Oh My Godddd I Just BINGED Your Entire Gaz Series And I S2g You Have Me Chewing Drywall. You Write Him

Please work on a pt. 2 to the Luna Hunt or a series in general its so good I beg off u. I would love to see where things go with them and her father and the new queen and king

ahhhhh yeah the whole father storyline like i dont even know where to go with that

hate it when my reader's flimsy purpose to escape comes back to bite me in the booty like ouch now i gotta work with that plot strand. luna hunt is def the most requested for a second part and i swear i hear u i just haven't read this genre in so long i dont even know where to start.

scratch that, i know exactly hwere to start, i just dont know where to go after that. we'll see maybe one day ill think of smth

The Claw (Nishinoya x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Claw machines are unfair, and your boyfriend is seriously impatient. You see where this is going, right?

A/N: Just another imagine I got to write thanks to this prompt by @otpdisaster​. Seriously, if you ever get writer’s block, go check them out, they’re a godsend. Hope you enjoy!

Word count: 914

        Buzz buzz.

        The call scared you out of your homework induced trance. After a certain point, you knew you had to give up on zoning out while glaring at the laptop screen. With a sigh, you snatched up your phone and answered. 

        “Hello?”

        “YN!” There’s a muffled screeching in the background of the call that sounds suspiciously like your name. 

        “Tanaka? What’s going on?”

        “You need to come-” his voice breaks away in a chuckle. “You need to come to the mall right now!”

        “Umm, why?”

        “Just come!” The noises in the background become louder and more frantic. “And bring butter!”

        “Why do I-” the call ends before you can ask what the hell is going on, and why a dairy product seems to be the solution to whatever mess your boyfriend’s best friend has gotten into. 

        “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mumble under your breath, still staring at your phone with wide eyes. Well, it’s better than doing homework on a Saturday. With a shrug, you grab your jacket and your keys, getting ready to drive to the disaster zone. 

                                ~~~

        It’s not much, but it's the best you could find on such short notice, and with such little spare change in your pocket. Walking into the mall with a tub of ‘I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter’ held in your grasp, you anxiously search for the bald volleyball player. 

        “Ooh, there he is!” Your eyes catch on his signature buzz cut and you make a beeline for him. “Tanaka! Hey!”

        The arcade he stands in is dim with neon green lights flashing from the ceiling like a disco. Children shout excitedly and button-mash on the machines like no tomorrow while you shoulder through a crowd of people to grab his arm. 

        “Hey!” You’re barely audible over the sounds of tickets printing and Pac-Man chomping, so you raise your voice to a shout. “Why did you need this?” You hold up the tub in front of his face and he can only guffaw at the sight of you.

        “Oh hey YN! I’m so glad you could make it!” He snickers once more before stepping away from the claw machine he had been standing in front of. “Noya, look who’s here!”

        “Fuck you, man!” Your boyfriend, who had been hidden by the taller stature of Tanaka, is seated on the floor, one arm lodged up the prize door of the machine while the other flips off his friend. 

        The bald man only laughs harder, pressing an arm against his stomach while howls. You, on the other hand, can only gape at the sight.

        “Yuu, what are you doing?!” He rubs the back of his neck and smiles sheepishly. 

        “I wanted to get you the little stuffed cat,” he points at the toy with the hand wedged in the machine, fingers just barely visible inside the glass. “But this stupid machine,” he smacks the side of it with a sneer, “totally cheated me!”

        The sentiment made your heart flutter, but the sight made you giggle and avoid eye contact. 

        “Hey!”

        “I’m sorry! It’s just,” you gesture at his predicament, “you know… fucking hilarious!” You can’t hold it in any longer as you join Tanaka in busting a gut while Nishinoya miserably slumps onto the arcade floor. 

        “You guys suck.” You both die laughing at his grumble, holding onto each other for support just in case someone topples over. 

        It doesn’t take long before you get spotted.

        “Excuse me!” It’s a young employee of the arcade, and he looks just about done with all of you from the get-go. “Kid, I’m gonna have to ask you to remove your hand from the machine.” 

        “I’m older than you!” Nishinoya kicks his legs against the ground indignantly and you have to bite your lip to contain yourself. “Plus,” he purses his lips, “I’m stuck.”

        The employee sighs and smacks his palm against his forehead. “I’ll go get the butter.”

        “Oh, no need,” you hold up your grocery store purchase like a prized possession, “I already got some.” The younger man quirks his brow at you before accepting the item and whipping out a handy butter knife from his back pocket. You and Tanaka both gawk and glance at each other at the sight of his preparedness. 

        “Every Goddamn day,” he mutters before getting to work. 

        While Nishinoya’s situation is dealt with, you leave the scene with a promise that you’ll be back to Tanaka. About thirty minutes later, your boyfriend is free as a bird and you pop up in front of him with a gift.

        “Here,” you hand him a stuffed cat with a victorious smirk. Amazement overcomes his features and his jaw drops at the gift. He wiggles excitedly and captures you in a hug, but his appreciation of your present doesn’t last long.

        “Wait,” he pulls away and the overjoyed grin falls from his face. “How did you get this?!” His eyes narrow with suspicion while he observes the toy from all angles like it was a fake.

        “I won it,” you announce proudly.

        “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!” 

        If only he knew you were now out forty bucks.

if the taglist for reborn is still open could i please be added? i love it sm <3

I’m glad you like it🥰🥰 the taglist is still open and you’ll def be tagged in the next part🤩

Love Me Through the Phone (Bokuto x Reader) (NSFW)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: After Bokuto leaves for an away game on Valentine’s Day weekend, you’re left to handle the day’s pleasures all on your own. There’s just one little problem--nothing comes close to what Bokuto could give you. Luckily, he offers a solution, and though it’s completely out of your wheelhouse, you find yourself desperate enough to give in.

Warnings: smut, phone sex, mutual/guided masturbation, dirty talk, slight praise kink, slight dumbification, edging (if you squint), (gentle) dom!Bokuto

A/N: Happy belated Valentine’s Day! Here’s a lil gift from me to u that I’ve had stuck on my mind for a while. Yes, yes, I know, I ain’t great at writing smut, so if someone else wrote this prompt w/ Best Boi Bokuto™ uhh… *cough cough* sendittomeplsnthx. Enjoy!

Word count: 2731

        “So… what are you wearing?”

        “Jesus Christ,” you break off into a laugh, picking up the phone. 

        “Nah, nah, c’mon, I’m serious. We gotta start somewhere.”

        Still shaking your head, you lean back on the bed once more, propped up on a few pillows but otherwise completely reclined. “Fine, fine, but anything else like that and I’m gonna have to leave you to your hand.”

        “I promise, now c’mon. Tell me.”

        “Seriously?”

        “One-hundred percent.”

        You purse your lips, debating a little. You can feel how much you want it--want him--and when you shift your hips, you can almost feel it soaking uncomfortably against your clothing. He’d texted you minutes ago with a proposition after learning of your predicament last night. 

        You’d wanted him so bad, but that alone wasn’t enough. Bokuto was off at an away game, and the distance--plus it being Valentine’s Day--only made things worse. You’d tried so hard, even trying to imagine his hand in your own’s place, even his tongue. It was just not enough. 

        Though, Bokuto didn’t seem to know how to handle the situation either. 

        “Fine, fine. I’m, uh, I’m wearing that little dress you like-”

        “Yeah?”

        “-and those silk panties you almost tore that one time.”

        “Really?”

        “Fuck no. It’s a Monday--I’m wearing sweats and a tank top, and I’m pretty sure there’s at least two rats making babies in my hair.”

        “Well at least someone’s getting some.”

        “Kou!”

        “Sorry, YN!” Bokuto whines, his voice crackling through the line. “But come on! Take this seriously.” He pauses, silence flooding your room.

        “Just… let me help you.”

        Your thighs subconsciously clench at the tone. It’s so familiar it’s like they’re preparing to be spread apart. 

        The place between your thighs is soaked by now, far more stirred than you’re letting on. The fact that your voice is still steady surprises even you at this point. 

        “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

        “Don’t be, baby. Just lay back for me, will you?”

        “Okay.” Gnawing at your cheek, you make the choice to place Bokuto on speaker, setting him down just beside your shoulder so you can hear his every word. At this point, you’re on your back, head lain on a pillow and hands dancing along the strings of your sweats.

        “Comfy?”

        “Yeah.”

        “Good.” There’s a few shuffles over the phone, and when Bokuto’s voice returns he sounds a little out of breath, a little strained. “Good. Okay.”

        “Okay,” you nervously parrot, not really sure what else to do with yourself. Slowly, you’re beginning to gather that neither of you have done this before. Despite Bokuto sounding so confident earlier, he now seems reduced to the same anxious, aroused mess that you are. 

        “All right, now just…just follow my lead, okay?” 

        “Mhmm.”

        “I want you to go slow, no matter what I tell you. Don’t speed up until I say.” His orders, simply the thought of their implications, leave your fingers twitching closer to your arousal. The need to touch yourself was beginning to leave a yearning that ran rampant through your veins. A single spark filled your stomach with heat. 

        “Okay.”

        “Good,” he exhaled. “Now touch yourself.”

        You almost choked on your spit. “Wh-uh, I mean,” your gaze traced along the ceiling frantically, desperately trying to distract yourself from the burning in your cheeks. “Like, where?” 

        Your question had slipped out without a second thought, and when Bokuto chuckled, the flush spread to your chest. 

        “Maybe you’re right,” he pondered. “Let’s go slower than that.” A huff, then his voice returned, excited. “All right, I got it. Think of me, all right?”

        “Kou, I already tried that.”

        “I know, baby, I know. But now you can actually hear me, and you don’t have to imagine a thing. Leave it to me.”

        You were grateful he accepted your timid silence as approval. 

        “Okay, so… think of me touching you, right? Like I’m right there in front of you, baby, and I’m just running my hands all over you-”

        “Kou?” you cut him off, blindly picking at your fingernails. 

        “What’s up? You wanna stop?”

        “Can you touch yourself too?” And it’s when he falls silent that you realize how awkward that sounded. “Ah shit, I-I mean, like, I just kinda felt awkward doing it alone and like I felt like if you were doing it too I’d feel better about it and-”

        “God, YN, you thought I wasn’t doing that already?”

        “What?” 

        He scoffs, and shame begins to sour your anticipation. 

        “The second you said you were touching yourself to the thought of me, babe, I was at it. You seriously thought I was gonna sit here and just let you play with yourself while I’m over here just listening?”

        “I mean, a little…”

        “Shit, YN. I let you tie me up once and suddenly you think I like being blue-balled.”

        “Well…”

        “It was one time!”

        “Whatever, Kou! Can we just…get back to what we were doing?”

        “Fine, fine. But we’re discussing this later.”

        “Okay, okay. Just get on with it, will you? Please, Kou, I…” you pause, body once more growing aware of the situation between your legs. “I need your help.”

        “I know, babe.” Bokuto gulps, taking a second to relax himself once more. You’re busying yourself with fiddling with the bottom of your tank top now, tempted to just lift off the damned thing along with the rest of your clothes. 

        But you’re a little curious if Bokuto would mind that.

        “All right, sweetheart. Like I said, follow my lead.”

        You hum. 

        “I want you to imagine me there, right on top of you, baby. Think of how I’d push your shirt up, how I’d run my hands up your sides. Do that to yourself for me, will you, sweetheart?”

        You listen and copy his words, running your hands underneath the cotton hem and brushing your fingertips along your hips, just as Bokuto had done so many times. 

        Well, it wasn’t perfect. But his voice certainly helped. 

        “Go up higher, baby. I want you to hold those pretty tits of yours.

        “God, I can almost feel ‘em in my hands. So soft, always wanna keep my hands there. So fuckin’ pretty.”

        “Kou…” You do as he asks, but it’s not enough. You want more, now.

        “I know, I know. But remember, sweetheart, I said we’re taking things slow tonight.”

        “But-”

        “Now touch yourself. Imagine my hands playing with those cute little nipples of yours, baby. Make ‘em all tight and perky for me.” Hesitantly, you follow his lead. Your fingers draw circles, tug and caress like how you remember he would after long days. How his hands would yank off your shirt before palming and squeezing and stroking. Some days he was really mean, and your hips shifted at the thought of the dark marks he would leave scattered along your chest. 

        “Feel good?” His voice is breathless, and you’re a little uncertain of whether that means your soft moans had somehow passed through the phone line despite how much you’d suppressed them. Though, Bokuto did like you loud. 

        “So good,” you pant, hands still toying almost torturously. “But I want more, Kou, please.”

        “Fuck, baby, I ever tell you how cute you are when you beg?”

        “Kou…”

        “Fine, fine. But you know I’d play with your pretty tits longer than that. From now on, let’s go at my pace.”

        Fuck. You knew Bokuto had a pace, but when it came to nights like these, it was slower than you’d expect. Though most nights Bokuto jumped you and kept at it like a rabbit, there were just some days where he dragged things out, usually just to hear you beg for him. An ego boost, or whatever. Like he needed it. 

        “Slowly, sweetheart, bring your hands down to your thighs and spread ‘em, nice and gentle--you know how I’d peel ‘em apart.” He broke off into a grunt. “And t-then stroke the insides of your thighs, baby.”

        “Kou?”

        “What’s up?”

        “Do,” you clench your jaw, telling yourself to get over the embarrassment by now. “-Do you want me to take my clothes off?”

        “Fuck, you still have any on? Why?”

        “Oh.” You took that as a cue to tear off your tank top and sweatpants, a little ashamed by the eagerness with which you did it. That feeling only grew when you squirmed out of your panties, catching a glimpse of the glistening stain left on them. 

        An idea hit you, and though you knew it would only make you flush more, you wanted to hear his reaction.

        “Kou?”

        “Are they off?”

        “My panties are soaked.” 

        The reaction was instant. 

        “Jesus–fuck,” Bokuto hissed under his breath. You heard something akin to skin on skin as his cursing hitched, and a strangled groan filled your ears. 

        “Fucking tease,” he rasped when he finally seemed to stop himself from going too far. There was a tension in his voice that warned you he wanted revenge. “Put both hands on that wet little pussy, sweetheart. For that, I wanna hear it.”

        Finally. The second your dominant hand made contact with your swollen clit, your hips jerked up without volition. “Sh-it.”

        “Nu-uh, YN. Keep them there. Two inside, one on your clit. Nice and slow.”

        It was hard to keep a steady, controlled pace. Your hips kept bucking, your back kept arching, and the two fingers Bokuto had ordered deep inside you weren’t reaching that little spot he seemed to have memorized like the back of his hand. 

        The lone index finger you kept circling your clit wasn’t doing your sanity any favors. The muscles of your thighs began to tremble in sheer desire of some actual force, a little muscle behind the action. 

        “YN,” Bokuto’s tone was low, warning. The second you’d sped up your hands to meet your needs, Bokuto could hear your closed-mouth whimpers growing higher. 

        “Kou, please.”

        “Hands off, baby. Completely.”

        “Wha…” you opened your mouth in protest, reluctantly pulling two soaked fingers out of your weeping hole and forcing your hand away from your clit. 

        “I told you to listen, baby. And now that’s all you get to do.”

        “Kou, what-”

        “Ahh, shit.” You slam your mouth shut, biting your lip at the delicious moans echoing through the phone. “Fuck, so good.”

        Bokuto’s strained groans come quick and in between pants. You’re positive there’s a sheen of sweat covering his forehead now, his arm flexed and taut as he strokes himself. 

        “YN, baby. ‘F-Feels so good.”

        “Kou,” you plead, gaze a little unfocused as you listen to his moans while forcing your hands to stay at your sides. You feel yourself twitching, clenching around nothing. 

        “Fuck, wish I was inside you right now.” Throaty moans now filter through the crackling line, so loud you wonder if the neighboring apartment can hear--not that they shouldn’t be used to it by now. “You’re always so fucking tight, sweetheart. Always so wet and tight on my cock.”

        “Kou please, let me-”

        “Hold on. Just a little more, baby--fffuck. Know you wanna touch yourself. Spread your legs for me, but don’t touch.”

        You peel your knees apart once more, frustrated to no longer have any friction to work with. Your hips roll desperately, but it accomplishes nothing but making you more desperate. You can feel your arousal dripping down, now, soaking into the sheets. 

        “You remember before I left, sweetheart? Remember how I fucked your pretty little brains out? Never seen you like that before, so pretty and crying over how good my cock felt inside you.”

        “Yes, Kou, yes! Please, just let me-”

        “Said you couldn’t walk the next day. Said I fucked you so good you couldn’t feel your legs, baby. You feel ‘em now? All spread apart and just fucking shaking? If I fucked you right now, sweetheart, you think you could even think straight?”

        “No, Kou, fuck I need you so bad.” You threw an arm over your eyes, the other digging into the sheets as you waited and waited for permission. 

        “You only got your fingers, and you can’t even use ‘em. All you got is me, the thought of me fucking into you, turning your pretty little brain into mush. Making you feel so good all you can do is cry. Baby, I still got those scratch marks on my back.”

        “Kou-”

        “Just a few more days, sweetheart, and I’ll have you making new ones. For now though, I suppose I could let you play with yourself.”

        You almost cried out in relief, hands darting down to your aching, sopping hole, feeling as it drenched each fingertip with ease. 

        “Three fingers inside. I know you can take it. Pretend it’s me warming you up for my cock, baby, stretching you out and having you dripping all over my fucking hand.”

        He’s right, it is a stretch, and you almost whimper when you press your fingers up and against the little pleasure center deep inside you, fingertips just barely brushing. 

        “Your little clit hurts so good, doesn’t it, baby? You’re being so mean to it aren’t you, rubbing hard circles into it.”

        He pauses, breaking off into a drawn-out groan of your name. 

        “I don’t care. Go faster.”

        And you do, and he’s right, and you just can’t bring yourself to care as you press harsh patterns into your clit, struggling to pump your fingers at the same time without losing pace completely and frustrating yourself. 

        “That’s it. Say my name, baby. Scream my name while you play with yourself. Couldn’t do that by yourself, could you?”

        “Kou--fuck!” You clench your eyes shut, arching your back harder as you speed up your desperate ministrations. Heat gathers at your clit from the friction, and your slick is practically gushing now, loud and pornographic.

        Bokuto certainly got what he wished--there was no way he couldn’t hear how wet you were. 

        “You can only touch yourself with my help, can’t you? So fucking good to me, baby. So pretty playing with your tight little hole like that. Dirty little thing.”

        “God, fffuck,” you whimper, back arching when your gushing finally reaches its peak. 

        “You coming?”

        “Y-es!”

        “I wanna hear who made you feel this good. Who made you play with your own little pussy so good, baby?”

        “Kou! Yes, Kou!”

        “Good girl. Good fucking girl.” Bokuto moans one last time, loud and guttural, and the slick of your fingers brushing and kneading your clit becomes too much. Your legs, spread wide and strained, shake with the effort as your back arches against the pillows behind you, head tossed back and mouth open in a silent gasp. 

        Bokuto soothes you on your way down, small “I love yous” and “so good for mes” traveling over the line. When your body finally stops twitching, you lean over and snag your phone, turning it off speaker and pressing it to your ear. 

        “Thank you, Kou,” you hum softly, lethargic and exhausted. “That was so much better than last night’s shit show.”

        “I’m so relieved, baby.” He pauses, humming. “And glad to know you can’t seem to come without me.”

        “Yeah, well, good thing you’re coming back soon. This was good, but…” You sit up, staring at his side of the bed, a little unkempt from you rolling over to it in your sleep night after night. “I wish you were here.”

        “I know, baby. I wish you were with me too.”

        “It’s so lonely without you.”

        “I know. I miss you.”

        “Plus I finally found out where you hid those handcuffs after that night.”

        “Goddamnit, YN, just throw those fucking things out! I’m not getting blue-balled again!”

Did you have a quotev under this same username at some point?

Hmm I don’t think so, but then again I made like a bajillion accounts when I was younger. Who really knows🤷‍♀️

You Use the Safeword (Haikyuu!! Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

Bokuto and Tsukishima Version

A/N: YOOOOO, are y’all proud of me🥺 I finished a major assignment early so I could write! Go me! I really am being an adult out here like damn😤😤. Anyways, hope you like it, and uh… Happy late Halloween? Eh, too late, just enjoy! (PS: goddamn do I miss this🥺 and uh, I searched up “humping synonyms” for this?? am going to hell, see ya there)

Word count: 1789

Kuroo Tetsurou:

In the beginning, it felt good. 

“Yeah, kitten, you like that?”

Amazing even.

“Oh fuck, Tetsu, don’t stop!”

Then it… didn’t. 

“Shit, pineapple! Pineapple!” you wheezed, shoving his hips away and squeezing your legs together. “Fuck.” You rolled onto your side and pulled your knees to your chest, trying to breathe while a dull pain shuddered through your lower half.

Without another word, Kuroo slipped off the bed and observed you, wincing at the way you shut your eyes so tightly. His hands hovered over your form, wanting to help but… just not knowing how. 

His heart pinched, thundering in a way that only came from fear. “Are you okay?” he choked out, finally letting a hand fall to the skin of your back before massaging up and down. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, “Yeah, I’m good. I just, uh, just need a minute.”

“Of course, Kitten.” In an instant, he was settling in behind you, both arms slipping around your form and long fingers pressing against your stomach. “I’m so, so, so sorry,” he peppered kisses along your shoulders and up your back, “So, so sorry, baby.”

“It’s okay, I promise,” you relaxed in his grip, slipping one hand out from between your thighs and intertwining it with the familiar one on your stomach. “Let’s just… not do that again, okay?”

Kuroo scoffed, shaking his head and curling closer around you. “Kitten, you best believe the next time I even hear you say “pineapple” in public, there’s like a 50-50 chance I’ll have a heart attack. We’re not doing anything like that for a while.”

You snorted. “Anything? Really?” 

“Well of course not anything, but-”

“I knew it.”

“Hey!” Kuroo squeezed your side, and a corner of his mouth lifted at the way you jolted. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.” His voice wavered, and you just knew that if you could see his eyes, there would be a war happening in them. Guilt and despair would be battling it out right in those hazel orbs of his. 

“Tetsu, it’s not your fault!” you reassured, hiding a grimace as you swapped sides to face him. “Now we know what’s too much, right? I promise, I’m okay.” A warm smile took over your face as you cupped his own, leaving a brisk kiss against his lips. “Don’t get all sulky on me now.”

“Never,” he smirked, wrapping two fingers around your right wrist to press a kiss into your palm. His eyes never left your face, and in them you could see worry--worry and something more.

Oh.

It was pain. 

“Oh Tetsu,” you were quick to wrap him in a hug, your arms around his neck while his hands wandered up to your shoulder blades to keep you close. “I’m okay, I swear. I know you didn’t--and you would never--mean to hurt me. Please. It’s okay.”

Finally, the tightness in his muscles faded under your hold. “I know, YN, it’s just that I hate that I’m now someone who’s hurt you. I never wanted to be that guy.” His face pushed harder into your collarbone and his teeth gritted. “Especially to you.”

You shook your head and smiled. “But that’s the thing, Tetsu. You’re not. The only thing you are to me is the man I’m in love with-”

“And your best lover.”

“…Yes, and my best lover. Sure,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as a grin grew on your face. 

“Thank God. It’s so much better to hear out loud than to read it from your diary.”

“Tetsu!”

Kageyama Tobio:

Your safe word was simple. So simple you never thought you’d have to use it.

“Stop! Stop!”

Until now, of course.

“Fuck!” Kageyama opened his lust-filled eyes, yanking himself away so hard he crashed to the floor of his bedroom. 

You, on the other hand, groaned and pressed two hands between your legs, gasping for air while trying to fend off tears. Pain shot up your spine and ebbed into your hips where Kageyama’s hands had been. The haze of passion that had fogged the room was zapped away in mere seconds, replaced with a dead silence. 

Your boyfriend scrambled off his floor and popped back up to his feet, pausing at the sight of you with furrowed brows. 

“YN…?” His tone was slow and concerned, yet his mind was anything but. When you didn’t respond, Kageyama’s diminishing self-control disappeared completely. 

“Shit,” he hissed, two hands diving into his hair and yanking at the strands without restraint. “Fuck!” His face grew red with anger, teeth bared like a wolf ready to attack. But it wasn’t you he was aiming for.

No, no, it wasn’t you. It was himself. 

“I’m so fucking stupid,” he grunted, backing away until he crashed into his own door. “Why did I do that?”

“Tobio-”

Your tone was insistent, wanting to be reassuring. All Kageyama could hear was the pain you struggled to hold back. 

“No, YN!” he barked, turning and slamming a hand onto the door knob. “I hurt you!” 

“Tobio, you’re overreacting! I’m fine!” You weren’t lying; the pain was fading away by the second. The only thing that hurt now was the way Kageyama tried to avoid you.

He whipped the door open anyway, only to stop at your final plea. “Tobio, please!”

It wasn’t the words that made him stop; it was the crack of your voice, caused only by a sudden onslaught of tears. “Please,” you sniffled. “I’m okay, I promise. Just don’t leave.”

Kageyama’s head fell, yet little by little, inch by inch, he let the door squeal to a close. Five, ten, maybe even twenty minutes passed before he turned and made his way back toward you, feet scuffing with every step. 

Your tears had stopped by now, but your eyes were nowhere near dry. “Tobio.”

Kageyama refused to meet your gaze, but he still climbed back onto the bed just across from you, letting his legs cross one over the other. 

Finally, his hands reached out and grasped one of your own, pulling it towards him and propping his elbows on his knees to give him the right height to hold it against his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, each word warm against your fingers. “God, I’m so, so sorry,” his grip tightened. “I just hated hurting you like that. And I couldn’t stand that I did it during a time where I should never hurt you, YN.”  

“Tobio…” you paused, only to think of the words that wouldn’t scare him off. “I… I know you must feel like this is the end of the world or something, but it’s not. Really, I promise. I still love you, and I still trust you, completely. Nothing has changed.”

He still hadn’t looked up, but his fingers began to run along your hand in a nervous habit. 

“You didn’t hurt me. It’s sweet of you to worry so much, but really, you didn’t. Do you want to know what did hurt?”

No response.

“Okay, I’ll tell you,” you sighed, shaking your head. “It hurt when I saw that you wanted to leave so quickly. Can you… can you promise not to try and run away every time something that you can’t control happens? I want to experience everything with you, including hard times, so please don’t just… run away where I can’t follow. Can you promise me that?”

Kageyama was dead silent, and part of you was convinced he may have fallen asleep in the midst of your rambling. The only reason you knew he was conscious was because of the way his fingers kept tracing over your hand. 

“Are you-”

“I promise.” Kageyama raised his head, and for the first time in what must have been nearly a half hour, he made and kept eye contact with you. “I promise I won’t leave like that again, no matter what happens. I want to stay by your side forever.” 

“But…?”

“But,” he clenched his jaw, and in a surprising turn of events, a tear slipped down his cheek, “but I don’t want to hurt you again, YN. I still hate myself for doing that to you.” His voice was solid, unwavering. It was obvious he wouldn’t let this go for a while. 

“All right,” you nodded, sliding closer to him on the mattress and pressing your hand against his chest. The other, still caught in his grip, wiggled in effort to escape. He refused at first, gripping just a bit tighter before letting go completely and dropping his hands onto his lap in the form of curled fists. Finally free, you left both palms resting flat against his chest. “All right, I’ll let you sulk for a while.”

Then you put pressure on his chest, urging him to lie back in a form that was obviously the last position he wanted to be in. With enough force, he relented with furrowed brows and fell onto his back. “YN-”

“Feel free to frown,” your face hovered over his, doused in a nonchalant expression, “and whine,” you threw one leg over his body, “and bitch until your heart’s content.” You plopped down onto his lap, effectively straddling him and his… you know. 

“Just know that while you do that, I’m gonna be by your side,” you smirked, letting your hips slide back before dragging them forward again, “kissing and hugging and-”

“YN,” he choked out when you ground yourself on him once more, hands slamming down onto your bruised sides. “Don’t-”

“-making love to you just as much as you make these little efforts to punish yourself.”

“Fuck,” he grunted. 

“Tobio, just know that I’m in love with you more than you hate yourself,” you ground into him again, eating up the way his eyes rolled back into his head.

“So it’s gonna be a long ride.” 

If your still adding people to the reborn tag list, may I be added plz?👉👈

Yep! You’ll be on the taglist (btw, I love all the lil comments you leave on my posts🥰🥰)

He Accidentally Confesses (Haikyuu!! Fake Texts)

(Tsukishima Version)

A/N: tehee it just came to me, enjoy!

Look Me in the Eyes (Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: During naval training, your jet crashed and burned, taking your memories with it. But the lieutenant who saved you seems to know you better than he lets on. The only issue is that he refuses to tell you his name.

A/N: pfft half yall don’t read this anyway so imma just say rooster’s hot, oreosmama out *drops mic*

Word count: 3345

It’s not the pervading scent of antiseptic and boredom that has carved its way into your skin, nestling deep into the creases of your brow and your sneering upper lip—

It’s his unflinching gaze.

The lieutenant hovering over you, with a spoonful of green, gelatinous “dinner” posed over your lips, mumbles, “Open the hatch, the F-18 needs to land.” 

He’s a staunchly built man ornamented in the same naval jacket he’d been wearing when you first came-to in the hospital room, his lofty shoulders embellished in unfamiliar patches. Over the last two days, most of which have consisted of him lording himself over you or sitting back in the chair beside your bed, his five o’clock shadow has thickened, and the wrinkles underneath his teasing eyes darkened a shade.

The F-18 bumps against your sneer, and he chortles to himself. 

You know why you’re here. 

Well, sort of.

You know that it must’ve hurt. Like a falling-unconscious-due-to-pain kind of hurt. Black and blue splotches paint your temple and upper left cheek, and each time you force a smile, it aches. The rest of your body looks the same. In the first shower you’d been allowed, you twisted and turned as much as your burning abdomen could handle and had come to the conclusion that you were glad you didn’t remember much of what had happened.

The only real issue was that you didn’t remember much of anything. 

The story you had been told was haphazardly crafted, not unlike if a toddler had drawn a house with crayons and passed it to you, insisting it looked exactly like the one you lived in. 

It goes something like this: you were flying your jet when the engine stalled, and when you ejected, your head smacked against the windshield. You were lucky—you were unconscious when you had crumpled in on yourself, snapping five of your ribs like pencils, and when you’d landed on the ground, face in the dirt—you were so, so lucky. 

But the lieutenant says differently. 

When he found you, you were awake. You were echoing his name into the stagnant desert air, screaming and sobbing in ways that still keep him up at night. 

You know because he sleeps with folded arms on the edge of your mattress, and he rattles the metal skeleton each time he flinches. And the times when he thinks you’re too buried in exhaustion and slumber, his hand finds yours, fingertips light as air against your skin.

These are the only times the lieutenant bares that part of himself to you. 

In the mornings, when you can look him in the eyes and see the guilt buried underneath, he winces a smile onto his lips and asks if you remember anything yet. 

You don't.

And he winces again. “Back to the drawing board, huh?”

The lieutenant is a nice-enough man when he wants to be. The only issue is that he doesn’t seem to want to be. 

“Tell me your name,” you snipe, dangling over the precipice of flinging Jell-O across the room. 

This is a game he never wants to play, despite how often he wins. He has the whole naval base’s hospital staff refer to him as Sir or Lieutenant-no-last-name, and each time you ask, he’ll give you the same response.

“You know my name.” 

You don't. He’s a complete stranger. He can hold you hand and feed you Jell-O and help you hobble to the bathroom; he can brush the hair from your sweat-crusted face in the mornings and, on some rare occasions where he thinks he’s woken up before you, he’ll graze a feather-soft kiss on your bruised temple.

And you still haven't got a clue. 

Because whoever the lieutenant is, the tight grip he has on your heart is completely foreign to you. It’s a grip that says you and him aren’t just something definable—you were a we in this life; the pair of you have formed a way of living in tandem, your own intrinsic tango to which nobody else knows the steps. It’s not just like or a passing fancy. It’s not just hot static running through veins. 

This is fully fledged; this is oxygen now. The rise and fall of your chest is the rise and fall of his. The absence of it must be suffocating. 

So you don't know why he doesn’t like this game. He makes a question-answer into a back-and-forth, and then he winds and winds you up until you’re ready to snap. 

It’s not fair. God, it’s not fair. You deserve to know his name. Doesn’t he know it’s not just a tickle in the back of your mind anymore? If he was the one whose name you were screaming, didn’t you deserve to know what it was?

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

You watch his lips purse, the color bleeding out of them and into pink patches on his neck and cheeks. The spoon rattles against the tray, and the glob of green wavers in its curve. He refuses to hold your gaze like always. Self-inflicted torment disguises itself as burnt-sienna irises. The life you’ve forgotten is bowing his shoulders, and your crash, no matter the fact that he saved you, is eating away at him. 

Then the lieutenant smiles, in the fractured way—the way someone might laugh at a funeral. 

“Because knowing my name wouldn’t help you. You never called me by it, anyway.”

This, oh God—this is the closest you’ve ever gotten, and you’re still wading in the darkness. A name you’d never even call him by, what a wonder that does to your psyche. 

A name was a start; it was a first impression. There was a lot in a name. 

So you’d never called him by his name… so what?

So what, only lovers knew each other by more than a name? So what, he never called you by yours? So what, you didn’t want to ever call him by his name, never felt the urge, but felt it was rather proper considering you didn’t know what to call him at all?

He keeps you doggy-paddling for it.

The hospital room is polluted with silence for the rest of the night. Slowly, you finish the Jell-O as he sits back in his chair, watching, yet not quite seeing you. You missed when his staring felt like a buzzing fly. Now it’s a thunderstorm hanging over you, foggy and dampened, and you’re struck every few seconds with a shiver. 

He doesn’t reach out for your hand when you pretend you’ve fallen asleep. Twenty minutes past lights out, he stands and heads into the bathroom, slowly creaking the door closed and locking it before the shower faucet turns on and stays on for a long, long time. 

Where his hand should be is where he laid his jacket, one sewn patch erroneously rough against your palm. With another glance at the light underneath the bathroom door, you haul the leather jacket up into your lap, tracing the ridges and folds. You trails your fingertips along the jacket, searching for… something. Anything. 

Cold metal, a zipper slips underneath your fingers, and you sit up straighter despite the outcry of pain in your ribs. 

A pocket, and inside is a small plastic card—his ID. 

That, and a small, velvet box. 

No…

No, you won’t open it. 

No, no, because he shouldn’t even have that here. 

Why—dear God—why did he have that here?

It’s not for you. That’s for sure. You don’t even want to open it. No.

It’s not yours. It’s not yours to have, especially since he hasn’t offered it to you, and it’s not yours to wear, and it’s not yours to look at, to watch, iridescent, crystal devotion reflecting the moonlight from the room’s lone window. 

But when you lift the cover and curse the stars that the man whose name you don’t even know knows you so well, knows how beautiful it is in your eyes, and even worse, how well it fits on your finger, you know it’s yours. 

Well, not yours. 

It’s hers. The one before the crash’s. 

That’s her ring on your finger, and that’s her lieutenant grieving in the bathroom. 

This is her life, not yours. All you own anymore is the absence pulsing in your chest. 

You own the spasms in your veins, the brief and lasting panic of who am I, really?, the deficiency of life and past and love; the frail hold on this reality, on that man, on this ring. 

The rest is not yours, so you should let it go. 

Then, ideally, you should be able to float away, free from these junctions to a girl you don’t know. The man who loves her loves your face. He loves your body, and your voice, and each of the words falling from your lips, perhaps in the wrong order, yes, but he’ll rearrange them in his mind so that it matches hers.

Ideally. 

Ideally, it’s not this drowning feeling, a weight like a hand pressing hard against your chest, shoving you deeper and deeper under the current. She’s the one who breathes, not you. You don’t need to breathe. You’re an accident in this world. 

The I.D. slips from your grasp and falls to the floor. 

You’ve read it. You saw the name, the rank, the naval symbol. In the dim moonlight and the single glowing strip underneath the bathroom door, his not-really-a-smile smiles up at you from the vinyl floor. 

And now you see it, chrome duct tape peeling off the jagged stitches of a patch, the one over his heart. Another of his games: his missing call sign. 

It… fits him. Strangely enough. 

Is this what you called him?

The hospital room floods with a subdued yellow light carried out by the steam of the lieutenant’s shower. He emerges with a towel wrapped around his lower body, a sheen of wet on his cheeks you’re not certain was caused by the shower. 

Like you, this is his third shower in this room, but unlike him, he’s not wearing a smirk when he exits, bare feet padding along the cold tiles. He doesn’t spare you a glance while he pilfers through his black duffle bag, the one seated on the only other guest chair in the room—the one that never moves. 

Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t look, because you hadn’t thought to take off the ring. It was a plan as half-baked as when you’d first decided to put it on. Some barbaric, frenzied part of you, the same one that had slipped it on and hugged it close to your heart, refused to yank it off. It was another you—not her nor you, but a new one that had fallen in love with him, Rooster, without memory or qualms, the one that had no issue with him lingering in every corner of your mind; no, in fact, she preferred it.

You don’t listen to her when the lieutenant pivots back to face you, a fresh pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and the rest sourced from the duffel bag in tow, one fist curled into his towel at his waist. His eyes land on yours, and your fingers slicken with the sweat of your palms, tremble like the thumps beneath your ribcage. 

At the worst moment possible, you notice, in the hazy yellow light of 10:07 PM, that Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw’s eyes are achingly akin to whiskey. It’s the dark, thick kind that coats your tongue and hits you five seconds after you sip it like a freight train; heady, terribly intoxicating, and in large doses, coaxes out the worst side of yourself at an even worse moment. 

The ring clinks against the bed’s metal framework before shuddering against the tile floor, and his eyes leave yours to watch it rattle. The skin of your left ring finger burns from the swift twisting and tugging you’d employed in a state of tipsy panic—your plan had been to slip the ring unnoticed beneath his leather jacket, the same place you’d stuffed the velvet box. 

A breath tears itself out of the lieutenant’s chest. Tan skin rises and falls once, and his grip goes white-knuckle on his towel. 

Then he pads back toward the bathroom without a word and disappears behind the slammed door. Somehow, in some terrible way, it is even harder to breathe with him not in the room after that. 

But he bursts through the door a second later, completely negligent of the violent pacing of your heart, donned in clothes wrinkled and stretched in odd places from frantic dressing. He covers the distance with three long strides and slackens back into the plastic hospital chair, the heavy creases under his eyes never having looked so deep-seated. 

You see it now. The damage this whole experience has done to him. He’s been hollowed out, rigorously gutted to the point that one last revelation might finally crack him in half and let the despair pour out. 

You’re afraid to tell him all that you don’t know. That even though you had slid that ring on and off your finger, you still don’t know him. But, God, you want to tell him that you love him, despite knowing it won’t be enough. It’s not even enough to you, and it’s all that you have. 

Usually, he wears this sheen layer of tenderness over his face; it slips off every night when you close your eyes, and he smooths it back on in the mornings in the mirror. Some days he layers it on so thick you never even notice the grief hidden underneath. 

It must have gotten too heavy to bear. 

The silence hangs just as heavy. He runs both hands down his face, pressing hard enough that his skin emerges pink, and folds his hands, knocking them against his lips. Veins in his eyes grow redder by the second, and your heart begins a slow crawl up your throat at the watery levels of his eyelines, waiting to spill. The ring sits on the floor untouched. 

“Do you,” he faltered, clearing his throat. “Do you… remember anything?”

He’s looking at you so intensely that your skin is searing. Shame washes over you, grasping your shoulders and burying you deeply into its chest. You want to cry. 

“Nothing.”

The lieutenant stares at you a second longer, stretching it out until you’re trembling. Then he looks away, down, before reaching and retrieving the ring from the ground. He observes it for just a second, the way it glimmers in night’s imperfect lighting, and his eyes squeeze shut.

Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, you’ve learned, will draw things out until the perfect moment has come. He will wait until the ache swells and culminates, with a tolerance so inexhaustible you wonder if, in all your time loving him, you ever bothered to wait up. He’s noticed how the darkness has swallowed both of you wholly, and only now does he offer reprieve. 

Bradley tells you your name.

And he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first second he saw you. 

He tells you that he can’t bear the thought of losing all that you’d had, and that his world had been crumbling apart before his own goddamned eyes ever since your jet’s engine had sputtered and died. He tells you that he’s so, so fucking sorry he couldn’t save you, sorry that your life ever got entangled so messily with his in the first place, and even more sorry that he’s so useless to help you find your way back, that you can’t seem to find your way back to him. 

And when you began to cry, he bolted up from his seat and held you, whispering apologies into your hair, and you cried a little harder, because you had found your way back to him, but he wouldn’t ever care, because it wasn’t the same path you’d taken before. 

You cry because it hurts to hold him, and even more because it hurts him to hold you. You want all of the I-love-yous he’s ever said to be for you, and you want that damned ring too. 

You want that goddamn ring on your finger right now because he’d promised you that it would be yours. That first moment he’d ever seen you, stumbling drunk in a crowded Hard Deck and spilling his beer half on his Hawaiian shirt, half on yours, that he’d make up for it by putting a spendy ring on your little finger right there, despite not actually knowing where right there was. The only one I’ll ever buy, he’d hiccuped, it’ll be yours, darlin’. 

“Rooster,” you croaked into his chest. “Roo.”

A provoked sob tore from your throat, your arms and ribs aching from how tightly you clung to him, even after he froze. You surfaced from the curve of his shoulder, hands sliding past his sides, over his thrumming chest, and up to cradle his damp jawline before drawing his face down to yours. He mumbled your name, whiskey eyes potent as ever, and you smothered the rest of his question against your lips. 

You couldn’t tell who was crying anymore. Your cheeks’ dampness was his, just the same as his lips pressed against yours so harshly, so numbingly you couldn’t quite tell where yours ended and his began. It must have been somewhere close to where his tongue met yours, making up for lost time as he fought hard and fiercely for everything he’d been starved of for three, going on four, unbearable days. His hands left their leverage against the bed and latched onto your hips, rough fingertips familiarly caressing the soft slopes of your sides, and when you offered an airy moan to him, he accepted eagerly with a tightening grip. 

You separated from him with a small cry, ribs twinging. Bradley pulled away in horror, and his dilated pupils struggled to sober up to join. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, larger hands now grappling at yours and trying to remove your grasp. “You need—ice, I’ll go get you some ice–”

“Roo, no,” you mumbled, refusing to let go of him. 

He paused, and his body shivered under your touch. The familiarity of his name from your mouth seemed as comforting to him as it was to you. His lips twitched and curled, and he breathed a small sigh. The hard lines of his face grew tender as he slid his hands down to your wrists, turning and pressing a kiss to each palm. 

His heart jumped and throbbed against your fingertips, and you had no doubt he could feel the same from yours. The heat of his damp cheeks had grown infinitely warmer under your touch, and for all the nights you’d spent with just a grasp on his hand, the change was more and more welcome. 

“Don’t leave me again,” he pleaded against the skin of your palm, voice thick and bittersweet, like honey seeping through your ears. “I don’t think I can handle that again.”

He steeled himself against your mattress with one hand when you tugged his forehead down against yours, lips just whispering against one another. You smiled. 

“Was it all the Jell-O that did you in, or…?”

“Yeah, actually,” he nodded, tongue pressed against his cheek. “It was. I hope you know we’re never having Jell-O in our house ever again.”

“Not even lime?”

“Especially lime.”

You huffed, “Fine.” You pulled away, despite how desperate Bradley was to follow you. He let you fall back against the pillows with your hand still in his grasp, and he settled onto the edge of the mattress, letting his spare hand find home in the pliant skin of your thigh. Your eyes rose to the ceiling. “But it’ll cost you.”

Soft lips brushed the back of your left hand before cold metal slipped around your finger. “One of these?”

“Exactly.”

Bradley hummed. “Gladly.”

How They Kiss *Captain Edition* (Haikyuu!! Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

A/N: Just a short little thing cuz I was feeling big brained. Enjoy!

Word count: 2005

Oikawa Tooru:

On the average day, I think he kisses with a smugness often found in the form of a curled lip. He likes the idea that he has you, and that he knows you’re not going anywhere anytime soon. 

His lips are always soft, smooth with the chapstick he always keeps handy. Most likely cherry-flavored because he likes the slightest pink tint it provides.

Normally, his hands are in your hair. Oikawa likes combing through your strands, almost as if to encourage you to do the same. 

Yes, he adores it when you comb through his hair. Tug on it or just brush through it, whatever you gotta do to give his scalp those eye-rolling sensations. 

The first kiss is never the last, and it’s rarely the highlight of the show. The second kiss is much more wanton; he forces as much passion in it as he can, whenever, wherever.

You’re never the one to open your eyes first; Oikawa prides himself in blowing your mind with a kiss that takes you a moment to process it. Not only that, but he also likes to see the little dazed smile you wear afterwards. No matter how hard it is, he will always force his eyes open just to see your face.

Bokuto Koutarou:

Oftentimes, Bokuto’s kisses are always giddy and filled with smiles. Usually, it’s after a game or a practice. While Oikawa uses kisses for pleasure, the Fukurodani captain uses kisses as greetings. 

It shouldn’t surprise you that you accidentally crash your teeth together or bump each other’s noses from time to time. The pain’s never worth thinking about for long, because as soon as you two find your groove, you’re off to the races. 

Bokuto’s not afraid to be touchy-feely, and God does he love feeling you. His hands will wander for a split second, but, after a few seconds, they always find home on your butt. 

He likes your hands against his chest. It feels like he’s surprised you with the kiss. You usually throw your hands up against his chest to cushion the blow when his lips land on yours, and it works about half the time. 

After a kiss, he separates only to litter your face with small pecks, eating up the little giggle you give off. 

When you guys are at that stage, after every kiss will come along a small “I love you,” said with glowing eyes that deliver the emotions Bokuto couldn’t communicate with words. 

His kisses are always rushed, not too much, but enough to frustrate you when it steals your breath away all too suddenly. His lips are only chapped because he licks them too much in excitement; it’s just another little perk of his you love. 

Terushima Yuuji:

Terushima likes to kiss you whenever he can. He’s got a wide array of kisses, but the one you receive most is heated, and of course a little tongue is mixed in. 

He’s a very optimistic guy, but he can become serious when it’s necessary. Thus, I think his kisses always start with a little “hello” as he presses his forehead against yours, then he waits for you to lean in before he dips his head and responds. There’s the slightest hint of a smile on his face when you two kiss, but it slips away the more intense it becomes. 

Suddenly, it’s heavy breathing as he cups your face, pulling you closer and not wanting to let go. His tongue asks for permission about fifty percent of the time at this point in your relationship, only because he knows that he can drive you up the walls with that piercing of his. 

Your hands fall to his waist, where they clench and unclench depending on how out of breath you are. That one pesky strand of hair on his forehead tickles your own, but you’ve grown to ignore it. 

Finally, when the heated kiss ends, Terushima likes to pull away quickly, smirking and waiting for you to open your eyes in shock. When you do, he drowns himself in the sight of your blown-out pupils.

His thumbs are always a rough texture against your cheek thanks to how often he practices, but Terushima likes to slowly trace them over the curves over your cheeks, almost as if he’s trying to wipe away the flush that’s grown there. He likes the feeling of your heated skin under his fingertips. 

Both of your hearts are racing, and Terushima will let out a little breathless sigh before pulling away completely and capturing your hand in his. “Let’s go home, baby.” He’ll kiss the back of your hand, letting his tongue slip out for a split second and chuckling at the grossed out reaction you always provide. 

Sawamura Daichi:

Daichi hands out kisses sparingly, even in private. On a normal day, he’ll only greet you with a swift kiss to the forehead before holding your hand in his and walking beside you to school.

However, when you do kiss, he’s always gentle. These moments are precious to him, and he would hate to rush them for the both of you just for the sake of a little satisfaction. 

Normally, they happen after a hug. He pulls away from your shoulder and leans your forehead against his, waiting to see you look into his eyes before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It’s just a preview. 

The second kiss is more drawn out. He presses his lips against yours, and they’re smooth because of the plain chapstick he habitually puts on every morning after waking up. It’s careful, almost like Daichi wants to remember every little detail. 

While one hand tilts your jaw so he can kiss you deeper, the other lies at the small of your back, pressing you that much closer to his chest. 

He likes your hands at the back of his neck, just barely dipping into the hair along his nape. When your fingernails scratch that little spot of his that makes him groan, that’s when he pulls away, hot breath mingling with your own in the miniscule space between your pleased faces. 

Daichi feels like he could never get enough of you, so before pulling away, he’ll press just a small kiss to your lips that you willingly return. The hand on your chin moves to brush away some hair that had fallen into your face, and he’ll push it behind your ear before leading you away, to go home to study or continue the makeout session, whichever option you prefer. 

Kuroo Tetsurou:

Kisses with Kuroo are quick and teasing, usually found between classes and in hallways. 

He’ll sneak up behind you and spin you around by your hips, tugging you into a kiss that quickly muffles your surprised squeal.

As always, you melt into the kiss, letting out a small moan when he teasingly bites on your lower lip. You’ve noticed that over the years, he’s bitten your lips more than you ever had. 

At school, they’re always slow. Kuroo likes taking his time to truly lose himself in it. He doesn’t give in to his wandering hands, not after the most recent time when you punished him for pinching your ass in the middle of the hall right in front of everyone. Two weeks without sex and he was willing to listen to your every demand about PDA.

At home, however, your body is free game. In the privacy of his apartment, Kuroo always has the kiss lead to something more. He lets you know this with an eager swipe of his tongue along your lower lip. After being given permission, he’s instantly inside your mouth and winning the battle for dominance, but he still loves the little fight you like to put up once in awhile. 

Kuroo’s hands during a kiss are always below the chest. They wander your waist, your hips, your ass, about as far as he can get before he decides to take things to the next level. A hand pats the back of your thigh, and that’s the only signal you need to wrap your legs around him and let him carry you to the bedroom. 

When Kuroo pulls away from kisses, it’s almost like he baits you to want more. A string of saliva connects the two of you, and no matter where it lands, he’ll clean it right up. The movement as he separates from you is so slow you don’t even realize he’s gone until you notice that you can breathe once again. Subconsciously, you always chase after him, and you’re slow to open your eyes. 

“Let me see, Kitten.” A thumb brushes on the skin just above your cheek and that’s the sign he wants to see how blissed out you are. The second he sees how blown out your pupils are, his lips attack yours again, aching to taste that much more of you. 

While you know he doesn’t use chapstick or anything on a daily basis, his lips are normally soft. Some days, after a volleyball game or practice, they might be cracked, and only then will you taste the tang of mango chapstick, but other than that, his lips are only naturally soft. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi: 

Kisses with Ushijima are always initiated by you, and you alone. The only time you get him to kiss you first is when you ask, and even then he will occasionally pause millimeters away from your lips and wait for you to cover the remaining distance. 

You wish he would kiss you more though, as he’s surprisingly good at it. 

While in the beginning, you assumed he would be a little clumsy and awkward, Ushijima was basically a natural. Kissing you was like breathing air to him, and took him little to no time to figure out what you liked. 

During a kiss, Ushijima doesn’t really set the pace or care where your hands go. Though, if you were to ask, he would have to admit that he likes your hands on his face. There’s something about you cupping his face and pulling him in that makes him almost want more. 

With his hands, Ushijima’s quite traditional, and they always land on your hips. You like to feel them flinch when you suddenly nibble on his lips or press your tongue against his mouth. 

His lips have the bitter taste of Carmex, and though you’ve begged him to switch to something more appealing, he’s surprisingly unyielding about it. He says it’s healing and beneficial, and there’s really no other purpose for chapstick that matters other than those. 

The average kiss with Ushijima is a little forceful. His lips press against yours almost harshly, and sometimes you wonder if he actually does like it as much as you. There are times where you try to end the kiss but apparently it's much too soon for him. He’ll chase after your lips, and on these rare occasions, a hand will stray from your hips and press against the back of your head, pulling you back in for more. 

When you do manage to separate from Ushijima, he has the cutest little quirk of brushing his nose against yours for just a split second. Don’t bother asking him about it though, as he claims he has no idea what you’re talking about. Still, in these precious moments after the kiss, his face is still as blank as ever, but the hair hanging down on his forehead is ruffled and sticking out wildly. Your hands on his face hide the flush behind them, but if you spread your fingers, the red tint is slightly visible on his tanned skin. 

“How was that? Not too much of a pain, right?”

“I would not consider it a waste of my time if we were to kiss again, I suppose.”

Really, that’s the best response you can squeeze out of him.