random horny thoughts about hq men - seijoh + nekoma edition
CHARACTERS: mattsun, iwaizumi, makki, oikawa, kuroo, kenma, shohei
CWS: nsfw, smut, all characters 18+, knife play, implied d/s undertones to a lot of these, toxic relationship elements, cheating/cucking if you squint, corruption kink, oral (f!receiving), bondage, spit kink
NOTES: continue to enjoy my gross thoughts as i pull myself out of whatever writer's block hell i'm in. thank you to the anon who suggested shohei's - i accidentally deleted it i'm so sorry 😀
mattsun loves knife play. the idea of cutting your tights away from your body, tracing the knife ever so gently up the inside of your thigh before rippppp the metal tears through like butter. the flash of fear and unbridled lust in your eyes bricks him up instantly. he slots his thigh between yours and presses the flat of the blade ever so gently against your thrumming pulse. "ready to play, angel?"
iwaizumi finds out your ex never made you cum and makes it his personal mission to give you as many orgasms as possible. his fingers, tongue, dick, thighs, he wants to get you off in every way possible and erase that idiot’s ineptitude from your brain. “you cum so easily, baby. the fuck was your ex talking about?”
makki loves when you talk back. it’s foreplay for him to take you out somewhere nice and relentlessly tease you all night, each of you trading good-natured barbs that run just a little bit nasty (he likes when you’re mean, what can he say). there’s always a line, though, and when you cross it, his hand grips the back of your neck hard enough to stop you short. "I think we should go home, don't you?"
oikawa is prone to toxic situationships that always result in hurt feelings (his own). he sees you out with other guys and it actually boils his blood to the point where he’s calling you, whining about how you don’t make time for him anymore, and when you come over, he fucks you face down on the mattress to remind you that he’s the only one who knows how to make you cum the way you like
he’s super embarassed about it, but kuroo has a little bit of a corruption kink. like the first time he goes down on you and you get all blushy and embarassed - he’s hard as a rock. soothes you with soft kisses on your neck and stomach as he tells you how beautiful you look, how good you are just for him. he’s gentle in how he eats but he’s determined to make you as crazy for him as he is for you
kenma is lazy this kenma is lazy that - kenma finds out how much you like to be tied up and learns everything he can about bondage play. he buys a dummy to practice on (kuroo absolutely loses his mind over this), he watches tutorials, boy is dedicated to finding out how to make you cum this way. when this skinny streamer guy asks you out, you have no idea you’re gonna be roped into a bondage belt with a happy strap grazing over your clit as you sob into his arms (but you're not complaining)
your first impression of shohei is that he’s never known the touch of a woman but HOO BOY were you wrong. this man is a FREAK between the sheets. you can’t believe that the mild-mannered dude who barely says a word forces your mouth open so he can spit directly onto your tongue. by the time he’s done with you, you’re fucked out of your skull, covered in scratches, hickies, and cum, and being asked if you want to order taco bell
athletic trainer Iwaizumi Hajime who has a crush on the sweetest girl. Hed never tell her though, hes just happy to be by her side. But Iwaizumi is only a man- and a man has urges.
so he buys a sex toy, advertised as “it’s like the girl of your dreams.” He regrets it immediately and he thinks the devil might as well take him to hell.
But he tries it once, twice, three times, and now he can’t stop picturing your face with mascara running down your soft and rosy cheeks as he fucks your brains out. Hes not gentle, but why would he? It’s a toy.
What he doesn’t know is that “it’s like the girl of your dreams” is not an exaggeration. With some weird magic, youve been able to feel everything. EVERYTHING.
Every night, you’re curled up in bed, squeezing your legs together in hopes that the feeling will go away. And it usually does, but not until it drives out multiple orgasms out of you.
It happens too often, when you’re out shopping, working, even just trying to relax. And you cant live under these circumstances. So what do you do? Go to your most trusted friend.
When Iwaizumi hears your side of the story, he thinks- it must be fake, or a coincidence, right? Magic doesn’t exist. He has to find out for himself. But when he goes to his bag at the end of the day, the toy is gone.
His heart sinks. Where is it? He spends the next few days searching- going to the grocery store, looking in the lost and found at work, and the most humiliating part- having to ask his friends who he had recently met up with.
“Did one of you happen to take something out of my bag?”
“Oh, this?” It’s Mattsun. Of course it’s Mattsun.
part two below!!
💬 1 🔁 1 ❤️ 4 · Post by @lesserthan-3 · 💬 7 🔁 9 ❤️ 156 · athletic trainer Iwaizumi Hajime who has a crush on the sweetest girl. Hed never
a/n - I actually have a whole part 1 and 2 of this posted on my old accounts in Quotev and Wattpad so I’ll bring them over eventually. but I LOVE this plot. also i love scummy Mattsun lol
synopsis: oikawa tōru has everything—brains, looks, skills—but none of it compares to how hopelessly, obsessively, ridiculously in love he is with you. tōru oikawa #1 yearner !! (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
yearner!oikawa tōru x f!reader (not proofread, posted this at 4am)
here's part two ‹𝟹
category: fluff, fluff, fluff <3
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you don’t notice at first how often his eyes are on you. it’s subtle in the beginning—oikawa slouching lazily in his seat, spinning a pen between his fingers, pretending to half-listen to the teacher while his gaze always, always drifts to where you sit. you’re quiet, never raising your hand, always scribbling neat notes with a calm patience that he envies. to everyone else, you’re background noise. to him, you’re the loudest presence in the room.
oikawa’s life is a constant balancing act. practice, late-night serves until his shoulder screams, grades that must stay perfect because he refuses to be “just” an athlete. he laughs and smiles for the world, but behind closed doors, his apartment desk is stacked with practice tests and pain-relief patches. it’s exhausting—except for the stolen moments he catches of you. sometimes, when he picks up his phone late at night; staring at his screen, it’s not a teammate or fangirl. it’s a photo he secretly snapped of you earlier, tucked into his gallery like a talisman against loneliness.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
your life, on the other hand, is… quiet. you study, you help your family with small chores, you go home after school without lingering. no clubs, no sports, no loud group of friends. and yet somehow, that simplicity makes you magnetic. the few times oikawa hears your laugh, it haunts him for days.
it’s on one of those long afternoons in third year, sun slanting into the classroom while everyone else files out for lunch, that his mind drifts back—inevitably—to the moment it started for him.
you were standing near the gym hallway in your first year, distracted, a book hugged to your chest. the volleyball came fast, a blur of white and green hurtling toward you. you hadn’t even seen it—oikawa did. without thinking, he’d sprinted across the floor, hand smacking the ball away just before it hit you.
the adrenaline crashed into his veins like fire. you blinked up at him, startled, and then—softly, genuinely—you said, “thank you.” just two words. but your voice cracked through him like lightning.
his brain fried instantly. “ah—n-no problem—” he stammered, cheeks flaming, words tripping over themselves. his vision swam. you smiled at him, sweet and unguarded, and the world tilted. the next second, he collapsed, ears ringing, face redder than the sunset.
“idiot,” iwaizumi muttered, hauling him back to his feet. “she just thanked you, not proposed marriage.”
but to oikawa, it may as well have been the same thing. that single “thank you” carved itself into his chest, and he’s never escaped it.
the memory dissolves, replaced again with the present—your head bent over your notebook, sunlight catching on your hair. he wonders if you even remember that day. to him, it was revelation. to you, maybe just a passing moment. believe me when i say this, it wasn't.
he can’t let that be all. not anymore.
so he starts pushing. smiling wider, leaning over your desk to comment on your neat handwriting, brushing “accidentally” against your shoulder when you’re walking side by side. he clings. he lingers. he jokes, he flatters, he fills the quiet you keep around yourself with noise until you look at him—really look at him—and his lungs feel like they’ve learned how to breathe again.
and the more you look, the more something stirs in you, too. you’d noticed, vaguely, in second year, how dramatic oikawa could be. how he flustered so easily when you’d spoken to him. you brushed it off as him just being… oikawa. but now, in third year, the persistence wears at you. the way he never lets your attention slip far from him. the way he seems to soften whenever you’re near.
you start to like it even more. reluctantly, at first. then now more freely then you've ever thought.
but oikawa doesn’t know that. all he knows is that time is running out—graduation looms. and the thought of you slipping through his fingers, walking out of his life forever, is unbearable.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
one evening after practice, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, hands trembling from nerves, he pulls drags you to the school rooftop. the door clicks shut behind you.
“listen,” he says, but his voice cracks. his usual smooth, charming tone is gone—shattered by urgency. “i can’t—I can’t keep pretending, okay? i’ve liked you since first year. no, not liked—” he laughs, choked and breathless— “loved, who cares about those stupid relationship rules you see these days; as long as you like me, i'll love you and i'll teach you how to love me. every day, every single day, you’re all i think about. you don’t even notice half the time, and i—i’m going insane wanting you to. i need you to.”
his knees hit the floor. he doesn’t even register it at first—only that he has to be lower, closer, desperate enough to match the way his heart claws out of his chest.
“please,” he begs, clutching at the fabric of your sleeve like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. “i don’t care if it’s pathetic. i don’t care if you laugh at me. just—don’t ignore me. don’t leave me. i’ll do anything—be anything—if it means i get to stay by your side. i need you. i need you like air, like blood in my veins. i’m begging you—don’t tell me no.”
his forehead presses to your hand. his shoulders shake. small, embarrassed tears sting his lashes, but he doesn’t stop talking, words spilling out faster, more desperate.
“say something. tell me you feel the same. tell me i’m not insane for loving you this much. if you don’t, i swear, i—i won’t survive it. i’m so tired of dreaming about you and waking up alone. please… please just give me a chance.”
and there it is—the most fragile, human version of oikawa you’ve ever seen. stripped of bravado, trembling with the weight of his own heart.
you kneel down, hands cupping his face, and smile through your own tears. “you don’t have to beg, tōru. i’ve liked you for a while too. i was just… waiting, i was going to confess at graduation if you weren't making a move.”
he goes silent. utterly, impossibly silent. then he exhales a laugh that turns into a sob, collapses into your arms, and clings like he’ll never let go.
oh man, he cups your face so gently—like you'll shatter with one wrong move—as he softly puts his lips on yours; his face looks like it's been vandalized by red paint and so does yours. both you have melted into the kiss, his hands going down from your shoulder and stopping at your waist, holding you like a prized possession—maybe even more than that—like you might disappear if he ever takes his hands off of you; your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders.
for once, he doesn’t care who wins, who loses, who’s better, who’s watching. all he cares about is that you said yes—and he’s never letting that go. you don't have a choice anyway.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the next morning, you wake up to the faint vibration of your phone. you squint at the brightness, still groggy, and see your notifications flooded.
oikawa tōru has texted you… thirty-seven times.
most of them are variations of:
“good morning, my pretty girl 🩵”
“did you sleep well? were you warm? were you thinking about me? did you dream about me?”
“i only dreamed about you. like literally. only you. in 4k.”
“please send me a picture of your hand holding your toothbrush. i miss you.”
you stare at your phone, speechless, and then laugh so hard you almost drop it on your face.
y/n my wife: “you’re insane.”
tōru<3: “i’m insane for you, sweetheart.”
y/n my wife: “you don’t need to text me about every thought that pops into your head.”
tōru<3: “then what’s the point of having thoughts?”
you sigh, still smiling.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
by the time you get to school, you find him waiting at the gate. not just waiting—leaning dramatically against the pillar, hair perfectly styled, his bag slung over one shoulder like he’s shooting for a romance manga cover. girls passing by are whispering and giggling, but he doesn’t care; instead, he's wearing a frown like he's some kind of delinquent a handsome one at that with a face saying ‘i have a wife.’ the moment he sees you, his entire face lights up.
“there she is,” he breathes, like he’s been holding his lungs hostage until you showed up. he runs up to you, picking you up and twirling you like a disney princess. “atta girl, you're so gorgeous this early.”
“tōru, you didn’t have to wait for me.” you try to keep your voice even as he carefully puts you down, but your cheeks betray you.
“yes i did,” he says immediately, almost too quickly. “do you know how unbearable it is to walk to class without you beside me? it feels like—like someone’s stolen half of me. do you want me to die of loneliness this early in the morning?”
“you’re being dramatic.”
“i’m being truthful,” he insists, grabbing your hand without hesitation but not before snatching your bag. his fingers lace between yours like he’s been rehearsing it his whole life.
‘she's so pretty, prettier than every pretty thing in the universe combined.’
in class, he sits next to you, shoulders brushing; he's as red as a tomato, writing your name or tōru loves y/n in the margins of his notebook when the teacher isn’t looking. he even doodles little hearts around it, and when you notice, he grins like a cat caught stealing cream.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
at lunch, iwaizumi practically drags him off you so you can breathe. “crappykawa, you’re smothering her.”
“she likes it!” oikawa argues, turning his head so fast to look at you. “you like it, right?”
your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth. oikawa is staring at you like the universe is balanced precariously on your next word.
“…i don’t hate it,” you admit, cheeks hot.
he slams his hands on the table in triumph. “SEE?!”
iwaizumi groans, muttering something about how you’ve just doomed humanity, but oikawa doesn’t care. he’s glowing.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
after classes, he insists on walking you home. every five steps, he finds a new excuse to touch you—fixing your hair, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeve, squeezing your hand tighter whenever someone walks too close. at one point, he even says, “i hope you know you’re never getting rid of me. ever. i’m like gum on your shoe. or… no, something more romantic. like a tattoo. yes. i’m your tattoo.”
you laugh so hard you almost trip, but he catches you, arms wrapping around your waist like it’s second nature. his voice drops low, almost trembling: “don’t laugh too much, or i’ll combust. i swear, you’re too much for me.”
and in that moment, you realize—this isn’t just a boy with a crush. this is oikawa tōru, star setter, smart, dramatic, yours. and he’s not holding back anymore.
