[polaroidsex]

᭡୧ Fix your route? Nah, Fuck you right. — N. Kento.

᭡୧ synopsis: in which nanami is a longtime divorced man but got a very active sex life. and in which a new, bimbo… and a very much younger neighbor moves in next to his apartment. worst part is, he’s not able to control himself around you. especially when you’re at his door, asking him to fix your wifi late at this hour.

᭡୧ pairing: older!nanami kento x kinda bimbo fem!reader

᭡୧ c. warnings: age gap, heavy sexuál tension, eyefu cking, solo m. mast urbation, nanami is in his 40s and reader is early 20s, belly/tummy bulge, fing ering, did i say heavy se xual tension?, pus sy eating, overstim ulation, squi rting, weak plot/heavy po rn — if there’s more to tag lmk. w.c: 7.8k+

nanami kento has always kept his life neat and quiet, the kind of man who folds his shirts the same way every morning and times his coffee exactly seven minutes after the water boils. forty years old, divorced once a long time ago, and now he lives alone in the corner apartment on the fourth floor where the hallway light flickers just enough to remind him he should probably call maintenance but never does.

his sex life is the same as everything else he controls, sparse and deliberate. a few times a year he lets himself download one of those bland apps, meets a woman his age in a hotel bar, fucks her slow and polite in the dark so neither of them has to look too closely at the other.

most nights though it is just his own hand in the shower, quick and efficient, eyes closed while he thinks about nothing at all. he likes it that way. clean. no mess. no complications. until you moved in next door three months ago and ruined every single one of those careful rules without even trying.

you showed up on a rainy tuesday with too many cardboard boxes and a laugh that carried through the thin walls like it belonged there.

early twenties, fresh out of whatever college or job that spat you into this building, always in oversized shirts and tiny sleep shorts that rode up the back of your thighs when you bent over to pick up your mail. nanami noticed you the first time he passed you in the hallway, the way you smiled at him like he was just another neighbor instead of a man who suddenly felt every one of those twenty years between you. he told himself it was nothing. just new noise in a building that had been quiet for years. but then the noise became something else.

the soft thump of your music when you cooked dinner, the way your balcony light stayed on late while you scrolled on your phone, the faint vanilla scent that drifted under his door every time you took out the trash. he started catching himself pausing at the peephole when he heard your keys, hating the way his cock twitched at the mere sound of your footsteps. hating it more when he realized he was hard again in the shower that same night, fist wrapped tight around himself while he pictured those sleep shorts pooled around your ankles.

he tried to ignore it at first. threw himself into longer office hours, came home later, kept the volume on his television higher so he would not hear you humming in the shower through the shared wall. it did not work.

every little thing you did chipped at him. the way you waved from your balcony in the mornings wearing nothing but a thin tank top and no bra, nipples stiff from the cool air. the way you asked him once, all sweet and shy, if he knew how to fix a leaking faucet and stood too close while he worked, soft focused grunts leaving is chest and his rolled-up sleeve. after that night he jerked off twice before he could even get his jeans off, coming so hard he had to brace one hand on the shower tile just to stay upright.

he hated how easily you affected him. hated that a girl barely old enough to rent her own apartment could make a man like him, a man who prided himself on control, feel like some desperate teenager again. his sex life used to be something he managed. now it was just quiet frustration and the occasional guilty stroke while he thought about how small you would look under him, how tight you would feel, how pretty you would sound moaning his name.

then came the router. you knocked on his door at nine-thirty one random night, voice small and embarrassed over the phone first, then in person when he opened up still dressed in his white button-up and black jeans.

nanami stands at your doorway with one hand already in his pocket, the other holding the small toolbox he keeps for these exact random neighbor emergencies all ready, and he tells himself for the tenth time that this is nothing. just a quick fix.

your voice is soft and a little embarrassed over he’s not surprised. “sorry to bother you, nanami-san, but my wifi router just died and i have no idea what i’m doing with these things.” he had sighed, told you he would be right over, and now here he is, hating every single second because the moment you open the door he feels it again. that pull. that stupid, inconvenient heat low in his gut that has been creeping up on him since the day you moved in.

you are wearing your famous oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder and tiny sleep shorts that ride up when you shift your weight, bare feet on the hardwood, skin glazed with a thin layer of sweat like you had been lounging on the couch all evening.

you smile at him, grateful and a little shy, and nanami’s jaw tightens. he is forty, a divorced but settled, a man who likes order and quiet and routines that do not include getting half-hard at the sight of his much younger neighbor’s collarbones. yet here he is, eyes dragging down the line of your neck before he forces them back up.

“thank you so much for coming,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. your voice is warm, a little breathy from the relief of not having to deal with it alone. the apartment smells faintly of vanilla and whatever takeout you had for dinner.

nanami nods once, polite as always, and follows you toward the corner where the router sits on a low shelf. he can feel the weight of his own body, the clean but lived-in scent of his white button-up clinging slightly to his skin after a long day, black jeans sitting snug on his hips. he is musty in that grown-man way, soap and faint cologne mixed with the faint trace of office air and the walk over, nothing overpowering but undeniably male. he knows it. he hopes you do not notice how it fills the small space between you.

you hover close while he crouches down to look at the router, your thigh brushing his shoulder as you point at the blinking lights. “it just stopped working out of nowhere. i tried restarting it but…” your words trail off when he glances up.

his eyes catch on the way your t-shirt hangs loose, the soft swell of your tits visible at the neckline, the smooth skin of your legs right there at eye level. he should look away yet nanami does not. instead his gaze lingers, slow and heavy, tracing the curve of your hip, the way the hem of those shorts digs into the flesh of your thigh. he feels his cock twitch in his jeans, thickening against the zipper before he can stop it.

fuck.

he shifts his weight, trying to hide the growing bulge, but the movement only makes the fabric pull tighter.

“let me see,” he mutters, voice lower than he intends, rough around the edges. his fingers work the cables, checking connections, but his mind is not on the router. it is on you. on how you smell like warm skin and faint lotion, on how you keep biting your lip while you watch him, on how easily he could reach out and slide his palm up the back of your thigh.

he has been trying to ignore it for weeks. it takes him back to the way you wave at him from your balcony in the mornings, the sound of your laugh carrying through the thin walls when you are on the phone with friends, the soft thump of your music when you cook.

every little thing has been chipping away at his carefully built restraint. he is older. he should know better. but his body does not care about should.

he stands up slowly, taller than you by a good amount, and when he does his chest brushes your shoulder. you do not step back and the air between you feels thick, charged, and nanami’s eyes drop again, this time to your mouth, then lower to where your nipples have tightened under the thin shirt.

he swallows hard. his cock is fully hard now, pressing insistently against the front of his black jeans, the outline obvious if you were to look down. he turns slightly, pretending to fiddle with the router settings on his phone, but the movement only highlights the bulge.

he can feel the heat of it, the way it throbs when you lean in closer to see what he is doing, your breath ghosting over his forearm.

“is it the cable?” you ask, voice quieter now, like you have noticed the shift too. your eyes flick to his face, then down, then back up, and nanami sees the faint flush creeping up your neck. good. at least he is not suffering alone. he clears his throat, forcing his attention back to the device, but his free hand flexes at his side, knuckles whitening. he wants to touch you. wants to back you against the wall and slide those tiny shorts down your legs, wants to feel how wet you already are because he can smell it, that sweet faint arousal mixing with your usual scent.

his mind supplies the image without permission: you bent over the couch, his cock buried deep while he grips your hips and fucks the whimpers out of you. he exhales sharply through his nose.

“try it now,” he says, stepping back just enough to give you space, but not enough to hide anything. the router lights flicker green. you pull out your phone to test the connection and let out a small happy sound that goes straight to his dick.

“it works! oh my god, thank you, nanami-san.” you turn to him fully, eyes bright, and for a second he lets himself look. really look. at the way your chest rises with each breath, at the bare stretch of thigh, at how your lips part when you realize he is staring.

he does not smile. his expression stays bland, almost stern, but his eyes are dark and hungry, eye-fucking you so openly now that there is no pretending. his cock strains harder against the denim, a small wet spot forming where he is leaking, and he makes no move to hide it.

he is half heartedly relieved you do not notice. your gaze still stuck on your phone screen, lashes fluttering, and when you look back up, you read there is something new in his expression, something needy and waiting to be unleashed.

nanami’s voice comes out rougher than he means. “you should get a better router. this one is outdated.” it is the most neutral thing he can think of, but it does not matter.

the tension is already there, thick and undeniable, wrapping around both of you in the half-unpacked living room. he can feel his pulse in his cock, the heavy ache of it, the way his balls feel tight just from standing this close to you. he wants to hate how easily you affect him.

he does hate it. but he cannot stop the slow drag of his eyes over your body one more time, imagining exactly how you would look spread open on his bed, taking every inch while he tells you how long he has been fighting this.

you shift on your feet, thighs pressing together, and nanami catches the tiny movement. his jaw clenches. he should leave. he should say goodnight and go back to his quiet apartment and jerk off to the memory like he has done more nights than he cares to admit.

your heartbeat picks up its rate, your finger tips sweaty. you feel the air thickening already, noticing the print of your neighbors dick without even looking down.

“so maybe you could stay and i could make you some te–” your proposal is short lived.

“i’ve fixed what you’ve called me to help for. goodnight.” his stern voice catches you off guard, watching him collect and grab the toolbox on the floor that was forgotten seconds ago. you try to say something but stay frozen when he pushes past you, his neck veins slightly showing on his skin.

nanami strides out fast. because right now, with his cock hard and obvious and his control fraying at the edges, he is not sure he has the strength to stay in the same room with you.

and so he leaves you standing in the middle of your apartment with your wifi fixed and a pile of notifications ‘ding-ing’ every seconds.

+

a week drags by in thick, unspoken tension that sits heavy between the thin apartment walls like smoke that refuses to clear.

nanami wakes each morning with the same stern resolution burning behind his eyes: keep the distance, lock it down, pretend the night you called him over for the router never happened. he leaves for the office before the sun fully rises, comes home long after the hallway lights have dimmed, and when he passes your door he keeps his gaze fixed on the scuffed floorboards like they hold the answers to every moral question he has been asking himself since he first felt that inconvenient throb in his jeans. but the memory refuses to fade.

it lingers in the shower when hot water runs down his chest and his hand wraps around his cock without permission, stroking slow and frustrated while your freshly known name slips out between gritted teeth like a confession he wishes he could swallow back.

it follows him into bed at night, where he lies stiff on his back and remembers the exact shade of flush that crept up your neck when his eyes dragged too long over your body.

he hates it. hates how easily a girl barely out of her early twenties can unravel the careful, quiet life he has built for himself. he is older, disciplined, a man who values order and restraint above almost everything, yet here he is, reduced to stolen glances through the balcony railing and late-night strokes that leave him emptier than before.

you do not make any of it easier. you still wave at him from across the narrow gap between your balconies in the mornings, soft smile curving your lips like you know exactly what you are doing to him. you leave polite little notes taped to his door about shared packages or the new recycling bins downstairs, your handwriting neat and looping in a way that makes his fingers tighten around the paper every time.

each accidental brush of your fingers when you hand him mail in the hallway sends a spark straight down his spine, and every polite “good morning, nanami-san” you offer chips away at the walls he keeps trying to reinforce. he catches the sound of your laugh through the thin wall sometimes when you are on the phone with people… your age, light and warm, and his cock thickens in his slacks before he can stop it.

he tells himself it is nothing. just proximity. just the natural reaction of a man who has been alone too long. but deep down he knows the truth: you have gotten under his skin, and the more he tries to push it away the harder it pulls.

tonight the last thread of his restraint finally frays and snaps.

the familiar knock comes at exactly the time he wishes it to, soft but insistent, cutting through the quiet of his evening like a hook sinking into flesh.

nanami opens the door still dressed from the office, white button-up with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, black jeans sitting low on his hips, the faint musty-clean scent of him drifting out into the hallway, clean and faint cologne and the long day clinging to his skin.

you stand there in another oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder and those same tiny sleep shorts that have been haunting him, hair not perfect like you had been caught up in something… private, cheeks already carrying that telltale pink flush. it’s as if last week was repeating itself.

“the router again,” you say, voice small and breathy, but your eyes are not on any imaginary problem. they trace the open collar of his shirt, the broad line of his shoulders, the way his chest fills the doorway. “it keeps dropping signal. i tried everything you showed me last time but… i think i need your help again.”

he should tell you no. should suggest you call the building manager in the morning this time and close the door before the air between you thickens any further. instead he exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight, and reaches for the small toolbox he keeps by the door without saying a word.

he follows you next door, the faint click of the lock behind him sounding louder than it should. the moment you are both inside the living room the atmosphere shifts, warmer and heavier, like the space itself is holding its breath. you lead him to the same corner shelf where the router sits, but this time you do not hover at a polite distance.

you stand close enough that your bare arm brushes his rough skin when he crouches down to look. the lights on the router are steady green. he knows it is working fine the second he glances at it. and most definitely you know it.

the excuse is paper-thin and neither of you bothers to pretend otherwise.

nanami rises slowly, turning to face you fully, his tall frame casting a shadow over you in the soft lamplight. his eyes do the same slow, solemn drag they did the week before, only heavier now, sharpened by seven long days of fighting the memory of your body.

he watches the way your nipples have already tightened under the thin fabric of your shirt, the subtle press of your thighs together like the ache between them is already building. his cock responds immediately, swelling thick and heavy inside his black jeans, the thick ridge becoming obvious as it presses against the denim. he’s sure a faint damp spot is beginning to form, but he does not try to hide it this time. he lets you see. lets the weight of his stare settle on you like a touch.

“the router is working fine,” he says, voice low and rough, carrying that same stern tone he always uses, like he is delivering a verdict in court rather than standing in your living room with a hard-on he cannot will away. “you know that as well as i do. why did you really call me over here?”

you swallow visibly, eyes flicking down to the clear outline of his cock straining against his jeans before rising back to his face.

your chest rises and falls with a heavier breath, lips parting slightly, but instead of answering you take one slow step back. then another. your hands move to the waistband of your sleep shorts, fingers hooking under the fabric, and you bend forward just enough to slide them down your legs in one smooth motion.

the shorts pool at your ankles and you step out of them, leaving you in nothing but a pair of grey lace panties with delicate pink ribbons threaded along the edges. the soft fabric clings to the curve of your pussy, the faint outline of your folds visible through the thin material, and nanami’s right leg twitches involuntarily, his cock jerking hard inside his jeans at the sight.

his brows draw together in a quick pretend of frown, serious expression tightening. “what are you doing?” he asks, voice dropping even lower, a clear warning threaded through the words. but you do not stop. your fingers catch the hem of your oversized t-shirt next, lifting it slowly, inch by inch, revealing the soft skin of your stomach, the delicate dip of your waist, the underside of your breasts.

you pull the shirt up and over your head, letting it drop to the floor beside the shorts, and now you stand there in only the grey lace panties, tits bare, nipples stiff in the cool air of the room. nanami’s breath catches, his hands flexing hard at his sides, the long fingers curling into fists as he fights the urge to reach for you.

he says your name then, low and rough, the syllables heavy with warning. “don’t.” but you only smile, small and soft and knowing, and continue. your thumbs hook into the waistband of the panties, sliding them down your hips with agonizing slowness, the lace catching briefly on the swell of your ass before you let them fall.

you step out of them completely, now fully naked in front of him, skin flushed warm under his heavy gaze. you walk toward him, bare feet quiet on the floor, hips swaying just enough to make your tits move softly with each step. when you are close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your body, when his mouth opens to speak again, you lift one finger and press it gently to his lips, shushing him.

nanami lets out a small, broken sound, half whimper, half groan, the noise slipping out before he can stop it. his cock throbs visibly in his jeans, another bead of pre-cum soaking into the fabric as the tension coils tighter in the narrow space between your bodies.

he exhales shakily against your finger, eyes dark and conflicted, thick needy lines deepening on his face. “you’re a very young girl…” he trails off, voice rough and strained, the words carrying the weight of every reason he has been telling himself to stay away.

you pull your finger back just enough to speak, voice soft but steady. “i’m legal.”

“barely,” he counters immediately, the word clipped, his gaze dropping despite himself to the bare curve of your breasts, it taught him to squeeze on them and make you feel good, the soft swell of your hips, the smooth skin between your thighs where he can already see the faint shine of arousal. “you’re barely twenty-something. i’m more than twice your age. this… this is not appropriate.”

you tilt your head slightly, still standing naked and unashamed in front of him, the tension so thick it feels like the air itself has weight. “and yet you’re standing here with your cock so hard i can see it twitching through your jeans,” you murmur, eyes flicking down pointedly to the obvious bulge. “you’ve been avoiding me all week, nanami-san, but you still came over the second i knocked. tell me again how inappropriate this is.”

caught him red handed. fuck you.

he lets out another low groan, the sound vibrating in his chest, his hand coming up like he might push you away but instead hovering just above your waist, fingers trembling with restraint. “you have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, voice quieter now, almost pained. “i’m not some young man who can just… give in without consequences. you deserve better than an older neighbor who can’t keep his eyes off you.”

the banter stretches, slow and heavy, every word laced with the electric pull between you. you step even closer, your bare breasts brushing the front of his white shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric, and nanami’s breath hitches sharply. “then why does it feel like you’ve been thinking about this as much as i have?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “why do you look at me like you want to bend me over every time we pass in the hall?”

his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking visibly, but his eyes stay locked on yours even as his cock continues to throb between you.

“because i do,” he admits finally, the words dragged out like they cost him something. “i want to. more than i should. but you’re young. barely out of college. and i’m… this.” he gestures vaguely at himself, the musty yet cleaned scent of his body stronger now with the heat rising off his skin, the faint sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. “a tired man who should know better.”

you smile again, softer this time, and reach up to trace one finger along the line of his jaw. “then stop fighting it for one night,” you whisper. “just let yourself have me. i want you, nanami. i’ve wanted you since the first time you fixed my router and looked at me like you were starving.”

the silence stretches again, thick and humming with tension, his breath coming heavier now, chest rising and falling against yours. his hand finally settles on your waist, large palm warm and slightly rough against your bare skin, thumb stroking once, slow and deliberate.

he does not pull you closer yet, but he does not push you away either. the battle is still there in his eyes, solemn and conflicted, but the hunger is winning, inch by aching inch, as the minutes tick by in the quiet room and his cock continues to strain painfully against his jeans, waiting for the moment his restraint finally gives out completely.

nanami’s hand tightens on your waist, fingers spanning wide enough to nearly wrap around the curve of it, and the last of his resistance crumbles like dry paper under the heat of your bare skin against his palm.

he exhales once, long and shaky, eyes still calculated but dark now with the kind of hunger he has been trying to bury for weeks, and then he is moving, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the couch and you sink down onto the cushions. he follows without a word, dropping to his knees between your spread thighs like a man who has finally stopped pretending he can walk away.

his broad shoulders push your legs wider, the white button-up stretching tight across his chest as he leans in, breath hot against the inside of your thigh. he looks up at you one last time, jaw set, like he is giving you one final chance to tell him no, but you only slide your fingers into his neatly combed hair and tug him closer. that is all it takes.

his mouth finds your pussy like he has been starving for it, lips parting to drag a slow, broad stripe up your folds, tongue flat and heavy as he tastes you properly for the first time. the groan that vibrates out of his chest is low and rough, almost pained, because you are already soaked, slick coating his tongue in a way that makes his cock jerk hard inside his jeans.

he licks again, slower this time, savoring the way your thighs tremble on either side of his head, then seals his mouth around your clit and sucks gently, tongue flicking in tight little circles that have your back arching off the couch. one of his huge hands slides up your stomach, palm pressing flat just below your navel, and he pushes down with just enough pressure to make your pussy clench around nothing.

the size of his hand there is obscene, fingers spread wide so his pinky rests near the base of your ribs and his thumb brushes the top of your mound, the sheer scale of him against your smaller frame making everything feel tighter, hotter, more overwhelming.

nanami eats you out like he has all night and nothing else matters, tongue sliding deep between your folds before circling back up to your clit, sucking and licking in a rhythm that builds slow and relentless. his free hand grips your thigh, spreading you even wider, thumb digging into the soft flesh while he buries his face deeper, nose pressing against your mound as he drinks down every drop of you. the wet sounds fill the quiet room, wet and loud, his groans mixing with the slick slide of his tongue and the shaky breaths you keep letting out.

he keeps that steady pressure on your lower belly the whole time, palm rubbing slow circles that make your insides twist and flutter, the tummy bullying so deliberate it feels like he is trying to feel exactly where his mouth is working from the inside. your hips twitch, trying to ride his face, but he holds you down with that big hand, keeping you exactly where he wants you while he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

when you come it hits hard and sudden, pussy pulsing against his tongue as your thighs clamp around his head and a broken moan spills out of you. nanami does not stop. he keeps licking you through it, slower now but just as thorough, tongue dragging over your oversensitive clit until your whole body jerks and you try to squirm away from the intensity.

he only presses his palm firmer against your stomach, holding you in place, the slight overstimulation making your eyes water and your voice crack on his name. “nanami…plea– fuck, it’s too much,” you whimper, but he just hums against you, the vibration sending another sharp spark through your core, and slides two thick fingers into your still-clenching pussy without warning. they stretch you wide, the size of them so much bigger than your own that you feel every knuckle, every ridge, as he curls them deep and starts pumping slow and steady.

he lifts his head just enough to watch his fingers disappear inside you, eyes dark and tempting, lips shiny with your slick. “look at how well you take them,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, the praise low and almost reverent as he presses down on your belly again with his other hand, feeling the way his fingers create a very faint bulge against your walls from the outside.

the pressure makes everything tighter, more intense, and you clench hard around him, another wave of overstimulation crashing through you while he keeps fingering you through the aftershocks. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles that have you shaking, the combination of his thick fingers stretching you open and the firm press on your tummy turning every breath into a broken little sob.

he does not rush. he just keeps working you, long fingers dragging along that perfect spot inside while his palm rubs steady circles on your stomach, bullying that soft lower belly until you are dripping down his wrist and whimpering his name like it will make it better than it already is.

only when your thighs are trembling uncontrollably and your pussy is fluttering helplessly around his fingers does he finally ease up, sliding them out slow and careful, bringing them to his mouth to lick clean with a low groan that makes your stomach flip.

he stays on his knees between your legs for a long moment, forehead resting against your thigh, breathing hard while his cock strains painfully against his jeans, the front of the fabric dark with pre-cum. when he finally looks up at you his eyes are still determined, still carrying that quiet conflict, but the hunger has won completely now, and the way he stares at your flushed, marked body makes it clear he is nowhere near done with you tonight.

nanami stays on his knees between your spread thighs for another long, heavy breath, forehead pressed to the soft skin just above your knee while his chest rises and falls like he is trying to steady something inside himself that already broke minutes ago. his fingers are still shiny with you, the faint scent of his skin mixed with the sharp sweetness of your pussy hanging thick in the air.

when he finally moves it is slow and deliberate, like every motion costs him something. he rises to his full height, towering over you on the couch, white button-up wrinkled and damp at the collar from the heat rolling off both of you. his hands, large and steady, slide under your thighs and around your back in one smooth motion, scooping you up off the cushions like you weigh nothing at all.

your legs wrap around his slim waist on instinct, heels digging into the firm muscle of his lower back, and the sudden shift leaves you gasping against his shoulder because he lifts you so easily, strong arms locking you against his chest while your bare pussy hovers right above the heavy bulge still trapped in his jeans.

he does not give you time to look down. one arm stays banded tight under your ass, holding your weight like it is effortless, while his free hand works between your bodies to unbuckle his belt with a quiet metallic clink. the zipper follows, the sound loud in the quiet room, and he shoves both jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself.

you feel the thick, heavy length spring up against your inner thigh, hot and velvet-smooth, the blunt mushroom head already slick and leaking. before you can even tilt your head to catch a glimpse he shifts you higher in his arms, pressing your back against the nearest wall for leverage, and uses that same free hand to guide the fat head of his cock right to your dripping entrance.

the broad tip nudges through your folds, rubbing slow and deliberate, coating himself in your slick while he watches your face with those solemn dark eyes, brows knitted tight like he is still fighting the last scraps of restraint.

“breathe,” he mutters, voice low and rough, the single word almost gentle even as his hips tilt forward. he helps you sink down, one thick inch at a time, the stretch burning so good it makes your jaw go slack and your eyes flutter half-shut.

he is big, thicker than anything you have taken, the veined shaft dragging along your walls as he lowers you steadily until your ass meets his hips and he is buried to the hilt. a quiet groan tears from his throat when he bottoms out, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours, and for a long second he just holds you there, letting you feel every inch of him pulsing deep inside your smaller body.

you’re pressed and folded in an awkward position, and it only makes the size difference feel more obscene, your soft curves dwarfed by his tall, solid frame.

nanami does not wait long. his hands grip your ass harder, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he starts to move, lifting you up and dropping you back down onto his cock with controlled, powerful strokes that hammer into you deep enough to punch the air from your lungs. each thrust makes your whole body jolt in his arms, tits bouncing under nothing. bare and free for him to watch, back sliding against the wall while he fucks up into you like he has been imagining it for weeks.

his height towers over you completely, shoulders broad enough to block out the room, white shirt straining across his chest with every roll of his hips.

the mushroom head of his cock drags perfectly along that spot inside you on every downstroke, the sheer size of him making your belly bulge slightly every time he bottoms out, a faint outline visible under your skin if you looked down, but he keeps your face buried against his neck so you cannot.

he keeps that steady, punishing rhythm, hips snapping up hard while his arms hold you suspended like you are weightless, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder with every thrust. sweat beads along his hairline, dampening the collar of his shirt, and his breath comes in hot, measured pants against your ear.

“too big for you?” he asks, voice strained but still carrying that solemn edge, even as he grinds deep and holds you there for a heartbeat, letting you feel how completely he fills you.

your only answer is a broken moan and loled nod, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, legs tightening around his waist as another wave of overstimulation starts building fast. he does not slow down. he just keeps lifting and dropping you onto every thick inch, eyebrows still knitted in concentration, eyes flicking between your slack mouth and the way your body takes him so greedily.

his shirt keeps getting in the way, bunching up between both of you, so he shifts his grip, one hand sliding up to yank the fabric higher until it is completely off of him, exposing his sweaty chest completely to the cool air and your half-focused stare.

now there is nothing between you but sweat-slick skin and the relentless drag of his cock stretching you open. he leans in, mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin while he hammers into you harder, the angle shifting so the head of his cock bullies that perfect spot with every upward thrust. your smaller frame jolts in his arms with each powerful stroke, pussy clenching tight around the thick length splitting you apart, and nanami groans low and deep, the sound rumbling through his chest as he feels you start to flutter around him again.

he keeps you pinned against the wall like that, towering over you, strong arms never tiring as he fucks you deep and steady, the size difference so stark it makes your head spin. every time he bottoms out his hips grind against your clit, the pressure on your lower belly from the inside making everything feel tighter, fuller, more overwhelming.

you are already close again, thighs shaking around his waist, voice cracking on his name, and nanami just holds you there, determined eyes locked on your face while he drives you closer to the edge with every heavy thrust, determined to feel you come around his cock before he lets himself follow.

nanami’s rhythm starts to falter just a little, hips snapping up with shorter, more desperate strokes while his breath comes hot and ragged against the side of your neck. he can feel it building fast, that tight coil low in his gut, his heavy balls drawing up tight and aching as your pussy flutters and squeezes around every thick inch of him.

but he refuses to let go first. he is older, more controlled, and right now that control means making sure you fall apart completely before he does.

with a low grunt he shifts his grip, one big hand sliding under your ass to tilt your hips forward while the other presses flat against your lower back, forcing your spine into a deep arch that pushes your pelvis out and opens you up even more obscenely. the new angle is nasty, almost cruel, your body folded and suspended in his arms so your clit grinds hard against the base of his cock on every upward thrust and the fat head of him drags directly into that spongy spot inside you at a brutal upward curve.

your legs dangle wider, heels kicking uselessly against his lower back, the sheer size difference making you feel like you are being split open and rearranged from the inside while he holds you like a toy.

he starts hammering into you with that filthy new angle, cock bullying that spot over and over until your eyes roll back and broken sobs start spilling from your slack mouth.

the overstimulation crashes in hard and fast, your already sensitive pussy clenching and spasming around him while tears prick at the corners of your eyes and start to slip down your flushed cheeks.

your hand flies down between your bodies on instinct, palm pushing weakly at his lower stomach like you can stop the relentless drag of his cock, fingers scrabbling against the damp fabric of his white shirt. nanami’s eyes narrow, jaw tightening, and he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he hisses the words low and dark, “do that again and i’ll fucking hurt you good.”

the threat hits you like a live wire. your whole body seizes, a choked cry tearing from your throat, and then you are squirting hard around his cock, hot fluid gushing out in messy pulses that soak his jeans, drip down his balls, and splatter onto the floor beneath you.

nanami groans deep and filthy at the feeling, the wet heat flooding around him making his cock twitch violently inside you. he does not slow down. if anything he fucks you harder, hips snapping up with wet, punishing slaps while his free hand slides between your bodies and starts tracing tight, relentless infinity signs over your swollen clit with two thick fingers. the pressure is mean and perfect, circling and dragging in that figure-eight pattern while he keeps pounding into that nasty folded angle, cock bullying your g-spot and his fingers never letting up on your overstimulated clit.

“i know, baby, i know,” he rasps against your ear, voice hoarse and strained, the words almost soothing even as he wrecks you. “you can take it. just let it happen.” your legs shake violently around his waist, tears streaming freely now, little hiccuping sobs mixing with the wet squelch of your pussy taking every brutal thrust.

nanami keeps that freaky rhythm going, hips rolling deep, fingers drawing those endless infinity loops over your clit until your vision whites out and another shattering orgasm rips through you, pussy clamping down so hard it almost forces him out. he hisses through his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest, but he powers through it, fucking you straight through the peak and into the trembling aftershocks.

his own control finally snaps. his balls tighten almost painfully, cock swelling even thicker inside your fluttering walls as he buries himself to the hilt one last time, grinding deep while thick, hot ropes of cum flood you. he comes with a low, broken groan that vibrates through his chest, pulsing hard and endless, filling you so full that it starts leaking out around his cock in creamy white streaks every time he gives one last shallow thrust.

the mess is everywhere, your squirt and his cum dripping down your thighs, soaking the front of his jeans and pooling on the floor, the obscene wet sounds slowly fading as he keeps you pinned against the wall, still buried deep, both of you heaving for air.

nanami’s forehead drops to your shoulder, breathing hard, the last energy well spent, showing of with both of your sweat-soaked body mixing with the sharp smell of sex filling the room. his arms stay locked around you, holding your smaller frame effortlessly even as his cock twitches with the last weak spurts inside you.

for a long moment the only sounds are your shaky sobs and his ragged breathing, bodies trembling together in the aftermath, messy and spent and still connected. he does not pull out yet. he just keeps you there, suspended in his arms, the quiet weight of everything that just happened settling heavy between you while his cum continues to leak slowly out around where he is still buried deep.

nanami stays buried inside you for what feels like forever, thick cock still twitching with the last lazy pulses while warm cum slowly leaks out around where your bodies are joined, dripping down your thighs and onto the floor in messy little trails.

your legs are still wrapped around his waist, trembling, heels digging weakly into his lower back like you cannot quite let go yet, and he keeps holding you up without any effort, strong arms locked under your ass, keeping your smaller frame suspended against the wall like it is the most natural thing in the world. your shaky little sobs eventually quiet into soft, hiccuping breaths, tears drying on your cheeks, but the overstimulation still makes your pussy flutter weakly around him every few seconds, milking out another thin trickle of his cum.

finally he shifts, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he carefully pulls out, the wet sound loud and obscene in the quiet room.

a thick glob of his cum follows immediately, sliding out of your swollen, puffy pussy and running down to join the mess already pooled beneath you. he lowers you gently until your feet touch the floor, but your legs are too shaky to hold you, so he keeps one arm banded around your waist, steadying you against his chest while his other hand tucks himself back into his briefs and jeans with a quiet zip.

the white button-up is wrinkled and damp with sweat when he puts it back on, black jeans dark at the front from your squirt, but he still looks put-together in that quiet, solemn way of his, even now.

he does not say anything at first. just looks down at you with those dark, heavy eyes, thumb brushing slow circles on your bare hip like he cannot quite stop touching you. then he exhales, long and tired, and rests his forehead against yours for a brief second.

“this…” his voice comes out rough, low, almost reluctant. “this can’t happen again.”

the words hang between you, simple and final, even as his hand lingers on your skin and his cum continues to drip slowly down the inside of your thigh.

he presses one last, almost gentle kiss to your temple, the kind of kiss that feels heavier than any promise, before he steps back. his fingers flex once at his sides like he is fighting the urge to pull you close again, then he turns toward the door, shoulders straight, footsteps quiet on the floor.

“get some rest,” he murmurs without looking back, the manly scent of him still clinging to your skin. “and… call the building manager about the router next time.”

the door clicks shut behind him, leaving you standing there naked and trembling in the middle of your living room, thighs sticky, pussy aching and full of him, the quiet weight of what just happened settling deep in your chest. you know he means it. you also know, deep down, that neither of you really believes it.

well y’all i had to claw my nails onto a wall to storm this idea so it better do good or you’re not hearing from me again.. (i’m literally posting in few hours again 😛)

[xiayuriz]

spolied rotten: caleb (夏以晝)

synopsis: after not speaking to you for days, caleb grows needy to hear your voice. after coming home and reminiscing about all the times he's fucked you in his apartment, caleb decides to give you a call.

wc: 3.4k

cw: nsfw, phone sex/web cam, fingering, masturbating, caleb almost cums at the sound of your voice, needy!caleb, possibly switch!caleb, mentions of caleb 'raising' reader, but it's not meant in a weird way (tbh if you wna take it like that idrc, that's up to you), jerking off using panties

izaya's notes: first post on this account hehe. very excietd to finally write bcos ive been putting it off for soooo long. lol anyways! enjoy!!!

It's been weeks since you've seen your boyfriend. With the new year approaching, Caleb's been busy at work. You're no less though, the Hunter's Association giving you your fair share of work. The two of you have barely been able to call. Caleb hasn't heard your voice in weeks, and his heart grows weary at the distance. Caleb dreams of being with you, near you, his skin upon yours. The distance aches deep into his bones, rattling around the further you two are apart. The only semblance Caleb has of your well-being is his reports from his underlings that watch you day and night. Though, he knows you wouldn't be too amused if you were aware of this fact.

Caleb's ever-growing need for you inflates, coming home to see your heels abandoned by his doorway from your last meeting. But, he knows you're not there. He's aware he won't come home to find you tucked into his sheets, curled up in his scent. Nor will he find you sitting on his kitchen island, a cup of coffee between your palms as you endlessly scroll on your phone, headphones so loud Caleb can hear the music blasting into your eardrums.

His favorite is finding you in his bathtub, soaking comfortably. He always finds the bathroom a mess. The bath salts and soaps around the rim of the tub, your clothes haphazardly kicked in a corner, the mirrors foggy, the room humid. You look your most comfortable there, vulnerable and naked. As Caleb walks to his bathroom to shower off the gunk he's built up, he reminisces on your last arrival.

It happened in the tub. You, ever the minx, and Caleb far too insatiable, he rolled his sleeves up, before you allowed his fingers to dive between your thighs. Your soft sighs, the parting of your lips, even the slope of your shoulders has Caleb reeling. He curses softly under his breath. The distance not only makes Caleb's heart grow fonder, but him voraciously horny.

In a moment of weakness, blinded by desire, Caleb rings your phone without looking at the time. It takes longer than usual. In the meantime, he seats himself on his couch, already undoing his belt and suit. By the time his blunt fingers tug his tie free, you finally pick up.

"Hello?" You gruff, rubbing your eyelids as sleep drifts further and further away. You shift your feet, letting your toes melt into your sheets.

"Hey, Pips. Did I wake you?" A rough voice can be heard from your phone, clearing his throat. Caleb shifts in his seat, throwing the tie beside him. You don't pick up on the shuffling noises.

"No, it's okay. What's up?" You ask, rousting onto your other side. Luckily, there's no bruise there to make you hiss. You curl your knees up, placing your phone on a plushie beside you, setting Caleb onto speaker.

"Nothing much. I just got home, and I was thinking about you." Caleb chuckles, tugging off his work suit. You can hear him shuffle out of his clothes. The image of him in that dress shirt, sleeves pulled up to his elbows as he takes a seat on his couch. His large thighs spread as he adjusts his weight to sink into the plush couch. You chuckle at his words, prodding at him,

"Yeah? You been dreaming of me, Caleb?" It's always push and pull with you two, teasing one another until the other cracks. Maybe Caleb raised you to be too spoiled, too dependent on him, but you can't help but hope he teases you back. You grunt softly, flipping onto your stomach as you press your cheek into the pillow.

Caleb lets out a stammer, breathing out a chuckle. A hot flush crawls onto his cheeks, his slacks tightening around his crotch. He's too easy for you. He bends at your every command.

"Always, baby." He sighs, lifting his hips up slightly. Caleb knows your tells. Knows the soft lit in your voice when you tease him, the hope that lingers behind it for something more. However, Caleb is greedy, by all means. A shameless, greedy man. "What are you wearing?" He asks bluntly. You can hear the clink of his belt, the shuffling of clothes.

You bite down on your lip, trying to bite back a smile. He took the bait; He always does. You shift onto your back now, knees up with your feet flat on the mattress. Your laptop lingers by your thighs, almost enticing you. You sit up, tugging it towards you. As you open the laptop, Caleb grunts on the phone softly. He's impatient.

You sit on your knees, finding the camera button on your laptop before speaking,

"I'll just show you." To the best of your abilities, you pull back the screen of your laptop, angling it so that your breasts are in view of the camera. The lobes of your ears peak out of the top of the frame, your hair gently tucked behind it. The strap of your tank top falters, sliding down the slope of your shoulder. You drag your gaze lower, noticing your nipples straining against your top. A giggle slips from your lips, eliciting a hum from Caleb.

"Whatchu doing, Pips?" He coaxes. You giggle in response, not giving him a real reply. Caleb hums again, repeating his question. This time, with a bit more suspicion.

"You'll like it, I promise." You flirt, finally picking a good pose. Once the camera shutters, you click the little pop-up and share it with Caleb. "Look at your messages." Caleb does just that, clicking on the notification. The sight makes his cock harden, twitching in his pants. Caleb sits up, hissing softly. His palm rests on his thigh, twitching. He has half the mind to start palming himself through his pants. But, Caleb is nothing if not a slave to your pleasure. He waits for you, allowing you to make the first move.

"Do you like it?" Chewing on your bottom lip when he says nothing back. The fear of rejection nuzzles itself into your gut at his silence.

"If you could see me right now…I think you'd know my answer, Pips." Caleb laughs, self-aware of how pathetic he is right now. His dick hard, throbbing in his pants over a photo of his girlfriend. He fully slips off his belt. On the other end, you can hear it fall to the ground as Caleb groans, standing from his couch.

As you sink further onto your knees, your shorts stick to your center, your entire body trembling with need. Caleb isn't any better. He's made his way to his bedroom, rummaging around his drawers before he finds what he's looking for. He sits on a chair in the corner, sighing when he spreads his thighs again.

Caleb opens his palm, staring down at your bunched up panties. The sight of it makes him hiss again. Enough is enough. Caleb reaches into his unbuckled pants, finally wrapping his hand around his cock.

"Fuck, baby." Caleb groans, his hips ramming into the heat of his palm. The material of your panties makes it easier to rut his dick against. It's smoother, silkier than his dry, rough fists. Nothing compares to you though. "Pretty girl."

Hearing his groans through the speaker makes you press your thighs together. You chew on your thumb nail, soaking through your panties. Caleb moans into the phone again, staring at your picture.

"You like hearing me like this, baby? Hm?" You nod behind the screen, despite the fact he can't see you. "You do. I know you do. Your nipples are so hard. You really like this, huh?" Caleb scoffs, his voice tapering off as he runs his thumb over the head. He almost lets a whimper slip, but he bites it back, gasping for air.

"Mhm…You're so loud, Caleb. Can I see? I wanna see you touch yourself,"You murmur, laying on your back once more. This time, you're stripping. First goes your shorts and panties. They slide off your legs, pooling by the edge of the bed. You can hear Caleb rutting into his own hand, but the sound is different. "What are you using, 'Leb? Did you steal one of my panties?" You suppress a giggle, hearing Caleb whine in reply.

"You're a pervert, Caleb. Jerking off with my panties to my photos and voice." You push him further, Caleb's groans growing ragged. His knuckles hurt, cock throbbing with need. The muscles in his thighs pull taunt, heels pressed into the floor. His moans are ripped from their diaphragm, fingers tightening around the base of his cock, pumping himself roughly.

"You're gonna cum so quickly…I haven't even had a turn," You pout, pressing your cheek against your pillow. Caleb whimpers in reply, apologetic. He can't fathom words, the illusion of his climax blinds him. Almost paralyzes him. Your voice, your teasing, and demeaning words pushes him so close to the edge, Caleb swears he can see the light.

"I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry, I promise--I'll help you out, just please. Fuck," Caleb's head spins, throwing it back against the cushioned chair. His hips thrust into the warmth of his palm, covered by your panties. "Fuck, baby, please? I'm gonna cum," Caleb's breath grows labored as he grinds his teeth. It hurts so bad, but Caleb knows better.

"No, I wanna see, Leb. Please? Wanna watch you.." You order, whiny and needy. Caleb lurches his hand away from his cock because if he didn't, he swore he could've cum at the tone of your voice. Caleb's eyes brim with tears, feeling his orgasm falter. But you're pure temptation, and Caleb is too weak to not give in. You're the serpent hissing into Caleb's ear, enticing him to give in. You're spoiled rotten.

It's no one's fault but Caleb's. He raised you like this. He gave in to your every whim, every soft plea. Even when touching you, you're greedy and demanding. You huff and puff when you don;t get your way, whining and pawing at him rapaciously.

"Yes..Yes, baby." He breathes, one of his hands reaching for the phone on the arm rest. He moves to the bed, resting it on the nightstand. You draw out a hum, making Caleb's eyes widen with expectation. Spoiled brat, he thinks. He's spoiled you though, made you this rotten, let you tighten the leash around his neck so much that he can't breathe without your permission. He wouldn't dare. Wouldn't dare to fathom a reality without you in control.

"On the floor, Caleb." He nods, his wide eyes adjusting the camera so that you can see him kneeling on the floor. His phone is propped up on the bed, almost giving the illusion of you looking down at him.

"You're so gross, Caleb. Those were my favorite pair too, you know?" You repine, letting your hand wander down your torso. "Now you're cums gonna be all over them. You've probably already stretched them out too because you use them so much, right?" You watch the gears turn in Caleb's mind as he stares at the sticky panties in his hand. They are stretched out, the material loose. He looks back at the camera, his puppy-eyes wide and blown.

"I'm sorry, Pips. I'll buy you a new one, okay?" Caleb sobs, wrapping the material around his cock again. His cock stings with overstimulation. Caleb breathes hard, his shoulders visibly trembling when he drags his hand up and down his cock. He pumps himself so roughly, it's no wonder he was about to cum so quickly.

"Slower." You order, finally spreading your thighs. Caleb doesn't reply, but he listens. His fist slows, gently pumping his cock. Caleb's ears perk at the sound of soft squelches coming from your end of the phone. It motivates him, hips driving into his fist. You don't like the whine that escapes your lips when the heel of your palm rubs against your clit.

"Needy girl," Caleb quips, his hips moving on their own accord. You're too lost in the initial sparks of your clit rolling against your palm, that you don't scold him. All you can do is whine back, desperate to see him cum. Watching as it drips all over your panties.

Maybe you could convince him to do that with the pair you were just wearing. Shoot a load right where your pussy sits, letting it soak up inside of you. Maybe he'd even push it inside of you with his fingers, making sure it doesn't drip down the sides of your lips and inner thighs.

"My baby. Calling me a pervert while she fingering herself to me. You like watching me, baby?" Caleb's brows tug together. Despite his words, he's not fairing any better than you. Caleb's abdomen tightens, his breaths growing ragged. "Are you about to cum, pretty baby? Let me hear you, please? Hear how wet she is, yeah?"

You only reply in pitchy moans and whimpers, whining Caleb's name over and over. Caleb can tell it isn't enough for you though, using only your one hand. Caleb slows himself a bit, talking to you,

"Turn on your camera, sweet girl. I can help you, my love." Caleb grunts, his thumb rubbing circles over his tip, hips lurching forward. Finally, his phone dings, you're right in front of him. Your laptop only shows your thighs parted, the tips of your knuckles peeking through the left side of the frame. You adjust yourself so that Caleb can see your fingers swirling your clit. Caleb clicks his teeth, sucking in a deep breath.

"Is this good?" You ask, hips stuttering when you get a glimpse of Caleb's cock in his hand. Caleb almost cums right then in there. Your swollen lips, damp thighs-- it drives Caleb mad. Caleb guides you softly, in that sweet tone of his. Your free hand glides down between your thighs, sliding up and down your slit. Caleb's foaming at the mouth, watching your cunt swallow your finger--one much smaller than his own.

Caleb coos and purrs, watching you follow his directions. You're like a duck to water, you're exactly where you want to be.

"Shh, easy, pretty girl. Ease her into it. You always overwhelm yourself. Never feels as good as when I do it, 'cos I take my time, goober." Caleb chuckles, hearing you huff at the nickname. If he was beside you right now, you know he'd be fluffing your hair up. "Come on, let me see you." You do as he says, gently sliding your finger deeper into yourself.

Your walls clamp around your digit, fluttering when you brush your sweet spot. It's nothing like Caleb's fingers though. They're blunt, thicker, much longer. Your hips raise ever so slightly, drops of your slick gliding down to your ass. Caleb has to bite the inside of his cheek, trying his best to not cum. His eyes flutter shut for so long, when he hears you call out to him, he scrambles.

"Sorry, baby. Tryin' to not cum. You're too cute," Caleb huffs, the inside of his palm gliding up his cock again, dragging on his pleasure. By now his cock throbs almost painfully. Your teasing, watching as you finger your pretty cunt, and your sweet moans. Caleb pushes himself back onto the balls of his feet, forcing himself in this uncomfortable position to veil the pleasure.

"There ya go. Curl up your finger, sweet girl. Just like I do, come on." He's growing impatient, but Caleb could never rush you. He would rather bleed himself dry than ever leave you unsatisfied. His pretty girl, her pretty cunt all soaked and needy, nowhere near satisfied. The thought drives him mad. He wouldn't dare.

You softly curl your finger up into your sweet spot, prodding and poking as your hips chase after your finger. You call out for Caleb, your legs parting wider. The shadow of your ass peaks out from under you as your hips raise, deprived moans escaping your lips.

But you needed more. Caleb, the man ever in tune with your body, understands from a single whimper.

"Give yourself another finger, baby. It's okay, I know you wanna cum, huh?" Caleb teases, watching as your ring finger joins your middle finger inside of you. The stretch is slight, but it makes all the difference. Caleb takes this opportunity to jerk himself off, his rough palms running up and down his cock, jaw slackened.

His abdomen tightens further, seeing droplets of slick escape your cunt, dripping onto your bedsheets and ass. He shudders, imagining his own tongue lapping up at your juices-- He wouldn't let a single drop go to waste. Caleb sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, biting so harshly he begins to bleed.

Your panties over his cock don't help him anymore. The material is so silky and smooth compared to his dry hands. Just like your pussy. Fuck, Caleb thinks. If only he could just sink into you right now, fuck you just right. He'd raise your hips, lap at your nipples just the way you like, until your back is bowing inwards and your cries start to crackle under his hands.

Oh, how he wishes he could reach out to you. Touch you, lick you, love you.

He watches as your fingers over your clit start circling her once more, more wanton moans escaping your lips. Your cries grow more strained, almost as if you're holding back. Your pussy flutters around your fingers, almost like she's begging for release.

"Pretty baby," Caleb groans out, lashes fluttering close. His lips crackle and pull his wound taunt the more he talks and rags his breath.

"Caleb! Oh, Caleb! I'm gonna-- Can I?" You pant out, tears prickling at your eyes, desperate for release. You almost sob, watching the pre drip from his cock onto his work pants. If only you could reach out and lap at his cock. He never lets you, mean 'ol Caleb.

"Wouldn't wanna soil your pretty mouth," he would say. If only you'd be beside him, letting him rut against your cunt, or between your tits. You watch Caleb's hips stutter, a small drop of creamy white escaping his tip. Your cunt clamps around your fingers, your clit throbbing as your thighs press together. It's too much, far too much. Caleb's rapid whimpers are your final straw, the thing that drives you over the edge. Caleb looks up at you, eyes glossy and his cheeks flushed as he mutters out a mantra,

"Thank you, baby. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you--" It doesn't end until Caleb spills himself into your panties. He purposefully adjusts the cloth so that his cum spills onto the area where you'd rest your pussy on.

There's a few moments of silence as the two of you collect yourselves. Heavy breaths, whimpering from both parties. You're the first to speak, noticing Caleb's flushed cheeks.

"Caleb?" You call out, crawling onto your knees, laying on your stomach. He can finally see your pretty face, the remnants of tears in your eyes, the thin sheen of sweat that veils your hairline. He smiles, awkwardly scooting on his knees towards his phone.

"Hi, pretty baby." He breathes, tucking himself back into his pants. "You okay, Pips? You want more? I can give you more," Caleb rushes in his speech, ever the giver. You chuckle, watching as he hesitates to button up his pants again. You shake your head, smiling sweetly at him.

"No, I just missed you." You reply, pushing a pillow under your tits and ribs. Caleb buttons his pants again, wiping his hands on his pants and shuffles towards you. His knees and legs are prickly and numb, but he could care less. Not when his baby is finally with him. When he can finally hear your pretty voice.

"I missed you too, my baby."

© xiayuriz- do not repost, translate, plagiarize or compute into ai

[thalwri]

caleb's a major pervert, but so are you <3

BE WARNED: porn no plot, panty fucking, masturbation, technically exhibitionism, mutual masturbation, sloppysexonachairsincethebed'stoofar– caleb's a perv, you're a perv and you love it, creampies <333

THALIA'S NOTE: no i didn't write this in two hours out of pure thirst. you can't prove it. i need someone to make me stop holding back on the dirty talk so bad.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

You and Caleb have this sick game you like to play. The rules are pretty simple. There’s no limit.

There’s no time limit to how many hours you spend together, there’s no limit to how far you go to the point of overstimulation, and there’s no limit to how many times he can steal your used panties to stroke his cock raw.

You can smell it before you hear it. The musk scent that you’re all too familiar with, triggering a tempest of arousal pooling at your core. It has to be muscle memory at this point, trained for you to get soaked the moment he’s hard.

The closer you get to his room, the louder his muffled moans get, accompanied by the wet schlicks of his hand sliding up and down his girth. It’s extra wet this time, sounds like he’s drenched himself in cum at least twice.

You lean against the door frame to his study to find a heavenly sight you can cum from alone. Caleb’s head is leaning back on his chair, shirt abandoned on the floor while his pants and boxers pool around his ankles, too desperate to have been taken off completely.

One of your lace panties, his favourite one— the red one with a cute apple trinket dangling from the waistband— is held tight in his fist to his face, wet pink tongue slopping up what remains of your slick juices from the day before. The other, a black pair that he slipped aside to pound you raw a few days ago, is wrapped around the base with the embroidered crotch rubbing his sobbing slit.

He’s panting, drooling, making a huge mess while he babbles about how much he loves you. “Looked so pretty this morning, couldn’t wait— ffuccck, need that pretty pussy—“ you can feel yourself leaking into your shorts, so damn short your ass is peeking out. 

His thick cock is soaked in white, a testament to his previous orgasms, swollen with overstimulation to the point where his seed just spills from his slit uncontrollably adding to the puddle beneath his throbbing balls. There’s splatters of white stained on his sculpted abs, his sharp collarbone, the muscles of his chest, his perked nipples, fuck, even his chin has a bit of damage.

“Taste so good,” He groans into the fabric and snorts your scent, pushing the flimsy lace as close to his face as possible. It’s like your scent is an aphrodisiac, pushing him deeper into a spiral to fist his cock harder at a cruel pace, squeezing so hard his hips start bucking up to fuck his hand like it’s a pussy. Your pussy.

Your hand sneaks down the waistband of your shorts on its own, meeting with your clit to rub it in slow, torturous circles. Thank fuck you decided to abandon wearing underwear today— well, that and he technically stole most of them, saying he’d “get them washed tomorrow.” Fucking liar.

Caleb’s getting closer, you can tell. His jaw is slack, tongue lolling out to whimper your name like he’s trying to summon you. His hands are moving sloppy, inconsistent with the rhythm just chasing pleasure. Those pretty sunset eyes keep threatening to roll back as overstimulated tears begin to fill his gaze.

A short moan slips through your lips as your fingers creep up your soaked cunt, snapping his eyes open at the melodic noise. “Nghh– there you are.”

His hands are still at work, pressing your used thong up his nose and the other sliding up and down his length like it’s a normal Tuesday. “Look at you, fingerin’ yourself like a perv while watching.” You watch him tighten his grip around his shaft, beads of cum spilling down the veins like tears. “Was wonderin’ when you’d come.”

“Speak for yourself.” You slip your shorts down slowly, turning around to give him a clear view of your plump ass, the strings of slick connecting your soaked, swollen lips to the fabric. Caleb groans deep and guttural, stroking himself faster, schlick schlick schlick filling the room. “You left the door open for me to find you ruining my panties. Again.”

“You love it.” 

You shrug, making your way to him while your hips sway left and right to entice him in a lust-drowned trance. “Such a shame you like fucking my underwear more than my cunt.” You dramatically sigh, running your fingers along your soaked core. They’re sticky and glistening with your juices, practically calling Caleb to have a taste.

“It tastes so much better when it’s fresh from the source.”

Oh, he is so easy to sway when you use the right leverage. With one more lick, Caleb tosses both lacy pieces aside like flimsy props. “C’mere then, pips. ‘ve been waiting for that sweet pussy.”

Straddling him without wasting time, you press his cock between your folds, grinding back and forth, smothering him in your heat and wetness. “Could’ve put that cum in me,” You grumble as white coats your coarse hairs. You grind his fat cockhead through your puffy lips until is glistening, covered in slick. “I could’ve kept it nice and hot inside.”

“Got lots more to give, baby.” Caleb presses hot kisses on your neck, dragging his tongue along your jaw. “That was just a warm up.”

His hands grip your hips nice and tight as he guides you down, slowly inch by devastatingly thick inch until you’re fully bottomed out, grinding your pretty fatty ass against his balls. Your greedy cunt pulses around him as you both curse loud into the air.

“That’s it.” He groans with a smile spreading on his lips, fingers digging into your soft flesh. “Missed this. Missed you choking my cock.”

“I haven’t been gone that long.” You pout, trying to move your hips or thighs, anything to feel him but his grip is so damn strong you’re stuck warming him up. Glancing down, you moan at the sight of his cock bulging gently through your tummy.

Caleb presses his palm hard on the print, rocking his hips to make you feel him. “You’ve been gone long enough.” His hips roll into you like waves, grinding nice ’n slow and brushing your swollen clit against his pelvis. “Need to show you how much I missed you.”

He lifts you up just until his tip is trapped in your suctioning cunt and slams you down hard. Your tits jiggle without restraint, going up and down and colliding together as he bounces you up and down on his cock. 

“You’re so deep.” You pant, drool dribbling off your tongue to your chin.

“I can do even deeper.” Caleb’s grip on you is so hard you can feel the bruises forming already. Hell, his hickeys have barely healed yet, spots of purple, red, and green staining his neck, arms, and torso like constellations. “ ‘m going to need your help, yeah?”

You brace yourself, holding his muscular sweat-soaked shoulders to use you knees to bounce harder, clapping your ass hard on his thighs in a fast, wet rhythm. His hands are moving around you like a snake, one twisting your nipples and tugging one into his mouth to suck and lick while the other slams on your ass, groping and squeezing as you use his cock like a toy.

“Mmhn— fuckin’ love these.” He moans, sliding his tongue around your areola and sucking bruise after bruise into your flesh. His muscles are shining in a layer of sweat, keeping you close enough to bury himself between your mounds and motorboat you, tongue out slobbering your skin. “Yer pussy’s so sloppy— ahh— you hear how she’s squelchin’ and slobbering up my cock?”

The chair’s creaking beneath you, sliding on its wheels until you hit the wall behind you, still fucking without a care in the world. “So wet she’s drippin’ on my balls.” Your thighs are shaking, almost sore from moving so much but you don't want to stop. “She keeps suckin’ me in, baby. Can’t even pull out.”

“What if I don’t want you to?” You gasp, growing breathless as you throw your head back. His length keeps hitting that sweet spot, rubbing that vein you love to lick at the same pace as he bucks into you wild like he’s in heat. “Want you to pump me full, nice and deep.”

Caleb shoots to his feet, half-carrying half=dragging you to the soft rug with him. He flips you on your hands and knees on the soft rug on the floor. You whine as your back instinctively arches, sweet cunt gaping and clenching on air.

“Floor’s much better.” Soft, wet kisses travel down your spine, reaching your ass to desecrate with his affection. He lines his tip with your cunt once more, reuniting you in a lewd swift thrust.

“Fuck!” Your cries rip right out your throat, only getting louder as he picks up his speed. The angle here is so much deeper, your cervix is being kissed— no, pounded by his mushroom tip every time he bottoms out in you, grinding his hips against your ass between each wet, sloppy thrust. 

Your vision flashes hot white, rolling your eyes halfway back into your skull. Your cream mixed with his pre squelches so obscenely between you, leaving out so much you can hear it splatter all over the floor.

His hand sneaks down to your clit, rubbing mean circles into it to hear you scream for him. “C’mon, pips. Need you to cum around me, need you to choke my cock. I need it— oh, so good— need you so bad, pips, please.”

All the words you try to ramble come out in mindless moans, whimpering “Caleb, Caleb!’ and “wanna cum so bad, cock’s so good—“, neither of you are thinking straight. The brutal rhythm of his hips smacking your ass, his balls slapping your clit as his fingers tease you, the combined wetness dripping down your thighs and the smell of sex and love just filling up the air all sends you into a frenzy.

Deep guttural moans turn your voices hoarse, coated with filthy praise and devotion to each other, hands clawing flesh, tongues and teeth clashing in sloppy kisses, and the delicious sting of your lovemaking build up that familiar tightness in your core. 

“ ‘m so close,” You whine, bucking your hips back to meet with his thrusts. “Gonna cum, ‘leb!”

“I’m there— oh, shit, I’m gonna fill you till you leak, gonna breed you so good—“

It’s more than enough to snap that tightly drawn coil, sending your back into the meanest, sluttiest arch. A mind-shattering wave brings you to orgasmic trembles, clamping your cunt down hard on his shaft. Your cries sound like heaven in his ears, driving his hips in frantic, short thrusts, breaking his rhythm to chase his climax.

With a loud moan of your name, his cock plunges deep into your cunt, swelling up and throbbing as fast as his pulse to spill ribbons and ribbons of hot, thick cum flood your walls, painting everything a milky white. Caleb collapses over, still rutting his cock as his seed spills into you. His hands keep rubbing your clit even after your orgasm, tensing your cunt to squeeze him till it hurts.

“Too much!” You whimper, trying to wiggle out of his grip. It’s too fucikin’ good to run away but it’s so much that your poor cunt can’t handle all that overstimulation.

“Just… a lil’ more…” His hips stutter, wet and slick from your combined juices leaking out of you, and tips you into another orgasm, clenching and shaking in his embrace.

You’re both gasping as you slow down, completely spent. Caleb wraps his arms around you, pressing weak kisses as far as he can reach, covering the expanse of your back and nape and jaw with his lips and praises.

“Please don’t confiscate my panty stealing privileges.” He pouts, gently grinding his half-hard cock up your cunt. “I promise I’ll only take one per day.”

“Maybe,” You hum, circling your ass back with just as much fervour. It’s enough for him to get rock hard once again, plugging you with his girth. “But you’ll have to show me why you deserve to keep ‘em.”

You’re flipped onto your back, legs raised to rest on his shoulders as he slides his cock in and out of your fuck-swollen pussy for another round. “Well… I’m very good at persuading you.”

[rosesforshoto]

tsukishima kei x reader. fluff. nobody knew you were dating!!! lol just something fun i thought of haha

you groan, hand coming up to rub the side of your head.

the skin there feels tender—sore. combined with the massive headache wrecking you this second, and the scrapes and cuts littering all over your face from when you fell on straight concrete, you’d imagine it wasn’t a pretty sight when you try to give hinata a reassuring smile.

“i am so sorry, i didn’t realize you were there—”

you wave him off. “it’s okay. if anything, i’m the one who should be sorry, i didn’t realize you guys were practicing.”

“a volleyball to the head though,” kageyama mumbles. “you sure you don’t have a concussion?”

you laugh and it quickly turns into a wince, which doesn’t make your next words seem very promising. “the nurse said i’ll be fine. don’t worry.”

as usual, hinata and kageyama start arguing. it sounds like they’re blaming the other but you can hardly pay any attention to it as your head pulses. and it’s getting increasingly overwhelming by the second as the rest of the team circles around your bed.

“hey, guys.”

kageyama stops, with a hand shoved into hinata’s face. “yeah? what’s up?”

“can you get kei in here?”

confusion flits across everyone’s faces, a second of silence until sugawara speaks up. “…tsukishima? yeah we can. what do you need him for…?”

you shrug with your eyes closed. “just figured he should know.”

low murmuring breaks out across the group, only broken when the door to the nurse’s office slides open abruptly.

relief floods you when you see a familiar head of blonde hair above the others. it comes closer and closer, slinking in between the bodies crowding around you. only until he stops behind kageyama and hinata do you hear his voice.

“move. you’re in the way.”

wordlessly, kageyama and hinata untangle themselves, astonishingly quiet. their eyes follow kei walking up to you, comically widening when he cradles your face gently to asses your injuries.

you smile up at him. “sorry, i just asked them to get you. i know you were waiting for me.”

“it’s fine. i heard what happened,” kei says, with a soft voice unheard of by anyone but you. clearly, with the way you can practically hear the jaws dropping to the ground.

kei maneuvers your head around gently, fingers brushing over a scrape on your cheek. “it looks like it hurts a lot. i’ll just walk you home today.”

your hand comes up to hold his. “yeah, maybe a rain check on plans?”

he nods once, a firm one, before returning a small smile of his own. slowly, he releases you before turning to your bedside, packing your belongings with knowing movements.

it’s a sweet moment, it always is when he dotes on you. he doesn’t show it often, but you radiate whenever it happens. your conversation comes across as small mumbles. an atmosphere a little too intimate as the rest of the team watches, eyes completely bugged out.

nishinoya quickly tugs on yamaguchi’s arm. “hey, hey. what’s this? why are they talking like that?”

“he smiled,” kageyama mumbles.

sugawara laughs, a hint of a blush on his face. “i didn’t know tsukishima could be this sweet…”

hinata just keeps staring.

yamaguchi looks at the rest of team, one eyebrow lifted. “you guys don’t know?”

they all shake their heads.

“they’ve been dating for a year now.”

and the entire room erupts into chaos.

[calebslittlesecret]

Watcha Thinkin' About, Pips? | Caleb x Reader

SYNOPSIS: Tara convinces you to download a safety app that'll help you discover hidden cameras. What's the worst that could happen?

TAGS: MDNI! NSFW CONTENT!! Seriously, this contains explicit content, so minors please stop reading and scroll away. Perv Caleb, creepy Caleb using hidden cameras, stalking, masturbation, implied mutual masturbation, sort of phone sex (?), Y/N screws with Caleb on purpose, improper use of Gideon's name (lmao), implied smut

WC: 1.8K

Find Part II - Eyes On Me, Pips here.

A/N: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone!! Was having a diabolical chat with a friend of mine about Caleb today and she's been begging me to finally post my writings, so I'm kicking off with this one to test the waters. If you like this and wanna see more, feel free to let me know and leave a comment! I'd love to hear what you have to say, and if y'all like it enough, I'll be more than happy to share a part 2. Enjoy reading ^^

-

“No, seriously! Everybody’s been talking about this online,” Tara swears to you, pointing at her phone’s screen enigmatically. “It’s foolproof and recommended for women travelling alone, just one tap and the bluetooth connects to any possible hidden cameras in your room! I haven’t been to a single Air BnB without using it.”

You sigh, trying not to laugh at how insistent she was about her fixation of the week. “Have you ever actually caught a hidden camera with it?”

“Not me, but my cousin’s friend Leah did! Even got the landlord to pay her compensation for it,” she says resolutely, making your eyebrows raise slightly. Could it be that one of these popular apps actually worked, for once?

“And it’s free? Sounds too good to be true, what’s the catch?” you ask skeptically, trying to add things up and stumbling at the fact that such a useful app could be available free of charge.

She shakes her head with a big smile. “No catch! The creator is some super boss-woman, said she made it to keep all her girlies out there safe.”

Impressed, you concede and open your phone to download the app, thinking that nothing bad could come out of it either way. Tara is obviously happy, and proceeds to talk about it some more over dinner before switching to tens of other topics throughout, as she always does. By the end of the night, your stomach is full, your cheeks hurt from laughing too hard, and you’re in a great mood. 

It's around midnight when she finally drops you off at your apartment building, and you wave her goodbye before walking in and taking the elevator up.

Your heels are off as soon as you’re through your front door, groaning as the blood finally circulates and staves off the numbness in your legs. You hear your door’s lock click and wobble to your kitchen, sighing when you ease yourself into a stool at the island counter.

Not twenty seconds after you’d locked your door, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You glance at the microwave clock and see that it’s well past midnight. Who could be texting you this late on a Saturday night?

Shimmying your phone out of your pocket, your screen comes to life to show you two new messages from Caleb. Your lips curve into a soft smile as you tap the notification and unlock your phone, leaning against the counter while you read.

Hey pipsqueak!

Home yet? xD

A soft snort leaves you as you respond, typing back swiftly.

Just got back, are you in my walls?

His response is just as quick, adorned with a few laughing expressions.

You wish ;p

Going to bed?

You get up from the stool and head for your room, shrugging off your jacket before texting back.

Yep, just a quick shower and then Colonel Pipsqueak is off to dreamland

He doesn’t wait too long to reply.

Roger that :) Guess that means I’ll text you in the morning, so g’night!

Captain Caleb, over and out xD

You giggle a little despite yourself, appreciating how his texting style never seemed to change no matter how much time would pass. You text back a simple ‘Night ^-^’ and leave your phone to charge on your bedside table before walking in to have a quick shower.

The hot water helps relax you further after a fun night out with one of your best friends, and you leave the bathroom with your towel wrapped around you as you hum a soft melody you’d heard earlier that day. Sitting down on your bed, you grab your phone and open it to find Caleb’s chat still open. You tap to sift to a different app for a distraction when you notice the app you’d downloaded during your time out with Tara was still open.

With an amused little huff, you tap to move back to it and enable its access to your phone’s bluetooth. Without a second thought, you choose the ‘Scan’ option and wait for the app to probably find your speakers or headphones. Instead, a list of unnamed devices shows up.

Active within a 10 metre radius:

Device 001

Device 002

Device 003

Device 004

Your blood runs cold.

This was your apartment. Your home and safe space, where nobody but the people most trusted in your life is ever allowed to enter. This can’t possibly be right.

You switch your bluetooth off and back on again, then restart the app before scanning one more time.

Same results.

Your hands are shaking when you close the app again in a hurry, half-throwing the phone onto the bed like it had suddenly shocked you. Your breathing is erratic, chest feeling a little too tight, when your phone suddenly buzzes and makes you jump. With trembling fingers, you grab it and check your notifications.

Hey pipsqueak, is everything okay?

You still. The shock is broken almost as soon as it had come, and your shaky hands type a quick response.

I thought you were sleeping. Why do you ask?

His reply is instant.

Just felt like something was off and it made me text you

You’re immediately hyperaware of your surroundings, but the feeling of danger has all but gone. Instead, a bitter pettiness worms its way into your body as the situation clicks into place. What were the odds that Caleb would ask if you were okay out of nowhere when you’d just been starting to panic?

Well, about the same as somehow always knowing when you got back home as soon as you were through the front door.

A part of you hates that you’d never considered that he could have been watching you despite the odd ‘coincidences’, and the Hunter training in your head cusses you out for having left your guard down and fallen prey to him so easily.

A quieter part, however, sparks at the idea. Caleb, your Caleb, had been watching you this entire time. Just how long had these cameras been here? How much had he seen? Did this mean your feelings were reciprocated?

You don’t allow yourself to back out as you leave his text unanswered and unwrap the towel, propping some pillows up so you could lay back, still undressed. Forcing yourself to breathe and relax, you part your legs slowly and allow your free hand to trail down your body at an agonisingly slow pace while the other continues to hold your phone. Within seconds, another text comes through.

You there? Watcha up to, pips?

The forced nonchalance while he pretends not to be watching is enough to make an indignant anger crawl under your skin. You decide to fight fire with fire, and your fingers finally dip between your thighs while you reply.

Sounds silly, but thinking about someone. Been on my mind for a while…

You begin to touch yourself, a whimper escaping you as you watch him type, backpedal, type again, and then repeat. The ellipses keep showing up, but he seems to take longer to respond the louder your pretty sounds continued to get. Finally, a short message comes through.

Yeah, me too

You see him begin to type something else, and your anger decides that the opportunity for revenge has presented itself on a silver platter. You waste no time, and in the most deliciously wanton tone, you moan out Gideon’s name.

The typing stops. Five seconds later, your phone is buzzing in your hand as a call from Caleb comes through, and you try your hardest not to smile. You make a point of watching it ring, but you don’t pick up. When it sends him to voicemail, Caleb immediately sends in a text.

Pick up the phone.

You make sure your next moan is extra sultry, and the erotic tone has your cheeks pinking in embarrassment as Gideon’s name tumbles from your lips yet again. In your head, you hope he forgives you for using him in your scheme.

The phone buzzes with a call again, and this time, you answer on the fifth ring. Your tone is petulant and bratty when you address Caleb with, “I’m busy.”

You’re greeted by heavy breathing on the other end of the call, interrupted by the occasional hitch. “Who are you thinking about?”

It’s working. You make sure to keep touching yourself, taking your sweet time to answer his question, and you actively hear his breathing deepen and stutter the longer you go on. “Are you okay, Caleb? You don’t sound so good.”

“Answer me, Y/N,” he all but begs, breathy and anguished.

You finally smile then, hoping he can see it clearly as you touch yourself while he speaks to you. “What, did you hear something you shouldn’t have?”

It’s audible when he stops breathing for a few seconds, the line going dead quiet as your words register and he realises he’d been caught. About half a minute later, his voice comes out strangled. “You knew I was watching. You did that on purpose.”

You tease yourself some more, whimpering into the phone to torture him further. “Didn’t like the consequences of your own actions, Caleb?”

“Brat,” he stutters out in disbelief, like he can’t tell if he should laugh or not. It’s followed by a muffled groan and a hiss, which makes you laugh as you realise he was stroking himself to you.

“Did me being cruel to you make you even harder? What a masochist,” you coo at him, though the anger hasn’t quite left you yet. “How long have you been watching me, Caleb?”

The tone makes him whimper, and you can hear his breathing get even more unsteady. “Don’t stop talking, pips… Fuck, it’s even better hearing you talk to me directly.”

At that, you moan Gideon’s name again. The reaction you get is exactly the one you wanted.

“Y/N, if I hear his name one more time, I’m going to – ” he starts angrily, but you interrupt him with another laugh.

“You’ll what, hm?” you taunt, surprised with yourself and your ability to rile him up so easily.

The line goes quiet, and the eerie silence makes you lose a bit of confidence. You stop touching yourself, but before you can say anything else, his voice comes through with a resolute finality. “Give me forty minutes.”

Your brows furrow as you glance at your clock. “What? Caleb, it’s two in the morning. I was just getting back at you for spying on me like a perverted creep. Don’t be so – ”

“Forty minutes,” he repeats, but you can hear the predatory smile in his tone this time as the shuffling of movement is heard through the phone. He’d caught you off guard and pulled the rug out from under your feet, and you’d fallen prey to him yet again. 

“Listen, if you think I’m actually letting you win this, you must be – ” But he interrupts you once more, already on the move.

“You won’t mind if I let myself in, yeah?” he says smugly and hangs up.

You look around you, then back down at your still-naked state, and everything that just happened finally registers in your brain.

You were thoroughly fucked, metaphorically and literally.

-

Find Part II here.

calebslittlesecret writings are my own work and all rights are reserved. It is not allowed to plagiarise, edit/modify, republish, copy, or translate this or any of my works in any way.

[yukkigiri]

crush course 101

you’re partnered with the most popular boy at school, oikawa tooru—who you thought never noticed you—but he turns into a flustered mess every time you’re near.

starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader

wc. 10.6k

author's note: hi guys this is luna (@yukkiji) someone reported my account and got it terminated and this is one the few stories that was on my gdocs so I was able to repost it (╥﹏╥) but for the mean time I'll post my saved fics on my new blog

Oikawa Tooru had been something of a campus celebrity since your very first year—charismatic, loud in the way stars always are, and seemingly untouchable in how easily people gravitated toward him. There was always someone calling his name across the quad or waving at him in the halls, and he never failed to flash that practiced, dazzling smile that somehow managed to look sincere every time. You’d never spoken to him—not directly, not personally—but you’d caught glimpses. Enough to know that the real thing was even more magnetic than the rumors.

You knew the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how his shoulders relaxed when he was surrounded by his friends, how he would complain about the cafeteria coffee but still drink it anyway. You’d watched him from the corners of classrooms and in line at campus cafés, never too obvious but never quite able to help yourself. You were down horrendously bad for this man—though you’d die before admitting it aloud. The problem was that you were painfully shy, and despite your not-so-minor crush, you went out of your way to avoid even the possibility of interaction. You’d once pretended to be deeply fascinated by a bulletin board just to avoid making eye contact when he walked past.

You were convinced that he didn’t know you existed.

But he did.

He noticed you—had been noticing you since the second week of that painfully early GE class you shared. At first, it was idle curiosity. Then, fascination. And now, borderline obsession. You sat two rows in front of him, usually by the window, and he could barely concentrate half the time. Your handwriting, the way you sometimes doodled in the margins of your notes, the tiny way you tilted your head when you were confused—he knew it all. You'd lean forward just slightly when something interested you, and he would forget entirely what the professor was talking about. Once, you dropped your pen and he nearly fell out of his chair trying to reach it at the same time.

“God, he’s doing it again,” Matsukawa muttered, nudging Hanamaki with his elbow as they all slumped in their usual booth at the library café.

Hanamaki didn’t even look up from his phone. “What? Spacing out and pretending he’s not heart-eyes over mystery girl?”

“She’s not a mystery,” Oikawa shot back instantly, cheeks already starting to pink. “I know her name.”

Iwaizumi raised a brow as he took a sip of his drink. “Congratulations. Next, you’ll be telling us you know her blood type.”

“I don’t, obviously,” Oikawa muttered, fiddling with the lid of his drink. “...It’s probably B.”

Hanamaki snorted. “You looked that up, didn’t you.”

Oikawa looked vaguely horrified. “I did not! Why would I—okay, I might have, but only once! And it was for research.”

“Research,” Matsukawa repeated, deadpan. “On her blood compatibility? You planning to donate an organ or propose?”

Oikawa groaned, slumping into the table. “You guys are the worst.”

“You’re worse,” Iwaizumi said dryly. “You're literally a disaster every time she’s within a ten-foot radius.”

“She’s so pretty,” Oikawa mumbled into his arms.

“And you get so stupid,” Hanamaki added.

“You almost walked into a door last week,” Matsukawa said. “We saw it. The entire hallway saw it.”

“I was distracted!”

“By her existing,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “Just talk to her, dumbass.”

“I can’t just talk to her,” Oikawa said, lifting his head with a look of genuine agony. “She’s—she’s quiet. What if I scare her?”

“You scare everyone,” Hanamaki said. “That hasn’t stopped you before.”

“But she’s not everyone,” Oikawa said softly.

They didn’t say anything to that—not because they didn’t have anything to tease him with, but because the way he said it was too honest, too transparent in a way that caught them slightly off guard.

Matsukawa was the one who broke the silence. “You’ve got it bad, man.”

“Like, ‘write her name in your notebook and practice your married signature’ bad,” Hanamaki added.

Oikawa let out a long, suffering groan and buried his face back into the crook of his elbow.

And from a few tables over, completely unaware, you sipped your coffee and tried not to look directly at him. He was loud and bright and effortlessly charming—and you were convinced you’d melt into the floor if he ever so much as glanced in your direction.

He did.

A lot.

And every time he did, his heart stuttered—like he was the one with the hopeless crush.

It was almost ridiculous how the universe seemed to toy with both of you. A few weeks into the semester, your professor for one of your GE classes stood at the front of the lecture hall, a list of randomly assigned project partners in his hand. You weren't expecting much. In fact, you were already mentally preparing yourself to carry the entire project, as usual.

But then, your name was called—and immediately after, his.

Oikawa Tooru.

Your breath caught. Your brain short-circuited. You didn’t even look back at him, too busy calculating how quickly you could get up and ask to be re-assigned. Surely the professor would understand. It wasn’t about Oikawa specifically—it was about your tendency to completely shut down around people like him. Popular. Charming. Intimidatingly beautiful.

But before you could move, you heard his voice—bright, eager, and just a little too loud.

“Cool!”

You froze.

He was already making his way toward you, that signature easy grin on his face, his brown hair bouncing slightly with each step. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, like this was the best possible outcome he could have hoped for.

And then he tripped.

It happened so fast. One second he was gliding down the steps of the tiered seating like it was a runway, the next he caught the edge of his shoe on a stair and went sprawling—face-first, limbs flailing in the most undignified way possible—onto the floor right in front of you.

The entire lecture hall gasped. So did you.

“Oh my god—Tooru! Are you okay?”

Your voice cracked slightly at the end, halfway between concern and panic. You were already halfway out of your seat, your hands hovering, unsure whether to help him up or pretend you hadn't just witnessed your crush crash and burn like a baby deer on ice.

Oikawa froze on the ground. Not because he was hurt—but because you said his name.

You. Knew. His. Name.

He looked up at you, ears burning bright red, and despite the throbbing pain in his knee and the bruised ego, he swore he could feel his soul leave his body and ascend.

“I—uh. Yep! Totally fine. That was…just gravity testing me.”

“Gravity's a bitch,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, but he heard it anyway. He laughed. You winced.

From the back row, Iwaizumi groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s malfunctioning again.”

“Dude’s gone,” Matsukawa said, sipping from his tumbler like he was watching a reality show. “Absolutely fried.”

Hanamaki leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Did you hear her? She said his name. That’s it. We’ve lost him.”

“I’m not carrying him down the stairs if he short-circuits again,” Iwaizumi added.

Oikawa, who was still crouched on the floor pretending to inspect his shoelaces, heard all of it.

But he didn’t care.

Because you knew his name.

And you were worried about him.

God help him, he was doomed.

Meanwhile, you, on the other hand, were still internally spiraling over what had just happened—not even a full minute had passed since Oikawa tripped in front of you and practically crashed face-first into the pavement like a poorly written slapstick scene. You didn’t even understand how it unfolded. One moment, he was confidently walking your way, and the next, gravity had betrayed him in the most theatrical way possible. Now he was crouched down, pretending to fiddle with his shoelaces as if that somehow explained the catastrophe, but the real chaos was happening in your head—because you had said his name.

Again.

“Tooru.”

It slipped out before you could stop yourself, soft and uncertain, and the moment it left your lips, you saw it hit him like a second blow. If his brain had short-circuited the first time, this one sent him into a full shutdown-restart sequence. You couldn’t tell if it was the way you said it or the fact that you said it at all, but it had him spiraling—and you, just as badly, were panicking over how much worse you might’ve made things.

Still, you did the only thing you could think of—you extended your hand toward him, voice quiet but sincere. “Uhm—I’ll help you up, Tooru.”

That did not help.

Oikawa looked up at you as if your voice alone could kill him, a stunned expression frozen on his face. You had just offered him your hand—and said his name—again. It was over. His neurons had given up entirely. He was absolutely losing it.

“Yeah—yeah, sure,” he managed to say, but it came out breathless, like the words had to push past a malfunctioning system just to make it to the surface.

Then, without thinking, he took your hand.

You jolted at the contact, visibly startled, and you couldn’t stop the flush that crawled up your neck. His hand was warm—too warm—and the feel of it against your palm made your heart spike wildly in your chest. You could feel your entire body heating up like your blood had turned to steam. He held on longer than necessary, just long enough to make your breath hitch, and when you finally looked at his face, he was already staring at you like you had just fallen from the sky and cracked his sanity open.

Several steps behind, the rest of the team had come to a halt, observing the entire scene unfold like front-row spectators to the most awkward yet painfully romantic moment they’d ever seen in real time. Iwaizumi stood with arms crossed, clearly trying to suppress the urge to groan into the sky. Matsukawa had one brow lifted so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline, and Hanamaki, bless him, had the most smug grin stretching across his face.

“Who needs a cinema when I’m watching this?” Hanamaki muttered under his breath, elbowing Matsukawa lightly.

None of them blinked. None of them moved. Because somehow, despite how ridiculous it all started, they knew—this was the beginning of something they were absolutely going to tease Oikawa about until the end of time.

“Uhm… when do you want to start?” you asked, your voice barely steady as he sat down beside you—too close, too real, too much for your already short-circuiting brain to handle.

You didn’t dare look at him. Not directly. Not when your heart was pounding this loud and your palms were too clammy to be normal. Your eyes focused anywhere else—the desk, your notebook, the way the sleeve of his hoodie brushed against your arm like it had no concept of personal space. Everything about him was overwhelming, even in silence.

Oikawa shifted slightly, one leg crossed over the other, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie as he tried not to stare too obviously at your profile. You looked nervous—but soft. And so, so pretty up close. He almost forgot to answer.

“Later?” he offered, trying to sound casual.

You gave a small smile—barely there, but real—and shook your head gently. “I have another class though,” you said, almost apologetically, and that little touch of laughter at the end of your sentence slipped out before you could catch it.

And just like that, Oikawa was gone.

To anyone else, it would’ve been a normal laugh. A polite one. But to him, it was the prettiest thing he’d heard all day—maybe all semester. The way it cracked the nerves in your voice, the way your eyes softened when you said it—he wanted to bottle the sound and play it on repeat. His thoughts unraveled faster than he could keep up with.

“Oh—uh, right—of course,” he stammered, already fumbling his words. “That totally makes sense, I—I mean, obviously you’d have class, because, uh, we’re in school—yeah.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed again, this time hiding your smile behind your hand.

Oikawa stiffened. He had to look away, cheeks visibly flushing, as if he had been caught in the act of thinking something he shouldn’t be.

From across the room, Hanamaki made a dramatic face and mouthed oh my god while Matsukawa smirked like he’d just won a bet. Iwaizumi, arms crossed and expression flat, looked like he was moments away from dragging Oikawa out by the collar if he fumbled one more time.

Eventually, the awkward air gave way to something lighter, easier—like the ice had cracked just enough to let a little warmth through.

“How about this weekend?” you offered softly. “There’s a café across from the school. It’s usually quiet.”

Oikawa’s head snapped toward you so fast you thought he might pull something. “Yes. Yes—Saturday? That works. Saturday’s great.”

You smiled again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Saturday, then.”

The moment stretched just a little too long, not in discomfort—but in uncertainty. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to just leave it at that. So you hesitated, fingers brushing against the edge of your phone.

Then, voice even quieter than before, you glanced up from beneath your lashes and said, “By the way… should I give you my number? To contact me?”

Oikawa stared.

If his brain had reset earlier, this time it completely powered down. Your voice had gone soft again—so soft he had to lean in slightly just to hear you clearly. And then, the words themselves—give you my number—sent him into another emotional tailspin.

“Yes!” he said a little too loudly. Then he cleared his throat, trying to play it off. “I mean—yeah. That’d be helpful. Just so, like, I can message you. About the project.”

You nodded, holding out your hand for his phone. Oikawa fumbled to unlock it—twice—before finally managing to hand it over. You typed in your number slowly, trying not to think too hard about how his eyes were definitely on you the whole time. You even added a small emoji next to your name—out of habit, not flirtation—but when you gave the phone back, Oikawa stared at the contact like it had personally granted him eternal happiness.

You didn’t realize it, but he smiled for the rest of the day.

When you handed your phone to him so he could type in his number, Oikawa took it like it was made of glass. His fingers hovered for a second, then typed carefully—nervously—as if each letter had the power to make or break fate. He pressed save only after checking twice, cheeks flushed, mouth opening like he wanted to say something more before he let it go.

You bid him goodbye with that soft smile and your usual light step, not noticing how long he stayed there even after you disappeared into the crowd.

Oikawa was still staring at your contact info, frozen in place like time stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Your name—your name—was now sitting in his phone like it belonged there, like it always had.

And then his phone buzzed.

[you]: see you on saturday tooru ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

His heart did a full somersault in his chest. His lips parted in disbelief, then curved upward slowly, like they didn’t know how else to react.

“That’s new,” Matsukawa said casually, appearing by his side with an annoyingly smug look as he peered over Oikawa’s shoulder. “So you finally won the lottery.”

“I should’ve placed bets,” Hanamaki added as he joined in, nodding to the message on the screen. “All it takes was a project so you can finally grow balls to get close to her.”

Iwaizumi was the last to arrive, folding his arms as he cast Oikawa a look that was both unimpressed and faintly amused.

“Even though it was an embarrassment watching you fall flat earlier,” he muttered.

Oikawa groaned, but it was the kind that had no real weight—his grin gave him away. He clutched his phone like it was a secret he never wanted to lose, still looking at your message like he couldn’t quite believe it existed.

Maybe he did fall earlier. Maybe he’d embarrassed himself more times than he could count. But none of that mattered now.

The rest of the week passed in a blur, lectures blending into each other, and practices running longer than they should. But Oikawa didn’t mind. Saturday kept inching closer, and he welcomed the distraction of waiting.

By the time it finally arrived, Oikawa was practically vibrating with energy.

Living off-campus was a mutual decision between the four of them—him, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki—something about shared space, independence, and how splitting rent outside campus was barely any more expensive. Their rented house had four bedrooms, and despite their differences, it worked.

Kind of.

Especially when Oikawa started his morning by knocking on every single one of their doors for the third time.

“Iwa, Iwaaa—how’s this coat? Be honest, I trust your opinion,” he sang, standing in the hallway in front of Iwaizumi’s door, fully dressed in layered neutrals: a cream turtleneck under a deep brown blazer, tailored slacks, tortoiseshell glasses, and his favorite loafers. Very old money. Very Tooru.

The door flung open with force. Iwaizumi glared at him, hair still tousled from sleep.

“It’s seven-thirty in the morning. On a weekend.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, Iwaizumi slammed the door shut again.

“That was rude, Iwa!” Oikawa called, offended but not surprised.

Undeterred, he made his way to the next door. “Mattsun?” he said, knocking rhythmically. “Don’t ignore me. Rate the look. One to ten. Be honest but not too honest.”

A muffled groan. Then: “Too early for fashion shows, Tooru.”

Finally, he knocked on the last door. “Makkiiii~ You’ll tell me I look hot, right?”

The door creaked open a crack, just enough for a bleary Hanamaki to squint at him. “You’re obnoxious, but annoyingly good-looking. Now get out of here before I throw a slipper at your face.”

Oikawa beamed. “That’s the energy I needed, thank you, Makki!”

Satisfied, he returned to his room, checking his appearance in the mirror one last time—adjusting the collar of his coat, fixing the cuffs, making sure his glasses sat just right.

Then his phone buzzed.

[you]: good morning tooru see you later (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

Oikawa froze. Stared. Then dramatically collapsed backward onto his bed, clutching his phone to his chest and covering his mouth like he was trying to trap a scream.

“She texted,” he whispered to no one. “She texted first. Oh my god—she’s so cute—what does that kaomoji mean? Is that a heart? Is she flirting? Iwa-chan will never believe this—wait, no, Iwa-chan cannot know about this.”

He rolled onto his stomach, kicking his feet into the mattress like a teenager high on the idea of love.

Then his phone vibrated again. He jolted upright like he'd been electrocuted.

[you]: I'll eat breakfast first then I'll let you know when I'm on the way

[you]: you should also eat too tooru (๑´ڡ`๑)

Oikawa screamed.

Like, actually screamed.

He launched his phone onto the bed and flailed like a man under emotional attack.

“She cares about my health! She wants me to eat! She used a food kaomoji—what does that even mean?!” He groaned into his pillow, muffled and dramatic, before flipping over again to stare at the ceiling in awe. “She’s gonna be the death of me.”

There was a sharp knock on his wall—probably from Iwaizumi’s room. “SHUT UP, TOORU. SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP.”

Oikawa cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back, “I’M HAVING A MOMENT, IWA-CHAN. LET ME FEEL THINGS.”

Then, quieter, to himself, “I can’t eat now… how do you expect me to eat when she texts like that?”

Still, he sat up. Smoothed his clothes again. Slipped off his glasses just to clean them even though they were spotless. Checked the time. Checked it again two seconds later.

And with one last look at his reflection, he whispered, “Don’t mess this up, Tooru.”

You, on the other hand, were already red just by sending the message to him.

Your phone slipped from your fingers and landed on the bed with a soft thud as you froze in place, hands hovering midair like you were afraid to touch reality.

"Are you okay?" she asked slowly, watching the way your face turned even redder. "Do you have a fever?"

You whipped your head toward her, eyes wide. "What? No! I'm—I'm fine!" you lied, voice three octaves higher than usual.

She frowned, standing up to approach you with her hand outstretched. "You're sweating. You definitely look like you have a fever—"

"I'm fine!" you insisted, grabbing a pillow to hide your face. "It's just... I sent a stupid text, okay?"

That caught her attention.

She stopped in her tracks, grin forming instantly. "To Oikawa?" she asked, voice laced with teasing.

You groaned into the pillow.

"Why did I put a kaomoji?!" you cried into the fabric. "Who even does that?! What am I, twelve?! He’s gonna think I’m weird."

Your roommate laughed. "You're spiraling, and it's not even 9 a.m."

“I should’ve deleted it. I should’ve deleted it and retyped like a normal human being.”

"And yet," she sipped her coffee again, eyes sparkling, "you didn't."

You dramatically collapsed backward onto the mattress, hands flung out like you were on stage.

“I’m never texting anyone again.”

Your phone buzzed.

You shrieked.

[tooru]: see you later also ♡

You stared at your phone.

Oh god.

Why did he send a heart.

Without even thinking, you launched yourself face-first into your pillow and let out a muffled scream.

Your feet kicked at the mattress. You writhed like a bug on its back. The pillow smothered both your voice and your rising panic, but the damage was done. Your brain was spiraling.

You didn’t even hear your roommate step into the room until you heard the unmistakable sound of a coffee mug being set on your nightstand.

“You good?” she asked, one brow raised and very much not concerned.

You lifted your head just enough for her to see your wide-eyed expression and the sheer panic painted across your face.

“He sent a heart,” you croaked out. “Tooru. Oikawa. He—he sent a heart.”

Your roommate paused for a moment… and then snorted.

“Oh my god,” she said with a grin. “You’re totally acting like a high schooler with a crush.”

“I am! This is his fault! I only sent a kaomoji! That’s like—barely flirting! Why would he heart me back?!”

“Maybe…” she drawled, her grin widening, “he likes you too?”

Your brain short-circuited.

Your entire body glitched.

Face: red. Heart: combusted. Brain: fried.

“D-Don’t say that!” you stammered, clutching your pillow like it was a life preserver.

She laughed as she sat at the edge of your bed, watching you squirm with far too much amusement. “You’re so adorable when you’re flustered. This is the most I’ve seen you lose it over a guy.”

You groaned and rolled again, hiding your face. “Because he’s not just a guy! He’s Oikawa Tooru! And he just sent me a heart like that’s a normal thing to do!”

“Well,” she teased, “good luck being normal when you see him later.”

You arrived at the café first.

The place was cozy, bright with warm light, and filled with the low hum of morning chatter. You chose a table near the window, trying to look casual as you sat down—but your fingers kept betraying you. You brushed imaginary dust off your dress for the third time, then tugged at your sleeves like they were too tight. They weren’t. You were just… nervous.

You smoothed the ribbon in your hair, inhaling deeply. You’d already ordered drinks to distract yourself. Maybe it would help. (It didn’t.)

Then the soft chime of the door rang.

Your head turned instinctively.

Oikawa Tooru stepped inside, hair slightly tousled by the wind, a tote bag over his shoulder, and that same casual, effortless charm he always carried like second nature. His eyes scanned the café for a second—and then found you.

He lit up immediately.

He waved at you like he’d been waiting for this all week.

Your eyes met his—and just as quickly, you dropped your gaze, flustered. You looked down at your lap like your nails suddenly became very interesting.

Meanwhile, Oikawa?

He was dying.

His heart thudded against his ribs so loud he was surprised no one else could hear it. You looked so adorable it physically hurt. The ribbon in your hair, the way you were dressed just a little more than usual, the way your gaze flitted away shyly when you caught him staring—

He was done for.

He moved toward your table too fast, too giddy—and immediately bumped into the edge of a nearby table.

A sharp, clumsy thud echoed.

A few people turned. He winced. One hand clutched his hip dramatically.

You looked up in surprise. “Oh my god—are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said quickly, shooting a sheepish smile at the older woman whose latte nearly spilled. “That table clearly came out of nowhere.”

You tried to hold in your laugh as he finally reached your table and slid into the seat across from you, rubbing at his hip like he was wounded in battle.

“You really okay?”

“I’ve had worse injuries in volleyball,” he replied with a wink. “But I’ll probably need emotional support now.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks still warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned forward slightly, still smiling. “But you’re smiling now, so… mission accomplished.”

You looked away again, biting back a smile.

And in that quiet second between heartbeats, Oikawa thought:

I’m so, so screwed.

Oikawa stood up almost immediately after settling in, like he hadn’t really intended to stay seated just yet. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeves before turning to you with a casual, “Do you want something? I’ll order.”

He glanced at the menu again while waiting for your answer, and when he asked what you wanted, you simply replied that you’d have another iced mocha—then added, somewhat shyly, that a slice of strawberry cheesecake sounded nice, too.

At the mention of it, he looked up. You hadn’t noticed, but there was a subtle shift in his gaze—like something about the words strawberry cheesecake flipped a switch in him. Oikawa swore he caught the tiniest glint in your eyes, an almost childlike spark that told him you didn’t just like the dessert—you loved it. He made a mental note of it without hesitation, storing it somewhere deep in the corner of his mind like it might come in handy one day, even if he didn’t know when.

A few minutes later, he came back carrying two iced drinks and two slices of cake. One strawberry cheesecake—perfectly plated and slightly glossy under the café lights—and another slice of chocolate for himself. He set yours in front of you without a word, just the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

You immediately reached for your wallet, already ready to split the bill. “Wait—how much was mine?”

“It’s fine,” he said, waving his hand like it was no big deal.

You paused. “Are you sure?”

He looked up—and made the mistake of actually looking at you. The question had come out so genuinely, so earnestly, paired with that slight tilt of your head and the way your fingers hovered above your bag like you were still ready to insist. You looked up at him with eyes too soft for your own good, brows slightly drawn together in a way that screamed polite worry. And Oikawa, who had thought himself immune to such things, immediately felt his heart skip something like five beats.

He forced a casual shrug, suddenly feeling warmer than before. “Yeah. Seriously. It’s just cake.”

The silence that followed wasn’t entirely awkward, but it wasn’t quite comfortable either. It was the kind that made you stir your straw unnecessarily in your drink just to give your hands something to do. He glanced down at his plate, and you glanced around the café, neither of you quite sure what to say next.

Eventually, you cleared your throat and spoke, voice a little lighter as if trying to reset the mood. “So... how do you want to start our project?”

It brought him back to reality. Right—your GE in literature. The joint presentation on showcasing different forms of written expression across eras. Poetry, prose, essays, scripts—anything that could be dissected and brought to life in front of the class. It was supposed to be simple, academic, straightforward. But now, looking across the table at you—fork in hand, eyes curious and waiting for his response—it didn’t feel so straightforward at all.

“Since we have two weeks to prepare, let’s just research first. Then I’ll do the PowerPoint—is that okay with you?” he asked, stirring his drink lazily, gaze fixed on you with casual ease that made your heart skip.

“Of course, but I’ll help you with the PowerPoint, okay?” you replied, offering a smile before your eyes quickly dropped to your plate. You poked at your cheesecake, avoiding his eyes, too aware of how intensely he’d been watching you. The heat creeping up your neck was impossible to ignore—so was the flutter in your stomach. You were trying to play it cool, but God, the way he looked at you was intimidating in a way you couldn’t explain.

Oh god, Oikawa swears he might not even get through the day without combusting for the tenth time.

And don’t even get him started on how your cheeks puffed slightly as you took another bite, eyes lighting up at the taste like it was the best thing you’ve had all week. The way you looked—content, cheeks rounder, mouth curved into the softest smile as you chewed happily—it was too much. Too damn much.

He leaned back in his seat, trying not to grin like an idiot, but it was already too late.

He was so screwed.

And to make it worse, he could already hear Iwaizumi’s voice echoing in the back of his head—“You’re so whipped, it’s pathetic.”

Oikawa took another sip of his drink and stared at you over the rim of his glass, already knowing Iwaizumi was right.

Your days began to follow a pattern—one Oikawa secretly looked forward to more than his weekend games. Whether it was in quiet cafes tucked into campus corners, the school library where he’d “accidentally” reserve the seat next to you every time, your dorm lounge where you two would awkwardly huddle over a shared laptop, or sometimes even the house he shared with his three equally nosy (and annoying) best friends, your presence was starting to blur into every space of his life.

At first, it was just the literature project. But that quickly evolved into, “Hey, aren’t we in the same GE class? Want to study together too?” And you’d nodded, a bit too quickly, cheeks already warming, eyes darting anywhere but his face.

What started as strictly academic became something more like a ritual. Oikawa would pretend not to get too excited when your name popped up on his phone, and you would spend a full twenty minutes debating whether your outfit looked “too much” or “too plain.” You were a nervous wreck most of the time—especially the first time he invited you over. To a boy’s house. A house filled with boys. Tall, chaotic, loud boys. You practically considered faking sick.

But you showed up.

In a simple cream-colored dress with puff sleeves and a burgundy bow clipped neatly into your hair. You were trembling like a puppy in a thunderstorm, clutching your notes like they were a crucifix. Oikawa thought he might die. Right there. On his stupid living room rug.

“Hey, she’s cute,” Hanamaki had whispered way too loudly as he passed the living room with a bowl of popcorn.

“Our Oikawa has taste, huh?” Matsukawa had added, peeking into the room and wiggling his eyebrows like some evil uncle.

“She’s here to study,” Iwaizumi groaned, whacking both of them with a throw pillow. Then he turned to you with a forced smile. “Sorry. They’re idiots. Please ignore them.”

You bowed in embarrassment. “I-It’s okay… I didn’t expect anyone else to be here…”

Oikawa had the audacity to grin like a maniac. “They’re always here,” he whispered to you. “But you’re the only guest I like.”

He swore he saw steam rise from your ears. And then he had an internal breakdown for saying that out loud.

Your bow would bob every time you nodded, always slightly off-center by the end of the day from fidgeting too much. He grew to anticipate that bow like it was part of your personality—like it was something only he got to see up close. You’d tug at the hem of your skirt while reciting terms or chew on your pen while watching him explain things on your laptop screen, and Oikawa would have to bite his tongue not to say anything stupid.

"She's literally a shoujo manga character," Matsukawa whispered to Hanamaki one evening while peeking through the kitchen pass window.

"I bet Oikawa already has a secret folder of her selfies," Hanamaki replied, nodding seriously.

"I do not—!" Oikawa barked, nearly flipping his textbook. You shot him a puzzled glance, oblivious to the banter, while Iwaizumi dragged the two idiots back to the kitchen by their shirt collars.

“I’m sorry again,” Iwaizumi deadpanned, setting snacks down beside you. “If you hear them say anything stupid, just pretend they’re NPCs.”

You giggled, finally relaxing a little as you opened your notebook. “It’s okay. They’re kinda funny…”

Oikawa caught that—the way your eyes softened when you laughed. And he was screwed. So utterly, completely, permanently screwed.

Because your shy glances, your off-center bows, the way you always offered to help even when you didn’t have to—it all made his heart feel too full.

And unfortunately, Matsukawa was right. He might have actually saved a few selfies you sent when you asked, “Is this dress too much for study night?”

He might be whipped. But at this point? He didn’t even want a way out.

Once your literature project ended—and you both presented it with flushed cheeks and awkward smiles that your professor somehow didn’t question—your little study dates… still continued.

There wasn’t even a conversation about it. No “Hey, want to keep studying together?” or “Should we still meet up at the café this Friday?” It just happened. Like clockwork. Like you two were already part of each other’s schedules, as natural as morning alarms and coffee runs.

It was almost laughable—how seamlessly Oikawa had folded himself into your routine. Or maybe you had folded into his. Either way, it felt like the universe quietly decided: Yeah, these two belong in the same sentence.

Still, no matter how many times you found yourself beside him—head bent over a shared textbook, knees brushing under the table, his pen sometimes in your hand because you always forgot yours—you never quite got used to being close to Oikawa Tooru.

Not in the way that mattered.

Not when his cologne lingered too long on your sleeves. Not when he leaned over your shoulder and quietly read something out loud, voice brushing the shell of your ear. Not when he offered you his hoodie without asking and your fingers brushed when you reached for it.

You were calm and composed on the outside—mostly—but inside? You were still a shy, fidgety mess.

And Oikawa? Well, he was in emotional shambles too.

Every time you smiled up at him with that quiet kind of warmth, every time you touched his arm to get his attention, every time your bow flopped slightly to the side by the end of your study session, he had to resist the urge to scream into a pillow. Preferably Iwaizumi’s.

“She’s so cute I’m gonna combust,” he whispered one time in the kitchen, forehead pressed against the fridge.

“You’ve said that four times this week,” Iwaizumi replied flatly, sipping his protein shake.

“Because it’s true,” Oikawa whined. “She’s literally ruining me.”

“You’re ruining yourself, actually,” Hanamaki chimed in from the hallway. “Man up and ask her out already.”

“I second that,” Matsukawa added. “Unless you want us to keep watching you make heart eyes at her over a damn thesaurus.”

“I do not make heart eyes—!” Oikawa hissed, then immediately cut himself off when you peeked your head in to ask if he still had your highlighter.

He melted.

You apologized for interrupting, bow bouncing softly with your flustered movement. Oikawa stared for two full seconds too long before snapping out of it.

“Y-Yeah! It’s on the table!” he stammered. “Wait—I’ll get it for you!”

“Dead man walking,” Hanamaki muttered behind his cup of coffee.

“Certified whipped,” Matsukawa coughed.

“Do I ever get a break from you guys?” Oikawa groaned as he jogged after you, highlighter in hand, soul in shambles.

No. No, he did not. But he didn’t really mind.

Because somehow, even without the project, even without a clear label for what you two were, you still kept coming back to him.

And honestly? He hoped you never stopped.

But he did hope—selfishly, stupidly—that there was a label between you two.

Because god, the project was over, the grade was in, and the deadline had passed weeks ago—but he still wanted you near him. Even if it meant combusting every time you leaned too close, losing his cool whenever you looked at him for just a second longer than necessary. You still laughed at his dumb jokes, still texted him memes at midnight, still dragged him to cafés under the excuse of "editing" your presentation. It should’ve ended. Should’ve faded. But it didn’t. And Oikawa hated how much he liked that.

He was out at the mall with Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa, trailing a few steps behind them, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as they argued over which movie to watch later. He wasn’t really paying attention. His gaze drifted along the rows of shop windows—until it landed on a pastel storefront with a cluttered display of hair accessories.

One bow caught his eye.

It was delicate—off-white with soft lace and little crystal accents that shimmered under the lights. The kind of thing he’d never wear or care about. But when he saw it, he thought of you. Instantly. The way you sometimes braided the sides of your hair when you were rushing. The way your eyes lit up when you wore something cute and someone actually noticed.

Oikawa lingered, slowing down.

He was still staring when a voice chirped behind him.

“Oh my god, you’re buying that for her, aren’t you?” Hanamaki said, elbowing him with a grin. “Makki, shut up—” Oikawa muttered, though he made no move to walk away.

“Aw, come on, it’s adorable,” Matsukawa added, stepping beside him. “Can you imagine her face? She’d die.”

“I’m not—buying anything,” Oikawa said, even as his eyes flicked back to the bow. “It just... looks nice, that’s all.”

“Right, right,” Hanamaki smirked. “And I just follow you around out of brotherly affection. Tooru, you’re down so bad it’s almost romantic.”

“She’s not even—” Oikawa started, then cut himself off. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up to his ears. “We’re not even together.”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Iwaizumi cut in dryly, not even looking up from his phone. “Buy the bow, dumbass. You’ve been staring at it for a full minute.”

Oikawa exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys don’t get it. She’s... she’s different. And I don’t want to mess this up by pushing too hard.”

Hanamaki tilted his head. “So you’d rather suffer in silence than tell the girl you’re in love with her?”

“I never said love,” Oikawa said, immediately.

Matsukawa raised a brow. “You just did.”

Oikawa groaned again, loud this time, like the sound could drown out his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes found the bow again. The crystals sparkled like they were mocking him. But he still pictured you wearing it. Still wondered if you’d smile. If you’d let him put it on you himself. If you’d finally look at him and say you liked him too.

Iwaizumi nudged him forward with a grunt. “Just buy it already, Tooru.”

And maybe, if he did—maybe he’d finally find out if you’d let him be more than just a partner on a long-finished project. Maybe you’d let him be something real. Something with a name.

He bought the bow.

Matsukawa let out a low whistle behind him the moment he stepped up to the counter, and Hanamaki practically threw his arms in the air like Oikawa had just proposed marriage instead.

“Oh my god, he’s doing it!” Hanamaki stage-whispered with all the subtlety of a marching band. “Look at our boy—finally growing up.”

“Should we clap? I feel like we should clap,” Matsukawa added, already fishing out his phone like he might record the moment for future blackmail.

Oikawa didn’t say a word. Just placed the bow gently on the counter and tried to ignore how the cashier raised an eyebrow at the spectacle happening behind him.

“Is this… a gift?” she asked, deadpan, as Hanamaki and Matsukawa continued to act like they were witnessing a wedding proposal.

“It’s not a confession,” Oikawa muttered, cheeks flushing. “It’s just... something I thought might suit a friend.”

Behind him, Hanamaki gasped. “Friend?”

“Liar,” Matsukawa coughed into his fist.

Iwaizumi stepped up with a sigh that sounded like it had aged him ten years. He bowed slightly to the cashier, one hand already gripping Hanamaki’s collar. “I’m sorry for them. They were dropped on their heads as children.”

The cashier snorted but waved it off. “It’s cute. Annoying, but cute.”

Oikawa paid in silence, doing his best to look anywhere but at his friends. When the cashier handed him the little pastel bag with the bow inside, he took it carefully, like it might break if he held it too tightly.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Iwaizumi nudged his side.

“Don’t screw it up,” he said.

And for once, Oikawa didn’t fire back. He just clutched the bag a little tighter and thought of you.

You were in your dorm, sprawled on your bed with your cheek pressed against the pillow and your phone held loosely in one hand when it vibrated. You barely glanced at the screen before your heart did a quiet flip.

[tooru]: are you free?

That was it. No context. No follow-up. Just five words that immediately lit a fuse in your brain.

You stared at the message a little too long, waiting for another one to come in—for something like need help with econ again? or want to review the lab notes together? Something that would make this feel normal, familiar, something that wouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it was currently doing. But nothing else came.

You bit your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard and deleting your reply three different times before you could bring yourself to send a casual yeah, why? back. You barely had time to toss your phone on the bed when it buzzed again.

[tooru]: there’s a new pastry place by the station. they have strawberry cheesecake. wanna come with me?

You blinked.

Then you sat up.

Then, without warning, you dropped back down face-first into your pillow and let out a long, muffled groan that could only come from someone who was spiraling too hard, too fast.

“Uh-oh,” your roommate said from her desk without even turning around. “It’s happening again, isn’t it.”

You didn’t move.

She swiveled her chair and gave you a pointed look. “What did Oikawa say this time? Did he compliment your penmanship? Call you cute again on accident? Smile at you with his pretty boy twinkle?”

You rolled over dramatically, holding your phone up like it was damning evidence. “He asked if I was free.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“He said there’s this new pastry shop near the station. And that they have strawberry cheesecake.”

Silence.

Then—“Oh, you’re doomed.”

You clutched your pillow tighter. “What if he’s just being nice? Maybe he just remembered I like sweets and wants company.”

She gave you a look. “Company? What is he, an eighty-year-old man with a tea set?”

You flushed. “It’s not like he called it a date. What if it’s just... casual? Not even that deep.”

“And yet here you are, spiraling like this is the season finale of your love life.”

You groaned. “We don’t even hang out like this. It’s always for school. Group projects. Study sessions. I don’t know what this is.”

Your roommate stood and walked over, snatching your phone from your hands with a huff. “He said strawberry cheesecake, right?”

“Yeah.”

“The one you like.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ve never actually told him you liked it?”

“I don’t think so?” you said, voice going soft. “Maybe... maybe back when we met at that café for our project? He asked what I wanted, and I told him strawberry cheesecake.”

She raised a brow. “So he still remembers.”

You shifted uncomfortably. “There was also that one time at his house. He gave me these cream puffs while we were reviewing, and I kinda—might’ve—gone through his snack stash like a criminal.”

Her grin was practically predatory now. “And he let you?”

You covered your face with your hands. “He said I looked cute when I was chewing.”

She gasped and hit you with a pillow. “You left that out on purpose.”

“I forgot!”

“No, you repressed it,” she declared, pointing at you like she was solving a crime. “You’ve been in love with him since I don't know during the freshman orientation.”

“I’m not in love with him.”

She arched a brow. “You sure?”

You didn’t answer.

She threw herself on the bed beside you and poked your shoulder. “It’s a date. You’re getting cheesecake with a pretty boy who remembers what you like and texts you without an academic excuse. You’re not imagining it.”

You peeked at your phone again.

[tooru]: i’ll wait for you at the station at 3. don’t be late—i want to see if you’ll light up again when you eat it like last time.

You stared. Then let out another groan and rolled off the bed.

Your roommate smirked. “Yeah. You’re toast.”

Oikawa, on the other hand, was beet red when he sent the message—his fingers trembling slightly as he hit send, and the moment it was done, he immediately tried to play it cool, though it was impossible to hide the way his face burned all the way up to his ears. Behind him, the laughter came sharp and immediate. Hanamaki had caught the tail end of the text just as he leaned over to grab his drink, his eyes widening before he burst out laughing, loudly enough to draw glances from nearby tables. Matsukawa nearly choked on his soup, slapping the table with the flat of his hand while Iwaizumi just stared, unimpressed but not entirely unsympathetic—though the upward twitch of his lip betrayed that he was far more amused than he let on.

“Be honest,” Makki said through his cackling, “did you actually just say ‘see you later’ like you’re in a high school drama?”

“I told you not to look at my phone,” Oikawa muttered, his face buried in his scarf even though they were already seated and the hotpot was making the space warm enough to fog the windows.

“I mean, I didn’t try to look,” Makki grinned, leaning back, “but you were holding it up like it was a love confession.”

“You should’ve added a heart,” Matsukawa added, nudging him with his knee beneath the table. “She replied, right? What’d she say?”

“Yeah, come on, Tooru,” Hanamaki teased, voice sing-song, “don’t leave us hanging.”

Oikawa gave them all a half-hearted glare but couldn’t hide the way his hand curled tightly around his phone, thumb brushing over the screen. The reply had been simple—rushed, even—but it was enough to make his chest feel light. okay sre you tooru. A typo, sure, but she had replied. And more importantly, she had called him by his first name. The way his name looked in your message did something inexplicable to his brain, enough that he kept reading it over and over again in his head like it meant more than it probably did.

The four of them were currently seated around a bubbling pot, the restaurant tucked into a quieter corner near the station, their bags from the mall resting beneath the table, the crisp late afternoon slowly darkening through the windows behind them. It was supposed to be just another group hangout to kill time before they headed home for the weekend, but at some point between teasing each other in the arcade and getting distracted at the snack stalls, Oikawa had typed that message to you—an invitation, barely disguised beneath casual words and a half-hearted emoji. He might deny it later, might swear up and down that it was just a recommendation or a friendly suggestion, but the reality was undeniable.

He had technically asked you out on a date. And the moment you replied, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the night.

After a few hours had passed since they finished lunch—his stomach full but his thoughts restless—Oikawa excused himself from the group, slipping away from the laughter still echoing behind him as they split off in different directions. The late afternoon breeze tugged gently at his jacket as he made his way to the pastry shop by the station, the one with soft pink walls and dainty cakes behind glass, where he’d told you to meet him.

He arrived early, of course. Pacing near the door for a few moments before deciding to head inside, he chose a seat by the window, one that gave him the perfect view of the street. His fingers drummed idly against the table, gaze flitting from his phone screen to the people passing by—until his eyes caught on a familiar figure approaching.

There you were.

Wearing a dress he could only describe as the embodiment of sweet elegance. You always wore dresses—your signature style, he’d come to realize—but today’s look made something in his chest tighten. A soft, lolita-style dress in a muted cream color framed your figure, adorned with subtle lace, frilled sleeves, and a ribbon that swayed with your steps. Your hair was styled with care, and even from behind the glass, he could see the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him.

The off-white lace bow he'd bought earlier at the mall—on impulse, he’d claimed to his friends, though they'd all seen right through him—would match your outfit perfectly. He felt his heart skip, his fingers instinctively brushing the little shopping bag beside him, suddenly bashful at the thought.

Then you waved, your face brightening in a way that made him melt instantly. There was a sparkle in your eyes—pure, warm, sincere. Oikawa barely had time to recover before you pushed open the door, the bell above it chiming softly.

“Hi, Tooru,” you greeted sweetly, your voice soft with affection.

And just like that, any rehearsed line he had vanished from his head.

Oikawa blinked once—twice—because somehow, seeing you through the glass hadn’t quite prepared him for how stunning you looked up close. His breath caught in his throat, and his words tangled awkwardly as you approached the table with a small smile, the soft hem of your dress swaying with every step.

“You… wow,” he managed, sitting up straighter, ears turning pink as he fumbled for coherence. “You look—really, really cute. Like… ridiculously cute. I mean, not that you don’t always, just—today—especially—” He ran a hand through his hair in a flustered motion, letting out a nervous laugh. “This dress suits you so much, it’s almost unfair.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you looked down immediately, your cheeks heating like a rising tide, lips parting in surprise before curling into a shy smile.

Your fingers clutched your bag a little tighter, voice barely above a whisper as you murmured, “Thank you, Tooru…”

You still wouldn’t lift your gaze, and Oikawa thought he might combust right then and there—because even your shyness was adorable beyond reason.

Oikawa stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped back, catching it with a quick hand before clearing his throat and turning to you with a nervous smile.

“D-Do you, um—what do you want? I-I mean, to order,” he asked, voice stammering slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.

You blinked up at him, surprised by how flustered he was, and gave a small smile.

“Strawberry cheesecake,” you said, soft and certain, then added with a thoughtful hum, “and probably… some tarts too.”

Oikawa nodded far too seriously, as if it were a mission briefing. “Right—cheesecake and tarts. Okay. Got it.”

Then, under his breath—barely audible—you caught him mutter, “of course you’d pick something sweet.”

You sat down, smoothing the hem of your dress as you did, and let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. A soft smile found its way to your lips—small, almost unsure, but warm nonetheless.

Your heart was beating so fast it echoed in your ears, thumping against your chest like it was trying to get your attention. And maybe it was.

Because this felt different.

There were no study guides laid out across the table. No notebooks crammed with highlighted notes. No looming exams or group projects to fall back on as an excuse.

Just you and him.

Just Tooru.

And deep down, in a place you tried to keep quiet, you couldn’t help but wonder if this really—truly—was a date.

Oikawa came back carefully balancing a small tray, placing it down with a proud little grin. On it were two slices of cake—yours a strawberry cheesecake topped with glistening fruit, and his a rich chocolate mousse layered with ganache. Beside them sat a delicate mini tart platter, each one filled with creams and fruits and custards like a pastel mosaic.

“Uhm—I ordered the mini tart platter instead,” he said, stammering slightly, “so we can, like, try different flavors… together.”

He tried to play it cool, but the way he fiddled with the edge of the tray betrayed the fact that he was anything but.

Then he looked at you—and nearly melted.

Because your eyes lit up the moment you saw the sweets, your entire face softening in delight like you’d just been handed a box of sunshine. You looked at the tray, then at him, and back again, like you couldn’t decide what was sweeter.

He didn’t care that his cake was probably going to get warm. Not when you looked at dessert like that. Not when you looked at him like that.

He sat down in front of you, still slightly flushed, and gently nudged the tray a little closer to your side of the table.

"You can eat now," he said softly, eyes flicking between your face and the strawberry cheesecake like he wasn’t sure which one was more captivating.

You nodded, your fingers brushing over the fork as you quietly murmured, “Okay,” your voice a little shy, your cheeks already warm.

He watched the way you looked down bashfully, how your lashes fluttered when you avoided his gaze—so damn cute he had to glance away himself just to breathe.

“By the way,” he said again, voice softer now as he reached down and pulled out the small paper bag from earlier. His fingers fidgeted slightly with the handles, like he wasn’t sure if he should hand it over yet. But then, after a breath, he set it on the table between you two. “I bought this and… it immediately reminded me of you.”

You blinked, eyes flickering between him and the bag. You slowly opened it and carefully peeled back the tissue, revealing the off-white lacey bow inside. Your heart skipped at the sight—it was delicate, sweet, and just your style. You already imagined how it would look nestled in your hair.

You looked up to thank him, but your voice caught when you saw the way he was watching you—quietly, earnestly, like he’d been holding something in for a long time.

“Tooru…?”

He let out a slow exhale, glancing down at his fingers before lifting his gaze back to yours. His voice was gentle, almost hesitant, but firm enough not to run away from what he needed to say.

“I didn’t just ask you here because I happened to be in the area,” he admitted. “I… I’ve been meaning to do this for a while. Ask you out, properly. Just us. No study materials. No excuses.”

He smiled sheepishly, cheeks tinting red. “I like you. I think I’ve liked you for a long time. And I saw that bow at the mall earlier, and it just—made me think of you. How cute you’d look in it. How much I wanted to see you smile.”

Your breath hitched, and the blush on your cheeks deepened as you lowered your gaze for a moment, overwhelmed but soft all the same.

“I… I wasn’t sure how you’d feel,” he continued, quieter now. “But I figured, if there was even a chance… then I wanted to try.”

You looked up again, meeting his eyes. They were wide with vulnerability, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. Just Tooru. Honest. Hopeful.

The bow still rested in your lap, but your hands were already trembling from how full your chest felt.

And with a shy smile tugging at your lips, you whispered, “I’m really glad you did.”

Your fingers moved almost on instinct, soft and trembling as you reached across the table and gently held one of his hands resting near the fork. His skin was warm, and when your touch met his, Oikawa froze—eyes flicking down, then back to you, breath held like he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

You smiled, shy and a little wobbly, but it was genuine—tinged pink across your cheeks as you gently squeezed his hand.

“I like you too, Tooru,” you said quietly, just above a whisper. “I think I’ve liked you for a while now… I just never thought you’d notice me like that.”

His eyes widened, a glint of disbelief flickering in them before his lips parted, but you kept going, voice a little steadier now.

“And… I’m happy,” you continued, looking down at the bow still sitting on your lap, brushing your thumb over the delicate lace. “That it reminded you of me. It’s really pretty. It feels like… you see me. Really see me.”

You peeked up at him again and added with a soft laugh, “And you remembered I have a sweet tooth. The tarts, the cheesecake… you always remember the little things.”

Oikawa was speechless for a moment—his fingers gently curling around yours now, as if trying to ground himself in the fact that this was real.

“You’re kind,” you whispered, “and I always thought… maybe someone like you wouldn’t look at someone like me like this. But I’m really glad I was wrong.”

And for the first time that day, Oikawa looked like he could cry—from relief, from joy, from the soft, quiet realization that the person he’d been falling for felt the exact same way.

You and Oikawa walked to your dorm that same evening hand in hand. In your grasp was a paper bag filled with slices of strawberry cheesecake and another box holding cakes of different flavors—ones he remembered you mentioned liking before. In his was the smaller bag carrying the delicate lace ribbon he bought just for you.

You couldn’t stop smiling, your fingers gently curled around the handles as if you were afraid this day might slip away like a dream. Your heart fluttered at how thoughtful he’d been, getting takeout just so you could enjoy the sweets later too.

Oikawa kept glancing at you, grinning to himself. The way you clutched the cake boxes so carefully, eyes bright and steps a little lighter than usual—he thought you were the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. You were practically glowing, and all because of him. He didn’t think his heart could take it.

When you reached your dorm building, you turned to him, the hallway quiet and dimly lit.

“Thank you again, Tooru,” you said softly, cradling the bags against your chest. “For… everything.”

Before he could say anything back, you leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips—soft, fleeting, but sweet enough to make his heart skip.

You pulled away shyly, your gaze flickering down as your cheeks heated.

But then Oikawa’s hand gently cupped your cheek, and before you could look up again, he leaned in and kissed you—deeper this time.

His lips moved slowly against yours, tender but sure, as if he’d been holding that in for too long. The cake bags were nearly slipping from your hands, but you didn’t care. You felt like you were floating.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was a little shaky, and his smile was boyish and full of wonder.

“…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he murmured.

You giggled, breathless, and whispered, “Me too.”

After that night, you officially started dating the campus crush and star volleyball player—Oikawa Tooru—who, unbeknownst to most, had been deeply in love with you all this time.

Even with the title of boyfriend now secured, Oikawa would still short circuit in your presence alone. You could be doing the most mundane thing—tying your hair, sipping your drink, or smiling at your phone—and he’d be sitting across from you, red-tipped ears and dreamy eyes, completely malfunctioning.

You, on the other hand, were doing your best to overcome the fluttery shyness that came with dating someone like him. It was hard to stay composed when Oikawa would send you heart-throbbing winks across the hallway, or pull you close by the waist just to kiss the top of your head when you least expected it.

Of course, this only gave his friends premium material to tease him with.

“Look at Lover Boy over there,” Hanamaki would grin while nudging Matsukawa. “He’s been staring at her for five full minutes. Is that drool?”

“Bet he writes her poems on the back of his practice schedules,” Matsukawa added with a snort.

“I wouldn't put it past him,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “The man once practiced ‘how to smile less smugly’ in the mirror for her.”

Oikawa would dramatically shield you behind him, scowling at them like a knight defending his honor. “You're all just bitter and alone.”

But even in the face of relentless teasing, he was unbothered—too busy being head over heels for you to care. And while you were still adjusting to all the public attention, there was one thing you both knew for sure:

Whatever this was between you—it was real, sweet, and the best kind of chaos.

© 2025 yukkigiri ☾ creations by luna — please do not repost, copy, or translate without permission.

[keisminx]

pervert!oikawa tooru who teaches you because you asked so nicely, not totally because he’s into you and been waiting for this moment :33

cw. timeskip. first time. oral (m receiving). established friendship. corruption. praise kink. MDNI. 18+ ONLY.

a/n. i am rusty as hell in writing, spare my first post!!! i do not proofread my writings (for future writings) i rawdog it.

“hey, tooru.. how do women.. give head?”

was the question the flies past your lips as you looked up at him. you are sitting on the floor of his apartment while he sits down on the couch, phone in one hand, legs spread, looking at you.

“what?” he asked, quickly. putting his phone down to give you full attention.

you swat your hands, “s-sorry. that's such a weird thing to... ask.” you awkwardly laugh, going back to your phone. “forget about it.”

tooru shook his head, leaning on, elbow his knees. “no, no. i’m listening, what happened?” you looked back at him, eyes soft. “just this.. this guy who asked me out.. and he asked me to uhm.. and i didn’t know what to do.. so i said no” you sighed, fiddling with your fingers on your lap. “and he looked at me kinda weird..”

he watched you. you look embarrassed like you are asking your parents for the first time how babies are made.

“i googled it,” you confessed, weakly. “b-but it’s just a bunch of sketchy and scary sites..”

tooru can feel his cock harden under his sweats. his jaw has been clenched for so long now.

“want to learn it?”

he asked, licking his lips. the question caused you to shift from your position, nodding slowly. “i’m not weird... right?”

“no.” he answered, “i think that's very brave and cute of you to ask me.”

you feel your heart hammer on your chest as you and tooru look at each other’s eyes.

“i can teach you,” tooru smiled, “if you're so sure about it.”

you nodded again, feeling small. and tooru swear his cock twitches just by looking at you as you sat on the back of your heel.

you moved carefully, hands clutching his knees as you kneel in front of tooru’s spread legs.

“you okay?” he asked.

“‘m good..”

“good girl.”

“let’s start slow, m’kay?” tooru said, pulling out his already hard and angry cock out of his sweat, tip already glistening from the pre. “you can use your hands first, baby.”

you followed through, reaching for his cock. fingers wrapping around him, hands looking tiny. “like this?”

tooru inhaled big, nodding. “you can move your hand up and down. you can use both hands if needed.”

you tried, obedient as ever. thumb accidentally hitting his angry tip causing tooru to hiss.

“right there,” his breath shook, “keep doing that. fuck—baby, you're so good”

tooru’s noise only motivated you, trying to go faster as he bit his lip, head tossed. you can feel your cheeks warm up as he gets vocal.

“should i... should i put it in my mouth?”

tooru almost came at your question.

“if you're comfortable,” he smiled, totally trying to stay composed, “you can.”

your lips parted a bit, leaning forward. his eyes fixated at you as your tongue swiped his slit before wrapping your lips around it.

“that’s it,” he gasped, “just like that. keep your lips shut around it.. fuck, so good, baby.. so good”

you are feeling embarrassed, really. but you are aiming too high now, you need, want tooru to cum because you are doing good. you can feel yourself drool as you bob your head slightly.

“no need to rush,” he moaned, fingers carding to your hair, not really gripping it. “you’re doing well, baby. so fucking good for me..”

that made you moaned a bit, trying more to fit him in your mouth.

“breathe to your nose,” he guided with a breathy voice. “use your hands for the rest.”

you were about to use your hands but the high of tooru’s praises got you so instead you tried taking all of him, feeling it hit you causing you to gag.

“wait—fuck, baby—”

you pulled away quickly, tears forming the corner of your eyes as you looked at tooru. “s-sorry”

tooru’s chest heaved up and down, “it’s okay, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

there's still a line of saliva connecting your lips to tooru’s cock. “you doing good, baby. want me to finish it?”

you nodded, eyes glassy, mouth wet.

“alright,” tooru stands up in front of you, pumping his length on his hand as you look up at it. “a-ah, fuck. stay there, look up at me.”

his hand wrapped around his head before stroking it again, repeatedly. his head is thrown back, eyes shut close.

“shit— i’m cumming, baby— fuck— take it all, fuck—”

thick, white cum spilled on your face. on your lips, your cheeks. your mouth parted as you get covered, thinking you’ll mess up if you move.

tooru looked at you, “shit.. you look so good.”

you stayed still, blinking, cum dripping on your face. “did i do good?”

he nodded, tucking a strand of hair on your ear. “you are the best, baby.”

[riddlesrose]

sporting someone else's jersey

w/ ushijima, bokuto, sakusa, oikawa, kyotani, atsumu, suna & tsukishima

in which you decide to see how your pro volleyball player boyfriend reacts to you wearing a jersey. a jersey that so happens to not be his, and not even his team?? c'mon now.

a.n; all my favs go pro this is great

ushijima wakatoshi stares you down as you're cooking in the kitchen. you can feel the intense bore of his curious eyes as you welcome him home from practice. his wandering vision takes in the black jersey with the name "sakusa" in big, bold letters across the back. you look over your shoulder when he doesn't answer, and are met with his bewildered state.

"oh are you interested in my new shirt?" you pull at the hem, examining the MSBY jersey look-alike as you turn to face you boyfriend. he takes three long strides through the kitchen before he's caged you between himself and the counter.

"i don't like it. it's representing another team. though i am acquainted to sakusa..." he grasps his chin between his thumb and forefinger, pondering for a moment. "no, i don't like it."

you let your head fall onto his shoulder, defeated by his straightforwardness. he runs a hand down your spine, "is there a problem?"

you groan, meeting his eyes, "i thought you'd react more to it, like... be jealous or something, gods.." you say, rolling your eyes.

"well, i am jealous, i thought that was obvious?" he tilts his head to the side slightly, like a puppy.

"no, it wasn't!" you drop your forehead onto his chest and groan again. his 'matter-of-fact' attitude is probably going to kill you one day.

bokuto kotaro eyed the green shirt suspiciously, "when did you get that?"

you hum in a fake thought, "i think a while ago?" you turn, revealing the full front of the jersey. a large number 17, followed by the name sendai frogs.

"hey! it's tsukki-bro! hey, wait..." his shoulders fall, along with his smile. you almost gave up the act right then and there, he looks so upset immediately. he drags one foot after another, stopping in front of you. he pinches the mock jersey and rolls it between his fingers.

"it's not as soft as mine is." he mumbles, eyes still trained on the details of the shirt.

you wrap your arms around his neck and attempt to catch his eyes, but you realize they aren't sad. they're crinkled at the edges like he's smiling wide. seems like he's got you figured out.

kotaro figures you've caught onto his fake sadness, and a smile spreads across his lips as he kisses your forehead, "i saw the receipt on my email, you used my card."

"shit."

sakusa kiyoomi grimaces at your package as you hold it up for him to examine. if kiyoomi didn't find the green utterly horrid, it was the fact that you spent money, probably his, on a jersey that didn't even support his team.

"it's like you spun a wheel with teams on it and bought the first one it landed on," he watches as you rip the plastic off and instantly throw the jersey on. "oh my god."

you pull the shirt over your head, fitting into the sleeves, "what?"

"you're not even going to wash it first?" you pause. you hadn't thought about that, nor the fact that your boyfriend was now judging you twice over.

"i, um... no?" kiyoomi rolls his eyes, a telling look clouds his eyes. "wait, are you jealous?!" you practically leap off the couch, the green jersey falls fully into place, the hem grazing your thighs, as your boyfriend avoids your eyes.

"you are, i knew it!"

"i'm not.." he mumbles, cheeks turning just the slightest shade of pink. "why did you pick the sendai frogs anyways? do you even know the player you picked?"

"it was kyotani, and not really, i've only ever seen their team play on tv, like once." you reach around your head and pull the shirt off, throwing it to the side. "but you're jealous!"

"am not."

the jersey was a short lived accessory in your closet, but best believe kiyoomi threw it out later that night. the shirt wasn't even soft enough to turn into a cleaning rag or sleep shirt, in his best opinion.

oikawa tooru, your loving boyfriend, stands in front of you, absolutely fuming as he eyes the white schweiden adler's shirt. what makes it even worse is the name and number you've picked. #20, kageyama tobio.

"get rid of that, like, yesterday."

"um, how about no?"

"what do you mean, 'no'!"

you stand from the couch, "oh tooru, you grew up with iwaizumi as a best friend, you've been told no before." then take off towards your bedroom.

"you-! get back over here!" tooru tails you into the bedroom before you can shut and lock the door, leaving him in the hall. he grabs a handful of jersey pulling you towards the closet as you protest, trying to scratch at his arm like a cat.

"here is a treasure trove of shirts and sweaters at your disposal, why on earth would you need that."

you wiggle free from his, not surprisingly, strong grip and fall back onto the neatly made bed, wrinkling the sheets. "because, i knew you'd freak."

tooru whips around, slack jawed, "oh, and it was iwazumi's idea." if his mouth could fall any further to the ground, you'd have to pick it up for him.

"you're both so horribly mean to me!"

kyotani kentaro, a man of many emotions but little words. for some reason some 15 months ago, you decided that he was a great target for your affection. it took a long time poking and prodding at the volleyball player for his number, and by the grace of the gods, it worked. you broke down his walls and caved yourself a cozy little home in his heart. now, he'd ask for nothing different-

"what the fuck is that."

you look between your drink and your phone, one in each hand, "what do you mean?" you ask with a sweet smile.

he rounds the table, "oh piss off, you know what i mean," and pulls your chair out from the table, while tugging at your oversized argentina jersey t-shirt. the blue shirt ripples under kentaro's hold.

"oh, that! there was a giveaway online on them after the argentina team won their last big game, people online were saying they were soft, so i entered for one to sleep in. i needed a new sleep shirt anyways." you don't miss the disgusted look that your boyfriend sports so well, it deepens as he realizes the name on the back. oikawa.

after a moment, he notices your shoulders shaking lightly in laughter, sensing his displeasure. you rise from the chair, bringing him and his scrunched face into your hold, "i'm just fucking with ya, i specifically picked oikawa, too."

he huffs with a stupid smile, rolling his eyes but reciprocating the hug, "gross, get rid of it."

miya atsumu's jaw drops when he catches a sight of you lounging comfortably on the couch, in a jersey that is most definitely not his. he swiftly makes his way between you and the television, ignoring your protest. his brow furrows when you don't immediately acknowledge him and his pout, (though he will 100% deny he's pouting, miya atsumu does not pout like a child).

you lean back on the couch as he advances, "off, take it off," he says while grasping at the neck, trying to pull the jersey from you.

"atsumu stop, you're gonna stretch it!" you protest, trying to blindly swat his hands away.

he stops, the jersey falls back over your eyes and you're met with the most dramatically hurt expression ever, "you care more about this, than my feelings?!"

"i spent good money on it, besides, you went to school with suna so i thought it would be cute!"

"it is far from cute," he spits, eyes full of envy for what could have been you in his clothes. "if i let you re-steal the grey sweater can i throw that thing out?"

"... possibly."

atsumu crosses his arms, "i'll forfeit my movie choice tonight."

"you've got yourself a deal, sir."

"rin come help me with this!" suna rintaro shuffles off the couch at your call, making his way to the hallway between the living room and kitchen of your share apartment.

he leans on the doorframe as he watches you move around a picture frame, "where should this go?" you turn to him, handing the frame to him. it was a picture of the two of you and the miya twins at the recent festival that passed. it was nice to see the two of them, and thankfully both their schedules allowed for them to come.

rintaro smiles at the picture, gaze lifting to you, who's looking at him expectantly. his view lowers to your attire, a simple pair of black shorts and a shirt he's never seen before.

you catch him examining the jersey-copy and turn around to reveal the name miya across the back. you look over your shoulder and are met with rintaro's sharp eyes, judging your choice of player. and team.

he reaches out and places a hand on your shoulder, turning you back around to face him. "hey, why don't we have a bonfire tonight, i'm sure the pit is free and i have the perfect fire starter." you feel the shirt tighten by your shoulder, he's got an iron grip on the jersey, but his face remains calm as ever.

a little too calm, it's kind of unnerving.

large white letters stare tsukishima kei right back in his dumbfounded face. your boyfriend places his gym bag down by the door, walking into the kitchen, ducking under the frame that just slightly too short for him.

"hinata, really?" his voice sounded extremely irritated, but his face softened as you turned to face him.

you place your mug down, "yeah! i remember you went to school with him, i thought it was cool you both went pro!"

"i don't care what that blockhead did. more importantly, where did you get that?" the blonde gestures to your torso, flicking his wrist around distastefully.

you smile, "i ordered it online! since it's a popular team they have their own line of lookalikes, they're really soft too." while you praise the MSBY jersey, kei's brief look of jealousy goes unseen.

"you bought a jersey based on someone i went to high school with?" he steps closer, just to flick you on the forehead, "that's stupid."

you rub the spot, while swatting his chest with the back of your other hand, "you're stupid!"

"no, it's stupid that we're not burning that thing yet."

masterlist

p.s; i was gonna do goshiki but realized how CHOPPED he is in the timeskip. sorry my beloved i can't take you seriously with those baby bangs.

[candyandclouds]

𐔌 . ⋮ haikyu cast ⋮ cuteness aggressions - part 2 .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

ᰔ tsukishima kei : you’re standing on your tiptoes, reaching for a book on the shelf, whining softly when you can’t grab it. tsukishima watches from the doorway, teeth digging into his lip. he sighs loudly, striding over to pluck it down with ease, but instead of handing it to you, he traps you with his height. “you’re infuriating,” he mutters, glaring down at you. “do you realize how stupidly cute you look struggling like that?” you blink at him, confused, and he huffs, shoving the book into your chest before suddenly wrapping his arms around you. his chin rests on your head, and you can feel his heart hammering. “i hate you for making me feel like this,” he mumbles, holding you tighter than he should.

ᰔ oikawa tooru : you’re sipping a milk tea while waiting for him after practice, straw tucked between your lips, feet swinging. oikawa freezes the second he spots you. “no. nope. i can’t take this,” he says dramatically, covering his face with his hands. when you beam and wave, he feels his knees weaken. he runs to you, grabbing your face between his palms. “do you understand how cruel you’re being to me? i want to crush you—squeeze you until you pop!” his voice trembles with theatrical despair, though his arms are firm and desperate around you. “it’s unfair how cute you are. i should sue,” he whines, then peppers kisses across your cheeks, as if trying to devour the sweetness out of you.

ᰔ shirabu kenjiro : you’re sitting on his bed, flipping through your notes with glasses slipping down your nose. shirabu almost chokes on air when he sees you. his jaw clenches, brows furrowing as if you’ve personally offended him. “why are you… like this?” he mutters, voice sharp with frustration he can’t mask. you look up innocently and that’s it. he yanks the notes from your hands and pulls you flush against him. “i can’t focus when you’re so… disgustingly cute,” he snaps, though his ears are pink. when you laugh softly, he grits his teeth, hugging you so hard you squeak. “shut up. i’ll actually lose my mind if you keep looking at me like that.”

ᰔ suna rintaro : you’re lying on his futon, wearing his jersey that practically swallows you whole. suna stares, deadpan, but his insides are screaming. “you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” he mutters, dropping down beside you. you shake your head, grinning, and he groans low in his throat, dragging a hand over his face. “unreal. you’re unreal.” he flops on top of you, his whole body heavy, trapping you beneath him. “you’re too cute, it pisses me off,” he mumbles into your neck. you laugh breathlessly, wriggling, but he only tightens his hold, threatening half-heartedly, “don’t laugh. i might actually bite you.” his lazy eyes are sharp with need, like you’ve broken his calm.

[kitasuno]

i'll keep every promise (if it's a promise with you) | oikawa tooru x reader

oikawa tooru has a bad habit of breaking promises and running from his first love. or: the four times oikawa breaks his promises and the one time he keeps one

( a / n ) - oh my god this is my magnum opus... my baby.. its a little bit of angst and a little bit of fluff and a little slice of life. u go through ages 6 to 28 LMFAO. iwaizumi + you + oikawa were such a fun trio to write for and i hope u guys enjoy !!

gn! reader | 2k words | happy birthday OIKAWA

Oikawa Tooru has a guilty conscience and a bad habit of breaking his promises. 

For every promise made and every promise broken, Tooru repents: 200 yen slid in a saisen-bako, a ninety degree bow, two wishes at a shrine. An offering to counter every promise he breaks, ample water to wash away his sins, and apologies written on wood.

 ( Iwaizumi has made the grand suggestion of: Maybe not breaking your promises? on several occasions, but Tooru can’t help it. ) 

He’s broken four promises and made eight wishes so far: four on blue Tanzaku and four atop Ema boards, followed with a prayer and an offering if the promise broken was particularly heinous or particularly his fault. 

He breaks his first promise at six years old– one made with you and Iwaizumi when the three of you were four and freshly neighbors. It was Tooru’s birthday, and he had promised this: 

I swear that I will take us all to the Ryokan before I turn six.

It’s a small promise: one that neither you nor Hajime had expected him to follow through with. But Tooru believed it, and Tooru had tried. He takes every single chore and odd job in the Oikawa household, scraping together a two-year-old Ryokan trust fund with mismatched coins and crumpled bills. He saves his allowances and puts everything in a glass jar next to his bed, and dreams.

Two Julys pass. Oikawa blows out four candles and then five, the jar gets bigger, you start Elementary school, and you and Hajime forget about the Ryokan. And then, on the third July, when Tooru turns six, you and Iwaizumi find Tooru mumbling about a broken promise— courtesy of his failure to take the three of you on an all inclusive trip to that Snow Monkey Ryokan that Iwaizumi wanted to go to. 

So he apologizes through prayers at a shrine and two wishes under a red Torii gate. It’s a thirty five stair climb to the neighborhood shrine: Hajime and Tooru race up and you come last, but the view is gorgeous and Tooru feels considerably less guilty.

It is 100 yen for each wish on a colored paper strip. Hajime says they’re called Tanzaku. Hajime drops one coin, Tooru drops four, you drop two. Seven thunks, four wishes. 

Tooru gets the honor of tying your tanzaku on bamboo branches as the tallest of your trio, and with it, the honor of reading your wishes.

Iwaizumi’s wish is messy and scrawled on bright red— Tooru tells him to Please work on your handwriting, but it’s legible and all well wishes for volleyball and you and Oikawa and cicadas.

Tooru’s got two wishes— a cyan one and a turquoise one, but he only lets you and Hajime read the cyan one. His cyan one is a little neater than Iwaizumi’s and reads:

Sorry I couldn’t take us to the Monkey Ryokan. 

He hangs the red one on his tippy-toes. Cyan next. Hajime cheers a little when Tooru hangs turquoise next to your pink one, and then asks: 

“Whaddya need two wishes for anyways?” 

He shrugs. 

“Guilty conscience, maybe?”

You’re thirteen when Tooru promises that he is going to ask you out in two years. Tooru is not allowed to date until he’s in high school, so he tells you under a blanket of stars that when the two of you are a little older, he will ask you out properly and maybe take you on a date. 

He walks you to school every morning. Hajime comes too, but the pink skies before the sun rises are for you and Tooru. Moments before you make it to Iwaizumi’s block are moments that Tooru gives you his scarf, and then his gloves, and when the wind bites at your cheeks too hard his jacket is draped over your shoulders. On rainy days, Tooru holds the umbrella and laughs as your fingers brush and your cheeks flush. Some mornings he brings you toast: and tells you in hushed whispers to eat it before Iwa-Chan sees. 

Oikawa and Iwaizumi walk you home after cram school and volleyball practice. Hajime’s house is first— so Iwaizumi bows first, heads back inside first, waves goodnight first. When the door closes and the light turns on, the black sky and twinkling stars are for you and Tooru. He always says Good Night saccharine sweet with a smile like the sun that makes you feel like you really can’t wait to turn fifteen. 

Oikawa blows out fourteen candles. The three of you graduate in blue and walk home like usual. Summer passes, another July goes by, Oikawa blows out fifteen candles, and high school starts.

You learn several things in your first year at high school: you really like the student council, Hajime is actually pretty smart, and Tooru is afraid of commitment. 

Tooru is popular: he is athletic and tall and the Volleyball Club’s golden first year. He smiles at the girls in his class, he slings arms around their shoulders, he winks when he passes by the student council room, and he preens a little and shines a lot.

Oikawa is fifteen when he goes on his first date with a girl from another school: and when he tells you and Iwaizumi after he gets home, he plays dumb as Hajime gives him a look and takes you home, overhearing Iwaizumi’s apologies and your crestfallen voice as you say something about a promise.

Oikawa’s chest hurts that night so he walks to the shrine with 200 yen in his pocket and a sorry scrawled on two pieces of colored Tanzaku. 

Oikawa turns sixteen and goes to the shrine again. 

This time, it’s a broken promise with a girl in his class. She was popular– she smelled like cotton candy and reminded Tooru of strawberries and daisies, so when she asked Tooru out, he had said Sure, and he had smiled like she was the sun. 

But he’s a bad boyfriend– a terrible boyfriend– because he’s only there when it’s convenient and he ditches her for volleyball practice and maybe sometimes he catches himself thinking about a certain childhood friend when she holds his hand and buys him milk bread at lunch. 

She was sweet and she was terribly pretty, but he doesn’t feel anything when she kisses him or when she rests her head on his shoulder.

Iwaizumi asks him what he’s running from after practice one day. Tooru knows Iwaizumi is asking why he is running from you. 

Tooru is a little scared of how you make him feel too much. Oikawa likes being in control and Oikawa likes stability, so when he realizes that his heart thumps erratically whenever you’re around and he finds himself all consumed with thoughts of you and a burning desire to please you; he rejects and refrains. And runs.

His girlfriend dumps him after a few months. Tooru says sorry, removes her phone contact, and faintly remembers a promise he made with her four weeks ago. 

I swear I’m not in love with someone else. 

from: tooru (23:20) shrine time!!! ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶

from: hajime (23:21) You broke another promise?? Ur a piece of shit lol

from: tooru (23:22) iwaaa chan U￣ｰ￣U  ur so mean !

from: you (23:24) bro . don’t tell me it was about ur ex ur a manwhore !!!!

from: hajime (23:25) Average Shittykawa moment

from: tooru (23:25) i can’t help it !! (✿ ♥‿♥)  everyone wants a piece of me !!! ill pick u guys up and we’ll go to the shrine and ramen after plsss ☆

from: hajime (23:26) Ur treat?

from: tooru (23:27) iwa-chan’s treat !! i’m going through a nasty breakup, remember ? \_( ◉ 3 ◉ )_/¯

from: you (23:29) hajime we know his address we can burn his room down

from: tooru (23:30) OK FINE my treat! it’s on me!!! everyone say thank you tooru !!!

from: hajime (23:31) thank you tooooruuu chan (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

tooru and y/n reacted with: Scared !

from: tooru (23:32) um please don’t do that ever again

Oikawa’s fourth promise is one to himself and one to Seijoh. 

We will make it to Nationals. 

He doesn’t leave his room for a week when he breaks it. He’s inconsolable. He says he’s sick: he’s got a bad fever, it’s contagious, he’s bedridden, he’s fine. But the lights are never on in his room, his curtains are always drawn, and you know that Tooru devoted everything for a chance and a dream and a volleyball. 

He comes to you first. He’s standing in your doorway and there are bags under his eyes and he says, Hi, and then, I’m fine. He tries for a smile— and then you give him a look, and suddenly he’s in your arms and sobbing. 

He cries for two hours. Tooru ugly cries– his chest racks when he sobs and his arms are tight around you and digging into your back. Oikawa Tooru is not weak: but he is not a prodigy.  

He falls asleep in your bed with his head in your lap and your hands in his hair, but his eyebrows are furrowed and he’s shifting a lot and he’s probably having a nightmare. You call Hajime before gently shaking Tooru awake. 

He blinks up at you— all puffy eyes and tousled hair and swollen cheeks, but he sees you and he softens.

“Wanna go to the shrine?”

Iwaizumi still grumbles the whole way up the thirty five steps, but he’s quiet as Oikawa slips two coins into the saizen-bako. Hajime wraps an arm around your shoulder as the coins rattle in the box and you know he’s upset too— his hands are slightly shaking and he keeps sniffing. Nationals might have been Oikawa’s dream but Iwaizumi was also a dreamer, and sure, Oikawa was going to go, but they were going to go together.

Tooru hangs two Ema boards and for the first time, he bows at the Honden. Two claps. Head down and hands together as he prays. Iwaizumi joins him: and you watch as Oikawa apologizes to him and Hajime shakes his head- because it was Hajime’s promise too. 

Oikawa is twenty-eight and on a plane when he finally keeps his first promise. 

It’s a small promise: but a promise nonetheless, one that he made before he left for Argentina. He tells you he loves you at the airport but he has his boarding pass in one hand and his passport in the other. And you tell him you love him too, but also that he’s being unfair, and no you won’t go out with him. And Oikawa knew you would say that, but he still finds himself making a promise– a promise you laugh at because Oikawa Tooru never keeps his promises.

If we’re still single in ten years, I’m going to find you, and I’m going to ask you out. 

You cry, and Tooru wraps his arms around you and cries too— and then Iwaizumi’s there, and Iwaizumi’s crying, and you don’t know which part of you is Oikawa or Iwaizumi. Oikawa leaves for Argentina with a heavy heart but a hunger for the future. 

In the ten years that pass he plays a lot of volleyball. He tans a lot. He learns some Spanish. He tries beach volleyball. And then, he buys a plane ticket on his birthday. 

from: y/n (21:12) happy birthday tooru !! me n hajime r having an honorary drink for u. hope ur having fun in argentina!!! hajime and i say te amo !!!!

from: tooru (21:15) i’d like a hot sake plssss thank u!!! ( ˙▿˙ )

from: y/n (21:15) LMFAO. no. me and haji r drinking ASAHI DRRRRRRYYYYYYYY for u bro also hajime got BUFF wat the hell hope ur tanning good in argentina 

from: tooru (21:16) well tell BUFF iwa chan that ill be there in 5 and i want a HOT SAKE and also YES i tanned good SO EYES OFF IWAIZUMI

from: y/n (21:17) ? what? ur funny lol … TOORU?

Tooru is twenty eight and might retire soon. Thirty five stairs is too many to climb and keeping promises is far more fun than breaking them. So he taps your shoulder, hands Iwaizumi your bouquet, and takes your cheeks in his palms to tilt your chin over. 

“Hi!” He says. 

 Tooru bends down to kiss you. 

[lxnics]

Might be rhe most beautiful and amazingly-written oikawa fic of all time

[mwphisto]

LaDs: Nasty Habits I Think They Have (18+)

~ I feel like I be saying the same things in different fonts but this has been lingering in my head for at least a month now so why not.

Sylus cannot stop spitting on your pussy during sex. You could be sopping wet, a mix of his cum and yours literally everywhere. All over your cunt, your thighs, dripping down your ass. It's still not wet enough, every so often he just spits down on where his cock disappears inside of you to make it even wetter.

Xavier eats you front to back, you don't think there is a time where he's gone down on you and not licked your ass too. You're mortified about it, make a point to really deep clean yourself up prior to seeing him. He's eating you to the bone, licking and sucking and biting every inch of you from the top of your thighs all the way down and around to the small of your back.

Caleb loves the smell of your pussy, an obsession that goes far beyond stealing your panties for personal use. He'll purposely eat you out with the blankets over his head to be enveloped by the heady scent that is you and your arousal. You swear you feel his nose burying between your slick folds more than his tongue.

Rafayel is into snowballing after he cums in your mouth. Don't swallow, don't spill either. He's tugging you up to his level and crashing his lips against yours, a sloppy mix of tongue and teeth as you pass whatever of his cum remains in your mouth over to his before he's pushing it back into your own again.

Zayne purposely makes you squirt / ruin his sheets. It gives him a sense of satisfaction seeing the wet spot (puddle). He purposely bought a water proof mattress cover for this reason. When everything is done and you go to shower? He's grinding his cock into the wetness, hard all over again at the aftermath of your strenuous activities before stripping the bedding to wash.

[cherryscript]

RENT FREE RUIN ! ꒰ kinktober 25 ꒱

feat. neighbour!choso

summary. choso is your quiet broke neighbour with due rents and mouth too soft for his own good. he begs you to pay his rent which leads to him being used as your toy—which he’s loving a bit too much. neitherless to say, he learns what truely means to be fucked stupid.

warnings. strict femdom, pegging, anal play, strap-on, spanking, orgasm denial, chastity cage, power play, punishment, degradation (slut, boytoy, bitch, etc.), face slapping, orgasm denial, handjob, dacryphilia, restraints, overstimulation, dumbification, sub!choso, dom!reader.

cherry’s note. been a while written for choso. enjoyed writing this one. there's something about doming tf outta men. was giggling and biting my nails while editing. turns out im not doing so bad for kinktober ehh?

Choso’s knees are already red by the time you’ve made him hold his position for the fifth time.

Back arched. Hands clasped behind him. Head bowed low. His cock, trapped and throbbing inside the cage you’d locked on him earlier, leaks helplessly. Little tremors run down his thighs as he tries—fails—to keep them still.

“Pathetic,” you mutter, dragging the tip of the strap against the underside of his chin, lifting his face until his flushed cheeks and glassy red eyes look up at you. He shudders like the good little toy he is, breath catching in his throat.

“Say it,” you purr. Your voice slices through the quiet like a blade. “Say what you are.”

“I’m—” he swallows, the sound broken and small. “I’m your toy.”

“Louder.”

“I’m your toy!” he cries, voice trembling. The leather around his wrists creaks as he struggles not to fall apart before you’ve even touched him.

You step closer. The sound of your heels on the floor makes him twitch, and the movement presses the head of his caged cock against the cold floor, a soft hiss spilling from his mouth. You tangle your fingers in his messy black hair and pull his head back harshly. He gasps at the sting, pupils blown wide.

“I don’t think toys talk this much,” you murmur, leaning down just enough for your lips to brush against his ear. “But you’ll learn. Won’t you, pretty boy?”

“Yes,” he whimpers, voice catching. “I’ll learn, I promise.”

You release him and circle around slowly, letting him feel your gaze burning down his spine. He’s shaking—because he wants it. Because he’s a good little whore who gets off on being treated like he’s nothing. When you kneel behind him, the way his breath stutters tells you he’s already leaking inside the cage.

“Hands on the floor,” you command. “Arch that back. Show me what I own.”

He obeys without hesitation. Palms press against the floor, spine curves in a perfect line, ass raised and spread for you like an offering. His breath comes in soft, shaky puffs.

“Good boy,” you whisper, just to make him whimper. And he does—like clockwork. His hips twitch up, desperate for friction that won’t come.

The sound of lube squirting out of the bottle is loud in the quiet room. Choso moans at it like the little slut he is. When the cold gel hits his hole, he shivers, shoulders trembling. Your gloved fingers press against him, slow and steady, slipping inside with deliberate cruelty.

“Count.”

“One,” he chokes, breath hitching when you curl your finger.

“Two,” as the second finger joins, stretching him. His back arches tighter, needy.

“Three— fuck, fuck—” His hips try to rock back against your hand. The slap you deliver to his ass is sharp, echoing through the room. His moan turns high-pitched, almost a sob.

“Did I say you could move?” Your tone is calm. Dangerous.

“N-no,” he gasps.

“Then stay. Still.”

You work your fingers deeper, scissoring him open until he’s trembling from the stretch. When you finally pull out, he makes a wounded little noise—desperate for more. But then you press the tip of the strap-on to his rim, and his breath leaves him entirely.

It’s big. Bigger than your fingers. Bigger than what he ever takes on his own. And he loves it.

“Beg.”

“Please,” he whines immediately, tears glimmering at the corners of his eyes. “Please fuck me, I need it, I’ll be good—”

Another sharp slap, this time on the side of his face. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make his head snap to the side and his cock jerk in the cage.

“Try again.”

He sobs through a shaky breath. “Please fuck me, master. Please, I need you—please let me be your toy.”

“Better.”

You press forward and sink into him inch by inch. The stretch punches the air from his lungs in a sound between a moan and a cry. His hands curl into fists on the floor, knuckles white.

“Ah—ah—fuck—!”

“Language,” you warn.

“S-sorry—fuck, sorry—!”

You grab his hips, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks, and bottom out with one sharp thrust. Choso screams into the floor. His body convulses, cock twitching helplessly inside the cage, drool already pooling at the corner of his mouth. He’s a mess and you haven’t even started yet.

“Look at you,” you taunt, voice low. “Fucking useless. All this noise and you’re not even the one fucking.”

He lets out a wrecked sob when you pull out slowly and slam back in. Your pace is brutal from the start—no gentle build-up, no softness. Just the sound of skin hitting skin, the wet squelch of lube, and Choso’s broken moans.

“Count for me.”

“O-one,” he sobs as your hips slam into him again.

“Two—fuck—three—please—ah, fuck, more—!”

You grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back, forcing him to look up even as tears spill down his cheeks. He’s flushed all the way to his chest, drool streaking down his chin. Perfect.

“You’re such a pretty bitch like this,” you whisper against his ear, breath hot. “Crying on my strap. Taking it like the dumb little toy you are.”

His moan cracks apart halfway through. “I’m—your toy—!”

“Say it louder.”

“I’m your toy!” he screams, voice hoarse, and the tears finally spill down, wetting his flushed face.

Your thrusts get sharper, deeper, fucking into him like you’re trying to break him in half. The way the harness digs against your hips only makes it better—the power in the way he takes it, the way he unravels for you, the way every slap of your hips against his ass is another claim.

You land another slap on his ass—left, then right, each strike making him jolt and moan. The skin blooms red under your palm, hot and pretty. You grip his face from behind, forcing his cheek against the floor, pinning him there as you keep thrusting.

He whines like an animal. “Please—please—please—let me—please—!”

“Oh? You wanna cum?” you croon. “Like you’ve earned it?”

“Yes! Yes—please—!”

You slow down just enough for him to tremble on the edge of it. His thighs shake, his voice breaks, his ass clenches so tightly around the strap it makes you groan.

“Not yet.”

Choso’s sound is somewhere between a scream and a sob. He thrashes weakly, hands clawing at the floor, cock straining inside the cage as if it could burst from frustration alone.

“Please, master, I can’t—”

“Shhh,” you breathe, dragging your nails down his spine until he shudders. “Toys don’t cum without permission.”

He’s gone. His voice dissolves into hiccups and little gasps as you pick up your pace again, pounding into him hard and fast. Every thrust drives him further into the floor, and every noise he makes only proves how much he loves it.

“Good boy,” you whisper darkly, and the words make him shiver. “Take it. Take it like the dumb little hole you are.”

You reach down and grab the base of the cage, giving it a sharp tug. His scream splits the air. His back arches, toes curling, muscles locking tight. His entire body trembles violently.

“Cum for me,” you order.

It’s like flipping a switch.

Choso’s body goes taut, mouth falling open in a silent scream as he convulses. He can’t even touch himself; the cage keeps his cock aching and sensitive, cum spilling out in pathetic dribbles as his orgasm rips through him raw and brutal. He sobs through it, face a mess of drool and tears.

You don’t stop. You fuck him through every shudder, every cry, every trembling jerk of his hips until he’s gone boneless against the floor. His breath is ragged, throat raw from moaning, ass red from your palm, hole fluttering helplessly around the strap.

When you finally slow down, his voice is a wrecked whisper. “Th-thank you… thank you, master…”

You grab his chin, forcing him to look at you. His lips are swollen, face streaked with tears, eyes blown wide. Perfectly ruined.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You,” he whispers hoarsely. “Only you.”

You press your thumb into his spit-slick lips until he parts them obediently. “Good toy,” you purr. “You’re not done yet.”

The way his eyes roll back at those words tells you exactly how much he wants more.

You press his thighs wide open and slot yourself between them, strap glistening with lube and his mess, his hole still fluttering from the pounding you’ve already given him. His chest heaves, hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, mouth slack with the kind of desperation that only comes from being used just right.

“Look at you,” you hum, guiding the strap to his entrance again, “already ruined and I’m not even close to done.”

He whines—a sound that’s half cry, half plea—as you push in. Slow. Cruel. Inch by inch until you bottom out fully, your hips flush against his ass. His head tips back, throat straining, and the noise that spills out of him is raw.

“Fuuuck,” he chokes, tears clinging to his lashes.

You don’t give him time to breathe. You pull back and slam forward, hard, the slap of your hips against his skin loud and obscene. Again. Again. Each thrust is a deliberate punishment, your pace unrelenting, your breath steady while his is a broken symphony of whimpers and gasps.

Then your hand slides down between your bodies and wraps around the base of his cock.

He jolts.

The moment your fingers tighten, he makes the most delicious sound—high and desperate, like his soul’s leaving his body. The cage is off now, but he’s so sensitive from being denied earlier that even the barest touch makes him shake.

“Please—fuck—too much—”

“You’ll take it,” you breathe against his ear, thrusting deep, bottoming out again and again until your strap is buried inside him, stretching him perfectly. Your hand moves in tandem with your hips, pumping his cock in slow, firm strokes that make his back arch off the floor. “My toy doesn’t get to tell me when it’s too much.”

His eyes roll back. The dual sensation makes him unravel fast—your strap hitting that sweet spot inside him with every thrust, your hand squeezing and stroking him like you own every inch of him (because you do). His thighs tremble violently as he claws at the carpet, fingernails digging in like he’s trying to ground himself.

“F-fuck—oh fuck—oh my god—” he babbles, voice breaking into moans.

“Use your words,” you mock, tightening your grip on his cock. “Or has my little bitch already gone dumb on my strap?”

He whimpers, eyes unfocused, mouth falling open. “N-no—can’t—fuck—”

“Can’t what?” You thrust harder, the rhythm pounding through him. “Can’t think? Can’t breathe? Can’t stop loving how good I fuck this hole?”

He sobs through a shaky inhale. “Yes—yes, fuck, yes—”

You lean over him, pressing his knees closer to his chest, folding him open so deep you hit him at an angle that makes him cry out loud. Your strap slams into his sweet spot with every stroke now, and your hand never stops pumping him—tight, steady, cruel.

He’s completely fucked out, eyes rolling back, lips parted, drool spilling down his chin. His hips twitch helplessly, trying to match your rhythm but failing miserably because you’re already wrecking him.

“Look at you,” you whisper darkly, your other hand cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you through tear-blurred eyes. “My pretty toy. All fucked out on my strap. You don’t even know your own name right now, do you?”

Choso moans, a sound so wrecked it vibrates in his throat. “N-no… can’t—fuck—can’t—”

“Good.” You drag your thumb across his swollen lower lip, pushing it into his mouth. “You don’t need to think. You just need to cum when I tell you to.”

Your pace quickens. Harder. Deeper. His body jerks with every thrust, overstimulated nerves lighting him up from the inside. He’s a mess beneath you—sweaty, flushed, trembling, eyes rolling back again and again as your hand works his cock relentlessly.

“Gonna—gonna cum—” he gasps out, voice cracking, tears streaking down his cheeks.

You squeeze the base of his cock hard enough to make him sob. “Not yet.”

His hips jerk violently. “Please, master, please—”

“Beg prettier.”

His hands claw at the carpet. “Please—please, let me cum, I’ll be good, I’ll be your toy, I’ll let you ruin me, please—”

“That’s better,” you purr, dragging your strap deep inside him one more time, bottoming out until he’s shaking under you. “Cum for me, baby.”

The second you say it, he breaks.

His entire body arches off the floor, his cock twitching in your grip as ropes of cum spill messily across his stomach and chest. He cries through it, loud and wrecked, every thrust of your hips pushing him through the orgasm like a rag doll. His muscles spasm, toes curl, voice shatters into desperate moans.

But you don’t stop.

You keep thrusting, keep pumping his cock, overstimulating him until he’s babbling nonsense, tears streaming down his temples and his hands weakly pushing at your wrists. His cock twitches pathetically in your hand, too sensitive to handle it, but your voice cuts through his whimpers like a hot blade.

He sobs, hips shaking uncontrollably as another ruined orgasm tears through him. His cum mixes with sweat, smearing across his skin. He’s trembling, eyes unfocused, lips parted and shiny with spit and tears.

You slow down just enough to lean in, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “Good toy,” you whisper, dragging your thumb over his throat. “Look at that fucked out face. You were made for this.”

His only response is a broken whine and a shaky nod. His chest rises and falls too fast, thighs still quivering, body limp beneath you. He’s gone—wrecked beyond repair, ruined by nothing but your strap and your hand.

You give his cock one last lazy stroke, watching the way his whole body jolts from the sensitivity, before pulling out slow. The sound is filthy, wet, perfect.

Choso blinks at you through hazy, wet lashes, his voice nothing more than a wrecked whisper. “Th-thank you…”

You grip his jaw again, tilting his face up. “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” he breathes, a little too fast. “Yours. Only yours.”

Your grin is slow and mean as you press a soft kiss to his lips, nothing sweet about it. “Good boy.”

[forriku-deactivated20260315]

gojo has an addiction for dry humping . . .

gojo is a freak in the best way- cocky, overpowered sorcerer by day, but when it comes to you? the man’s a certified addict for dry humping. he swears he could bust just from grinding on your clothed pussy, no penetration needed.

“it’s the tease, baby” he’d say with that shit eating grin, like it’s some profound wisdom.

“why rush when the build-up’s this fucking hot?” you’d roll your eyes, call him dramatic, but deep down you know he’s serious- last time he proved it by cumming in his pants like a horny teen, laughing about it after like “oops, guess i’m that into you.”

tonight’s no different. you’re on the couch, some movie forgotten, his tall frame draped over yours as he pins you down with those strong thighs.

his lips crash into yours- messy and hungry, tongue shoving deep like he’s trying to devour you whole. “fuck, you taste so good” he groans against your mouth, hips already rolling slow and deliberate, his hard needy cock pressing through his sweats against your thin panties.

“satoru— slow down” you gasp, but he just chuckles low, that needy edge in his voice making your cunt throb.

“can’t, baby. need to feel you— shit, your pussy’s so warm even like this.” he grinds harder, the friction building heat between you, his fat bulge dragging right over your clit with every thrust.

you’re soaking through the fabric already, panties sticking messy to your folds, and he knows it. feels it. because he moans like a whore, breath hot on your neck.

“look at you, getting all wet for me without even taking my cock,” he praises, voice rough and teasing, blue eyes locked on yours. “you do love my dick that much, huh— fuck, you’re gonna make me cum just humping this pretty cunt.”

his pace picks up, hips snapping with lewd slaps of fabric on fabric. he’s huge— even clothed, you feel every veiny inch rubbing against you, the outline of his tip catching your entrance through the layers, teasing like he’s about to push in but never does.

sweat slicks his white hair to his forehead, muscles flexing under his shirt as he ruts like an animal in heat.

“s-shit- toru i’m gonna-” you whine, nails digging into his back, but he cuts you off with a filthy kiss, sucking on your tongue while he grinds circles right on your swollen clit.

“yeah? cum for me, baby- cream on these panties while i hump you stupid.” his words are breathy, and he’s right there with you— cock throbbing, leaking precum that soaks through his sweats onto yours, making everything sloppier, wetter.

“fuck, i love this... your pussy clenching on nothing, begging for me. you want me to put this dick in you that bad, angel? you gotta cum for me first, yeah?”

that did it.

you came hard, crying out his name as your orgasm hits hard, hips bucking up into his, soaking the fabric even more. he curses under his breath “fuck fuck fuck” and follows right after, grinding erratic as he unloads in his pants, hot cum spurting in thick ropes that seep through, mixing with your mess.

he doesn’t stop— keeps humping through the aftershocks, smearing the sticky cum between you, kissing you deep and hungry. “see? told you i could cum without fucking you proper,” he murmurs, smug but still breathy, cock twitching like he’s ready for round two.

“but don’t worry, baby. its not like we’re done yet, right? take this off for me, need to fuck my pussy now.” he said as he was sliding your panties down your legs.

for this req

[notmedicli]

⋆˙⟡ MINUTEMEN! ♡ ࿐

about ♱ the lads men when they cum too quick!

pairing ♱ xavier ⌇zayne ⌇rafayel ⌇sylus ⌇caleb [ separate ]

content warning ♱ premature orgasms, teasing, oral (m. receiving), slight exhibitionism, nipple play (m. receiving), dry humping, wrong use of aphrodisiacs, multiple creampies, breeding kink, xavier in heat, lowkey mean!raf — MINORS DNI 18+

kit says ♱ ty to my creative director @thewrldx AGAIN for helping me choose which direction to go w some of these! and thank u @stonedtaemin for beta reading, i love u both so much. i hope every1 enjoys! probably my last hc of 2025 :,) feedback + comments & reblogs are greatly appreciated ⭑.ᐟ — requested

#CALEB: MISSIN’ U

caleb hasn’t seen you in over a month and it’s been brutal. you were on missions or too tied up with work in linkon while he was tending to his duties as the fleet’s colonel in skyhaven. you don’t know how it happened, but two weeks turned to three and eventually it turned into a month and two days with nothing but facetime calls and texts to keep in touch. 

and caleb has been counting the hours he’s been away from you. 795 to be exact. 795 hours that he hasn’t been able to see you. hours that he hasn’t been able to kiss you… touch you… fuck you.

finally, you managed to carve out some time to visit—even if only for a day—and you were determined to make every moment count.

but caleb is practically manic. you barely get the chance to greet him before he’s pulling you into his house and slamming his lips against yours. you can feel the warm tent in his sweats pressing into your lower abdomen and it makes you whimper into his mouth. you can’t deny that you’ve missed him just as bad—that you’ve missed his cock… the weight and feel of it.

he pulls your body into the living room, leaving a trail of his clothes haphazardly on the ground. 

he’s panting—hot, desperate breaths fanning over your skin as he drags your shirt up and off like he’s been starving for the sight of you. “missed you so fuckin’ bad, baby,” he rasps, voice raw with need. his fingers find your bra clasp without even looking, popping it open in one smooth motion. the second your breasts bounce free, a filthy moan breaks out of him.

“fuuuuck… my pretty baby,” he groans, mouth crashing back onto yours like he can’t get close enough, can’t breathe without you. “a whole month,” he slurs against your lips, needy and disbelieving, “a whole damn month without you…” the hunger in his voice makes your head swim.

you’re so lost in his kiss, in the heat of him, that you don’t even notice his hands working lower—your jeans unbuttoned, unzipped, pushed down—until he nudges your legs, urging you to kick them off, voice wrecked as he murmurs, “c’mon, baby… off.” 

you do as you're told, kicking them off your feet and letting them pool on the ground before caleb is pushing you onto the couch.

he drinks you in, taking in every perfect part of your body. his pupils are blown out like he’s on a drug, breath ragged like he’s run a marathon, cock aching in his boxers like he hasn’t been fucking his fist every night to all the innocent (and not so innocent) selfies and voice messages you’ve sent in your time apart. 

then he pounces on you—your panties are shredded and he’s discarded of his boxers and he’s ready to give you the fucking of your life. but then he remembers. it’s been too long—he should definitely prep you and stretch you out with his fingers. 

“caleb,” you whimper out when he takes too long to move. “just fuck me. please, i need you s’bad. ‘s been too long.”

“shit, i know, baby, but i need to prep you—”

you shake your head, hand moving down until your fingers pull your folds apart. he zeros in on your gleaming pussy, soaked and dripping with honeyed arousal. caleb all but whimpers at the sight. that alone could make him bust his load all over you, but he restrains himself—he tries to, at least.

he doesn’t keep you waiting for another second, he presses his fat tip into you and bites his lip at the visual of it disappearing inside your cunt. he feels your velvet walls latch onto him for dear life—almost like your pussy missed him too. 

“fuck, y-you’re so, ugh, tight, pips,” he grunts, forcing himself in past the resistance, keeping his ears open for any sign of discomfort. by the way you tighten even more at his words and the blissed out moans slipping past your swollen lips, he doesn’t think he needs to be worried. “you miss the way i stretch you out like this?”

you arch your back as he inches in deeper, feeling your cunt mold to the shape of him with ease, “god, yes! ca-caleb, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” 

his cock throbs at your desperation, at your vice like cunt, at the adorable fucked out face you’re sporting. you’re taking him like you’re made for it… no time apart could make your pussy forget whose cock belongs here. 

caleb finally bottoms out inside of you, his tip kissing at your cervix. your pussy strangles him so tight that his cock can’t help but twitch uncontrollably—the same way it does when he’s close… and then it happens—so fast he doesn’t even register it until his whole body locks up. he’s cumming inside you with a string of the neediest, broken moans you’ve ever heard from him, every sound high and desperate.

he goes still the moment realization hits. his face burns red, mouth parted, eyes blown wide in a mix of shock and absolute mortification. he came early… no—worse. he came before you.

“baby—” he gasps, glancing down where his cum is already leaking out of you, and the sight alone rips another helpless moan out of his throat. “god, ‘m sorry… ‘s just been so long, a-and i couldn’t help mys—”

“caleb.” you cut him off gently, your smile soft and easy. “‘s okay, baby. really.”

he exhales shakily, the relief on his face undeniable as he nods. he’ll make it up to you—he’s already determined. and with how hard he still is, still buried deep inside you, you both know you’re not going anywhere.

especially when you tighten around him, lean up to his ear, and whisper something wicked enough to make him choke on his breath.

“you have a month’s worth of cum saved up just for me, don’t you?”

#ZAYNE: OVERWORKED/UNDERFUCKED

zayne is an admirable man—hardworking, successful, the kind of perfect that makes people stare. but even perfection has its cracks. his? he neglects his own needs. the heat that coils low in his stomach, the way his cock strains in his slacks when you cross his mind… he always forces it down, choosing work over want.

and that’s where you come in.

what starts as an innocent visit—dropping off the lunch he “forgot” on the counter—quickly shifts into something far less innocent. the moment you step into his office, his desire finally demands to be heard.

you don’t say anything when you walk in. your face, the way you wordlessly set the cute lunch bag on his desk—it says it all. you walk around his desk where he sits, a small smile tugging at his lips and his cock twitching in his pants when he gets a whiff of your scent. then, like clockwork, you sink to your knees in between his legs. 

“hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs, cupping your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

“four days, dr. zayne…” you lean into his hand, closing your eyes as the warmth seeps into your skin. “four days you’ve gone without an orgasm. that’s quite unhealthy, don’t you think?” 

a soft, amused laugh erupts in his throat before he muses, “is it? i don’t remember that being on any of my exams while i was in medical school.”

your eyes flutter open and your hands reach for the button and zipper of his slacks. “nevermind that, doctor. why don’t you just let me take care of you, yeah?” you pull his boxers down enough for his cock to spring out and slap against his button up. 

zayne chuckles wryly, nodding his head. “okay, but my lunch is over in 30 minutes–” he hisses when your lips wrap around his tip. “ah, sweetheart,” he breathes in surprise, fingers instinctively lacing into your hair. 

you work his tip, tongue swirling around his slit, lapping up his leaking precum. your eyes dart up to gauge his reaction and it sends a rush of arousal through you. his cheeks are flushed—that pretty shade of pink that dusts over his skin every time he’s high on adrenaline and overcome by need. 

it urges you on—coaxing you to take more of him, to stretch your lips wider and let him sink deeper. with zayne’s firm guidance at the back of your head, you’re already halfway down his length, the tip brushing the back of your throat. the sound he makes when your throat tightens around him is raw, almost feral.

“fuck, darling,” he growls, fingers twitching with the urge to push you down until he’s buried to the hilt. “you feel so good. y-you… ah—you're taking me s-so, so well.”

the praise sends a shiver through you. you moan around him, picking up your pace, hungry for every broken sound you can drag out of your usually composed, painfully put-together boyfriend. your hand curls loosely around the base of his cock while your other drifts lower, cupping and gently squeezing his balls, eager to unravel him completely. 

and zayne’s weak. your hands and mouth work in tandem to make his chest heave and soft sighs slip out of him. you moan and whine around him some more to add to the sensation and it works… boy, does it work. 

the vibrations shoot right through him, his entire body tenses and he moans—so shaky like he doesn’t trust the sound coming out of him, so low, yet so loud that the sound echoes in his office. loud enough to test the sound-proofing on the room.

“baby—” he gasps, fingers tightening in your hair, tugging at the roots. the moment you gag around him, his hips jerk forward on instinct. “b-baby, f-fuck, wait—slow down. slo—oh—!”

but you’re past the point of hearing him. your pace only grows messier, hungrier. you drop your hand and force yourself down as far as you can, swallowing every inch you can take. the second he feels himself lodged deep in your throat, his whole body goes rigid.

a rush of broken curses tumbles from his mouth as he falls apart. you choke when the first hot spurts of cum hit the back of your throat, spluttering in surprise before greedily swallowing every pulse of him like you were made for it.

when you finally pull off, you give him a few tiny coughs, your cheeks wet with tears and your breaths uneven. you recover faster than he does—fast enough to see the way he slumps back, bliss-drunk, his hands—just moments ago tangled in your hair—now clamped around the armrests so tight his knuckles have gone bone-white.

his eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, and when he sees you watching him with that smug, satisfied little smirk… a shudder of embarrassment rolls through him.

“my love,” he pants like all the air in the room has been sucked out of the room. “please don’t tease.”

“that might’ve been a new record, baby.” you say, voice raw. “i don’t even think you came that fast during our first time.”

his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, “please, enough… you know i’ve been stressed.”

“my poor, pent-up doctor.” you rise to your feet, towering over his slack body like you’re savoring the view. he looks spent, dazed, completely undone beneath you—you’re not sure how he’ll get back to work after this. “don’t worry, baby,” you murmur, trailing a finger along his jaw. 

“you’re in very good hands now.”

#SYLUS: WEAK

sylus is far from weak. he carries a kind of strength—mental, physical, commanding—that made him leader of the onychiuns in the first place. he has to be strong-willed. unshakeable. untouchable.

but all of that falls apart when you’re in sight. 

especially when he walks into his room after a long “business” meeting and finds you nonchalantly stretched across his bed reading a book in nothing but red lace that barely hides anything and his oversized, burgundy robe sliding off your shoulders like you want him to be on his knees. he tries not to falter, tries to keep that cool, indifferent mask he’s known for… but you see right through him. you always do.

you see the way his eye darkens, glowing a deeper shade of red. you see the hitch in his breath. you see the way he starts toward you—slow, deliberate, each step slower than the next. 

a predator closing in.

“what’s all this, sweetie?” he hums, voice low and airy. “i wasn’t expecting you to still be awake. you’re usually passed out by this hour.”

“i thought about it… but i wanted to see you, is that so wrong?” you cock your head innocently, abandoning your book in favor of putting your eyes on him. “just wanted to greet the big, bad leader of onychinus when he got home…” you say, slowly rising to sit on your knees before him, his robe nearly swallowing you.

any second now, he’s going to pounce.

he suppresses a groan when he notices your breast practically spilling out of your bra. “and how would one greet the big, bad leader of onychinus?” 

once he’s within arms reach, you can see in his eyes that he’s waiting for your permission. the little glint in your eyes or the smile etching into your face that says ‘it’s okay, you can touch me.’

before his hands can touch you, you fist the front of his shirt and yank him forward, catching him completely off guard. in one swift motion, you flip him onto the bed, climbing over him and settling on his lap like you’ve claimed a throne.

he stares up at you, lips parted, eyes just a little too wide—like he’s scrambling to hide the shock, to pretend he saw it coming. but it’s already written all over his face.

he’s the one caught now.

and it’s not that sylus minds when you rip his shirt open, tearing some of the buttons on the crisp fabric off or when you lay sloppy, wet kisses to his burning skin. it’s only when your hips begin to move and your lips trail down his neck and his heaving chest that he realizes what you’re doing.

“is this a punishment, baby?” he pants, groaning when your teeth sink into his large pec. “mad that i kept you waiting for me?”

you grind your hips against his aching cock and he can feel the shape of your pussy… how wet it is through all the layers of fabric between you. 

“you were gone for so long, sy… promised you’d be home soon and you lied.” you try to keep your voice steady, but it’s difficult when his cock, slotted between your thighs, stimulates your clit in the best way possible. “so you keep your hands off of me and let me have my fun like a good boy, yeah?”

he smirks up at you, cock twitching, a faint blush dusting his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “yeah, sweetie. go on and punish me… i’ve been bad, haven’t i?”

and maybe it isn’t much of a punishment for sylus at first, but the moment you start grinding your hips down harder—faster—it becomes torture of the sweetest kind. his fingers curl into the satin sheets beside him, knuckles straining as he fights the urge to touch you. to grab you. to flip you beneath him and shove his cock deep into your cunt. he wants to fuck you until you gush all over him, until your tiny hands press against his broad chest, trying—and failing—to push him away.

your lips trail down his chest, slow and teasing, leaving soft, blooming love bites in your wake. each time a deep groan vibrates through his chest, the sound reverberates against your mouth, sending shivers down your spine. and god, the way he moans for you—raw, unrestrained—only makes you grind down harder, delight curling warm and wicked in your stomach.

then your lips wrap around his peaked nipple, teeth tugging and tongue lapping like you’re willing something to come out. you whimper around him and it sends shockwaves through all 6 feet and 2 inches of him. 

he gasps as a jolt of pleasure shoots straight through him. were his nipples always this sensitive? he’s never reacted like this before.

“w-what are you— f-fuck, gorgeous, don’t do tha—hah!” his voice breaks beautifully, the last sound spilling out of him in a deep, helpless, breathless cry.

he bites down on his lip hard when you move to his other nipple, giving it just as much attention—just as much torment. it’s abuse in the prettiest form, and he’s completely helpless to it. he tries—really tries—to think about anything other than the overwhelming mix of sensations… your hips grinding down on him, your mouth teasing his chest, the heat pooling low in his stomach way too fast.

but he can’t. he’s drowning in you.

your scent, your soft little whines with every roll of your hips, the way the red lace clings to your body—his favorite set, the one he can never resist. it’s all too much, and he feels himself unraveling beneath you.

when he lets out a long, drawn out groan and you feel the warm, wet patch grow on his pants, you giggle uncontrollably. sylus, leader of onychinus sylus… just came in record time, in his pants at that. all because of some dry humping and nipple play. 

you lift your head and take in the defeated sight of him and let a cocky grin etch into your face.

“who knew the big, bad leader of onychinus liked getting his nipples played with?”  

#XAVIER: SIDE EFFECTS  

there was something wrong with him. something truly, terribly wrong. he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, feel his blood thrumming in his veins, see his cock swelling in his pants and taste you on his tongue even though you weren’t even in the room—let alone the same floor. the need was unbearable. the need to fuck and breed you was almost disgusting, but he couldn’t help it. 

he chalked it down to the candy you gave him—you’d told him to save it for a special occasion with a cheeky smile on your face, but xavier didn’t understand what that meant. he figured “save it for a special occasion” meant save it for when he’s craving a sweet treat. 

he grabbed the wrapper and, sure enough, the back read “sex chocolate” in big, bold letters. he moaned, throwing it away and pulling out his phone with shaky hands. 

xavier: Angel I need U

xavier: I ate the sex chocolate U gave me

you: you did what???

xavier: I ate the whole thing 

you: oh fuck. i’m coming up now.

he stands in the open doorway, skin flushed, breaths strained, sweat beading at his forehead. when he sees you, panic across your face—concern etched into your features—he’s not sure why. he doesn’t care. the second you’re within reach, he yanks you into the apartment and slams the door shut, the impact rattling the picture frames of the two of you lining the wall.

“xavier, we need to get you water and—”

you should’ve known you wouldn’t get the chance to finish. his lips crash into yours, hot and desperate, a low moan spilling into your mouth as he all but devours you. his tongue pushes past your lips, demanding, and his hands steer you toward the bedroom. you let yourself melt into him. after all, the fastest way to deal with the heat of an aphrodisiac is to fuck it out of your system.

xavier shoves you back onto the bed, ripping his shirt over his head and fumbling out of his pants before climbing over you to kiss you again. the movement makes your tank top ride up, fabric bunching beneath your chest as his weight presses you into the mattress. his tongue tangles with yours, frantic, like he doesn’t care about the burn in his lungs or the lack of oxygen to his brain. all he can think about is you—feeling you. loving you. fucking you. it’s driving him insane, lighting up every nerve ending until he’s completely consumed by desire. you feel it when the heavy bulge presses into your abdomen, the sticky heat of precum seeping through his boxers and smearing against your skin.

he grinds against you fervently, moaning and whining into your mouth before he pulls back, panting and gasping for air. 

“pl-please help me, baby,” he whimpers, he drags his hips down and ruts against your clothed cunt. “need you, need to fuck you s’bad. it hurts… fuck, it h-hurts s’much.”

you nod, mind in a haze from the searing kiss. you voice comes out gravelly. “f-fuck me—you can fuck me, xavie. fuck me till it’s out of your system.”

your permission sends him buzzing, his mind dissolving into static as his hands move before he can even catch up to himself. he tugs your little shorts and panties down your legs, baring you for him—glistening, open, all his.

his gaze devours you, drinking in the way arousal coats your swollen lips, the way your cunt pulses like a living thing, the way your body twitches beneath him with barely restrained anticipation. he doesn’t get long to savor it. with a sharp breath, he frees his cock from his boxers, letting it slap against his toned abdomen.

he doesn’t waste another second. dragging the tip through your soaked slit, he gathers every bit of slick he can before pressing inside with a loud, broken moan, his brows drawing tight as he finally sinks into you.

“f-fffuck,” he curses, pulling his lip between his teeth like he’s trying to will himself to stay strong. to not succumb to the thoughts mixing in with the static. the thoughts that scream: cum in her. fill her to the brim. pour every ounce of what you have inside of her—because he wants to last. he wants you to feel just as good. 

but he can’t. he’s hypersensitive. he feels every vein on his cock brand into your walls, every little ridge of your pussy glide against him, that slight resistance that’s trying to push him out— and it’s entirely too much for him to handle.

it’s why a choked, startled moan gets stuck in his throat before he collapses forward, hands clutching your hips for support as he spills inside you far too fast. silver hair clings to his flushed forehead, sweat-damp and wild, his eyes blown wide with shock as the realization hits.

he came first.

and he came fast.

“xavier—you came…”

his words come out ragged as his cock twitches inside of you, still hard and throbbing with need despite his explosive orgasm. “i know, ‘m s-so pathetic—shit, but i-i can keep going… need more. so much more, angel. can’t get enough—feels like ‘m on fire.”

and with his cum beginning to leak out of you, he pulls out, gathers every drop that’s spilled out and pushes it back inside of you. 

“gotta fuck you full of my cum and keep it there, you understand, don’t you?” he babbles, thrusting in and out of you with a mix of his cum and your arousal coating his cock. 

“after all, it was your chocolate that did this to me, so you should take responsibility, right?”

#RAFAYEL: SORE LOSER

“raf, if we were to go ten days without sex, who do you think would last longer: you or me?” you’d asked, a cheeky smile plastered on your face. 

rafayel scoffed at the question—why would you ask such a thing? obviously the answer’s going to be—

“duh, me, of course. i’m much more resilient than you are, cutie.” he answered, a cocky smirk etched into his complacent face. 

you hummed, your smile wide despite the fact that he practically called you weak. “if you’re so much stronger than me,” you teased, tilting your head, “then you don’t mind if we test that theory, do you?”

“bring it on.”

rafayel regrets it almost immediately—regrets being so hasty, so quick to agree to ten days without sex. he’d gone far longer than that before you, but now that he has you, even three days feels unbearable. ten is torture.

by day five, he’s already itching to give in. but then he sees how unbothered you are—how calm, how unaffected you seem by the forced celibacy in your committed relationship—and he bites his tongue. no complaints. no cracks.

he’ll win this bet. even if it kills him a little.

when day ten finally arrives, rafayel unravels completely. he’s rougher with you now—pinning you to his bed and kissing you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. he silences every cheeky remark you throw his way, every tease about how he’s about to lose, how he’s seconds from proving just how weak he is.

for a fleeting moment, he considers shoving his fingers into your mouth just to shut you up—but he decides against it. no. he wants to hear those silly little words falter, crumble, and disappear entirely when he proves his point by making you cum first.

“you really are a brat, y’know,” he grumbles once parting from your lips. his hands peel your clothes off your soft, pliant body and when you finally lie naked under him, his cock—the cock that’s been aching for this—throbs with need under his all too tight boxers. “‘m gonna show you that i’m the winner here, okay cutie?”

you offer a lazy smile and sing, “you can try.”

and it only adds fuel to the fire.

he’s pressing inside of you with an involuntary moan. your pussy envelopes his cock like that’s exactly where it belongs. ten days did nothing, your pussy takes shape to his size instantly and it’s both a blessing and a curse.

a blessing because it means he’s successfully molded your cunt to the shape of him—he’s ruined you for everyone else. not that he’d ever dream of letting you go. ever. 

a curse because the mere thought of you being wholeheartedly his, on top of the feeling of your tight pussy for the first time in a third of a month and the sound of your pretty moans—the ones he missed so much—it unnerves him. it’s too much for his brain—his body—to handle. 

but he has to hold on to his threading strength. his pride counts on it. the little tug at your lips counts on it. and it might be dramatic, but the entire dynamic of your relationship counts on it. if he loses—if he spills right now like he wants to—then you’ll tease him for eons to come. your last breath will be a teasing remark about how he lost this bet.

then you clamp around him, hugging his cock tighter than before and rafayel lets out a broken moan. “fuck,” he curses, voice cracking weakly. 

he’s barely bottomed out before you’re coaxing him with sweet words and a saccharine voice. “c’mon, baby. just cum inside me. i know you want to… can feel your cock throbbing.” you purr, clenching even harder, eliciting a hiss. “let go f’me… ‘s gonna feel s’good, won’t it?”

“sh-shut up.” he grits out, hands fisting at the sheets at both sides of your head. 

your arms loop around his neck and your legs hook around his slim waist. your feet dig into his lower back and rafayel just… can’t. “cum, baby.” you whisper. 

any last shred of restraint snaps, the tightrope finally giving way. his cum spills inside you as he breaks, a broken whine tearing from his throat—caught somewhere between despair and earth-shattering pleasure.

you moan at the warmth, eyes fluttering shut as you sink into it—the feeling of him filling you, and the delicious realization that you’ve won, that you now have permission to gloat for the rest of your life.

but rafayel doesn’t give you much time to let it sink in because a short while later, he’s pulling out, his fat load of cum dribbling out of you in the process, and slamming his overstimulated cock back in, burying himself at your hilt. 

you squeak in surprise, eyes shooting open in shock and you see the mean glower on rafayel’s face. he’s pissed—you can see it in his furrowed brows and his lips turned down in a pouty frown, but especially in his darkened eyes. the playful look that usually resides on his face is replaced with one of indignation. 

“raf—” you don’t get the chance to finish because his long fingers fill your mouth and it muffles the rest of your protest. 

“j-just shut up and take it,” he grunts, snapping his hips against you like he has something to prove. “your time for talking is up since you just wanna act like a brat.”

you suck and moan around his fingers, losing yourself in the pleasure he gives you. he doesn’t miss a beat—thrusting into you with perfect precision, the tip of him hitting that sweet spot dead-on. the sensation is overwhelming, sharp and delicious, and it sends your eyes rolling back as your body melts around him.

“gonna fuck you till you forget about this stupid bet, cutie—you’ll wish i won instead.”

© all works belong to MEDICLI 2025. do not copy or repost.

[cherryscript]

SOULMATE? HOLEMATE!

⚘. featuring Ꮺ gege!caleb

⚘. summary Ꮺ You ordered a custom dildo that perfectly matches your big-brother-figure Caleb’s dick. Caleb ordered a pocket pussy that perfectly matches your's. Neither of you knows the toys are synced to the real thing. Now every time one of you fucks your toy, the other feels it—like ghost sex on steroids. You’ve both spent months thinking you’re being haunted by the supernatural while secretly fucking each other senseless through the wall. The feedback loop goes haywire. No one is surviving this vacation with their sanity intact.

⚘. content warnings Ꮺ pseudocest, og cn gege/meimei trope, heavy dubcon, masturbations, unsolved sexual tension, zero communications, guilt, denial, forbidden desires, sexual frustration, mutual yearning, usage of sex toys, magical sex toys that secretly link to other person's body(portal panties), mutual fucking, semi-public/public, double penetration, extreme tightness + involuntary orgasms, excessive cumming/squirting, porn with little no plot . . .18 + ★ MINORS DNI !

⚘. wc Ꮺ 6k+

⚘. cherry’s note Ꮺ this is probably the weirdest scenario I've written so far... took me some real good TIME to finish...

“And that’s the last box,” you huff, letting the cardboard thud against the scuffed hardwood near the doorway. You straighten up straight, rolling your shoulders, wiping the sheen of sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist. The tiny apartment looks like a warzone of luggage and flat-pack furniture Caleb swore you “absolutely needed”—his credit card, his orders, his quiet, stubborn way of still taking care of you even when he’s hundreds of miles away.

Linkon City air tastes different. Sharper. Lonelier.

You’ve been here three weeks and it still doesn’t feel like home. Maybe it never will without him barging through the door, scolding you for leaving dishes in the sink or for forgetting to eat again.

A sigh slips out as you kick off your sneakers. Shower first, chaos later.

Clothes hit the floor in a careless pile. The bathroom is barely big enough for one person, but the water pressure is perfect—hot, punishing, exactly what your sore muscles crave. Steam fills the cramped space, fogging the mirror, swallowing every reflection that isn’t you.

You tip your head back, letting the spray pound against your throat, your collarbones, sliding down between your breasts. The heat loosens something inside your chest.

Caleb’s face flashes behind your closed eyes uninvited. Always uninvited, yet always there.

Sharp jaw. Tired eyes that soften only for you. The way his pilot uniform hugs his shoulders now that he’s filling out, taller and broader every time he comes home on break. The way he still calls you “little pipsqueak” even though you’re not little anymore.

You shouldn’t.

You really, really shouldn’t.

But your hand is already moving, gliding over slick skin, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your navel, lower.

“You must’ve felt this heavy too, gege…” you whisper to the steam, voice trembling with guilt and something darker. “All alone in Skyhaven… in that big empty house with no one to—”

Your fingers slip between your thighs, parting swollen folds, finding yourself already soaked and it has nothing to do with the shower.

A broken little sound escapes as you circle your clit, slow, teasing, the same way you’ve imagined he would if he ever—God—if he ever let himself unravel like this.

“Mmh… gege, are you worried about me?” The words come out filthy, breathless, wrong in the best way. “Do you… think about me when you’re alone too?”

You press two fingers inside yourself, curling, pumping, thighs shaking. The heel of your palm grinds against your clit and your hips jerk forward like you’re fucking your own hand, like you’re chasing a ghost that wears his face.

You’ve never touched each other. Not once. Not beyond lingering hugs that lasted too long, not beyond his thumb brushing your cheek when you cried after graduation, not beyond falling asleep on his shoulder during long flights home and pretending both of you didn’t notice how neither moved away.

But you know.

You both know.

“C-Caleb—” His name cracks in your throat as you come undone, clenching hard around your fingers, knees nearly buckling. Water pounds over you like it’s trying to wash the sin off your skin, but it can’t reach the stain inside your chest.

You stay there until the water starts to cool, forehead pressed to the tile, panting, ashamed, and still aching for him.

Because even an entire city apart, even with new lives and new rules and the Hunter Academy waiting to swallow you whole tomorrow—Caleb is still the only home you want to go back to.

And you’re terrified he wants to come back to you too.

You step out of the bathroom wrapped in nothing but steam and guilt, skin still tingling, cheeks flaming hotter than the shower ever got. Droplets race down your neck, your spine, between your ass cheeks; every trickle feels like a reprimand. You don’t even bother with clothes. You just belly-flop onto the bed, wet hair fanning across the pillow, and immediately start flailing like a dying shrimp.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” you hiss, kicking the sheets, punching the mattress, rolling side to side until the towel finally gives up and falls open. You lie there spread-eagle, panting at the ceiling like it personally offended you.

You miss your stupid, overprotective, stupidly hot gege this much.

It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.

You need to do something about it before you lose the last shred of your sanity.

With a groan you drag the laptop Caleb bought you—matte black, way too expensive, has a little fighter-jet sticker he slapped on the lid as a joke— onto your stomach and flip it open. Fingers hover over the keys for half a second before shame loses the fight.

You type: “best sex toys for beginners”.

The screen explodes with color and silicone and words like “thrusting” and “suction” and “10 vibration patterns”. Your eyes go wide.

“Oh WOW…”

You scroll, jaw literally on the floor, until you hit the prices and wheeze. Eight hundred dollars for a rabbit vibrator? Who has that kind of money? Certainly not a broke freshman hunter living off instant noodles and Caleb’s guilt-money transfers.

You slam the laptop shut, fling yourself backward again, and whine at the ceiling.

“Too broke for that… damn, I can’t even get a proper dildo shoved up into my pussy, life is unfair—”

Ding ding.

Your phone lights up on the nightstand. Unknown number. A link.

Normally you’d ignore it. Today you’re desperate and dumb, so you squint, see “70% OFF FLASH SALE!!” in screaming red letters, and click before your brain catches up.

The site that loads is… questionable. Neon pink, flickering banners, probably one virus away from stealing your soul. But front and center is a product that makes your heart stop.

“Feel Like Someone You Love”

100% customizable hyper-realistic silicone sleeve + internal texture mapping

“Upload a photo, choose vein pattern, pick warmth settings; experience the exact cock you’ve always dreamed of.”

Your mouth goes dry.

There’s a little heart icon that says “Most Wishlisted Item of the Year”.

You shouldn’t.

You really, really shouldn’t.

But your finger is already over the “Customize Now” button and your thighs are already squeezing together remembering how your own fingers felt pretending they were his.

Ten minutes later you’ve uploaded the clearest photo you have of Caleb—him leaning against the cockpit of his fighter, flight suit half-zipped, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. You pick the length you’ve definitely never measured in your head while hugging him goodbye, the exact girth your dirty imagination has circled back to for years, the upward curve you’ve caught a glimpse of once through his sweatpants and never recovered from.

Veins: raised, prominent, just like the ones on his forearms when he carries your luggage without breaking a sweat. Warmth setting: “always hot, like he just worked out”. Internal texture: “tight but yielding, the way you bet he’d feel if he ever snapped and pinned you down.

The total, with the sketchy discount, is suspiciously low. Delivery: 3–5 days, discreet packaging.

Your finger hovers over “Place Order”. Morals scream. Pussy throbs harder. You hit the button before you can talk yourself out of it.

Order confirmed. You drop the phone like it’s on fire, roll facedown into the pillow, and muffle a scream that’s half horror, half unbearable anticipation.

In three to five days, you’re going to fuck a perfect replica of the cock belonging to the one person you’re never, ever supposed to want.

And you already know you’re going to call it gege while you do.

Five days of checking the mailbox like a lunatic. Five days of that stupid website 404-ing every time you tried to track the order. Five days of punching training dummies with your entire soul while screaming internally about getting scammed out of your last paycheck for a ghost dick.

“FUCK, IT WAS A SCAM!” you snarl, slamming an uppercut into the dummy’s throat so hard the stuffing starts leaking, “WHAT WAS I THINKING!”. Your squadmates give you a wide berth, whispering. Whatever. Let them think you’re unhinged. You are unhinged.

Then your phone buzzes against your hip. Package delivered.

You don’t even wait for the instructor to dismiss you. You just bolt, boots pounding pavement the whole way back, lungs burning, sweat cooling on your neck in the evening air. The second the apartment door slams behind you, you spot the box.

Plain brown. No labels except your name in printed font. You drop to your knees like a woman possessed, nails clawing at tape, ripping cardboard like it owes you money. The lid flies off. And you stop breathing.

Nestled in black satin is the most obscene, perfect, terrifying cock you’ve ever seen.

It’s huge. Stupidly, ridiculously huge. Thick veins snake up the shaft, only these are flushed dark, pulsing faintly with the built-in warming tech. The head is that deep brownish-pink, flared and glistening from whatever hyper-realistic coating they used. Heavy balls hang low, weighted, shifting slightly when you nudge the box.

You don’t remember setting the length slider this high.

You don’t care. Your mouth actually waters.

“Oh wow…” It comes out strangled. You fall back onto your ass, legs splayed, staring at the thing like it might stand up and walk over to you itself. “Oh my god.”

Your pussy clenches so hard you feel it in your throat.

You haven’t even taken your sweaty training gear off and you’re already dripping down your thighs.

You pick it up with both hands—jesus, it’s warm, heavier than expected and the second your fingers close around the shaft it pulses again, like it knows who it belongs to.

Like it’s been waiting for you just as long as you’ve been waiting for him.

You press the thick head against your cheek without thinking, dragging it down to your lips, breathing in the clean, new-silicone scent mixed with whatever insane tech makes it smell faintly like his cologne.

“Fuck, gege…” you whisper against the tip, voice cracking.

The toy throbs in your grip like it heard you.

You have never sprinted to lock your bedroom door faster in your life.You don’t make it to the bed.

The second the lock clicks you’re already peeling off your sweat-soaked clothes, sports bra flung somewhere, shorts kicked aside, panties dragged down your thighs and left dangling off one ankle. The toy is still in your grip, hot against your palm, veins pulsing faintly with the internal heater like it has a heartbeat.

You drop to your knees on the rug, legs spreading wide without shame, back hitting the edge of the mattress. The thick head nudges your lips and you open instantly, greedy, tongue flattening against the underside as you take the first few inches into your mouth. It’s too big; your jaw aches immediately, drool already spilling down your chin, but you force yourself deeper, gagging softly, eyes watering.

You pull off with a wet pop and a broken moan.

“Need you inside me, gege… please—”

You flip onto all fours, ass in the air, face buried in the sheets that still smell like the detergent he used to buy for both of you back home. One hand reaches back, guiding the fat tip through your soaked folds, coating it, teasing your clit until your thighs shake.

Then you push.

The stretch is obscene. Your pussy flutters, resists, then gives all at once. A strangled cry rips out of you as the first half sinks in, thick veins dragging against your walls, that perfect upward curve kissing spots you’ve never reached with your fingers. You claw at the sheets, hips jerking back on instinct, taking more, more, until your ass meets the heavy silicone balls and you’re stuffed so full you can’t breathe.

“F-fuck—Caleb—”

You pull forward until only the head remains, then slam back. The impact makes you scream into the mattress. Again. Harder. Faster. Your tits bounce with every brutal thrust, nipples dragging against the rug, thighs slapping against silicone like they’re slapping against his hips.

You lose count of how many times you fuck yourself on it. You lose language. All that exists is the wet, filthy sound of your cunt swallowing him, the burn in your thighs, the way your clit throbs every time the base grinds against it.

You flip over, legs thrown wide, knees hooked over your elbows so you can watch. Watch the way your pussy lips stretched thin around his cock, watch it disappear inside you again and again, slick coating everything, dripping down your ass, pooling on the floor.

“Look what you do to me, gege,” you sob, voice wrecked. “Look how wet you make me—how empty I am without you—fuck, I’m such a slut for you—”

Your free hand flies to your clit, rubbing frantic circles, and the orgasm barrels into you like a freight train. You squirt, actually squirt, a gush that soaks the toy and your thighs and the rug beneath you. Your walls clamp down so hard the dildo almost slips out, but you shove it deeper, riding the aftershocks, grinding, crying his name like a prayer.

You don’t stop.

You can’t.

You pull it out only long enough to flip the toy around and shove the slick head against your ass, teasing, not quite brave enough yet, but the thought alone makes you come again, smaller this time, a full-body shudder that leaves you gasping.

When you finally collapse, the dildo is still buried to the hilt, your pussy fluttering around it in lazy pulses. You’re trembling, sweaty, ruined. Tears and drool and cum smeared across your face and chest.

You reach down blindly, fingers brushing the base, and give it one last slow thrust just to hear yourself whimper.

“…come home soon, gege,” you whisper to the empty room, voice hoarse. “I don’t think this is gonna be enough anymore.”

The toy stays inside you the rest of the night. You fall asleep clenching around it, dreaming of the real thing finally splitting you open.

—

—

Skyhaven, DAA parade grounds, 18:47 local.

Caleb is standing at parade rest, flight jacket crisp, medals gleaming, trying to look like the perfect poster boy for the Deepspace Aviation Academy while the brass drones on about honor and vigilance. The formation is dead silent except for the wind whipping the flags.

Then it starts.

A faint tingle at the base of his spine. He shifts his weight, ignores it. Probably just nerves.

Gideon elbows him from the left. “Dude, you good? You’re sweating bullets.”

Caleb forces a laugh, teeth clenched. “Yeah, just hot in this jacket.”

The tingle turns into heat. A slow, syrupy, pooling right behind his balls. His cock twitches once, then again, harder, like someone just wrapped a fist around it and squeezed.

He locks his knees to keep from swaying.

The sensation climbs. Something slick and impossibly tight slides down his shaft, inch by inch, swallowing him whole. His breath stutters. The wet spot blooming at the front of his dress pants is impossible to hide now; he angles his body behind the guy in front of him, praying nobody notices.

Another squeeze. A rhythmic drag. Something soft and spongy kissing the tip over and over and over.

His vision whites out for half a second. He breaks formation without permission, muttering a choked “bathroom” to Gideon’s startled face, and bolts.

He barely makes it to the nearest restroom, slamming the lock, back hitting the door as his trembling fingers rip his belt open. The second his cock springs free it’s flushed angry red, leaking like a faucet, veins bulging exactly the way you spent hours customizing.

He doesn’t even touch himself.

He doesn’t have to.

The feeling slams into him again: tight, wet heat clenching around him, riding him hard, fast, merciless. Invisible hips slam down, grind, pull up, slam down again. His balls draw up so tight it hurts.

“F-fuck—!” The moan tears out of him; he slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes rolling back, hips jerking into empty air like he’s fucking someone bent over the sink in front of him.

Every thrust feels real. Too real. He can feel slick walls fluttering, a cervix nudging the head on every brutal stroke, the phantom slap of skin on skin he’s never actually heard but somehow knows by heart.

His knees buckle. He grips the porcelain with white knuckles, forehead pressed to the cool mirror, panting like he’s running a marathon.

“Ah—shit—stop—please—” he doesn’t even know who he’s begging.

The pace only gets rougher.

He comes without warning, a broken cry muffled against his own arm, thick ropes painting the sink, the mirror, his dress shirt. His cock jerks and jerks like it’s being milked by a throat, a pussy, something greedy and possessive and familiar.

The orgasm doesn’t stop. It rolls straight into another, smaller but sharper, and his legs finally give out. He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the cold tile, cock still half-hard, twitching with aftershocks, cum dripping down his fist even though he never stroked himself once.

Chest heaving, he stares at the mess in dazed horror. “What the fuck was that…?”

Three hundred miles away, you’re still sprawled on your bedroom floor, impaled on the toy, whispering his name like a prayer while it throbs inside you.

Neither of you has any idea the link goes both ways. Yet.

Every night for the past ten days it’s the same ritual.

You stumble through the door still in your sweat-drenched hunter uniform, kick off your boots, and don’t even bother with the lights. The second the bedroom door shuts behind you, clothes hit the floor in a frantic trail. You’re already soaked before you even touch the toy, thighs slick, pussy throbbing like it’s been counting the hours until you get home to it.

You keep the dildo in the top drawer now, wrapped in one of Caleb’s old flight academy T-shirts like a dirty little secret. The moment your fingers close around the warm shaft it pulses, eager, like it missed you just as badly.

And three hundred miles away, Caleb starts sweating through whatever he’s doing.

Day 4

You ride it reverse on the desk chair, feet planted wide, rolling your hips slow and deep just to feel every vein drag inside you.

In Skyhaven, Caleb drops an entire tray of coffee in the cadet mess, doubles over the table with a choked gasp, thighs clamping together while his cock leaks helplessly into his boxers. Gideon has to drag him out by the elbow while Caleb stammers something about food poisoning.

Day 6

You’re on your knees in the shower, toy suction-cupped to the tile, slamming back onto it until your ass is red and the water runs cold.

Caleb’s in the middle of a night-flight simulator run. Mid-loop his whole body locks up; he yanks the stick too hard, fails the exercise, and spends ten minutes curled in the cockpit seat coming untouched while the instructor screams over the headset.

Day 8

You can’t wait anymore the second you get home. You don’t even make it to the bedroom. You drop onto the hallway floor, legs over your head, fucking yourself with both holes now—the replica so slick from your pussy it slides into your ass easy. You scream his name until your voice cracks.

Caleb’s in the barracks laundry room folding clothes. One second he’s fine, the next he’s on the floor, biting his own forearm to stay quiet while his cock jerks and feels violated by invisible forces. He comes so hard his vision blacks out. When he can move again he finds the crotch of his pants soaked front and back and has no explanation.

Day 10

You’re greedy. You strap the toy to a pillow, mount it like you’re riding him for real, hands braced on the headboard, hips snapping down so hard the bedframe slams the wall in rhythm.

“Gege—fuck—harder—please, I need—”

You sob it into the dark, tears streaking your cheeks, pussy gushing all over the silicone balls.

In Skyhaven, Caleb is supposed to be asleep. Instead he jerks awake in his bunk with a wounded sound, sheets twisted around his hips, cock so hard it hurts. The sensation hits like a punch: tight, wet heat swallowing him to the root, grinding, milking. Something inside him —his ass—clenches around nothing and everything at once. He shoves his face into his pillow and comes instantly, whole body convulsing, biting down so hard he tastes blood.

When it finally fades he’s shaking, drenched in sweat, heart hammering like he just ran ten miles.

He drags a trembling hand down his stomach and finds his cock still-hard cock slick with his own release and something else—slicker, warmer, smelling faintly smelling like you.

For the first time, real fear cuts through the haze. Because whatever is doing this to him isn’t random. And it’s getting stronger every night.

Caleb hasn’t slept properly in twelve days. Every night the “ghost” comes back. Every night it rides him harder, tighter, wetter, like it’s learning exactly how to unravel him.

He’s stopped trying to fight it. He just locks his door, shoves his face into his pillow, and lets the phantom cunt milk him dry while his cock leaks and his ass clenches around nothing and his brain short-circuits with the same voice that’s haunted him since puberty.

Your voice.

He’s started jerking off to the memory of it in the showers, biting his own fist so his bunkmates don’t hear him whimpering “pipsqueak” like a prayer.

He’s losing his fucking mind.

So when he’s alone in the dorm common room at 0300, half delirious, cock still half-hard from another unsolicited orgasm, he does the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life.

He googles the symptoms.

Ends up on the same neon-pink, virus-looking website you found weeks ago.

The banner screams: FEEL LIKE SOMEONE YOU LOVE — NOW WITH REVERSE SYNC!

He doesn’t read the fine print. He’s too tired, too desperate, too turned on.

He uploads the clearest photo he has of you—last summer, you in that sundress, laughing at something he said, hair sticking to your sweaty neck.

He customizes everything with shaking hands,outer lips soft and plump, exactly the way he’s imagined a thousand times when you walked around the house in tiny sleep shorts. Inner walls textured like crushed velvet, tight at the entrance, then fluttering deeper. Clit hood pronounced, sensitive node swollen —because he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t notice how you squirm when he hugs you too long enough. Warmth setting: “always soaked, like she’s been thinking about you all day.” Scent module: the exact peach-and-vanilla body wash you’ve used since you were fifteen.

He pays triple for overnight shipping. The box arrives two days later while the entire barracks is out on a weekend training hike. Caleb locks himself in his room, heart hammering like a jet engine.

He tears the packaging open with his teeth. Inside, nestled in black satin, is the prettiest pocket pussy he’s ever seen.

Soft, dusky outer lips, flushed pink inside, already glistening with the self-lubricating gel. It’s warm to the touch, pulsing faintly like it’s breathing.

He exhales a broken “fuck… so pretty…” and runs two fingers down the seam, parting the lips gently. The toy quivers. A bead of lube rolls out like it’s already wet for him.

He doesn’t make it to the bed.

He drops into his desk chair, sweatpants shoved down to his hips, cock springing out thick and flushed and already dripping. He drags the head through the slick folds once, twice, coating himself, groaning at how realistic it feels.

Then he pushes in.

The sound that rips out of him is inhuman.

Tight, hot, velvet walls clamp down instantly, sucking him deeper like they’ve been waiting years. The inner texture ripples around his shaft exactly the way he’s fantasized your pussy would—fluttering, squeezing, dragging over every vein.

He bottoms out in one brutal thrust and his vision whites out.

“Fuck—pipsqueak—” he chokes, hips jerking helplessly. “Is this how you’re supposed to feel? So good—so fucking real—”

He starts slow, savoring it, pulling out until just the tip kisses the entrance, then sliding back in with a wet squelch that makes his balls draw up tight. The toy makes obscene sounds—soft, wet, exactly like a real cunt taking cock—and every noise goes straight to his spine.

He loses control fast.

Hands gripping the desk, he starts pounding into it like he hates it, like he loves it, hips snapping hard enough to rattle the chair. The pocket pussy sucks him back in on every stroke, walls fluttering wildly, clit hood bumping his pelvis on the downstroke.

“Take it—just like that—fuck, you’re so tight for me—”

He doesn’t notice the way the toy seems to clench harder when he says your nickname. Doesn’t notice the way it gushes fresh slick every time he groans “good girl” under his breath.

Three hundred miles away, you’re in the middle of a lecture at the Hunter Academy when your body suddenly locks up. A phantom cock—thick, burning hot, veiny—slides into you from nowhere. Your pen clatters to the desk. You slap both hands over your mouth to stifle a scream as invisible hips slam forward and bury something huge to the hilt inside you.

Your pussy spasms around empty air. Your clit throbs like someone’s grinding against it. Your chair creaks as your thighs snap together, trying to trap the sensation that isn’t there and is there all at once.

The “ghost” fucks you right there in the lecture hall, in front of thirty other cadets, relentless and deep and merciless.

You cum biting your own wrist so hard you leave teeth marks, tears streaming down your face, soaking through your panties and the seat beneath you while the professor drones on about wanderer migration patterns.

Back in Skyhaven, Caleb’s losing his mind in a different way.

He’s hunched over the desk now, one hand braced, the other brutally fucking the toy up and down his cock, chasing the edge.

“Gonna—fuck—gonna fill you up, pipsqueak—take every drop—”

He comes with a guttural shout, hips stuttering, cock pulsing so hard the toy overflows. Thick ropes of cum spill out around his shaft, dripping down the silicone lips, painting his fist, the desk, his thighs.

The pocket pussy keeps milking him through it, walls fluttering like it’s trying to drain him completely.

He slumps forward, forehead pressed to the cool wood, panting like he’s run a marathon.

The toy gives one last gentle squeeze… almost affectionate.

And somewhere far away, you’re curled in the academy bathroom stall, legs shaking, pussy still twitching with aftershocks, a flood of cum you didn’t make leaking out of you in thick, warm pulses.

You both whisper the same thing at the exact same second, voices hoarse and wrecked and terrified,“What the fuck is happening to me?”

—

—

The entire summer break is a slow-motion torture.

You arrive at Bloomshore first, two hours early because the Academy let out sooner than DAA. Grandma hugs you so hard your ribs creak, pinches your cheeks, stuffs you full of peach cobbler and gossip. The childhood house smells exactly the same: sun-warmed wood, sea-salt breeze, the faint lavender sachets she still keeps in every drawer. Your old bedroom is untouched, posters curling at the corners, the same twin bed you used to share with Caleb when thunderstorms scared you.

You dump your suitcase, unzip it, and there it is: the dildo, wrapped in one of his old flight-school hoodies like contraband. It’s been two days since you last used it and your body is already twitching, thighs pressing together every time you remember how it feels.

You shove it under the mattress and try to be normal. Then the front door opens downstairs and you hear his voice.

“Gran squeals, “Caleb, my handsome boy!”

You freeze halfway down the stairs.

He’s… bigger. Shoulders filling the doorway, hair longer and tousled from the wind, sunglasses hooked in the collar of a white T-shirt that clings to his chest. He’s grinning at Gran, but the same crooked smile that’s been haunting your wet dreams for months.

Then his eyes flick up and find you. “Hey, pipsqueak… and Gran.”

Your stomach flips so violently you almost trip on the last step. You launch yourself at him anyway, because that’s what you’ve always done. He catches you mid-jump like you weigh nothing, arms banding around your waist, laughing low in his chest as you collide.

“Yup, gege’s here. How’s my meimei doing in Linkon, hm?”

The second his palm settles on the back of your head, petting like when you were kids, every filthy memory slams into you at once—the toy stretching you open, the way you sobbed his name into your pillow, the phantom cum that leaked out of you for days afterward.

Your face ignites. You feel the heat of his body through his shirt, the flex of his biceps as he holds you, the faint cedar-and-jet-fuel scent that is just him. You jerk away like you’ve been electrocuted.

“Huh… me? …oh… uh… good! I’m doing… good!!!”

Your voice cracks on every syllable. You practically sprint past him, suitcase banging against your leg, and disappear into your room so fast you almost take out the coat rack.

Caleb stands there frozen, arms still half-raised, cheeks flushed crimson for reasons he refuses to examine.

Gran raises an eyebrow. “You two are acting mighty strange.”

He clears his throat, grabs his own duffel, and mutters something about needing a shower.

That night neither of you comes down for dinner.

You lie in your childhood bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck on the ceiling together when you were ten, thighs clenched so tight they ache. You can hear him moving around in the room next door, the creak of his old mattress, the low thud of his bag hitting the floor.

You wonder if he brought it too. You wonder if he’s touching it right now. Across the wall, Caleb is wondering the exact same thing about you.

Both toys are hidden under respective mattresses, pulsing faintly like they know they’re finally under the same roof as their match.

The air-conditioner rattles. Crickets hum outside. The house is asleep.

Neither of you sleeps a wink. And somewhere in the dark, two identical warming circuits kick on at the exact same moment, waiting for someone to break first.

The first night back home, the dam breaks at 2:17 AM.

You’ve been tossing in your childhood bed for hours, sheets tangled around your ankles, thighs slick and aching from the constant low thrum of need that started the second you heard his laugh downstairs. The house is silent except for the distant crash of waves on Bloomshore’s cliffs and the faint creak of floorboards in the next room.

He’s right there.

Walls so thin you can hear him breathing if you press your ear to the plaster.

And under your mattress, the toy waits, warm and heavy and calling to you like a siren.

You give in with a muffled curse, fishing it out, fingers trembling as you drag it between your legs. No prep. No teasing. You’re already dripping, have been since that hug, so you just line up the fat head and sink down in one brutal slide.

The stretch is immediate and vicious, your pussy clenching around silicone veins like it’s starving. You bite your pillow to stifle the moan, hips rocking slow at first, savoring the drag, the way it kisses your cervix on every grind.

In the next room, Caleb jolts awake with a strangled gasp.

His cock—already half-hard from dreams of you—suddenly feels like it’s being strangled in velvet. Tighter than ever. Hotter. Wetter. The phantom walls clamp down so hard his vision spots, every ridge and flutter magnified tenfold, like whatever’s fucking him is twice as desperate tonight.

He scrambles for his duffel under the bed, yanking out the pocket pussy with shaking hands. No way he’s enduring this alone. He shoves his boxers down, spits into the toy’s slick entrance, and thrusts in without mercy.

The second he bottoms out, you scream into your sheets.

It’s like a second cock slams into you alongside the first—thicker, hotter, splitting you open from the inside. Your walls flutter wildly, stretched beyond reason, the dual sensations overlapping in a filthy symphony: the toy’s familiar curve grinding one spot while the phantom one drags against another, both pounding in perfect sync.

“F-fuck—gege—what—” you whimper, confused and wrecked, hips jerking up to meet nothing and everything. Your clit throbs like it’s being sucked, your ass clenches around air that feels full. You shove the dildo deeper, faster, chasing the burn, tears leaking down your cheeks as your body tries to process being double-fucked by ghosts.

Caleb’s teeth sink into his own bicep to keep from roaring loud enough to wake Grandma.

The toy is a vice. His cock feels like it’s being crushed in the best way—walls so tight they might snap him in half, rippling and milking with every brutal thrust. It’s wetter than before, slick gushing out around his shaft like the thing is coming alive, and every time he pulls back it sucks him in harder, deeper, the inner texture fluttering like a heartbeat.

“Pipsqueak—shit—too tight—gonna break me—” he growls through clenched teeth, one hand braced on the headboard, the other fucking the toy up and down his length so fast his arm burns. His balls slap against silicone with every snap, heavy and aching, the pressure building so intense he’s terrified he’ll black out.

You both lose track of time, separated by one flimsy wall, fucking your toys in frantic rhythm without knowing you’re fucking each other.

For you, it’s endless—the dildo splitting your pussy while the invisible cock mirrors every move, stretching you to your limits, making you gush so hard the sheets are soaked beneath your ass. You come once with a muffled sob, clenching around both, but it doesn’t stop—the sensations only amp up, phantom veins dragging inside you, a second head nudging spots that make your toes curl.

“More—gege, please—fill me up—” you beg the dark, fingers flying to your clit, rubbing frantic circles while you slam the toy home again and again.

Caleb hears something—a faint, wrecked whine through the wall—and it snaps his last thread.

He flips onto his back, legs spread wide, and fucks into the pocket pussy like a man possessed. The tightness is agonizing now, walls constricting so hard around his cock he swears it’s going to cut off circulation—hot, pulsing, fluttering like it’s alive and greedy and his. Every thrust sends sparks up his spine; his free hand claws at the sheets, hips bucking off the mattress.

“Take it—fuck, just like that—my good girl—” he rasps, voice hoarse, imagining your face, your body, the way you’d look split open on him for real.

The orgasm hits you both at the same instant.

You arch off the bed with a silent scream, pussy spasming around double fullness, squirting in thick arcs that drench your thighs and the toy. The phantom cum floods you—hot, thick, endless—leaking out around the dildo, pooling between your legs, making everything slicker, messier.

Caleb comes with a guttural “fuck—pipsqueak—” bitten off against his fist, cock jerking so hard the toy overflows instantly. Cum spills everywhere—his stomach, the sheets, the silicone lips stretched thin around him—but the walls keep milking, squeezing tighter than humanly possible, wringing every drop until his balls ache and his vision tunnels.

You both collapse in sweaty, trembling heaps, toys still buried deep, aftershocks rippling through you like shared electricity.

The wall between your rooms might as well not exist.

But neither of you moves. Neither knocks. Neither dares whisper the truth.

Instead, you pull the covers over your ruined body, the dildo still twitching faintly inside you, and pretend your heart isn’t pounding loud enough for him to hear.

Next door, Caleb does the exact same, cock softening in the vice-grip of the toy, a single thought looping in his wrecked mind,

Tomorrow night, he’s doing it again.

And so are you.

© CHERRYSCRIPT 2025 — don't copy, translate, feed my work to ai

[creelposer]

thinking about over-sensitive caleb … straddling him when he’s already hard. kissing his lips without tongue yet and he’s groaning out loud. grinding against his lap and he can’t help but buck his hips up. pulling your top off to show your bare chest while sliding your fingers under his shirt, and he’s looking up at the ceiling, afraid that catching just one more glance of your gorgeous tits will make him cum in his pants.

[sweetcalebb]

i need 3k words of pathetic, whiny caleb NOOOWWW

[sweetcalebb]

need a caleb titty biting drabble…

𑣲 — biting caleb's tiddies !

Chomp!

How many bites is that now?

You pull back, drawing lazy circles around the bite marks on Caleb's chest, lips curled in a proud smile when you see what a mess you've made. His chest is littered in pretty, red bit marks, his cheeks painted a cute pink.

Caleb sighs, shifting his hips slightly.

"This isn't fair…" he murmurs.

You've been at this for 10 minutes, marking him, leaving tiny little bruises, and you still can't get enough. It started with breakfast, and now you're here, straddling him.

"Just a little more, Leb," you coo, dipping your head and leaving another little love bite on his chest.

Caleb tenses underneath you, fingers curling around your waist. "Hnng—!"

You smile, your teeth grazing over his chest until you find an unclaimed spot and sink into it.

He tenses again, his hips twitching up and letting you feel exactly how much he likes this. He's ruining his boxers, a wet spot growing at the front of the fabric.

"You're ruthless," he huffs out, but he doesn't make any moves to stop you. If anything, he holds you closer, his breath leaving in uneven pants now.

You giggle, closing your mouth over his nipple, tugging it between your teeth.

And that does it.

Caleb whimpers—all pathetic and whiny, leaking steadily in his boxers like he just can't help it anymore. "Pipsqueak..! Don't… Don't stop."

Just then, you release his nipple with a soft pop and crawl up his body, brushing your nose against his before pressing a single, teasing kiss to his lips. "I should go. I'm gonna be late for work."

His face instantly falls. "Wha—What? I'll be good. Just… just a little more."

You giggle, wiggling a finger in his face. "Nuh-uh."

Caleb groans, his body going limp as you stand from the bed. "You're evil."

a/n: i haven't seen the card yet! and ik this wasn't a lot. i lowkey don't know how to write drabbles w enough substance??? ANYWAY! 'pologies nonnie. 🤲🏻

[sunarios]

holy shit