumslut, about how he loves you but then added how he love you going dumb just from his cock, hoping your fucked out state didn't catch him slipping. You didn't. Of course you didn’t.
Your wince when you shifted in the chair gave you away again. He didn’t miss it. He never missed anything. This time, though, his smirk softened at the edges. Tsukishima pushed off the counter and came to stand behind you, one hand settling on your shoulder. The warmth of his palm seeped through the fabric of his hoodie, grounding you. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, quieter now. “Pushing yourself past what you can take just because you what? Love my cock that much?”
You turned your head slightly. “You didn’t exactly stop me.” He clicked his tongue, eyes narrowing. “You’d hate me if I had.” You didn’t argue, because he was right.
For a beat, the teasing mask slipped, and his thumb brushed absentmindedly along the slope of your shoulder. His voice dipped low, more honest than mocking. “I’ll run you a bath later. You need to soak before you stiffen up completely.” The softness in his tone almost made your chest ache more than the soreness in your body. You tilted your head back to look at him, catching the faint pink creeping up his ears.
“…You’re being nice. That's new, Kei.”
He scoffed, adjusting his glasses as if the action would cover his expression. “Don’t read into it. You’re useless to me if you can’t even sit without wincing.”
Still, his hand lingered on your shoulder. You grinned, leaning into his touch despite the soreness that flared when you shifted. “Mm. Whatever you say, Kei.” And though he rolled his eyes, you caught the way his lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile that would betray just how much he cared.
getting your nails done in the color of kaiser's tip. you think it's your little surprise to him, but oh boy. you thought you'll leave him flustered? nah. you should've known he'll definitely out flustered you<3
a/n: i've been in love with this boy and i just had to write a spicy fluffy kaiser coded blurb
the nail salon smelled faintly of acetone, the air filled with the quiet chatter of technicians and the soft whir of nail drills. you sat in the plush chair, watching as the nail artist carefully painted the glossy shade across your nails—a color that wasn’t quite innocent pink. kaiser was slouched in the chair next to you, disguised only halfheartedly with a cap pulled low. his phone was in his hand, but he hadn’t looked at it in a while. his blue orbs were fixed on your fingers, following every stroke of color with growing suspicion.
“what shade is that supposed to be, liebling?” his german accent curled around the words, his tone a mix of curiosity and laziness. you smirked, eyes flicking to meet his through the mirror across from the both of you.
“you'll see" you purred, so innocently.
the corners of his mouth twitched, a predator catching scent of a trap. he leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, gold chain glinting against his throat. “hmmm. so it’s for me, ja?”, you just smiled.
when the final top coat was cured and the technician left, you lifted your hand into the light. the nails gleamed, deep pink with an almost illicit undertone. kaiser’s gaze sharpened, his phone forgotten entirely now. he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes narrowing as he studied the shade. then, like the cocky bastard he was, he laughed. not soft, not shy, but a low, wicked chuckle that made a couple of women at the other end of the salon glance over. “oh. ohh.” he dragged out the sound, his grin curling slow and dangerous. “you’re sick, mein gott. absolutely twisted.”
"you like it?", you asked.
“ja, ofcourse, you matched them to my fucking tip.” his voice dropped, low and smug, almost a purr. “im absolutely in love”. heat bloomed across your cheeks, simply checking out your nails, personally inspecting the shade. kaiser laughed again, throwing his head back this time, utterly delighted. then he lowered his voice so only you could hear: “scheiße, liebling, do you know what this does to me?" he lifted your hand by your wrist, guiding them to his obvious boner through his pants as your nails grazed his dick over the layer lightly. he hissed slightly at the contact and continued, "you walking around with the color of my tip on your nails? everyone sees this and only i know why”. he kissed the back of your hand, hot lips brushing the freshly done nails, ignoring the faint smell of polish. his eyes gleamed as he looked up at you. “you’re evil. perfectly mine. god, i love it.”
you rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you, curling upward. “you’re ridiculous.”
he pressed your hand against his chest, over his racing heartbeat. “no, nein, you’re ridiculous. i go and score goals, fans scream my name, and meanwhile, you’re out here branding yourself in secret.” he licked his lips, eyes dark with mischief. then, without a warning, he snapped his fingers.
literally snapped his fingers.
a salon assistant who was clearly bribed ahead of time hurried over with a discreet little velvet box. your eyes narrowed instantly.
"kaiser,” you warned, “what did you do?”, while he leaned back in his chair, legs spread, grinning like he owned the place. “relax, liebling. just a small upgrade.”
the technician opened the box, and you swore your jaw nearly hit the floor. nestled inside was a diamond, small but sharp, brilliant under the salon lights. your heart stuttered. “that’s—michael, that’s an actual diamond!”
"of course it is, schatz,” he said smoothly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “why the fuck would I give you anything fake? hm?” and before you could protest, he’d already taken your left hand and stretched it out across his knee. his thumb brushed over your ring finger, slow and deliberate, and his smirk turned wicked.
"this one,” he murmured. “perfect placement.” he said as he placed your hand in front of the nail tech who was currently wide-eyed but obediently set to work, carefully embedding the diamond onto your freshly painted nail. you sat there in stunned silence, cheeks blazing, while kaiser leaned back and watched like a king satisfied with his latest decree.
once it was done kaiser caught your hand again, bringing it to his lips. he kissed just beneath the nail, lips brushing the skin where a ring would usually sit. his grin was feral when he looked up at you in your eyes. “now everyone will see my girl, branded in my shade, crowned with my jewel.” you groaned, covering your face with your other hand. “you’re unbearable.”
“unbearable? darling this diamond,” he murmured, voice low, intimate enough that only you could hear, “is just a proxy. a stand-in. until I actually put a diamond ring right here.” he pressed another kiss against that bare patch of skin, deliberately slow, his breath warm on your finger, sending shivers down your spine. then he leaned back with that wicked grin of his, the one that dared you to laugh it off even as your stomach flipped.
“consider it a preview, liebling. temporary branding. because when it’s the real thing…” he trailed off, eyes gleaming, thumb brushing over the diamond-studded nail with maddening reverence. “…you won’t be able to take it off."
Keiji Akaashi was seated on the couch, sipping a glass of red wine, reviewing proofs on his tablet with the precision of a man who files his soul into folders. The living room is silent. Soft jazz. City lights outside. Calm. Refined. Controlled. Until you came in.
“Keijiiiiiiii!! LOOK WHAT I GOT!!” You burst out of the bedroom. In cat ears. Fuzzy black ones. With bells. JINGLING with every step. You're practically skipping. Holding the ears like a 5-year-old who found treasure in a cereal box.
“They jingle when I shake my head!!”
Jingle-jingle-jingle.
Akaashi looks up slowly from his tablet. One blink. Two. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a war with his own face. “...You're wearing bells.” You nod like it’s the most exciting discovery of the century.
“Jingle bells,” you sing, proudly jingling side to side. And now the corners of his mouth are trembling. He sets the wine glass down like he’s making a business decision.
“I see.”
You hop in front of him and strike a pose. “So? What do you think?”
He stares. The ears. The bells. The delighted chaos in your eyes. He adjusts his glasses. And says, with the calm tone of a man rapidly combusting inside: “I think... ”
“You’re the most absurdly adorable thing I’ve ever seen.” You tilt your head in confusion. “You’re not even gonna boop them?” He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”
“Yes.”
He sighs dramatically, sets the tablet aside, and stands. You expect a soft little boop. Instead, he leans down. Slow, deliberate, sleeves rolled up, and cups your face, fingers brushing under the cat ears, bells chiming softly as your breath catches. “I hope you understand,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes dark, “that you’re very lucky I have self-restraint.”
“Oh?”
He straightens his tie, “Because if you jingle like that again...”, he steps closer. "I will show you exactly how much of a mistake it is to tempt a man like me in bells.” You go completely silent. Then, “Jingle-jingle.”
“Get on the couch.” he says with no hesitation. And he said like he’s asking you to review legal documents, not brace yourself for cat-eared consequences. You blink. “Keiji. I was jingling. For joy.”
“And now I’m jingling with restraint.”, he says plainly. “You can't just tell me to get on the couch like this is a performance review!” He sighs, removes his glasses slowly like it’s a ritual before sins are committed, and tosses them onto the side table. “You're in cat ears, my love. And you're jingling. And you bounced.” You're wide eyed at this point, like a deer caught in headlights, “I was excited!” He just calmly says, as if he verbally and mentally didn't just rewire your brain, “So am I. Get on the couch.”
"Did I accidentally pull out Akaashi Keiji's hidden kink?", you try feigning innocence but fail because of the mischievous glint in your eyes. He takes a sharp breath. Reconsiders your entire existence. Then quietly says, “One more sentence from you, and I will flip you over this couch like a book I’m about to annotate in red pen.” You forget to breathe for a second and then finally breathe out, “...I'm suddenly very literate.”
To which he simply adds, “and about to be well read.”
Suna Rintaro Wholesome Headcanons That Have Me Giggling
Suna Rintaro who as a teenager frequently visited the twins' house in Hyogo.
Suna Rintaro who's close with their parents who love Rintaro just as much as they love their sons.
Suna Rintaro who laughs when the twins' parents tell him childhood stories about the twins and how much they are responsible for their premature gray hair.
Suna Rintaro who in turn tells the twins' parents that he feels bad for them and hopes he never has to face the same situation.
Suna Rintaro whose eyes almost pop out of their sockets when the gynecologist congratulates Suna for becoming a father to twins while showing both of you the sonogram.
Suna Rintaro who ugly cries with happiness when he holds both of his baby boys in his arms for the first time.
Suna Rintaro who loves how his babies look like his spitting image— much to your annoyance (you carried them for 9 months only for them to look like your husband?!)
Suna Rintaro whose biggest concern as the twins are growing up is how much his sons love the Miya Twins.
Suna Rintaro who's soul almost leaves his body when his little twins start doing some of the same things as Atsumu and Osamu's parents had told him about.
Suna Rintaro who does not laugh at the stories the Miyas' parents had told him about, and rather empathises with them.
Suna Rintaro who smiles with nothing but adoration when you send him selfies of you with your twins captioned "We miss you dadda" on his away games.
Suna Rintaro whose face loses color when he hears a loud crash in the kitchen and rushes to see his 4 year olds giggling with flour entirely covering them AND half of the kitchen.
Suna Rintaro whose heart melts when they say "Sorry dadda, just wanted to make pancakes for you and mommy".
Suna Rintaro who has accepted the fact that even his hair would untimely turn gray and he'd probably get wrinkles in his forties but no longer minds it because he loves his baby boys way too much to care even if they sometimes make him want to peel his skin off <3
(Bonus : He also doesn't mind his early grays and wrinkles because as you always tell him he'd be the "yummiest dilf ever")
Incorrect OBEY ME Quote inspired from that one tiktok I don't have the link of (if you know pls send me the link)
Lucifer: So did he drop you home after your date?
Mc: yeah, he did.
Lucifer: And? Did he come inside?
Mc: No? It was just the first date?
Lucifer: that's very responsible of you MC—
MC: ...so I asked him to come on my face instead
Asmo: *wheezes in the background*
Lucifer: *horrified and disgusted and disappointed, pinching the bridge of his nose* you're not allowed to spend time with asmodeus and solomon anymore.
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