TW: dub-con, kidnapping, nonconsensual hair-cutting, oral (m. recieving), yandere, very early stages of Stockholm Syndrome starting, fem reader, MDNI
Thinking about yanderes who like to collect little keepsakes.
It's sweet, in their eyes - a little reminder of each moment they've spent with you, though it's not like they truly need it. The memories of you are permanently imprinted onto the back of their eyes, burning into the skin as he eagerly replays them over and over again in the dark quietness of his far too lonely bedroom.
But still, the idea's nice, isn't it? And for the most part, it really is meant to be that innocent - he's keeping reciepts of the grocery trips you go on. (Of course, one could make the argument that he's not really going with you - following ten feet behind you with a gray hoodie pulled up to his ears is hardly condusive to the domestic fantasy of shopping together, but it's close enough.)
He's snapping small photos of you as he watches the way you lounge about on your bed, phone clutched in your hands and eyes glued to the screen. (Internally he's cringing - you know better than to hold the phone so close to your face, or to spend hours scrolling through it in the dark. You're so careless with taking care of yourself - something that won't be a problem for much longer, of course.)
Each slip of paper, photo, and item of memorabilia gets carefully sorted away into a drawer, catalogued with exactly what the object is, when it was taken, and a few notes jotted down about what he was thinking, how you looked.
It's sweet, in some fucked-up, twisted way. But of course, not everything in their collection is so sweet - oh no.
The first time it happens, you'll be confused but won't know how to even bring up the question. What are you doing? You're panting too hard to even get the words out, spit dribbling down your chin and your throat feeling hoarse and tired.
The scissors glint in the dim lighting of the room, his own breath ragged as he carefully caresses your head, fingerpads brushing against your scalp, before picking out a small collection of hairstrands. The snip snip noise happens before you can even react, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.
So pretty... He murmurs as he thumbs at the pieces, his cock bobbing in front of you slightly. You're still on your knees, looking up at him with confusion and a small prick of anger settling in.
What are you-
He interrupts you with a boyish, too-wide smile, bringing the bits of hair up to his lips and inhaling deeply. It's not long before he settles them against his tongue, lips closing and exaggerated sucking sounds filling the room and making you squirm in discomfort and disgust.
You watch as he slowly grows hard again, mere inches from your eyes.
Eventually he pulls the pieces out of his mouth, the strands wet with saliva and clumping together, a shiver running up his spine.
His free hand comes down to cup your cheek as he looks down at you, his own face flushed a rather rosy pink.
You did so well for me, he starts, thumb toying with your bottom lip. Made me feel so good, didn't you?
His words make you want to bite at his finger, to cut it clean off, but the memory of your last 'bought of misbehavior' is still fresh in your mind, the phantom stomach pain from no food making you nearly wince.
Unwilling to give him a verbal answer you only shakily nod, still eyeing the bundle of your spit-soaked hair. He looks down at you thoughtuflly, as if pondering, before sighing softly.
With a final tap of his still-wet tip against your lips with his free hand, he turns around, digging thorugh the nearby drawer to find the clear plastic bag.
Just as you're rising to your feet, knees feeling stiff and jaw aching, he puts down the marker he'd been scribbling with. Inside the plastic bag lays your hair, the bag sealed and stripped of extra air. Your eyes catch on the label, and for a moment you're frozen in disgust.
June 25, 2026. Eight minutes, twenty-three seconds. Deep-throated, finished inside her mouth. Swallowed, minimal gagging.
He turns to face you with that same almost shy grin on his face, holding up the baggie and pressing a soft kiss over your hair.
For safe-keeping, he starts, pressing a matching kiss against your cheek. It lingers, wet and hot.
He leaves you standing there as he walks to the other side of the house you've been trapped in for weeks, pressing a fast code into the cabinet lock that you can't quite catch and setting the baggie on one of the shelves.
With a small sense of horror you see the depth of the shelf - at least a foot deep and two wide, with the seams of some twenty other plastic bags visible.
What - what is that? You whisper, but he closes the door before you can move forward to get a better look.
He turns to face you, one hand idly returning down to his navel. Calloused fingers wrap firmly around his base, giving himself a long stroke as he holds eye contact with you.
Ways to remember this by. Us, I mean.
His flush grows slightly redder, and he licks his lips.
It's my collection. Of you.
He kisses you before you can respond to that, tongue pushing inside your mouth and silencing any protests of yours. A hand finds its way between your legs, pinching and groping. He parts for air for a brief moment, licking at your lips along the way.
And you're the star piece.
Was mostly thinking of the following but can really be anyone: Douma, some flavor of Kyojuro Rengoku, Satoru Gojo, Chrollo Lucilfer, Shalnark, Koushi Sugawara, Lev Haiba
Just a few small nsfw thoughts about the yandere haikyuu cast
Tw: stalking, kidnapping, non-consensual photography/involvement in masurbation, foot stuff in Noya's, spitting, overall just real unfortunate habits they have
Thinking about Daichi Sawamura who is the natural option for you to run to when mysterious packages start showing up at your door. It’s all sorts of intimate items – pretty lingerie that somehow fits you perfectly, all in your favorite colors (and his, too, of course). Then it shifts towards just single items, no longer the pretty babydoll sets – silk thongs with an initial stitched in, collars with your name engraved in the metal tag, vibrators that slowly get longer and thicker. It’s only when one comes that’s much too realistic, leaning slightly to the left and with veins lining the top that you finally confide in Daichi. It all comes tumbling out, and it’s only when you show him the handwritten note with the most recent dildo – reading it’s modeled after my own, let me know how it fits - that Daichi softly sighs, throwing you a look and telling you that you know there’s nothing we can do about it. Creeps like that always get away with it, unfortunately. Just ignore the way his uniform pants are straining at seeing you all teary-eyed and dependent on him – cute. Maybe you’d like another gag – he’s noticed you haven’t used the last one yet.
Thinking about Koushi Sugawara who feels bad about installing the bug on your phone, but not bad enough to disconnect it. It’s not visual, is what he tells himself – it’s not creepy if it’s not looking at you, after all. It only picks up on sound when he activates it – which has let him into a whole other side of you. You bring your phone with you everywhere, he’s realized, and he’s always keeping his headphones on at any given time, playing the live feed and letting his cheeks turn red and his pants grow tight at the sound of you. Your voice, your laugh, your humming, your moans and whimpers and hell, even the sound of you peeing is enough to make him feel light-headed, connected to you in a way that gets his heart racing and his cock swelling. Maybe one day he’ll install the visual one, too, but for now the sound is enough – the audio recordings he takes of you is more than enough fodder should he ever need it.
Thinking about Asahi Azumane, whose apartment is basically your second home. You come over and spend the night often – often enough to have your own toothbrush permanently living at his place, set off to the side and out of the mainly used area of the bathroom counter. It’s a common brand, one that Asahi can find at the corner market – which he does, keeping a constant supply around so that he can replace it each time you use it. He keeps them all stacked nicely in a Ziploc bag, dating each in permanent marker so he can recount and remember all the times you’ve slept under the same roof as him, only a room away. And of course, this makes it much easier to slip the it between his lips and against his tongue, teeth grinding down against the bristles and his eyes fluttering closed because it just feels so very intimate. It’s embarrassing and he keeps everything well hidden from you, but the way he stares as he brushes his teeth beside you is a bit of a give-away that there’s something going on.
Thinking about Ryunosuke Tanaka who keeps a running list of the insults you throw at him. They’re never truly mean, always just jokes or digs at some niche thing about him and his Loverboy attitude, but Ryunosuke notices. He’s transcribing them into his Notes app on his phone, and when he gets home each evening he repeats the insult to himself out loud, saying the word over and over in a mimic of your own voice, letting his hands run down the length of his body as he closes his eyes and melts into memories of your expression, your tone, the way you’d been looking at him. He’s got something of a degradation kink, and he’s training himself to become aroused at the mere mention of a derogatory nickname – it's for the future, he’ll tell himself, so that when he’s got you straddling him, tying him up and keeping him pinned underneath you, he can preform exactly how you want him to. He’ll be good for you – just call him a freak again, please.
Thinking about Yuu Nishinoya always making jokes about feet because he knows it makes you squirm in discomfort, but soon it stops being a joke. He’s always tickling your feet, making exaggerating sucking sounds when you slip your shoes off, even snatching your socks and running around with them, the adrenaline of you chasing him and yelling his name and looking at him him him making him giddy. But then he’s managing to keep the sock one day, curiously rubbing a finger over it as he palms himself, running his leaking, bright red tip against the material and cursing. He’ll wind up using it as a sort of cocksleeve, fucking into it and leaving it so riddled with cum that it’s hard, and suddenly the next time he jokes about you letting him give just one suck, c’mon is less teasing and much more serious.
Thinking of Shoyou Hinata who doesn’t understand why you get so angry when he suggests switching underwear. He thinks it’s sweet – a sign of love and comfort with each other, really. He’ll step into the cute, flimsy panties he buys for you, pulling them up and face twisting up slightly as he adjusts himself, trying his best to get the thong to hold as much of his cock and balls as he can. He feels naughty, wearing them under his shorts when he runs to the store to pick up groceries, and with each step he can feel the lacey material – the very material he’d forced you to strip out of that morning, the material still warm. And of course, you were forced into his boxers – the same ones he'd slept in, smelling musky and feeling wet with something you don’t want to name.
Thinking about Tobio Kageyama who has a full body reaction when he hears you say his name. It’s not subtle, either – he’s going stiff as a board, eyes blowing wide and pupils dilating, visible goosebumps erupting all over his skin. His breathing gets a bit heavier, and every muscle in his body is flexed, clenched so tightly that he can hardly move. He’ll stare at you, lips focused entirely on your lips, murmurs leaving his own that sound vaguely like your name, vaguely like fuck. You’ll have to pull him out of the moment yourself, with a touch to his shoulder or waving your hand in front of his face, and it’s only then that he’ll clear his throat, shifting in his pants and realizing much too late that he’s visibly hard, a bit of sweat visibly staining his exercise shirt under the armpits. He’ll make some lame excuse and run away, but as he fists his cock and replays the moment over in his head, he’ll be whining your name and your name only.
Thinking about Kei Tsukishima who feels so, so very stupid but can’t help but bite his lip as he scrolls through Spotify. There’s a separate, private folder of playlists he’s curated, each lasting easily two hours, all with different, single word titles. Doggy, cowgirl, lotus, 69. There’s ten or so, and they get updated at least once a day. It’s music that he can almost too easily imagine touching you to – slowed, passionate, your favorite songs, almost all of them coming from recommendations you yourself gave him. He just can’t help the mental imagery that fills him the moment he hears the chords and the singer’s voice – immediately you’re perched in his lap, tits pressed against his own chest and grinding on him so slowly that he’s near tears, desperation filling him and suddenly his finger’s tapping before he knows it, the little ‘saved to edging’ notification popping up at the bottom of his screen. It’s mortifying, really, but so is the silence only interrupted by the bassy thump thump that would otherwise fill up his bedroom every night.
Thinking about Tadashi Yamaguchi who splurges for his birthday and buys himself a customized life-sized body pillow with you printed on it. He’d been bright red the whole time he’d been ordering, the prized photo of you – scantily clad in your cute, revealing pajamas with your breasts just barely contained by the top – uploaded to the cute little Etsy shop. The package had arrived not soon enough, and he’s both flushed and breathing erratically the moment he rips open the packaging, wide eyes nearly tearing up at the sight of you – well, almost you. He’d paid extra to have the little audio insert sent alongside it, and as he records an audio he’d saved of you teasingly telling him goodnight ‘Dashi, love you, he’s shivering in excitement. It’s a shame that he stains the fabric with cum the first night, but a quick wash leaves it good as new – leaves you good as new.
Thinking about Tooru Oikawa and the pretty dildo he’s got buried away in his closet. It’s smooth, a pale pink color that reminds him of Sakura blossoms – that reminds him of you. He doesn’t use it often; only when he’s been on long, long stints away from home, tournaments and games making his muscles sore, his eyes sag, his heart ache in his chest. But as he sprits your perfume on it and whines your name as he sits down on it, his eyes roll to the back of his head and he remembers how he snatched this from your own closet after having watched you fuck yourself on it through your bedroom window.
Thinking about Hajime Iwaizumi who absolutely loves the big, pretty mirror you have in your bedroom. It’s the first thing he notices when he walks in for the first time, and it’s also the first thing he looks up when he gets home that night. And when he’s got you spread out on his cock a few months later, the locks on the doors numerous with passcodes he’ll never tell you, he’s sure you’ll be a bit relieved to see something familiar on your new bedroom’s walls. And he’ll tell you as much, gruff voice in your ear as he bounces you in his lap like some kind of toy, telling you to look at the mirror, baby, lookin’ so pretty… And when you cry he’ll wince, but the way his cock throbs inside you is telling.
Thinking about Kotarou Bokuto who calls you when he’s touching himself, narrating to you exactly what he’s doing. Of course, it’s not from his own phone – he likes to think it’s more exciting if it’s an unknown number. Maybe he’s seen too many TikTok thirsts about men in masks and Scream, but he thinks you’ll like the mystery. So when you stop picking up, he’ll just leave voicemails – always groaning and moaning your name, putting the microphone on the phone right up next to his fist, the wet schlock schlock sounds loud and clear. It’s risky and dirty, and when you bring it up the next time he sees you, complaining and confiding in him that some fucking creep is leaving horrible messages for you, he’ll only play along, convinced you’re hiding your true feelings to avoid looking like a pervert. But that’s okay, he likes that you’re a pervert! So pick up next time, yeah?
Thinking about Keiji Akaashi who, when the late hours and pages upon pages of editing the same manga get to him, will switch over to edit the more lewd, more explicit series he’d recently been assigned. Yeah, maybe it’s illegal to be photocopying the pages when there’s particular scenes that appeal to him, and maybe there’s something ever so slightly creepy about printing your photos and cutting out your face, pasting them onto the hentai’s protagonist and doing the same with his own photos, but it’s not a big deal. At least, it’s not a big deal until you find the volumes upon volumes of different almost collaged panels with your photos, all strung together in Keiji’s own personal fantasies of exactly what he wants to do to you, fit with his own handwriting covering the neatly White-outted text bubbles.
Thinking about Tetsurou Kuroo who purposefully gets a desk at work that can be raised to standing height. It’s not often, but when his mind is wandering and he can’t sit still while thoughts of you become unbearable, he’ll bring the desk up slightly. Standing up, he’ll align the wood right below his groin, shuffling forward and gently resting his clothed erection against the surface, sighing and rolling his head back as he lightly thrusts forwards and back. The fantasy of having you bent over the desk is too strong to ignore, and when you – his oh so sexy little assistant – come knocking at his door, he’s thanking anything that’s listening that you can’t see the way wet spreads across the front of his slacks.
Thinking about Kenma Kozume who only plays Sims because he has characters for the two of you. There’s no other avatars, solely and only the two of you. He’s curated your character to have your hair, your eyes, your body proportions, even buying special packages and programming his own mods to make it happen. The house you’re both living in is, he’ll admit, a bit excessive – there’s beds in every room, and the very first thing he’ll do each time he opens the game is immediately press the WooHoo button, zooming in on the monitor to get as close to your pixelated forms as possible. He’ll gulp and palm himself, eyes unblinking and repeating the command until he’s panting and gasping and staring at the sticky mess he’s left behind.
Thinking about Lev Haiba who’s not good at the up-skirt photos he tries to take. He’s not subtle, the camera flash going off and making you stiffen up. It’s easy to brush off with him though, his little laugh and scratching the back of his neck, telling you that he’s just supposed to be taking ‘candid photos of myself, something my new agency’s been wanting! Hey, look at that bird over there, so cute right?’ The flash as you turn around is less noticeable, but the way he audibly groans at the sight of your pretty panties certainly isn’t.
Thinking of Wakatoshi Ushijima who can’t quite understand why you’re uncomfortable when he stands so close to you. He’s always creeping up behind you, unnaturally quiet for someone so large, and suddenly you’ll feel this looming, overwhelming presence behind you, his breath hitting the crown of your head and making your hair tickle your neck and throat. He’s standing nearly flush with you, his cock mere centimeters from your ass, the smell of his cologne invading every one of your senses. He’ll only stare, stonefaced when you yelp and whirl around, only swallowing when you lightly swat his chest, irritation rippling through your tone when you tell him don’t sneak up on me like that! He doesn’t mean to scare you, really, but there’s something about being so close to you that makes his heart race, and he’s heard from all his teammates in the locker rooms about how women ‘love it from behind’, and he can only assume this is what they mean. He doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but he’s convinced that with enough time, you’ll grow to enjoy him standing behind you like a shadow, breathing down your neck and audibly inhaling at the juncture of your neck – television tells him as much, so why do you always shy away when he tells you that you smell heavenly?
Thinking of Eita Semi who, despite his best efforts, can’t find it in himself to reject a band admirer when she approaches him after a show. It’s not you and he’s not initially interested in her at all, but as she stays persistent and his numerous texts to you remain unanswered, Eita finds himself noticing that you have similar lips, similar hair, similar hips. It’s not actually cheating if he pretends it’s you, right? It feels sacrilegious to touch another woman, sure, but he’s actively moaning out your name, telling her to shut up when she says something he doesn’t think you would. And it starts a troubling pattern – you won’t sleep with him and he doesn’t want to pressure you, but the sexual frustration of desperately wanting to touch you and being unable to makes him crazy, willing to do anything to get even a phantom taste of you. He’ll apologize profusely if you ever find out, getting to his knees and begging you to forgive him, claiming he did it for you, but it’s a temporary solution for now. Just until you give him a taste of what he’s been dreaming of for months.
Thinking of Satori Tendou who picked up photography as a hobby once his feelings for you formed. He’s still a bit unsure about photographing you without your consent, but then you go and do something that makes his throat dry up, his fingers unable to stay still because you’re just so damn cute and he can’t help himself. He keeps all the photos in a special box, placed neatly and gently in the corner of his closet. They’re all labeled on the back with the date, time, and location, even a few jots of what he was thinking at the time of the photo capture. They’re by and large mostly innocent, but there’s a few that he’d been rash with, snapping the photo and feeling guilt away at him. Writing down the fantasies he’d had with each time he uses the photo to masturbate had been embarrassing at first, but each time he rifles through the photos – which are perfectly pristine, not a drop of cum or even spit anywhere to be seen – he’s poring through his notes, biting his lip and curling his toes as he remembers particularly vivid fantasies, all driven forward by your smiling face or your unaware figure. And while he’ll never offer to show them to you, should you ask he’d reluctantly agree, watching with baited breath to see which ones you like – which fantasies you want to try out.
Thinking of Tsutomu Goshiki who still, even as a young adult, finds himself getting flustered when he watches porn. He’s consuming as many videos as he can find, but he often finds himself clicking off of the video almost as soon as the actual sex starts – he’s interested in the lead up, rather than the act itself. He’s diligently studying the scripts, the scenarios placed forward, the way the women seem to go crazy for a few common, simple lines. He’s noting everything down and practicing the lines, looking at himself in the mirror and adding in your name just to get used to saying it without blushing. He’s convinced that because the women in porn would like these lines, so would you – of course, you would not enjoy being told that he’s the delivery pizza guy and that you’ll need to pay with your body, but Tsutomu doesn’t quite understand that. Surely it’s real – it’s porn, and he’s sure that he’ll be able to fuck you just the way he sees on his screen. He’ll make you scream just like all the women do – he promises.
Thinking of Shinsuke Kita who will let you bathe on your own, but never alone. He’s pulling up a stool beside the bathtub before you can protest, those eyes unblinking as he gets nice and settled in. He’s smiling gently at you, asking you if the water is the right temperature, if you’d like to a use a bathbomb, if you want any help shampooing or scrubbing your body. It’s unnerving if only because the nonchalance is infuriating, but his hands stay perfectly still on his lap, palms flat against the material of his trousers. He’s visibly growing hard as you quickly wash your body, still staring, but he makes no move to act on it. It’s only once he’s watched you settle into bed, promising he’ll be up soon, that he makes his move. The water’s cold by now, but he still sinks into the porcelain with a stifled grown, letting the bath water slip past his lips and cover his face, enjoying every bit of residue of you.
Thinking of Atsumu Miya who’s notorious for PDA with you long before you’ve accepted your fate. He’s always inviting you to his games, getting you special seating so that you’re as close to the court as possible, and after each win he’s pulling you into a searing, bruising, loud kiss. It’s dramatic and it’s entirely too much, but the cameras flash and the headlines spur with details of his supposed relationship with you. It’s all for publicity, he’ll tell you, apologizing but telling you that y’understand, right? It’s for his career, he promises, to make himself look better for the media, but the way he’ll slowly pull away and whimper your name so that only you can hear isn’t quite as publicity-driven as he claims. At least, when he groans and lets his eyes flutter closed afterwards, it sure doesn’t feel that way.
Thinking of Osamu Miya who, of course, has a rather nasty habit of infusing his cooking for you with something salty, bitter, and off-white, but he’s got yet another secret hidden up his sleeve. It takes him a while to work up to coming in your food, desperation driving him mad with the urge to somehow stake a claim on you, but letting his lips pucker and spitting into the frying, sizzling meal he’s whipping up for you? Well, that’s much less sinister, isn’t it? It’s less creepy, he thinks, and it’s easier – he can spit once, twice, five times in a single dish, watching with hawk eyes when you groan and praise his cooking after the first bite. It’s a secret, and the only tell he has is that he’ll bite his lips, Adam’s apple harshly bobbing, his fist clenching and his pants getting tight because oh, you think it tastes good?
Little blurbs about assorted haikyuu characters because I finally got around to watching the Dumpster Battle. This will likely be the first part of a few thirst ramblings - sorry for the long hiatus, of course it's porn that brings me out of my cave of writer's block
Ft. Tetsurou Kuroo, Lev Haiba, and Tobio Kageyama
TW: dub-con/non-con, implied kidnapping, yandere, pegging, choking, fem reader, MDNI
Tetsurou Kuroo's a headpusher - there's no two ways about it.
Long, thick fingers twist and tangle into your hair, blunt nails digging at your scalp as he slowly applies pressure. He's not trying to push you at first, forcing himself to keep his hand steady and his breathing even. His eyes alternate between fluttering closed because the sensation of your tongue against the underside of his cock is too much, and snapping wide open because god you look good choking on him.
He's not trying to push, but as his head tilts back and his throat visibly bobs as he gulps, his control starts waning. His hips buck almost imperceptibly, little jolts forward that make your eyes squeeze shut as you force yourself to not gag. Each buck is accompanied by a muffled groan that comes from somewhere deep inside his chest, fingers tightening their grip in your hair.
And then you suck a certain way, drool slipping from the corner of your lips and Tetsurou catches sight of it and oh, he's grunting and slurring something that sounds like your name as his forearm flexes, every muslce in his body trying to fight the urge to hold you steady and fuck your mouth. His toes are curling and he's grimacing and oh oh oh -
It happens so fast that you can barely process it. He's cupping the back of your head and pushing you forward, cockhead ramming into the back of your throat and leaving you sputtering. But it only makes Tetusorou moan harder, the already pink flush on his cheeks blooming red because fuuuuck your throat gets so tight when you cough and choke and it feels so good he swears he's going to cum -
But then he feels your frantic taps against his thigh, dark eyes peeling open ever so slightly to see the way you're desperate, pushing against his hand to lean back and breath, and he's immediately pulling out, hissing slightly at the wet friction. He's squatting down to your height, cock still flushed, angry, and red against his stomach and shining in the light with the sheen of your spit. Shaking fingers push at your hair to keep it out of your eyes, his own dark gaze half-lidded in pleasure with a twinge of panic.
You okay? His voice is rugged and rough, the edges of a moan settling somewhere against his throat. When you nod, coughing one last weak, feeble time, he swallows.
Careful angel, wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. His thumb comes up to trace the line of your jaw, tongue flicking out to lick his lips. He moves forward then, eyes half-closing as he licks at your lips - long, slow strokes that are much too wet. When you cringe and automatically open your eyes, Tetsurou's already looking at you, dark eyes wide open as he licks and sucks at your mouth.
There's a whisper of your name against your skin as he pulls back, his cheeks still painted that pretty rose color, and for a moment you marvel at how truly beautiful he is.
You marvel until he's suddenly leaning back in again, teeth biting at your ear and murmuring well, since you're okay, this cock's not gonna suck itself, yeah?
And then he's standing up again, thumb and index finger gripping his base and slapping his shaft against your cheek. It's wet with a fresh coat of precum, and you try not to think about why he would've been aroused by the sight and sound of you choking.
He grabs his balls roughly as he slowly moves his hips up and down, rubbing his tip against the curves of your lips, nose, and cheek, biting his own lip and letting a wobbly, boyish sort of smile slip over his face.
And a few moments later, you'll find your nose tickled by the coarse, black curly hairs at his base and the salty taste of him filling your mouth, with his hand resting against the crown of your head once again.
Lev Haiba's a gentleman, or at least he likes to think so.
He gets that you aren't quite ready yet to touch him. Blah blah blah boundries, blah blah blah you're not ready for a physical relationship with him. It's all bullshit to him, of course, but you seem to really care about it and so he steels himself. It's the least he can do, really, when you smile at him so prettily and wear the lacey, silky lingerie he brings home new every night. Perks of a model's connections and salary, you suppose.
Take today, for example - you're dolled up in a soft, baby blue number, the crotchless panties and sheer bra cups leaving very little to the imagination. Lev's staring like a man starved, green eyes wide and trained on your curves, the soft expanse of your stomach, the way you squirm and shift under his ruthless gaze. So pretty, he murmurs, cock visibly throbbing under the pair of briefs sitting dangerously low on his hips.
He respects your desire to not touch him and not be touched, sure, but Lev's never been one to back down from a challenge. And so, here you are - dolled up in your lingerie, sure, but the complete opposite from your 'lover'. He's got only his briefs on, pale chest on full display as he leans back on the bed, propped up on an elbow. He's forced you to sit between his spread legs, no skin touching but only barely, and he's had you lay down on your stomach, arms folded below your chin and only mere inches away from his crotch.
The view's better this way, he'd told you, the dread in your stomach only sinking further down.
He worms his way out of his underwear with suspicous ease, cock springing up and smacking loudly against his stomach, a wet sort of splat that only serves to strangely humiliate and embarass you. But Lev's not embarassed - oh no, not if the excited, over-eager look on his face is anything to go by. And it's not long before slender fingers are curling around his shaft, pulling up and down and up and down over and over, a wet clicking noise filling the bedroom as his ragged breaths fill your ears.
D'you like this? He's asking, voice low and strained.
Does this make you wet? He licks his lips at the thought, gaze flashing to the sight of your thong-clad ass laying on the bed.
Do you want this? D'you want this cock? Want this cum? His hips surge forward as he says it, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as a bead of pearly, thick precum bubbles at his tip.
And of course, the deal is no skin-to-skin contact - you never said anything more than that. And when his eyes roll to the back of his head, hips bucking up and his hand desperately pointing the spurts of hot, runny cum right to your face, Lev can only half-laugh, half-groan. He's playing by your rules, after all, and fuck do you look good in white.
If you say absolutely anything about this to anyone, Tobio Kageyama will make you suffer.
That's what he'd told you at least. You hadn't bothered pointing out the fact that you don't see anyone besides him, let only speak to them. It hadn't been worth it. Besides, you weren't entirely sure what 'making you suffer' even meant - because right now, you're pretty sure he's doing it anyways.
It should be empowering, really, to have your captor on his hands and knees in front of you, cheeks flushed bright pink and pert, twitching asshole on full display. His balls droop right in front of them, pink skin convulsing ever few seconds, the tip of his cock barely visible behind them and only growing harder with every passing moment.
He doesn't have it in him to look back at you, his pride already so far out the window that he couldn't bare to look at you while in such a vulnerable - humiliating - position. Even if he'd been the one to ask for it.
It should be empowering, yes, but there's something about the depraved nature of the way he grinds back against the pretty, gray strap he'd forced you into that stops you from feeling like you're in control. He's pathetic, really, toned muscles clenching and jerking as he grinds up against you, the tip of the silicone cock rubbing right against the spot that makes his eyes roll back. And yet it still feels like he's the one using you - he's still calling the shots even with 'you' buried five inches inside him.
And when he peeks back behind him, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat from hours of prepping with your fingers and smaller toys, he averts his gaze. He's never been a particularly submissive man, but the sight of you - completely nude, inside of him - leaves Tobio flustered beyond belief, hips swaying against you in an effort to distract himself with pleasure.
But eventually it's not enough, and it's only when the small, mumbled f'me rings in your ears that you finally speak.
What? Your voice is quiet, audibly uncomfortable.
Tobio groans. You heard me.
Frowning, you bite your lip. No, I didn't, I promise.
He grumbles something under his breath, back muslces tensing.
It's quiet, but you're just able to make it out. Fuck me.
It's quiet for a few beats, before Tobio's fist clenches against the sheets of your 'shared' bed, back arching impatiently. Just do it already!
You scramble to move, hips awkwardly and clumsily pulling back and slowly pushing in again. The effect is immediate - Tobio lets out something between a moan and a shout, burying his face against the pillow he'd positioned under his chin. (It's your pillow - the one you sleep with and the one you've caught him humping multiple times, little black hairs sometimes appearing on the otherwise crisp white fabric.) His back arches impossibly, the globes of his ass clenching and his fist tigthening against the sheets as he moves with your thrusts, pushing back to get the strap to reach as deeply as possible.
After a few minutes your rythym gets steadier, and Tobio shifts his face to the side. His cheeks are an even brighter shade of red now, hair mussled and sticking in all different directions, lips moving wildly.
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you -
Each thrust is punctuated with a chanted declaration of love from him, his words getting more and more slurred with little slips of your name filling the gaps.
The sound of clapping skin echoes through the room before Tobio suddenly gasps and seizes up, every muscle going taut as his mumbled chanting is replaced with a frenzied, desperate plea.
Tell me you love me, f-fuck, tell me you love me I need to hear it pleasepleasepleaseplease-
You mutter out a weak I love you and it's all it takes - Tobio's letting out a gasping groan, back going concave as something hot and sticky lands on your thigh, hole clenching so hard you can't get the strap to slide in or out.
And when he's manhandling you into settling down against his face, thighs caging in his head while he sucks and licks with such fervor that it makes you squirm in more than just pleasure, you'll hear it again - that same muffled m'love you, m'love you.
(Don't be surprised when that same wet, hot feeling splatters against your lower back and ass a few mintues later.)
