He liked to take his time, to watch, learn, memorize—every reaction, every sharp inhale, every way your body responded to his touch. He was never in a rush. Never let his ego get ahead of him. But this?
This was new.
You were pinned beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, your body shaking as he pushed into you—deep, slow, relentless. His hands were firm against your thighs, keeping you open, keeping you exactly where he wanted. The feeling of your warmth wrapped so tight around him sent a slow, burning pleasure through his spine, but what really had him losing his mind was you.
The way your breath stuttered every time he rolled his hips. The way your nails scraped at his arms, your legs twitching as he stretched you out. The way you gasped his name like it was the only word you knew.
And then it happened.
The moment he angled his hips just right, just deep enough to press against that sweet spot—
Your breath hitched—
Your entire body tensed—
And then, you came.
Fast. Hard. Too hard.
Suna felt it, the way your walls squeezed him tight, the way your legs locked up, a choked cry breaking past your lips. The way your hands clawed at his back, searching for anything to hold onto as you shattered underneath him.
He stilled—just for a second—his sharp eyes flicking up to watch you completely fall apart beneath him.
Oh.
Oh, yeah. This was it.
A slow, wicked smirk stretched across his lips. He liked that.
"Didn’t even last a minute," he murmured, voice low, teasing, smug.
You barely registered his words, your body limp, your mind foggy with the aftershocks. But Suna wasn’t done.
He let you catch your breath for a second, his hands rubbing slow, lazy circles over your thighs. But then—
He pressed his weight into you, rolling his hips again—deeper, slower this time, dragging out the pleasure until you gasped, your body twitching from oversensitivity. And he felt it. The way you clenched involuntarily, still on edge, still sensitive.
"Oh?" His grip on your thighs tightened, his smirk deepening as his voice dipped into something darker, lower. “Still sensitive?”
A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest as you whimpered, your nails digging into his arms. He was going to have fun with this.
One of his hands left your thigh, sliding up the length of your body—slow, teasing, purposeful—before wrapping around your throat, his thumb brushing over your pulse. His mouth hovered just above yours, his breath warm, teasing, his words coated in amusement.
"That was too fast, baby," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, watching your dazed expression with something like satisfaction. "Guess that means this is my new favorite."
His thumb pressed against your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. His dark, lidded gaze roamed over your features, soaking in the flush on your cheeks, the parted lips, the way your chest heaved. You were wrecked. And that made something primal twist in his stomach. He wanted to see it again.
So he moved.
Slow. Deep. Unrelenting.
The pace was different this time—no teasing, no holding back. He wanted to feel you come apart again. Wanted to feel your walls flutter around him, to watch you drown in the sensation. He wanted to chase that reaction again and again until it was burned into him.
"Too much?" he mused, his voice dripping with false innocence as his thrusts got sharper, pushing you right back toward that edge.
Your response was lost between a gasp and a moan, and Suna grinned.
"Nah, I think you can take it," he murmured. "You were made for this, weren't you?"
You barely had time to process his words before he angled his hips just right again— and that coil in your stomach snapped.
Your head tilted back, a cry tearing from your lips as pleasure flooded through you, crashing over you even harder than the first time.
Suna groaned, feeling your body clamp down around him, squeezing him so tight that his rhythm stuttered for half a second. His grip on your throat loosened, his hand sliding down to grasp at your waist instead, holding you steady as you shook beneath him.
"Fuck," he muttered, watching the way your body trembled, the way your fingers scrambled at the sheets. He let his hips slow, dragging out your high, letting you feel every second of it.
And when you finally collapsed, boneless and wrecked beyond belief, Suna pressed a kiss to your jaw, his smirk returning as he murmured—
Sugawara Koushi had always been attentive. He had a way of reading you—of knowing exactly what you needed before you even asked. But tonight, you were the one who made the first move.
It started as a simple suggestion, whispered against his lips as you straddled his lap, your fingers curling into his soft, silver-streaked hair. "I want to try something different tonight, Koushi."
He tilted his head, amusement flickering in his brown eyes. "Different how?"
When you told him, his smile widened—slow, intrigued, dangerous.
"Yeah?" His voice dropped, hands squeezing at your waist. "Alright, sweetheart. Let’s try it."
And that was how you ended up here, tangled together, your legs draped over his shoulders, his mouth hot and greedy against you while you did your best to keep up.
It should have been a fair exchange, an even give-and-take. But Koushi wasn’t playing fair.
The second his tongue flicked against you, a slow, precise glide that sent sparks up your spine, you realized you were already at a disadvantage. His grip on your thighs tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin as he held you still, fully at his mercy.
You tried to focus, to keep up, your hands gripping him, stroking in time with the slow rock of your hips. You wanted to take him apart the way he was ruining you. But then—
He moaned.
The deep, reverberating sound vibrated against your core, and your body jolted, betraying you.
Koushi chuckled against your skin, smug and knowing. "Oh? That got to you?"
You whimpered, trying to suppress the way your thighs trembled around his head. But he felt it. Of course he did.
"You’re so sensitive tonight, sweetheart." His voice was teasing, but there was something else beneath it—something hungry. "I wonder how long you’ll last?"
Your breath hitched as his tongue worked you over with slow, devastating precision. Each flick, each swirl, each deliberate pressure against your clit sent you spiraling higher, faster than you wanted to admit. He was taking his time with you, making sure you felt every second of it.
You tried to fight back, to make him feel just as wrecked. You wrapped your lips around him, sinking down slow, letting your tongue drag along his length in a way you knew drove him insane.
It worked—his breath hitched, his hips twitching against your mouth. A sharp, shaky inhale.
But then, as if reminded of the game you were playing, he groaned into you, deep and unrestrained.
The sound wrecked you. Your grip on him stuttered, your rhythm faltering, a high-pitched whimper slipping from your lips. And just like that—
He knew he had you.
His hands squeezed at your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer, his tongue delving deeper, flicking faster, sucking just hard enough to send you spiraling.
You couldn’t focus anymore. Couldn’t even think.
"K-Koushi—" Your voice broke, your body arching against him as he worked you to the edge with ruthless patience.
"That’s it, sweetheart," he murmured against you. His voice was warm, coaxing, wrecking you. "Let go. I’ve got you."
And you did.
Pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave, your whole body shaking, tensing, completely unraveling. A sharp cry spilled from your lips, your fingers digging into his thighs as your climax washed over you, leaving you trembling in his grasp.
But Koushi—Koushi wasn’t done.
As you gasped for breath, he didn’t let go. Instead, his hands guided you, adjusting you so you could move freely while still hovering over his face.
"There you go," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "Ride it, sweetheart. Don’t be shy."
Your breath hitched as his tongue pressed against you again, your body twitching from overstimulation.
"I—I can’t—"
"You can," he reassured, hands firm on your thighs, keeping you steady as you ground down against him, chasing the pleasure all over again.
The change in position made it even worse— or better, depending on how you looked at it. You had more control now, more leverage, but the more you rocked against his mouth, the deeper the sensations coiled inside you.
Desperate for something to ground yourself, you let your hands trail down his stomach, wrapping your fingers around him from this angle, stroking in slow, teasing motions as you took him deeper into your mouth.
Koushi groaned into you, his grip on your thighs tightening, fingers digging into your skin as his body tensed beneath you.
His breath turned ragged as your hand moved faster, your grip tightening. He was close.
"Koushi—"
Your voice cracked as you came again, pleasure ripping through you, your whole body trembling in his grasp. The feeling of you tensing, shaking, completely wrecked above him— it pushed him over the edge.
A deep, shuddering groan left his lips as his body tensed beneath you, spilling into your hand as he finally let go, undone by the way you lost yourself above him.
You felt the tremor in his thighs, the way his fingers dug in just a little harder as his breath stuttered, his whole body shaking through the aftershocks.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Just ragged breaths, aftershocks still rippling through you both, your limbs tangled, your bodies completely spent.
Then—a soft chuckle.
Koushi pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your thigh before murmuring against your skin, "Think that might be my new favorite."
You let out a breathless laugh, still too wrecked to even open your eyes.
Just as you started to relax, his fingers brushed along your skin, soft, teasing, lingering.
"You alright, sweetheart?" His voice was sweet, too sweet.
You nodded weakly, still coming down, not yet realizing the danger.
Then, his lips curved against your thigh, and he murmured—
Not the kind of thing you read about in books or whisper under moonlight. That’s never been his style. He doesn’t know what to do with delicate. Doesn’t trust the way it trembles in his hands.
But this?
You—half-dressed and breathless, bent over the edge of his kitchen counter? That, he understands.
You’re on your toes, hands pressed flat to the cool marble, back curved just right—the shape of you etched into his fucking skull. He could draw it in his sleep. He dreams in the sounds you make when he pulls your hips back, the way your body jerks with every thrust like it’s wired to his own.
He doesn’t say much. Never has. His words come out in grunts, growls, the rough slap of skin meeting skin. But if he did speak, it’d be something filthy. Something true.
You were made for this.
His hands are gripping your hips so tight his knuckles are white, fingers bruising into your skin because he can’t help it. Because when you're moaning into the countertop, head down, begging without even using words—he loses every last bit of control. He needs to hear it. Needs to see the way your thighs tremble and your breath hiccups and your voice cracks when he hits that spot, again, again, just to see how long it takes until you’re shaking.
He watches your back arch. Watches your fingers claw at the edge of the counter. Watches your mouth fall open when he pulls out just far enough to make you whine and slams back in harder, teeth gritted, forehead slick with sweat.
You always take it so good. Too good. Like you want to be ruined by him.
And fuck if that doesn’t make his brain go static.
Sometimes, he bites.
Okay—a lot of the time.
Your shoulder, your neck, the curve of your spine—he leaves marks where no one else can see, but he knows they’re there. And you do too. Every bruise is a reminder. A signature. His. And no one else’s.
“Mine,” he says, voice low and rough, more growl than word. You nod, half-gone already, and that’s not enough.
“Say it.”
“Yours,” you gasp, all wrecked and breathless and perfect.
He groans like it hurts. Like it breaks something in him.
And then it happens.
You clamp down around him, a sudden, high-pitched cry leaving your throat like it caught you by surprise. You shudder, full-body, like your nerves short-circuited—hands scrambling, thighs locking around nothing as your orgasm crashes into you so hard it’s almost violent.
He freezes.
Just for a second.
Because something about the way you shake isn’t just pleasure—it’s raw. Guttural. Almost like you’re crying. Like something inside snapped loose and let everything spill out at once.
“Hey,” he mutters, voice still rough, but quieter now, buried in your hair as he slows, just slightly. "You good?"
You nod too fast. Too many times.
“‘M fine,” you whisper, breath hitching. "It just... surprised me."
You’re still trembling under him, and he can feel the way your pulse is racing. He leans over your back, mouth brushing your shoulder as he steadies his grip and moves again—but this time, slower. Controlled. Still deep. Still rough. But different.
Measured.
Because Kyōtani’s not good at talking, but he can listen. And he knows you. Knows what panic sounds like under pleasure. Knows the difference between a scream and a sob.
So he gives you something steady to hold onto. Gives you his breath against your skin, his hand tangled with yours now instead of holding you down.
He bites your shoulder one more time—gentle this time. Just enough to remind you he’s there. That he’s with you.
Because if you trust him to take you apart, then he’ll make sure you don’t fall all the way through.
There’s nothing in the world like this. Like you, bent over and begging, taking everything he gives without flinching. Trusting him, even when he’s rough. Even when he’s mean.
Especially then.
You’re the only thing that makes him feel like maybe he’s not a monster.
But right now? He still fucks you like one.
But if you fall, he’ll catch you—teeth, hands, bruises and all.
He liked slow sex. Quiet sex. Something easy, something lazy—skin against skin while the rest of the world went quiet. He didn’t like being overwhelmed, didn’t like chaos, didn’t like the kind of intimacy that made him feel too seen. Too vulnerable. Too much.
But then there was you.
And you liked control. You liked watching him blush, watching his breath hitch, watching his hands tighten on your thighs as you rolled your hips just right. You liked when his focus shifted from the glowing screen in his hands to the way your body responded to him. You liked riding his face.
At first, Kenma thought he wouldn’t enjoy it. Not because he didn’t want to please you—he always wanted that—but because he assumed he wouldn’t be good at it. That he wouldn’t know what to do with his hands, or how to breathe, or how to make you come apart just from his mouth. He overthought it, worried he’d be awkward or freeze up.
But the first time you sat on his face? Something changed.
He liked the weight of you on his tongue, the pressure of your thighs trembling around his head, your hands fisting in his hair as you got louder, needier, completely undone. The way you moved, desperate and trembling, grinding down into his mouth like you couldn’t help it—it awakened something in him.
It felt powerful.
It felt intimate in a way he didn’t expect.
And that’s what made it his favorite.
Tonight, the room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his monitor left on in the background, some menu music humming quietly in the silence. The air was warm, still, thick with tension as you straddled his chest, slowly shifting forward until your thighs framed his face.
Your knees hovered above him, thighs already trembling from anticipation, slick dripping down onto his waiting tongue as you tried to hold back—tried to be gentle with him.
Kenma wasn’t having it.
His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you down, anchoring you right where he wanted you.
You gasped, spine arching, one hand flying back to the headboard to steady yourself. “K-Kenma—!”
He groaned into you, eyes fluttering shut, tongue lapping firm, slow stripes from your entrance to your clit, flicking it with just enough pressure to make your hips buck.
“Sit,” he murmured, voice muffled against you. “Don’t run.”
You whimpered at the command. The heat pooling in your core flared violently, and you dropped your weight onto him with a moan. His fingers tightened in approval, guiding you to rock your hips slightly, grinding into his mouth at a pace he set.
That was what he wanted.
He didn’t need to see your face. Didn’t need to speak. He wanted your thighs around his head, your breath hitched and stuttering, your body twitching every time he dragged his tongue in just the right way. He wanted to hear the way you lost yourself.
You gripped the headboard harder, panting, your thighs starting to quiver. "Kenma, f-fuck, I can't—"
He moaned into you, nose nudging against your clit as his tongue moved faster, more deliberate, savoring every whimper you gave him. The vibrations of his groan made your hips jerk, your eyes fluttering shut as you got closer.
You were close. He could feel it.
Your thighs tensed, hips jerking, and suddenly your fingers were yanking at his roots, grounding yourself as you cried out, back arching. Your body bucked against his face, and Kenma didn’t stop. Not even when your orgasm surged through you, not even when your voice broke from how hard you were panting. He kept going, working you through it, tongue relentless, until your thighs twitched around his head.
Only when your hips tried to lift away did he ease up, licking you through the aftershocks like he was savoring dessert, mouth sticky with you, breathing heavy but content.
Your entire body was trembling.
You collapsed onto the bed beside him, flushed and panting, eyes glazed over and lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath.
Kenma wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gold eyes flicking over to meet yours.
“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse but laced with quiet amusement.
You nodded quickly, still catching your breath, then whimpered when your thighs twitched again. Your skin was buzzing, hypersensitive, your body limp with exhaustion and pleasure.
Kenma smirked faintly, eyes soft but smug. “Good. You were loud.”
You let out a breathy laugh, covering your face with one hand, still dazed. “Shut up.”
He pulled the blankets over you, kissed your cheek softly, and curled in beside you like he hadn’t just ruined you with his mouth.
He liked quiet mornings. Crisp sheets. Things folded neatly, put away properly. He didn’t yell. He didn’t lose his temper. Everything he did was thoughtful, measured, deliberate.
And that translated in the bedroom, too.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t fumble. And he wasn’t the type to lose control.
Which is why his favorite position was one that allowed him to stay in control, to keep you close, to feel every single way your body responded to his.
Prone bone.
Your body beneath his. Face turned to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow, your back arching automatically as his hips rutted into you slowly, deeply, at a rhythm that felt maddening. The cotton of the sheets felt cool against your flushed skin, the quiet rustle of the fabric beneath you the only sound aside from your shallow breaths and the soft slap of skin meeting skin.
He didn’t let you move. Didn’t let you squirm or shift or hide your face.
He held you there.
One arm caged around your waist, the other braced at the mattress near your head, his palm anchoring your shoulder blade as he rolled his hips with the kind of practiced precision that only came from a man who paid attention to detail. Every shift of his body was intentional, every breath exhaled against your neck deliberate.
And you never realized how overwhelming that kind of stillness could be until he made you stay in it.
“Shinsuke—” your voice broke, trembling with effort. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, trying to ground yourself as your thighs twitched, as the pressure in your belly coiled tighter and tighter.
His hand was firm between your shoulder blades, his chest flush to your back, the heat of his skin blanketing you, his lips brushing your ear.
“Stay still,” he murmured, voice low, calm, but final.
You gasped as he pressed deeper, the drag of his cock against your walls drawing a cry from your throat. The stretch felt unbearable and addictive all at once. He was slow, precise. Like he was memorizing you. Like your body was a prayer and he intended to recite every line by heart.
“Feel it,” he whispered. "Don’t run from it."
Your breath hitched. Your eyes fluttered shut. You tried to hold still. You really did. But the pleasure built too fast, too hot, and your hips jerked again before you could stop yourself.
His hand moved instantly, gripping your hip, holding you in place. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to remind you who was in control.
His body pressed more firmly into yours. You felt every inch of him, every beat of his heart in the center of your back, every deep thrust echoing inside your ribs.
You whined into the pillow, your body shaking. “I can’t—”
“You can.”
His voice was soft, but unrelenting. “You want to come?”
You nodded, barely able to form words.
“Then be good. Take what I give you.”
And you tried. You let him take over. Let him keep the pace, keep the rhythm, keep you pressed down while he fucked you slow, deep, steady. The sound of your breathing filled the room—wet, broken gasps punctuated by the muted creak of the bed and the soft drag of his hips grinding into yours.
Your toes curled. Your hands twisted in the sheets. Every thrust pressed you deeper into the mattress, made your body shudder under him, made your moans fall apart into messy, breathless cries.
You were a mess by the time he let you fall apart. Crying out into the sheets, your fingers curling, your body seizing around him as your orgasm crashed through you hard. Your thighs trembled violently. You felt your body clamp down on him, spasming in wave after wave of white-hot release.
He didn’t stop.
Not until your body gave out entirely beneath him, trembling and slack and soaked with sweat. Your mind was blank, every nerve in your body thrumming. Your face pressed into the pillow, mouth parted, completely undone.
Only then did he ease out, brushing his hand along your spine, lips pressing softly to your shoulder. His hand lingered there, fingertips trailing in slow, soothing patterns that made your breath even out bit by bit.
“You did so well,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around you from behind, pulling your boneless body into his chest. “Just like I knew you would.”
You hummed weakly, too wrung out to reply, eyes slipping closed as you melted into the heat of him.
Stillness. Not because he demanded it—
But because after him, you couldn't move even if you wanted to.
From the beginning, he had always treated you like you were something precious. Maybe it was because of the way you fit against him—smaller, delicate in his arms, easily lifted and carried. Maybe it was just who he was. But every time he touched you, it was careful, reverent—like he was holding glass, terrified of pushing too hard, of cracking something he could never replace.
He’d started slow, careful—just like always. His hands had been gentle, his mouth sweet against your skin, his body heavy but controlled as he eased into you between tangled sheets and soft, broken kisses.
You’d wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to the broadness of him, the way his body caged you without feeling suffocating. And for a while, he moved like he was afraid—afraid of breaking you, afraid of being too much.
But the second you pulled your knees higher, the second you whimpered into his mouth and squeezed around him like you couldn’t stand even an inch of distance—
Something in him snapped.
And now you were folded beneath him, legs hooked over his shoulders, arms pinned above your head with one of his big hands wrapped around your wrists, completely at his mercy.
The angle was brutal. Deep. Overwhelming.
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The thick weight of him drove every thought out of your head with each slow, devastating thrust that had your thighs trembling and your toes curling in the air.
“Asahi—” you gasped, but it was barely a sound. Your voice broke halfway through, your fingers twitching against his grip.
His other hand wasn’t idle—it skated down your waist, gripping your thigh, your hip, like he didn’t know where to hold you first. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in sharp, desperate bursts, his body trembling from the effort of keeping it together.
“You feel—” he choked out, driving deeper, harder, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding echoing off the walls, “—so good, sweetheart. So fucking good.”
You whined. Couldn’t help it. Your whole body was screaming for him, clenching around him like you never wanted him to stop.
And Asahi, sweet, gentle Asahi, fucked you through it with a quiet ferocity that stole the air from your lungs.
He wasn’t rough. He wasn’t violent. But he was relentless—thrust after thrust angled to wreck you completely, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress with every snap of his hips.
You sobbed out his name, back arching off the bed despite his weight holding you down, and he groaned—low, broken, primal—when he felt how close you were.
“That’s it,” he panted, hips grinding in deep, “Come on, baby, come for me. Let go—I’ve got you.”
And you did.
The orgasm tore through you like a violent wave, pulling the breath from your lungs, your body spasming helplessly under him. You clamped down around him so hard he almost folded, his jaw locking as he cursed under his breath, fucking you through it even as your nails raked helplessly at his shoulders, even as you sobbed his name again and again.
He wasn’t far behind.
You felt the way his rhythm faltered—the way he ground into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, as he came with a low, broken sound against your neck.
His entire body shuddered above you.
For a long time, neither of you moved.
Just the sound of heavy breathing, trembling limbs, and water rushing faintly in the bathroom beyond the door.
Slowly, Asahi lowered your legs from his shoulders, pressing kisses to your knees, your thighs, anywhere he could reach, like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you for even a second.
You whimpered when his mouth brushed over the sensitive inside of your thigh, another tremor ripping through you.
He smiled against your skin—small, wrecked, overwhelmed.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, dragging his lips up to your hip. “Got a little carried away.”
You shook your head, still gasping, still stunned. Still full of him.
Asahi chuckled, low and breathless, and kissed your stomach, your ribs, your sternum—slow, grounding kisses that made your overstimulated body twitch and shiver with every touch.
“I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, lips brushing your pulse. “I’ve got you.”
You barely managed a broken whimper in response before he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest like you were something he couldn’t afford to lose.
And in that moment, you knew:
He hadn't just fucked you like he was afraid of breaking you.
He fucked you like he was afraid of losing you.
It wasn’t personal—just a preference. You liked being manhandled. Liked being tossed around, bent over, pinned. You’d always thought height made that easier. You wanted to be overwhelmed, and you never thought someone with a boyish grin and a 174 cm frame would be the one to do it.
But Hinata Shōyō?
Was a beast.
Not just in the way he moved, though that was devastating enough. He had stamina for days, legs like pistons, arms strong enough to lift you like you weighed nothing. But it was the way he looked at you when he was inside you—like he was starved, like he was built for this. Like your pleasure was his mission.
And when you were underneath him? Flat on your back, legs thrown over his shoulders, Hinata kneeling over you with your ankles hooked behind his neck?
There was no going back.
“I wanna see everything,” he’d whispered the first time, flushed and breathless, the tip of his cock nudging at your entrance. “Wanna see your face when I make you lose it.”
And now?
Now he was fucking you like he meant it.
Your thighs trembled where they rested over his shoulders, calves draped down his back as his hips snapped into yours. His hands were braced beside your head, body bent forward so his chest hovered over yours. The position had you folded nearly in half, stretched wide, completely taken.
“So—tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched as he pounded into you with brutal rhythm, curls damp and clinging to his forehead. “God, you feel… fuck… you feel so good.”
Your back arched off the bed, fingers fisting the sheets, eyes fluttering as pleasure crackled through your nerves.
“Shōyō—too deep, it’s too much—”
“No,” he gasped, snapping his hips harder, “It’s perfect. You can take it. Just hold on, I’ve got you.”
You sobbed as his cock hit that devastating spot inside you over and over, your body clenching, quivering. The position had you stretched and pinned, his body grinding into yours with relentless force. You could feel the headboard banging against the wall, the slap of skin-on-skin loud in the air.
Hinata leaned closer, your knees nearly pressed to your chest, and he grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers together as he fucked you harder.
“I wanna see it,” he panted, eyes fixed on your face. “Come for me. Right now. Let me see how pretty you look when you break.”
And you did.
You shattered with a scream, back arching violently, mouth falling open in a ragged cry as your orgasm slammed through you. Your vision went white, your body seizing under the weight of the pleasure, twitching uncontrollably. You couldn’t even breathe—couldn’t think.
It didn’t stop.
He kept fucking you through it, hips rolling hard and deep, watching you fall apart beneath him like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Your hands clawed at his arms, thighs trembling wildly, mouth babbling nonsense—you didn’t even realize what you were saying. You were crying. Moaning. Whimpering please and don’t stop in the same breath.
Hinata groaned, deep and broken, and you felt his rhythm falter just slightly before he buried himself deep, grinding his hips hard into yours as he came with a strangled gasp. The warmth of him flooding you only sent another pulse of aftershock through your body, another twitch of oversensitivity that made your breath catch.
He stayed there, chest heaving, forehead resting against yours.
Your chest was heaving, fingers twitching, mind blank except for the echo of your own voice—broken, desperate, high-pitched and gasping his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say.
Your body was still convulsing in little aftershocks when Hinata leaned over you, his breath warm and uneven, and started pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin.
First to your collarbone. Then lower.
His lips trailed down the curve of your breast, lingering over the swell as his hand spread wide over your stomach—grounding you, holding you, but never still.
You jolted when his mouth dipped lower again, his tongue lapping at the sheen of sweat on your ribs, and then his lips brushed just under your navel.
“Shōyō—” you whimpered, voice rasping from overuse, hips twitching.
He smiled against your skin, kissed lower.
“Too much?” he whispered, but didn’t stop. He was everywhere—on your hips, your thighs, your waist, like he needed to taste every part of what he just ruined.
Every place his mouth touched made you flinch, a fresh wave of oversensitivity crawling across your skin. But you didn’t stop him.
You couldn’t.
And neither could he.
By the time he leaned up again, his hands were back on your waist, thumbs stroking soft, absentminded circles against your flushed skin. His eyes were bright, cheeks still a little pink, and his grin—smug, breathless, a little crooked—stole the last of your breath.
“Wanna go again?”
You blinked. And despite the fact that your legs were jelly, your brain scrambled, your body completely wrecked—you still managed to nod.
Your writing is incredible!! You’re so good at being immersive oh my GOSH! (I can’t count the number of times I’ve re-read Jealousy: Kageyama, you characterize him so well 😭)
And the favorite positions series is getting me into characters I didn’t even like reading about before it’s SO good!
If you’re up for it, I’d love to see a favorite position for Kageyama! But regardless, I always look forward to your posts and I hope you’re doing well 💜
Thank you so, so much for this message—you have no idea how much it means to me 🥹💜
The fact that you’ve reread my work and that the Favorite Positions series has you loving characters you didn’t think you would?? That’s literally the dream 🫠
And of course—Kageyama? I had to do him justice. I’m so happy you asked because this one poured out of me lolol
Thank you and Enjoy heheh <333
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Favourite Positions: Kageyama
Kageyama had always been a little obsessive.
It came with the territory. The long hours spent perfecting tosses, the constant demand for precision, the way his mind clung to rhythm and structure like lifelines. He wasn’t the kind of man who acted on impulse. Every action had intent. Every motion, down to his breathing, felt like it came with weight. Control wasn’t just a habit. It was a necessity.
But when it came to you, all of that discipline started to unravel.
He liked watching you ride him.
More than liked it—he craved it.
Not just because of the view, though that alone could bring him to his knees. Not just because of how warm, how tight, how slick you felt around him. It was because, when you were on top, he could finally let go. Let his body move without thinking. Let his focus shift away from control and into sensation. Into you.
Let go of pressure. Let go of performance. Let go of everything except you.
Tonight, it was slow.
Dim lighting spilled across the room, golden and soft. The sheets were tangled beneath you both, slightly damp from heat and friction. Your knees were on either side of his hips, thighs flushed pink with effort. He lay back against the pillows, hands resting on your waist like he was grounding himself, knuckles white from restraint.
His head was tilted back, jaw slack, brows drawn together, his breath hitching every time you sank down onto him. The soft gasps he tried to bite back made your skin prickle.
“F-fuck,” he whispered, voice already hoarse, fingers digging into your waist. "You feel so good."
You moved slowly, intentionally, savoring every second of the way his cock dragged inside you. You could feel every twitch of his muscles beneath your palms, every exhale he let out between clenched teeth. Kageyama couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was transfixed.
Your hands slid up his chest, finding purchase at his shoulders as you rolled your hips just right—and he let out a low, broken moan, his entire body twitching beneath you.
His fingers flexed like he wanted to grab you tighter. Like he wanted to take over. But he didn’t.
He didn’t ask to change positions. Didn’t flip you beneath him. Didn’t thrust up into you like he had so many times before when desperation overtook his instincts.
He just watched.
Like he was memorizing everything.
The way your body moved in the low light. The soft sheen of sweat on your collarbones. The way your lips parted every time you dropped your hips a little faster. The soft gasp you made when you ground your hips down and caught just the right angle that made your thighs tremble.
It was overwhelming.
He was trying so hard to hold back. You could see it—the tension in his neck, the way his abs flexed with every movement, how his grip on your hips kept faltering between loose and desperate.
And then you leaned in.
You kissed his jaw. Traced your lips down to his throat. Murmured something against his ear. Something soft. Something filthy. Something about how good he felt inside you. How wrecked he looked. How badly you wanted to see him come apart.
His whole body jolted.
His eyes fluttered shut. His hips bucked up into you before he could stop himself. His hands grabbed your hips, pulling you down hard onto him—deep, tight, perfect.
That was it.
He came hard.
Breath caught in his throat, head tipping back into the pillows, brows pinched tight as he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew. His whole body trembled, thighs flexing beneath you, abs tightening, cock twitching inside you as he spilled into you, hot and sudden and overwhelming.
You blinked down at him in surprise, breathless and flushed, still pulsing around him as your own orgasm threatened to catch up to his. The heat between you was dizzying.
His hands softened, moving to cradle your hips gently as he blinked up at you, dazed, skin flushed all the way to his chest.
"Sorry," he muttered, cheeks red, voice thick with apology. “I didn’t mean to—”
You cut him off with a quiet laugh, brushing his damp bangs back from his forehead, fingers gentle. "Don’t apologize."
You leaned down, kissed his cheek, and let your forehead rest against his.
His hands ghosted over your thighs, uncertain, still grounding himself.
And that’s when it hit him.
You hadn’t been trying to overwhelm him.
You were savoring it.
The way he looked beneath you—blushed, breathless, barely holding it together.
The way his hands twitched like he didn’t know what to do with all the sensation.
The way he let you have him.
And for the first time in his life, Kageyama realized he liked being the one who lost focus.
