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seijorhi · 13 days

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Oleander

Oikawa Tooru x female reader x Iwaizumi Hajime w.c 8.6k tw: yandere, mentions of child abuse and neglect, references to underage kissing, murder, horror themes, pseudo-cest (foster siblings), blanket dub/non-con vibes for a good portion of this

The patisserie smells of sugar, vanilla and freshly baked croissants. In a word; delicious.

For several minutes now, your brother’s been standing bent at the waist, studying the display case stacked full of cakes and desserts with an intense kind of focus. Considering. Deliberating. Inadvertently placing himself, and by extension you, as an obstacle for other people trying to do the same.

“Alright, the crepe cake or the fancy looking chocolate one, the…” Heisuke squints at the display case, trying to decipher the label, “gateaux? Or should we go for the red one with the strawberry mousse thing?”

Bingo. You hold back a smile.

“Go the strawberry one.” Nobody loves strawberries like your mom loves strawberries.

“Ok, great. We’ll grab that, a bottle of nice wine, hit the florist and I think that should do it.” He nods to himself, satisfied. “She’ll be over the moon.”

He’s not wrong. The woman you’ve called a mother for the past ten years would fall over herself for something as simple as a birthday card, regardless of the fact that your dad insists on going all out every year.

“She’s already over the moon; you’re home for the week.” The admission’s soft, hesitant – poking a little too close to an open wound for you to feel entirely comfortable voicing it. Hei gives you an odd look, but it mellows into something more genuine when he realises you’re not taking a stab at him.

Baby steps.

Finally, Heisuke steps up to the counter to order. Within minutes the cake’s boxed up, with little ice-packs slipped in to keep it cool, and paid for, and the two of you head out, you holding the door open for Hei to carefully maneuver his way out without jostling the precious, expensive cargo.

“You’re good at this stuff, y’know,” he says as the two of you fall into step together.

“At… picking cakes?”

He snorts, “No. I meant the whole… I don’t know. You’re good at remembering stuff, the cakes mom likes, dad’s weird habits. You probably already know what flowers we’re going to pick for her, don’t you?”

This time you don’t bother hiding your smile – peonies, pink ones.

You go to tell him as much when a loud voice calls out your name. On instinct, you both spin to the source, and when you meet those piercing, olive green eyes, bearing down at you from the other side of the street, your heart leaps into your throat.

A ghost.

You can’t breathe. For a moment you can’t even think. Your hand stretches out, blindly seeking Heisuke, an anchor, anything–

Before your fingers can brush his sleeve, a hard, lean body collides with yours, sweeping you up into a crushing hug. Not Iwaizumi, though.

Oikawa, taller, broader than the last time you saw him, smelling of citrus, summer and salt lets out a breathy noise, halfway between amazement and disbelief.

“There you are,” he beams, setting you back on unsteady legs.

Found you, the glint in his eyes seems to say.

Rather than let you go, step back and give you some much needed space to breathe, his palm instead slides to rest on your hip, taking your chin between the index finger and thumb of his other hand in order to look at you properly, dark eyes poring over you for signs of anything amiss – bruises, tear-tracks, red eyes, swollen, split lips.

Your mouth goes dry.

On one side, there’s your brother, bewildered, arm half outstretched as if he can’t make his mind up whether he should be intervening or not. Iwa’s already jogging across the street, snarling at a driver who lays on his horn.

The weight of Oikawa’s appraisal is as familiar to you as it is oppressive, and while his touch is delicate, featherlight, it burns to the marrow. Suddenly you’re fourteen again, trying to duck past him before he can notice the state of you.

‘It’s nothing, Tooru, don’t worry about it!’

And just like back then, there’s a knot in your chest that doesn’t loosen until satisfaction melts the too sharp edge to his grin – right as Iwa joins you two. Three, you suppose, because while Heisuke remains in stunned silence, eyes darting between you and Oikawa, he’s still party to this, still a witness, and the thought makes you want to curl up into a ball and disappear forever.

(You shove down the fleeting rush of warmth at the relief you find there, the voice in your head that coos that he still cares enough to check. You don’t want him to care.)

“Holy fuck,” Iwa laughs, and Oikawa’s shoved aside, both of you ignoring the indignant grumbling as your rigid body’s pulled into his chest, his hand finding its way to the back of your head. He breathes in slow. Deep.

He still smells the same, earthy and masculine, the faintest tinge of his last cigarette still clinging to his jacket. Back then, he used to steal them from your foster father. You imagine that now, he probably has the money to go off and buy his own.

“I’m sorry, who are you? What– can you let her go, please?”

If it wasn’t them, the sheer absurdity of the moment might’ve made you giggle. Heisuke’s ears are bright red, a flush that extends down his neck. He doesn’t look angry per se, uncomfortable, absolutely, but from the pinched expression on his face, it’s clear he’s fighting the urge to bite out something far less polite.

None of this, least of all the way they’re tugging you between them like a rag-doll, feels very polite to begin with.

As it is, Heisuke’s interruption has the intended effect. The fingers wound in your hair twitch, the cage of his arms drawing you closer. You almost expect the baring of teeth, a possessive snarl, yet it’s a small, almost imperceptible thing. He retreats – reluctantly – turning to glance at your brother, Oikawa by his side.

Judging from the stony, almost bored expression he levels at Hei, he’s not impressed.

“Friend of yours, imouto?” Oikawa’s purr skitters down your spine like ice. Unlike Iwa, there’s nothing less than friendly curiosity on the surface. He’s even smiling.

Tongue darting out to wet your lips, you find your voice.

“Hei, this is Iwaizumi and Oikawa,” you say, gesturing at each respectively. “We were in the same foster home for a while.” Sparing the two of them half a glance, you continue, “We’re actually right in the middle of something, if you’ll excuse us.”

The explicit dismissal’s bolder than you feel, but you’re proud that your voice doesn’t waver. You can’t say the same for your hand when you reach for Heisuke’s spare one, uttering the words that’ll only damn you further, “C’mon, nii-san. Mom and dad are waiting.”

Heisuke doesn’t blink. His hand slips into yours, the two of you sidestepping the pair and walking off towards the car without a backwards glance.

Neither one of you speaks until you’re buckled into the passenger seat, Heisuke adjusting the rear-view mirror, the cake safely stashed away in the back. Until you’re pulling out onto the main road and there’s distance between you and them.

If only the gnawing, unsettling feeling in your stomach would go with it.

“Sorry,” you mumble, blankly staring out the window at the passing scenery. At the clouds hanging overhead, dark and threatening. Funny, that. Fitting. The skies were clear when you left home this morning. “About the nii-san thing, and grabbing your hand,” you clarify, because whether it was rude or not, you’ll be damned before you apologise for brushing them off.

That’s not your relationship with Hei. It’s never been that.

He eyes you for a beat. “You know, I never understood why mom wanted to adopt so bad. Dad too, but mom was always the one pushing for it. We were happy, the three of us. I wasn’t a screw up, their marriage was solid. I couldn’t understand the need to bring someone else in. Our family was fine, perfect the way it was.”

His thumb taps against the steering wheel, his shoulders loose and relaxed. You can’t quite pin the mood he’s in, where he’s going with this.

“Oh,” you say, mostly because it feels like he’s waiting for you to acknowledge it.

None of what he’s saying is news to you. None of it’s anything you haven’t wondered yourself a thousand times over. It’s just that Heisuke… you’ve never talked about this. Your adoption, your relationship with him, none of it. This sort of honesty is brand new territory for you both.

You’re not so sure you’re loving the development.

“When they committed to it, I thought they’d bring home a baby, a kid, not some weird, skittish fourteen year old who wanted nothing to do with me.”

Ah.

Your cheeks heat, and you find yourself wishing you were anywhere but here. If Heisuke notices how you shift in your seat, the small tightening of your expression, he plows on regardless.

“You wouldn’t look at me, would barely talk to me. Hell, you acted like I had the plague most of the time. You didn’t hate me, I don’t think, you just… didn’t want to be anywhere near me, and it bugged the hell out of me. I couldn’t figure it out; who wouldn’t want an older brother to look out for them?” His next words hit you like a sledgehammer, cracking at something vital in your chest. It hurts before he opens his mouth.

“It was them, wasn’t it? The reason you steered clear ‘til I moved out of home.”

“Heis–”

He cuts you off with a look. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he demands.

“Can we just– it doesn’t matter, alright? Can we move on?”

From the unhappy set of his jaw – the first true sign of discontent he’s expressed since getting in the car with you – it’s obvious there’s more he wants to say. You can’t blame him for that, curiosity’s only human.

But you’re still too raw. It’s too soon.

You’ve spent too long burying those secrets deep to rip yourself apart to bring them to light.

“Please, Hei. Let’s focus on mom’s birthday.” You force a smile, tiny and wrong, “The florist is next, yeah?”

You get a grunt of acknowledgement and not much more than that, your brother’s attention pulling back to the drive. The silence that settles in the car should bring some relief. It’s what you wanted, and yet, amongst the churning feeling in your guts, the prickling at the back of your neck that hasn’t left you since you first spotted Iwa across the road, there’s a sense of discomfort that has nothing to do with crossing paths with your past life.

Like a slap in the face, it hits you that you’re floundering for something to say, something – anything – to bridge the sudden, stark divide between you. Something that won’t sound hollow and meaningless.

This thing you have with Heisuke. It took years, and maybe it’s skin deep and miles from what it should be, but the thought of losing it leaves you feeling oddly panicked.

It’ll… hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, because it’s about all you can give him right now, a tried and true method of soothing egos and hurt.

Heisuke doesn’t say anything for the remainder of the drive, and you resign yourself to the very real possibility that in the course of a single conversation, you’ve managed to fracture this fragile thing between you two.

Until you go for the door, and a hand on your wrist stops you. “Hey. I’m glad they did.”

—

When you startle awake a little after midnight, it’s because he’s yelling again.

Mr. Furukawa had been in fine form at dinner, already three beers deep. You can only begin to imagine what’s set him off now, hours after lights out. His wife, probably. Although it’s equally possible he’s caught the oldest sneaking back in from seeing his girlfriend, or the twins trying to break into the pantry for a midnight snack. Or he tripped and stubbed his toe, or thought someone stole the rest of his beer when in reality he’d already swallowed it down.

The reasons don’t really matter when he’s been drinking like that, in the same way that the initial target of his ire doesn’t matter. Once his voice reaches that slurred, furious pitch, anyone’s fair game.

There’s a pair of headphones in the top drawer, you have every intention of yanking them out and putting on one of your sleep playlists, drowning out the noise of your foster father’s drunken raging until he wears himself out or you fall back to sleep when you hear the thumping of his feet on the staircase.

“Where’s that fucking bitch?”

Eyes wide in the darkness, clutching at the comforter, your pulse jumps.

Again, it’s possible he’s talking about Mrs. Furukawa, or one of your foster sisters – the older one hunched over in the bed opposite yours, watching you shrewdly.

“Well go on then,” she sneers. “Run to your big brothers.”

You don’t bother to respond, any hesitation you might’ve had over leaving her to fend for herself shrivelling up under the mocking bitterness she’s sending your way. Fine, whatever. You don’t care what she thinks, scrambling from the warmth of your bed and hurrying for the door.

He’s halfway up the staircase when you reach their room. You’d knock – it’s the polite thing to do – except you definitely don’t want to be out in plain view when your foster father hits the landing.

“Hajime?” you whisper into the darkness, slipping inside and shutting the door behind you, “Tooru?”

“Shit, c’mere.” At Hajime’s voice, the calloused, rough hands that guide you onto his mattress, the vice around your chest loosens. He won’t come in here, not after Hajime socked him in the face after catching sight of the raised, discoloured flesh of your cheek from your last run in. You’ve gotten better at using make-up to conceal the marks since then, but there’s also been less of a need for it.

“Can I stay for a bit?” you ask. Until he calms down and passes out. Until the sun rises and you can sneak back into your room. Until you feel safe again. It’s kind of a pointless question, considering how many times you’ve done this before and how many times they’ve let you. You ask it anyway.

The scoff that sounds moments before the mattress dips on your other side is answer enough. “You should probably just move in at this point. We’ll kick Iwa out, he can go sleep in bitch-face’s room.”

Although you know you shouldn’t, a not-so-nice grin tugs at your lips, nestling into Tooru’s side under the arm he offers, “She’d drive him homicidal in a week.”

“Doesn’t she already?” Hajime mutters. “And fuck off, if anyone’s moving out it’s you.”

“You’d miss me too much.”

Absentmindedly, he rubs at your arm like it’s second nature. “In your dreams, Shitty-kawa.”

You can still hear Mr. Furukawa stomping around outside, snarling and snapping at no-one and nothing. Your pulse skitters, an inbuilt panic response. But the lights are off, you’re not being too noisy, and he’s wary of the other two.

He won’t come in here.

“Relax, we’ve got you,” Tooru breathes, his nose nudging at your temple. “Where were you this afternoon?” His voice is so soft, a soothing rumble that it takes you a second to register what he’s said.

“This afternoon?”

“Mm. You didn’t come home when you were supposed to. We were worried.”

He’s pouting, you can tell. Which– he can’t be genuinely bothered by it, it was only a few hours, and the Furukawas don’t care where you are or what you do so long as you’re back before curfew. You were.

A distraction then?

“I went out with some friends. We hung out at the arcade for a bit,” your expression brightens, thinking of the lights and the laughter, your feet blurring as you hit the sensors on Dance Dance Revolution… poorly. “It was actually pretty fun!”

Tooru hums again, “Which friends?” at the same time that Hajime says, “You didn’t tell us you were going out.”

“I didn’t realise I had to check in.” And because the slightly bitter and very defensive edge to your tone catches even you by surprise, you sigh, softening. “I’m allowed to have friends, aren’t I? A social life?”

You’ve been in this home for a few months now, and this is the first time any of your classmates have invited you anywhere.

This time it’s Tooru who sighs. He coaxes your face upwards with a hand on your cheek, peering through the dim light at you, “I’m not saying this to be cruel or hurt you, but… I need you to be more careful, okay?”

You frown, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His thumb glides across your cheek bone, hesitating on whatever it is he wants to say– at least until Hajime huffs and mutters, “Just tell her, dude. You’re the one that brought it up.”

“Tell me what?”

“You’re a foster kid,” he reminds you, as if this is vital information that’s somehow slipped your mind. “That’s all they see when they look at us, all they’ll ever see. No money, no family, nothing worth wasting their time on. We’re charity cases at best, at worst…” he trails off, the sentence dangling in the air.

He thinks it’s a trick, you realise. He thinks they’re setting you up in an elaborate joke where you’re the punchline.

Bright blue eyes and a crooked grin flash in your head. Cheeks dusted pink and the warmth of his hand in yours.

“That’s not true,” you defend, though the words sound weak even to your ears.

Now that your eyes have adjusted to the dark, the gentle, pitying expression on his face twists at your insides like a knife. You hardly notice Hajime scooching closer, shifting the blankets so they cover you both, too busy staring at your foster brother with wide eyes and parted lips, a thick lump of emotion lodging itself in your throat. Tears prickle in the corners of your eyes, and you blink them back.

You won’t cry in front of them over this. You refuse.

“No? You’ve been here for months now. If they wanted to be your friend, truly, genuinely wanted that, why haven’t they made an effort before now? I’m not trying to be a dick,” he murmurs when your breathing hitches, “The kids in this town, they’re assholes. I just can’t bear the thought of someone hurting you.”

Hajime nods. “We only wanna protect you, imouto.”

But you don’t need to be protected. Omori isn’t like that. His friends aren’t either.

—

When the last bell rings for the day, you walk down to the gates to find Hajime there, leaning against the brickwork with a pilfered cigarette dangling between his fingers.

That in and of itself isn’t a surprise. Lately they’ve taken up the habit of ditching their last period to make the half mile trek to your school in order to walk back home with you. Most days, you don’t mind. Today, however–

“I sent you a message at lunch, you didn’t need to come all the way down here, I’m going to a friend’s place to study. Sorry, I thought you would’ve seen it before you left.”

He drops the cherry red remnants of his cigarette to the ground and grinds the butt under his heel, eyeing you slowly from head to toe. “Which friend?”

“When did you become so nosey?” you laugh, a touch uneasily. “It’s only for an hour or so, I’ll be back before dinner, promise. I’m all yours after that.” The last part’s meant to lighten the mood a little, yet something flashes in his eyes, a twitch in his jaw, and you get the sense that he doesn’t find it all that funny.

“Which friend? That slimy piece of shit you were hanging out with last weekend?”

Omori? How does he–

You frown, “We went to the movies, Hajime, it’s not illegal. And he’s not slimy or a little shit, he’s my friend.” A friend who sets butterflies loose in your stomach and makes you weak at the knees, but Hajime doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh, I’m sure he wants to be your friend,” he mutters darkly.

Your cheeks burn hotly, “Why are you being like this? He’s a nice guy. Besides, it’s not him. I’m going to Masako’s to work on a group presentation we’ve got due in a few days. I didn’t think you’d make such a big deal out of it!”

“Your mistake,” he says, as if you’re the one being unreasonable here, and before you can spit out a retort, his hand is curled around your bicep, tugging you down the road. “C’mon, we’re going home. Tell your little friend you can work on your project tomorrow at lunch.”

“Ha-Hajime!” His too tight grip on you doesn’t relent, his stride doesn’t falter. Nervously, you dart a glance around, half hoping that someone will intercede, all the while praying that no one’s actually noticed him dragging you off like a misbehaving toddler.

As always, you’re not that lucky. The sight of your classmates pointing your way, giggling behind their hands sends a hot pulse of shame flooding through you.

“You know you’re not my actual brother, I don’t need your permission!”

That does stop him, turning back around to throw a scowl at you, “No? Because I don’t see anyone else lining up to stop you from spreading your legs for the first asshole who comes sniffing around. Jesus Christ, weren’t you listening the other day?”

“I’m fourteen!” you shriek, ripping your arm away from him. “Stop being gross and leave me alone, I already told you I’m going to Masako’s. We have a project. For school!”

In an instant, he closes the gap between you. Hajime isn’t as tall as Tooru, but at two years older, he still towers over you, all broad shouldered and intense, and while he’s always cut an intimidating figure, it strikes you that this is the first time you’ve ever looked at him and felt afraid.

A split second later, and he exhales with a mumbled curse, the tension deflating from his body like a pin’s been pulled. In a quieter voice, hooking an arm over your neck to press a fleeting kiss to your hair, he says, “Sometimes it feels like I’m losing my damn mind trying to keep us all safe and sane and fucking together.”

It’s not exactly an apology. Still…you shift on your feet, nibbling at your bottom lip. “I’m sorry for snapping,” you mumble – an olive branch, even if you’re not feeling particularly charitable right now. The problem is, you do understand where he’s coming from. In two years, they’ll both age out, free to go and do whatever the hell they want. There’s a not insignificant part of you that’s terrified that when that time comes, they’re not gonna hang around another two years waiting for you.

You’re not sure you can hold them to that promise.

And that’s if nothing happens before then. Foster kids in group homes get shuffled all the time, there’s no guarantee all three of you will still be with the Furukawas come their 18th birthdays.

Of course he’s over-protective. Of course he’s being a little nuts about it.

Hajime nods, pats you on the head and gives you a rare smile, “Good. Now get your ass moving, we gotta get home.”

“Wait, but I thought–” you’d apologised, he’d admitted he was overreacting… sort of. Isn’t that enough?

“Social worker’s coming by this afternoon. Furukawa wants us to play happy families ‘til they’re gone. Your friend’s gonna have to wait.”

And that’s that.

Dejection washes over you, trudging back home with Hajime – trying not to be childish and petty and hold it against him.

The social worker never shows, but there’s a message waiting on your phone when you finally manage to pry yourself away from Hajime and Tooru.

Your brother’s a dick. Raincheck? ;)

Butterflies erupt.

—

You’ve been biting your lip again.

The raw, chapped evidence stares back at you in the mirror.

A few days ago, they were a little swollen, rough and reddened. The sight of it sent a giddy sort of thrill through you, a physical – if not sore – reminder of your afternoon spent kissing a cute boy with very pretty blue eyes.

Now, the state of your lips is the least of your worries. You’ll bite your lips, gnaw on your fingernails right down to the quick, pace and think and pace and think, fingers tap, tap tapping at your side.

“You look tired.”

The arms that loop around your shoulders, dragging you back into a loose hug don’t bring the sense of comfort they usually do. Things have been weird between you. Off.

Ever since Tooru caught sight of your face that day, saw the messages on your phone.

‘I never took you for a liar, imouto.’

The resultant argument left you choking on sobs, heart-broken and beaten down in a way that you haven’t felt since you found out your parents died.

It’s a strange, alienating thing to be cut so viciously by the only people who give a damn about you.

At first, you had Omori there to help pick up the pieces. He wasn’t allowed over, of course, and even if he were, you doubt it’d do anything but throw a whole gallon of kerosene on the fire. Still, being able to message and vent to him felt like a lifeline.

And then he simply… stopped replying. Your last message sitting there for two days on read.

You tried not to feel hurt. Maybe this whole thing was too intense, too quick. My god, you weren’t even dating officially, he was just, you were–

It was fine. Not everyone’s tied to their phone, and he doesn’t owe you anything. Maybe something came up, maybe his phone died.

But then, come Monday, he wasn’t in school.

On Tuesday morning, sitting in first period maths, a grim-faced man in a dull suit informs your class that Omori’s been missing since Saturday morning. You’re passed a business card with the detective’s name and phone number printed in crisp, black font and encouraged to contact him if there’s anything you can think of that might help them.

Uneasy looks are shared. No one says a word.

Which brings you to today, to the hug Tooru’s drawn you into and his voice murmuring at your ear.

“Aren’t you still mad at me?”

His laugh rumbles at your back, “Maybe I miss you too much.”

You should tell him to shove it. Whether you’re in the right or the wrong, it’s not fair of him to play hot and cold with you like this. Being at odds with your brothers is painful enough on its own, dealing with that on top of everything with Omori – it’s too much. You’ll drown under the weight of it.

And so you turn, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying yourself against him. “I don’t wanna fight anymore. I’m sorry.”

While he doesn’t say anything back, he does squeeze you that little bit tighter. You’re content with that, soaking up the affection and comfort you’ve sorely been without. It’s an apology, yes. It’s also forgiveness.

“Where’s Hajime?” you ask after a little while. They aren’t inseparable by any means, but you don’t think you’ve seen him this afternoon at all.

Rather than answering you, the brunet pulls back enough to meet your gaze, a twinkle in his eyes, “We’re going out tonight.”

The words bring you up short. “But–”

“Furukawa won’t know a thing. It’ll be fun, pinky promise.” He holds out said pinky, the grin on his face infectious enough that you offer a tiny one of your own, locking your finger around his.

He winks.

—

“Sweetheart, shall we open the wine?”

She hasn’t stopped beaming all afternoon, delighted at the flowers and the gifts, your dad humming away in the kitchen, cooking enough to feed a small army.

Heisuke’s already plucking a bottle from the fridge, glasses set out on the counter. He lifts a questioning brow in your direction and you nod with as much of a smile as you can muster. Nothing sounds more appealing to you right now than a drink.

Several of them, actually. You’ll start with one.

“Thanks,” you murmur when he passes it to you.

Quietly enough that your parents won’t hear, he asks, “You good?”

“I’m good,” you reassure him, lying through your teeth. His knuckles knock against yours, and when you glance up, there’s a wordless promise that the two of you aren’t done with this.

He’s been watching you ever since you got home. Not in the predatory, possessive way they used to, just… you very reluctantly gave him crumbs – not even that much – yet he’s staring at you like you’re a piece of a puzzle he’s desperate to solve. He’s looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time, and you don’t know how to deal with it.

It makes you nervous.

“Did something happen between you two?” The quiet voice at your side startles you – perhaps you’re more on edge than you’d like to admit, because your whole body flinches, the wine in your glass sloshing up over the rim, just barely avoiding your dress and the edge of the couch.

You hadn’t even noticed your mom had sat down.

Cursing under your breath, you jump up before she can, snatching some paper towels from the kitchen, paying no mind the slight, disapproving tilt to your father’s mein (the one which, to his credit, he does try to hide) to mop up the mess on the floor.

“Sorry,” you throw out, both for the spill and for swearing, because that too is something neither of your parents are fond of, but your mom’s quick to wave it away.

“Nonsense. You’re fine, sweet girl. Come, sit!” She pats the seat you’ve vacated. “Relax.”

Your dad’s in the kitchen, laughing with Hei. Your mom’s still happy – it’s slowly leaching from her eyes the longer she looks at you, the more she sees. Relax.

Today’s supposed to be a happy day.

Relax.

You can’t.

They know some of your past. Bits and pieces.

In ten years, you’ve never uttered a single word about them. Not to anyone.

The more you shove it down, the more it fights back, bubbling away inside of you like the tempest of a storm. You can feel yourself cracking, unshed tears burning at your eyes.

You can’t.

“… Mom–”

A knock cuts through the rising tide of emotion battering through you, and all four of you start.

Your dad moves first, drying his hands and striding on over to answer it. On his way, he glances to where you and your mom are sitting – instinctively. Unthinkingly. He glances her way a thousand times a day – to check in, to see what she’s doing, to catch those little expressions she makes, only this time he isn’t met with the picture of a happy wife and daughter. You see it when it hits him, the tension, your wrought expression, the hand your mom’s slipped you in the seconds since, holding you tight and keeping you tethered.

You see it when he does a double take, sharp surprise quickly overtaken by alarm.

Another knock at the door. Louder.

His head snaps back towards the door, glaring at it like it’s personally wronged him. “One sec,” he mutters to no one in particular, and your mom squeezes your hand as he yanks it open with a touch more force than necessary.

“Yes?”

The air punches out of your lungs.

From where you’re sitting, the door cracked ajar, your dad’s frame blocking the gap, you can’t see who’s there. Not until he peeks over your dad’s shoulder, his charming grin widening into something shark-like and predatory when he spots you, delighted.

An elevator careening out of control, your stomach plummets.

Ignoring your dad – your family as a whole – entirely, Oikawa addresses you. “You dropped this this morning. Clumsy girl.”

Iwa passes him something, your wallet, you realise when he holds it out to you, waving it like a dog treat.

Your wallet with your ID, this address, tucked away inside.

The wallet you absolutely, in no way dropped.

Primarily on instinct, shaking like a newborn foal, you start to rise, to stumble forward and take it from him, only it’s Heisuke who moves first. Angrier than you think you’ve ever seen him, he plants himself between you, one arm outstretched as if to keep you back, his withering gaze fixed on the duo.

“Thank you for returning it,” he bites out. “You can leave now.”

For your parents, already on edge, suspicious by their familiarity and your reaction to it, it’s enough to set their hackles up. Gone is any semblance of politeness when your father snatches your wallet from Oikawa’s fingers, “Go.”

Up until now, Oikawa’s paid them all the attention one would a gnat, an annoyance maybe, but one hardly worth acknowledging. That changes as his head tilts, dark eyes appraising your father.

“What’s the rush?” he asks, reaching behind him. You can’t see it, what with your dad and now Heisuke standing between you, but there’s movement, your dad lets out a sudden, choked off gurgle, lurching back inside.

Your eyes widen, a bone chilling horror taking hold of you as you spy the sleek black handle of a knife sticking out his gut, a slow stain of red seeping out around it.

“We’ve still got so much catching up to do.”

—

You’ve never been this far into the woods before.

Stars glitter overhead, condensation from your breath puffing out with every exhale. It’s cold out. The path you’re walking isn’t one of the trails they lay for hikers and tourists, and you’ve been walking for a while.

Still, Tooru’s hand is warm entwined with yours, and there’s that wicked thrill in your belly that comes from breaking the rules, doing secret, exciting things in the dead of night.

“Is Hajime waiting for us?” you ask, when you can hold the question back no longer.

“Always Hajime with you, isn’t it,” he teases. “Y’know, a guy could develop a complex with all this favouritism being thrown around.”

You’re pulled closer into his side even as he says it, and you go happily. You’ve got your brothers back – tonight you’re only thinking good thoughts.

Tonight he promised you fun.

A giddy bounce in your step, you follow where your big brother leads until you spot a glow in the trees ahead, smell the smoke on the mid-autumn breeze.

Tooru grins in the dark, “Have you ever been to a bonfire?”

You shake your head.

It takes another few minutes before you can see the fire in all its grandeur, Hajime standing off to the side, warming his hands against the flames. They dance through the clearing, bright and high and hot, hot enough that you briefly consider shedding the jacket Tooru swaddled you up in before you left.

A bonfire?

They built this for you?

You look incredulously to Tooru, “This is where he’s been all day?”

“More or less.”

“Do you like it, pretty girl?” Hajime calls out when you’re closer. Your hand slips from Tooru’s as you leap forward, allowing him to catch you in his arms and tug you against him, and like earlier with Tooru, it eases some of the hurt weighing you down. He’s here, he’s not angry anymore, you can fight and argue like siblings but they aren’t going anywhere.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, smoothing down your hair. “It’s pretty cool,” you tell him with a decisive nod, making him chuckle.

“Maybe we should add more accelerant,” Tooru says, eyeing the flames with a considering look. “I don’t know if it’s hot enough.”

Hajime scoffs, “We don’t need any more accelerant.”

“But–”

“It’s fine, dumbass. Leave it.”

Heaving out a long suffering sigh, Tooru takes the space on your other side. In the Western movies you’ve seen, these bonfire things usually have more of a party-like vibe. There’s music and dancing. Drinking. This is something wholly different.

You don’t mind the quiet, though, sitting between your brothers on the fallen log they dragged over. Listening to the crackle of the fire. Watching red embers spark and fly off into the night.

You’ve missed this. Them.

In the hypnosis of the fire, the heat that covers you like a blanket – burning strongly enough, despite what Tooru thinks, that down to a tee-shirt, leaning into Hajime’s side, Tooru playing with your fingers, you feel you could so easily drift off to sleep, sated and content.

“You love us, don’t you?” Tooru says it so quietly, so off-handedly, that for a moment you don’t hear the stinging accusation beneath the words.

When it does, whatever fleeting contentment you’d managed to wrap yourself up in is ripped away, leaving you cold and exposed.

A slap in the face might’ve stung less.

You gape at him. At the both of them. “How can you ask me that?”

Tooru shrugs, casual and cruel, “I dunno. You lied to us. Multiple times.”

“Snuck around behind our backs,” Hajime adds.

“Kept things from us. Don’t think we haven’t noticed the new lock on your phone, imouto. Doesn’t sound like love to me.”

“I– I’ve already apologised.” You try to keep your voice calm and level, but with every word that pours out of you, the faster your heart beats and the more distress leaks into your tone. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I lied, I’m sorry I went behind your backs, I’m sorry I kissed him! I don’t know what you want from me, I don’t know how to fix this!”

Hot tears spring to your eyes, stinging as you ferociously blink them back.

If you start crying now, they’ll probably just mock you. That, or they’ll claim that you’re trying to manipulate them into feeling bad with crocodile tears and hiccuping sniffles.

In a tiny voice, you say, “I didn’t do any of it to hurt you. Please,” you beg helplessly. “You can’t keep holding it over my head and punishing me for it.”

“You think we’re punishing you?” Tooru asks, still in that cold, flat tone that makes you want to sob.

Aren’t they? Sure feels like it.

Hajime lets out a heavy exhale, shaking his head and staring up at the night sky. “You still don’t fucking get it.”

Hands slip under your armpits and without warning you find yourself hoisted onto Tooru’s lap. It’s whiplash, especially when he curls around you, those lithe arms caging you in, and presses a kiss to your burning cheek. “Iwa, brute that he is, is right. You’re not listening to us. This isn’t punishment. You can pretend to hate us, cry, yell, fight. You can try to shut us out if that’s what you feel you need, but this,” his chin juts out at the bonfire crackling merrily a few feet away, “this is love.” He shivers as he says it, voice like honey. “We did it for you, and I’d do so much more.”

Your head’s still spinning, reeling from being yanked from one extreme to another. Hot and cold. Spiteful to affectionate. You stare at the fire, but you don’t understand.

“Yeah, like you didn’t enjoy the hell out of it,” Hajime snorts, which makes even less sense.

“…You mean the– the bonfire?”

Tooru laughs. His nose skims along the shell of your ear, earning him a shiver of your own. “Hm, almost.”

So you peer at the fire like it’s supposed to give you the answers you need. There’s nothing. It’s a fire, there’s nothing special about…

Oh.

You learn forward – as much as the cage of his embrace will allow, at any rate – squinting a little. Nestled beneath the stacked logs and kindling, there’s an oddly shaped lump, black and gnarled, with ridges and a scooped out hollow that kinda looks like–

Your blood runs cold.

“What’s the matter, baby?” he croons. “You’ve been so sad all week, wondering where your friend up and disappeared to. Aren’t you glad to see him again?”

“No.” Whisper soft, the noise lost to the crackling of the fire. You shake your head, “This– you’re being cruel. Stop it, it’s not funny.”

But the tears you’ve so valiantly held back are falling, your breath coming in short, panicky gasps. The skull in the fire doesn’t look fake, and if this is a prank, it’s gone beyond too far.

Your head grows light and all too heavy at the same time, “That isn’t– you didn’t– you… you– you wouldn’t–”

“No?” the voice at your ear questions, low and dangerous. “You think I wouldn’t stab the little fuck after you kissed him?”

“Stop it,” you tearfully beg, squeezing your eyes shut. The skull’s still there, burned into the back of your eyelids.

No, no, no. Omori isn’t dead.

Omori isn’t dead.

Your heart slams against your ribs, a violent chorus to the swell of sick dread and fear you’re desperately trying to tamp down. Omori isn’t dead!

“STOP IT!”

They wouldn’t kill him.

The crunch of footsteps sounds, and you don’t need your vision to know that Hajime’s now crouching in front of you. When rough fingers seize your jaw, holding you in place, and he leans in close, almost nose to nose, they fly open regardless.

“You ever try that shit again, and next time we’ll drag you by the fucking hair and do it in front of you,” he promises, calm despite the fury that rages in his eyes.

Caged between them, Hajime appraises you, taking in your hysteria, the tears dripping down your face, your bottom lip quivering – as though he’s committing the sight to memory. His eyes dart to Tooru’s for a brief second, the latter squeezing your side, before he speaks. “If you’d listened to us in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened. Don’t make us into monsters, sweetheart.”

Your fault is what you hear.

There’s a loud pop from the fire, and you lose it entirely.

You explode. Elbows flying, kicking, clawing. A wild, terrified, desperate thing, and it takes them by surprise – enough to catch Tooru in the gut, loosening his grip. Enough to knock Hajime back onto his ass. A gap, however small, for you to scramble to your knees, violently kicking back when a hand snatches at your ankle, and flee through the woods in the dark, away from the furious shouts, the raging footsteps chasing after you.

You run and your lungs burn, heaving for every breath.

The light of the bonfire disappears behind you, plunging the forest into an inky black, and the shouts and yells turn into calls of your name, then coaxing pleas, almost sounding worried. Eventually, those grow distant too, and fade away altogether.

You keep running, uncertain of where you’re going. No, blind to it entirely. All that matters is keeping out of their reach. You’ll run to the ends of the earth if you have to.

And so you push until your legs scream for a reprieve, until you taste iron on your tongue and when your body can keep the pace no longer, you stumble through the underbrush, tripping over roots and branches instead, pausing every once in a while to lean against a tree and catch your breath.

As your adrenaline fades and the sweat dampening your clothes cools, the cold night air bites like needles at your skin, you start to shiver, rubbing at your exposed arms in an effort to generate a little warmth. Bitterly, you remember that the jacket that you’d brought, the one Tooru had all but forced on you before you’d left, is back at the bonfire, slung over a nearby log. Useless to you now.

But the shivers that wrack your body aren’t solely from the dropping temperature.

Every snapping branch, hoot of an owl, rustle of leaves sends a fresh wave of terror spiking through you. You think of Tooru’s cruel smirk and Hajime’s bruising grip, of Omori’s skull staring back at you from the fire, flesh melted to the bone, black and twisted, and a ragged, distraught sob brings you to your knees.

Hopelessly lost, cold, frightened and alone, you curl into the dirt and cry.

—

Hikers find you at dawn.

Emergency services are called – an ambulance to take you to the nearest hospital to be poked and prodded, police to question why a fourteen year old girl was wandering the woods alone at night.

They treat you for dehydration and mild hypothermia, a few small cuts and scrapes, and when a soft spoken nurse pulls the curtain around your bed and gently asks if you’d like them to perform a rape kit, you blanch and shake your head. Eventually, they allow the detective into the room. In his late forties, bespectacled, a smattering of grey dusted throughout his close cropped black hair, he pulls up a chair beside the bed and patiently asks how you’re feeling.

If you were a better person, you’d tell him everything. The Furukawas’ abuse, your foster brothers’ increasingly overprotective behaviour, sneaking behind their back to see Omori and the fight that followed that nearly ripped you apart.

The bonfire.

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

Omori deserves that much. His parents should know what happened to their son.

Your jacket lying forgotten by his bones.

“Please don’t take me back there,” you mumble, tears shining in your eyes.

Back to the woods, or the Furukawas. Back to the boys you’d loved who’d murdered for you.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter that that’s all they can get out of you. A traumatised teenager found miles from home without a single soul raising the alarm would be one thing. When that traumatised teenager’s a girl supposedly under the care of government approved guardians, it raises red flags not even they can ignore.

By lunch, they’ve arranged for you to be placed back in an all-girl orphanage until a more suitable, long term solution can be found.

—

Some nights you dream that you’re back there, in their bedroom at the Furukawas’. It’s dark and cozy, there’s an arm slung over your waist and you find yourself drifting off to the steady beat of the heart behind you, soft snores by your ear.

They’re nice dreams. You feel safe, loved.

Tucked away in your subconscious, nothing exists but the sanctuary of them, and when you inevitably feel that tug of awareness coaxing you awake, you sink your fingers in and cling to it for dear life.

Just another minute. Another few seconds. Please.

Right now, you’d give anything to wake up and have this be nothing more than a nightmare you can banish.

But there’s no escaping this one. Your dad’s on the living room floor by the couch, hunkered over, pale and sweaty, pressing what was once a clean dish towel to the wound in his stomach. The coffee table’s been pushed to the side, Heisuke and your mom sat on the chairs Oikawa dragged into its place, ankles zip-tied to the legs, wrists bound, duct tape slapped across both of their mouths. Between the knife Oikawa idly toys with, still wet with blood, the handgun held loosely in Iwa’s palm and your dad slowly bleeding out on the floor, they’ve been compliant.

Much like you have, although you’re neither bound nor gagged, sitting in the armchair Iwa ushered you to, arms looped around your knees with the man himself perched against the backrest.

The only one of you making any kind of noise at all is your dad, his voice a slurring mumble, words near intelligible. He’s begging, you can tell that much. Pleading through gritted teeth for them to let you go, not to hurt you, your mom, Hei.

You desperately wanna tell him to save his breath, but you can’t even look at him – at any of them – without wanting to throw up.

“Do you still love us, imouto?”

Your eyes track Oikawa as he leans over the two chairs, the edge of his knife carelessly poised above Heisuke’s shoulder. From your periphery you see him flinch and stiffen, the sharp uptick of his breath smothered by duct tape, but you don’t dare shift your attention from the brunet smiling genially back at you.

Your heart squeezes, clenched by an invisible fist. Buried deep beneath the guilt and the paralysing dread, a slightly hysterical part of you almost wants to laugh.

“Do you think I could ever stop?”

Surprise flashes in his eyes and his grin widens. “You ran,” he accuses.

“You ran again this morning,” Iwa adds, sounding far less amused.

“I was scared.”

“Of us?” Iwa slides off the back of the couch, straightening up. In an instant, his hand’s wrapped around your throat, the broad pad of his thumb forcing your jaw upwards. “You think we’d ever fucking hurt you?” he growls, looking genuinely angry.

Distantly you register the sound of Heisuke’s muffled indignation, another gasping wheeze from your dad, but all that fades to the background as Iwa’s mouth crashes against yours.

He doesn’t kiss you sweetly. It’s invasive, rough. His hand flexes around your throat, forcing a gasp to drive his tongue between your lips, and you can feel every ounce of possession, of pent up need and frustration as he drags it on despite the awkward angle.

When he does break away, eyes darkened and simmering, he holds your gaze, ignoring the pointed throat clearing from the other side of the room. “Never,” he swears, waiting for you to nod before finally relaxing his grip. “Good girl.” To Oikawa, watching you both with a barely constrained hunger, he says, “Enough screwing around. Do it and let’s go.”

Oikawa huffs, rolling his eyes, “Fine. Should’ve known you’d get all impatient after you had a taste.”

“Like you’re not?”

There’s not enough air in the room, your heart’s doing somersaults in your chest, your pulse hammering through your veins. Oikawa stares at you, head tilted, the corner of his lip slowly curling up as you start to tremble, shaking your head, tears beading at your lashes, “I guess we could hurry it along.”

“No, please–”

“Shh, sweet girl. It’s okay.” You try to stand up, but Iwa takes a hold of your shoulder and forces you back down. “Me and Iwa, we were gonna give you a choice. Let you pick. If you could kill one of them, we’d let the other two go.”

A strangled sob rips its way free, your whole body shuddering with the force of it.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. We’re not gonna make you do that,” he comforts, side-stepping your now thrashing brother to make his way over towards you. “Cause the thing is, they kept you from us. Lied to you. Manipulated you. Whether they meant to or not, they hurt you. I don’t think they deserve that kind of mercy, do you?”

“No, no, no, please! Please don’t, please don’t hurt them–”

Abandoning his knife, he drops to a crouch in front of you, “We’re gonna make it right, and then we’ll go home, okay? We’ll take care of it.”

“Please, Tooru! I’ll do anything!”

There’s a kiss pressed to the crown of your head, the cushion behind your back being tugged free. “You don’t need to do anything,” Iwa says, the cold cocking of his gun echoing like a death knell.

“We love you. This one’s on us.”

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa tooru #yandere iwaizumi hajime #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere iwaizumi x reader #tw: dubcon #tw: noncon

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ilylovelyz · 9 months

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haikyuu boys when protective of you

most likely gets into a fight, does throw the first punch, and dramatically whines afterwards, forcing you to be his personal nurse ATSUMU, TANAKA, nishinoya, terushima, IWAIZUMI, hoshiumi

so insulting and almost degrading to whoever is threatening you that the offender ends up leaving out of embarrassment TSUKISHIMA, shirabu, KUROO, kenma, sugawara, daishou, akira, SUNA, kageyama, ushijima, futakuchi, hanamaki

YOU'RE the one who is protecting them SAKUSA, hachi, bokuto, YAMAGUCHI, GOSHIKI, asahi, tendo, AONE, oikawa (somehow), koganegawa, LEV

does his best to diffuse the situation, but ultimately leaves angry and mentally hexes them KIYOKO, akaashi, KITA, DAICHI, hinata, yaku, hirugami

spends the night in jail KENTARO, semi, yamamoto, mattsun, OSAMU

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yanderecrazysie · 4 months

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Imagine bank robbers Oikawa and Iwaizumi and you're a bank teller. They come in, guns ready, and you're just standing there, shaking like a leaf. Then, Oikawa looks over at you.

"Iwa-chan, isn't she so cute?" Oikawa cooes.

Iwaizumi looks over and gives a grunt of approval.

"Can we keep her?" Oikawa asks, dragging you out from behind your desk.

Iwaizumi stares at you for a moment before nodding.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere haikyuu #haikyuu!!#yandere thoughts #yandere iwaizumi #yandere oikawa #oikawa tooru #iwaizumi hajime

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slutmegeto · 5 days

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solandis

such a pretty little kitten you are for them.

tw. nsfw, smut, collaring, lingerie, oral (both male and female receiving), threesome, rough unprotected sex, spit roasting, restraints (handcuffs), choking, slapping, implied yandere, implied kidnapping, praise, dubcon, slight noncon, use of slut, use of master, slight pet play mdni!

pairing: iwaoi x f!reader

"iwa-chan, isn't she pretty?"

cheeks a pretty pink, you keep your gaze lowered, hands gripping the edge of the lacy, see-through lingerie you were wearing so tight that your knuckles are white.

anything to distract you from the heavy gazes on you.

anything to distract you from the thick leather sat snuggly around your neck, trying to ignore the way it feels like you can't breathe or the way it digs into your skin.

"yeah," iwaizumi grunts, voice low in a way that has you tensing. "real pretty."

a hand falls on top of your head, large and firm and you try to resist the urge to flinch, slowly peering up through your lashes only to see oikawa grinning brightly down at you. the second his eyes catch yours, the grin fades into a mocking pout as he crouches, moving so he's directly in front of you.

his hand lowers, taking a strand of your hair in between his fingers, all whilst iwaizumi watches closely from behind him.

oikawa's fingers dig into the tiny space between your neck and the collar they'd placed on you, shoving through the small space as you wince in response, trying to ignore the sting as you're tugged forward. he pulls until your face is right in front of his, lips inches apart.

"do you like your gift, baby?" oikawa coos, letting his eyes drift across your face as his thumb strokes the dangling metal from the front loop of the collar that read; iwa and kawa's kitty.

your brain turns numb, unable to find the words to answer as you stare dumbly back at him because... because how could he possibly think you'd like it?

"oi," iwaizumi barks, causing you to jump in the spot. "shittykawa asked you a question."

fear striking you, you nod best you can in oikawa's grip. "y-yes," you whisper, voice shaky and faint as you force the words out. of course you didn't, but you weren't about to say that. not to them. "i do."

oikawa smiles, bright and twinkling, his hand leaving your collar to instead brush back your hair and tuck it behind your ear, carressing your cheek. "whaddya say, then, pretty?"

you meet his eyes, desperate for him to not make you say it. but he continues to stare at you expectantly and a glance past his shoulder at iwaizumi has you met with a similar stare, if not harsher. demanding.

swallowing thickly, you lower your gaze. "thank you..."

"thank you...?"

shame floods you, your nails digging into the skin of your thighs as you try to pull away. "thank you.... masters."

oikawa beams and even iwaizumi lets a small smile grace his lips as you utter the words they'd been waiting for. you're completely and wholeheartedly at their mercy and it's been this way for longer than you can remember. they surrounded you completely, never letting you leave the house or see anyone else.

you've become solely dependant on them. involuntarily, they've become your whole world with no escape in sight.

you'd learned long ago it was better to just go along with their whims; it was always less painful that way. from bruises to a red and blistered bottom that left you unable to sit without aching in pain for weeks... there was no escape and no amount of struggle ever helped you. so even if it burned with shame and made you sick, you did what they wanted and said what they told you to.

you let them dress you up. you let them parade you around. you let them treat you like their doll. you let them fuck you whenever they wanted and use you in whatever way they saw fit.

it was just easier that way.

at least... at least that way, it didn't hurt all the time.

oikawa sends a glance back at iwaizumi and understanding his meaning, iwaizumi nods, turning and making his way over to the closet. your heart spikes when you see him move, eyes widening as you flicker your gaze from him to oikawa.

"what... what is he—"

"shh, shh," oikawa soothes, petting your hair like some sort of animal in a mock attempt to calm you. "don't worry your pretty little head about it, angel. here. i need you to do something for me, kay?"

you can hear iwaizumi shuffling around with things in the background, but knowing you won't know what he's getting until they want you to know, you reluctantly comply. turning back to oikawa, you nod slowly.

"put your hands behind your back," you move to do so. "that's our good girl. just like that. clasp your hands together—yes, just like that. look at you. listening like you're supposed to."

swallowing thickly, you shuffle on your knees, still kneeling on the carpetted floor of the bedroom.

a second later, a shadow falls behind you.

"you find them, iwa-chan?"

he grunts in recognition, and you can hear him kneel behind you. your body tenses in anticipation, flinching faintly when his hand finally falls on you, grabbing your arm with his large hand, rubbing the skin up and down in a slow, languid motion.

his hand then lowers, grabbing your left wrist, hands still clasped together, until you feel cold metal press against your skin. your eyes widen, shoulders tensing, but oikawa grabs you by the neck, holding you still by squeezing just faintly, enough to have your lips parting in a gasp as you hear a sharp click followed by the same cold metal falling against your right wrist and the same click.

iwaizumi lets go and you unclasp your hands, only to find them stuck together by the pair of handcuffs iwaizumi had just wrapped around your wrists.

"wha—"

you don't get to finish what you'd been about to say. you're cut off by a squeal leaving your lips as iwaizumi suddenly grabs you by the waist and halls you up and off your feet. oikawa lets go of your neck as he steps back, grinning at you with a wink before you're suddenly flipped and tossed.

you hit the bed with a couple bounces, arms locked behind you and unable to steady yourself as you blink.

iwaizumi is suddenly over you before you have enough time to process what's happened. he crawls onto the bed, your body dipping in response, grabbing you by the waist once again and this time flipping you over so you're on your knees again. he shifts, moving so he's underneath you, your upper half hovering over his lower half, his hands having shifted to your shoulders to hold you up.

then, he lets go and without the use of your hands, you fall against him, unsteadied, your face falling right on top of his erection which pokes into your cheek.

you're bewildered, overwhelmed, and scared.

"what is—"

a pair of familiar hands settle on your hips and you feel something sharp poke into your ass. you don't need to look to know it's oikawa; the movements of his hands running across your ass, feeling his fingers pushing the edge of your camisole up your back, leaving you bare since they never let you wear underwear anymore, unless you were on your period.

"poor baby," oikawa hums, "you're confused, aren't you?"

"i—"

"don't worry," he cuts you off, "we'll take good care of you. won't we, iwa-chan?"

iwaizumi's hand falls on your head, stopping you from raising your head like you'd been about to, and instead presses your cheek further into his erection, the zipper of his jeans biting into your skin. "of course," iwaizumi agrees, as if that's obvious.

you can't see either of them with the way your head is positioned and the fear of being restrained is making it hard to breathe. you move to say something again, but your words fall silent the second you feel something warm and wet press against your pussy.

it's oikawa. he's pressing a kiss against the lips of your pussy, soft, gentle kisses as his hands squeeze the fat of your ass and you're gasping in response, body jerking.

iwaizumi keeps a firm hand on your head still, refusing to let you try and raise it, so your ass is left sticking up, arms bending awkwardly in the handcuffs as oikawa's fingers swiftly move to part your lips, giving him full access.

a cry of surprise is pulled from your lips the seconds his lips wrap around your clit, sucking in sharply in a way that has your vision blurring, feeling yourself grow wet and your muscles tense as you're overwhelmed by the sensation oikawa is giving you.

he sucks loud and harshly, the sounds of your wetness squelching all you can hear aside from your moans. you're biting your lip to stop yourself from crying out, body held down by both of their hands as you feel your pleasure build.

"that's it, baby," iwaizumi grunts, nails digging into your head. "take it like the slut you are."

"ah—ah, oh god—!"

you can physically feel oikawa grinning, letting his tongue swipe a across your clit as your hips buck backwards, chasing the high. it's building, getting closer, your wrists turning red as you pull against the handcuffs, crying out.

"oh, god—can i.... can i cum?" you're slobbering out the ask, nearly losing your mind when oikawa chuckles at your words and the rumble adds a vibration to his sucking. "please! please can i cum! please—"

iwaizumi grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks, pulling your head up to meet his gaze as you stare back at him, lips parted and tears welling in your eyes.

"cum," he orders, voice gruff and you lose it then, spasming as you let yourself go, one more sharp suck from oikawa has you reaching your high. iwaizumi keeps a tight hold of your hair, holding you up and your body bending unnaturally as you twitch in the spot, tongue lolling out as your eyes roll to the back of your head.

"ah! oh! please—please, please, please, it feels—feels so good!"

oikawa keeps his mouth pressed against your pussy as you ride out your high, not pulling away until you slump completely in iwaizumi's grasp, mumbled 'thank you's' leaving your lips.

pulling away, oikawa wipes at his mouth, smiling as he stares at your red, puffy and wet pussy, before making eyes contact with iwaizumi.

leaning forward, oikawa grabs you by the chin, turning your face so you meet his gaze. you blink at him slowly, dazed.

"did that feel good, angel?"

you nod in his grasp; "yes... yes, thank you. thank you..."

oikawa chuckles and lets go, leaning back as iwaizumi keeps your head up by your hair. you turn back to face him, only to feel oikawa's arms slip under your arms, pulling you back and flush against his chest, moving to grasp your left breast in his hand, squeezing. you gasp at the movement and action, blinking as some of your senses come back, eyes zoning in on the way iwaizumi's hands move to the button of his jeans.

he unbuckles, pulling down the zipper, and shoves his pants down his thighs, before pulling his cock free from his underwear. it stands straight up as it does, and you swallow thickly at the sheer size. it doesn't matter how many times you see it, his dick still has you shaking in fear every time.

"give her 'ere."

oikawa lowers you, shifting as iwaizumi grabs you by the shoulder with his one hand, and the other grabs his dick, angling it towards you.

"open," iwaizumi orders, narrowing his eyes at you.

swallowing thickly, you part your lips, before his cock is all but shoved into your mouth. oikawa's hands leave you as iwaizumi grabs a handful of your hair once again, his hips rising as he shoves himself fully inside your mouth. you gag at the sudden intrusion, eyes widening as you choke on his leg, muscles spasming.

"relax," iwaizumi orders, tugging at your hair. "relax. there ya go. take it. take it like i trained you to."

you force yourself to relax, adjusting so you can better take him in your mouth. the position leaves you vulnerable, especially with your hands restrained, unable to have any control or find purchase on when or how much of him you take. but iwaizumi gives you a moment, letting you adjust until he feels you relax and uses your hair to move you.

tears well at the corner of your eyes, the sounds of you gagging on his cock the only thing you can hear.

"that's it," iwaizumi groans, head tilting back. "fuck. there ya go. that's a good girl. that's a—ah, fuck!"

you almost forget oikawa's there. at least, until you feel him deliver a sharp slap to your ass that has you flinching forwards, iwaizumi's cock hitting the back of your throat as you cry out around his length.

he delivers one more sharp slap that has you letting out a gargled cry before his hand grabs you by the hip, and a second later you feel his length pressing against your pussy. realization of their plan dawns then and you start to panic, struggling in their grasps and your confines as you try to cry out in denial.

iwaizumi just tightens his grip, slamming your head down and holding you there, unable to breathe as you try to break away until you feel oikawa fully sheathe himself inside you. it jerks you forward and the cry that leaves your lips is garbled in spit and the sound of you choking as your eyes bulge, the sudden intrusion making your vision blur.

oikawa is ruthless, not giving you any time to adjust before he pulls back out and pounds right back into you. iwaizumi pulls you away, allowing you a second to breathe, before the two of them time their movements and you're being fucked by both your mouth and your pussy.

you have no way of steadying yourself or trying to ease the strain on your body. you're left in their hands as they use your body as they see fit, barely giving you time to breathe, oikawa's hips slamming into you from behind as he hits the spot that makes your brain turn numb every single time.

oikawa shifts, grabbing your wrists by the handcuffs and pulls, adding strain to your shoulders as he uses that for purchase into slamming into you harder.

"fuck, she feels so good! she's so fucking tight—!"

"her mouth feels, ah! good too!" iwaizumi grunts, "her throat keeps—fuck! clenching around me!"

every muscle in your body tenses, tears and spit dribbling down your face as both men chase their highs by using you.

"fuck, y/n!" oikawa grunts, voice needy as he uses his free hand to slap your ass again, the sting causing you to jerk as iwaizumi moans out in response to the way your throat clenches.

"you close?" iwaizumi asks.

"yeah," oikawa hisses, his nails digging welts into your ass. "yeah, i'm—ah, almost there!"

you can't focus on what they say next. your eyes roll to the back of your head and your head is numb, blank with thoughts, crying out as oikawa repeatedly pounds into you, your vision turning white with stars as your own high starts to build.

"i'm gonna... i'm gonna cum!"

"me too!"

your visions turn completely white, your senses overwhelming you as you reach your high once again, spasming around the both of them as they orgasm with you. you feel oikawa's seed seep into your pussy, warm, as iwaizumi's fills your mouth completely, the both of them stilling their movements around you as they chase off their high.

you slump completely, weighing a dead weight in their grasps as you blink, trying to refocus, everything around you a blur. you feel oikawa still in you, not pulling out as iwaizumi slowly lifts your mouth off of him, only for his free hand to snap around your jaw and snap it shut.

"swallow it," you hear, a distant voice as his fingers move to plug your nose, trapping you with no way to breathe. "swallow it, slut."

you listen, forcing yourself to swallow his cum and ignore the bitter taste as you feel your face grow hot, trying to shuffle away from his hands to breathe.

he lets go a second later, using his fingers to pry your mouth open, making sure you swallowed everything.

"good girl," iwaizumi croons, "swallowing it all."

a whine sounds from behind you. "not fair iwa-chan!"

"you got to have her pussy, idiot. don't whine."

there's a moment of silence, before you feel oikawa pull out. you hiss as he does, your pussy sensitive.

iwaizumi's hands leave your hair and then oikawa is pushing you to the side gently, tipping you so you fall flat on your back, arms pressing uncomfortably into your back. you have no fight left to argue though, simply letting him move you as he wants as you pant, chest rising and falling as your body screams at you in exhaustion.

then, oikawa's fingers are plunging into you and you let out a cry in response, the sensitivity turning painful before he swipes up and then his fingers are gone.

fingers are being shoved into your mouth before you realize it, blinking as that bitter taste, but slightly different, fills your mouth once more, this time oikawa's fingers press against your tongue.

"suck," oikawa orders, and your eyes open to see him hovering over you. "now."

wrapping your lips around his fingers, you listen, sucking off a mixture of your own cum and his off his fingers until oikawa's satisfied enough, grinning as he pulls away.

iwaizumi watches the whole thing, before scoffing; "loser."

oikawa just grins triumphantly over at him.

a moment of silence passes, neither of them moving, as your arms twitch underneath you, and the hope that they'll take off the handcuffs soon crosses your mind.

then, a second later, oikawa smirks over at iwaizumi.

"wanna go again and swap positions?"

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #hq #hq x reader #oikawa toru #oikawa toru x reader #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaoi #iwaoi x reader #yandere haikyuu #yandere iwaoi #yandere oikawa #yandere iwaizumi

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martellprincess-writes · 2 years

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0NE NATI0N UNDER BL00D AND H0NEY

SERIES MASTERLIST: HAIKYUU FULL-LENGTH FIC

synopsis. At an all-women's college, soldiers take siege during martial law.

aesthetics. psychological thriller, 80's/90's japan. haikyuu!! soldiers vs. female students, martial law, hostages, war-torn society, dark academia, stockholm syndrome, military AU, tragedy, loss, angst

warnings. EXTREMELY DARK CONTENT // 20+ // minors + under-20s DO NOT INTERACT please // NONCON // GRAPHIC CONTENT // PHYSICAL VIOLENCE // nsfw, abuse, twisted and toxic relationships, stockholm syndrome

pairing. various haikyuu boys x multiple f! characters

authors note. this is my attempt to bring more full-length fics to this fandom and to explore more depth with original female characters instead of x readers. one-shot x readers … i’m tired

auth. note 2. links go to ao3 because i’m not putting myself through the hell of posting a full fic on this site

status: ongoing

CHAPTER LIST ━━ ━━ ━━ ━━ ━━ ━━ ━━

01 ━━ WIND BEFORE THE STORM: AKAASHI, BOKUTO

02 ━━ WE'LL SAVE YOU: MATSUKAWA, IWAIZUMI

03 ━━ CALL US LUCKY: IWAIZUMI, MATSUKAWA, AKAASHI, DAICHI, MEIAN, ENNOSHITA

04 ━━ CAN'T SAVE YOU NOW: ENNOSHITA, OSAMU, KAGEYAMA, IWAIZUMI

05 ━━ NOWHERE TO CALL HOME: IWAIZUMI, OIKAWA, AKAASHI, DAICHI, AONE

06 ━━ SO MUCH INNOCENCE: ENNOSHITA, MATSUKAWA, BOKUTO, TANAKA, AKAASHI, ATSUMU

07 ━━ NIGHT HAS COME: BOKUTO, AKAASHI, TANAKA, ATSUMU, MEIAN, MATSUKAWA, OIKAWA

08 ━━ tbd

09 ━━ tbd

10 ━━

11 ━━

#haikyuu #hq #haikyuu longfic #haikyuu x oc #hq x reader #iwaizumi hajime #matsukawa issei #daichi sawamura #oikawa tooru #tanaka ryuunosuke #osamu miya #hq smut #akaashi keiji #bokuto koutarou #meian shuugo #ennoshita chikara #miya atsumu #tw noncon #yandere haikyuu

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bettermiya · 1 year

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Through the Wall

Pairing: Iwaizumi Hajime x Reader

Inspired by @ninefuckingoneone's comment! It's an honor!

WC: 2.6k Triggers: Kidnapping, Physical Violence, Non-Consensual Touching, Bondage, Stalking, Light Alcohol Drinking / Yandere adjacent. MDNI.

Summary: The man of your dreams is closer than you think. Horror!AU. The Boy!AU.

The job ad boasted an unbelievable salary, which included all expenses paid with a separate allowance, and you would be living with the family in a beautiful old house in the country. Apparently, groceries were delivered from a nearby village and the delivery person had agreed - thanks to generous tips from the house’s owners - to also bring up food from the local restaurants. The whole thing sounded a little too good to be true, but after months of job searching, you were growing pretty desperate. So, while questionably sober and despairing, you decided to send along your resume.

You woke to a response the next day asking for a time you could do a phone interview. Everything was a bit of a blur after that. You did the interview over the phone - the questions ranged from the normal to bizarre (“Do you have any children or family obligations that might prevent you from living onsite and being on call?” “Will you sign an NDA?”). You even did a follow up interview in person at a local cafe with a weathered looking, but well put together looking older gentleman, who claimed to be the owner of the house and the father of the child in question. He seemed a bit old to have a child of an age to need a live-in nanny, but who were you to judge? Especially when the money and benefits were so good. He meticulously went over the duties, reiterated the salary and allowances, stressed that anything you could want would be provided, and reminded you that the job required you to stay at the house at all times except Sunday, which would be your only off day.

Even after going through all of this, it didn’t become real to you until you were in the gentleman’s car with your suitcases thumping in the trunk, cutting through a thick barrier of trees down a long and winding drive. The car passed through a large iron gate that closed after you passed through, up and up to the circular drive in front of the giant country estate. The gentleman gave you a tour of the grounds, the garden in the back was of particular interest to you as a place where you could retreat in the warmer months.

He led you inside, showed you around the labyrinthine halls and the massive rooms- including a parlor, a library, kitchen, game room, and other rooms that had strange, old fashioned names and purposes that you immediately forgot. There was apparently a large basement and attached wine cellar that could be accessed through a door in the kitchen and an attic accessed through a pull down ladder that unfolded from the ceiling in one of the upper floor hallways. The second floor was nothing but halls and bedrooms. He showed you the door to the room of the child you would be taking care of, which was marked with a carved tree with sprawling roots and your room which had a carving of wildflowers. Apparently, these were the only areas upstairs you would need access to aside from the linen closets.

This was all things you had been expecting. What you were not expecting was the doll.

“This is Hajime Iwaizumi. My son.”

It was a life sized doll of a child that looked about six years old, carved from very soft wood. A detailed, sweet face was painted on the doll’s head and soft dark hair was carefully arranged in a short spiked style. The hair was disconcerting; it felt very much like real hair. The doll wore what looked like a school uniform with a blazer, little shorts, knee high socks, and shiny little shoes. You waited a long time in silence, staring at the doll, resigning yourself to the fact that this was likely some kind of television show prank.

It wasn’t. You were introduced to the doll. You were given a schedule you and the doll had to adhere to. You decided, in a haze of confusion and shock, to sign the contracts. After the first month of nannying a wooden doll, the gentleman and his lovely wife told you they would be leaving to return to their apartment in the city. You would have full run of what they called their ‘country home’ and their numbers in case of emergencies, but they would be going back to their separate jobs. You felt a little nervous about being in the giant, quiet house alone, but on the other hand, it was just you and a doll and sometimes the delivery person.

You agreed, and it was probably just because you were alone in the house that strange things started happening. You lost one of your shirts at some point between your laundry basket and the dryer. The house made strange noises from the walls, which the owners had claimed were caused by the pipes and HVAC systems, but they sounded an awful lot like footsteps and breathing sometimes.

Once you woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and thought you saw a figure silhouetted against one of the windows at the end of the hall. You screamed and ducked into one of the rooms, but when you finally gathered the courage to peek back into the hall, you saw it was only the curtains fluttering. The window was apparently opened a crack, enough to let the night breeze in. You closed it and locked it.

By far the strangest thing you noticed was that food seemed to be disappearing faster than you were eating it. One Saturday night, you bought yourself a pizza. You distinctly remember putting the box with a few pieces left into the fridge for the next day, but Sunday when you opened the box, it was empty. You did get a little tipsy that night on light alcoholic drinks you were able to coax the delivery person into bringing with the orders, but surely it wasn't enough to cause you to forget eating the rest of the pizza. Right?

You still keep up the doll’s routine. You feel ridiculous, but it would have been wrong to take the family’s money without doing the job you had been hired to do. You dress the doll. You take the doll for walks outside in a little wooden wagon. You read out loud to the doll in the library. You play music loudly (always loudly, they were firm about this, speak loudly, play the music loudly, as if the doll were hard of hearing). You take your meals with the doll. (Yes, you had to make a portion of the meal for the doll, set a plate of food in front of the doll, then scrape the food into a compost bin afterwards. They were firm about this as well. Sometimes, you leave the room to do something and come back to find the plate empty, but you don't like to think too hard about that.)

It has been three months. You are well into your routine, and, at the end of the day, your life is rather peaceful. You just finished tucking the doll in for the night and decided to take a long, relaxing bath in the antique, clawfoot tub. You lean back your head against the back of the tub, taking in the scents of the candles you lit on the counter and the bath salts you poured into the steaming water before you got in. It is quiet and peaceful. You have headphones in so that you do not hear the strange noises from the walls or the general settling of the house.

Your music is not too loud, but loud enough that as you lay there in the tub, dozing, you do not hear the footsteps.

You don’t notice another presence in the room at all until you feel something brush against your scalp. You lift your hand, thinking with some small jolt that perhaps an insect had crawled in while you weren’t paying attention- this is a country house after all- but what you feel surprises you. Your fingers intertwine with someone else’s. A hand is resting on the top of your head; someone’s fingers slide away from yours and comb through your wet hair. The touch is a little rough, and despite your shock and effort to remain very still in case they did not notice you notice them, you give a little squeak when their fingers snag in a tangle of your hair.

Your hands cover your mouth. The hand freezes. After a few, tense heartbeats, you feel the hand return to combing through your hair. When it reaches the tangle again, the person’s other hand presses to your scalp, holding down to keep your hair from pulling as they work out the tangle. You are trembling in the tub, trying to decide whether it is better to remain still or if you should try to bolt. But the figure is so close, and it would take precious seconds to stand and step over the rounded edge of the tub, seconds in which the intruder could grab your arm or hair and pull you back.

A thick, calloused hand slides to your shoulder and dips beneath the water; the tips of rough, dirty fingers with broken nails slide over your clean skin, leaving smudges in their wake. You feel a hot breath against your cheek. They are leaning over your other shoulder, breathing onto the coil of your ear and down the side of your neck. You can’t take it anymore. You grab the edges of the tub and launch yourself up onto your feet. Your shoulder bangs against the figure’s chin, and they grunt, more out of frustration than pain.

You manage to throw a leg over the edge of the tub, but as you are shifting your weight to swing the other out so you can run, you slip. You fall out of the tub, banging your knee and elbows as you go down. Pain explodes through your left knee, which took the brunt of your weight when you hit the tiled floor, and you cry out. You’re screaming now, because you’ve remembered screaming is what you should be doing. You can hear the heavy footsteps approaching from behind you, slowly. Then a sound echoes through the halls and both your scream and the intruder’s footsteps go silent.

The doorbell.

You remember now. You had called in a food delivery before getting in the bath. Something from that Italian place you like and wine. You had been planning to be freshly washed and smelling of your body spray and shampoo when you opened the door. You were going to flirt with the cute delivery person, invite them inside… With renewed purpose, you scramble to your feet and dash out of the bathroom into the hall. The intruder must have been surprised by your speed, you think, because the heavy footsteps take their time to follow you. Maybe the intruder is debating whether to stay or flee now that someone else is here.

The delivery person has saved your life, you think. You’re going to give them the biggest tip of their life. You practically launch yourself down the stairs and skid across the foyer. You’re naked and dripping with water and suds, but you don’t care. You fling open the door and find the delivery person standing there with your food and a bottle of wine. Their face goes through the gamut of emotions before settling on deep discomfort. Perhaps they had known your intentions, but this is coming on too strong. They open their mouth to speak, but you see the color drain from their face as their eyes drift slowly over your shoulder to stare at something behind you.

“We have to go!” You say quickly, not daring to look back. “There’s someone–”

You reach for their hand, but they take a step back. The fear on their face is slowly draining away into something like disappointment. They remain there in the doorway, blocking your exit, but they don’t seem to be moving to help either. The footsteps are right behind you now. Your blood is roaring in your ears. A powerful arm wraps around your middle; the other around your chest. The intruder’s face presses into the top of your head. The delivery person sighs. “Do you need help getting her back in, sir?”

You couldn’t have heard that correctly. The person behind you rumbles. The delivery person averts their eyes. “Sorry, sir. Do you want me to bring the food for you?” Suddenly you’re being lifted up. The arm around your stomach hooks beneath your knees; the one that had been crushing your chest now catches your back as you tumble. You look up into the face of the intruder and find a wooden mask staring back at you. The mask is very similar to the carved, wooden doll with a gentle flush painted on the cheekbones and painted, smiling lips, but where the eyes should be, there are two perfectly round holes. You can see real, human eyes staring at you through the holes.

The masked figure carries you back through the house; you’re too shocked and too winded from your screaming and your brief flight toward escape to put up too much of a fuss. The delivery person is following behind you both. Your strange party goes up the stairs and to the room with the tree carved into the door. The room inside is the same as you remember, except at the back of the room there is a door that wasn’t there before. You all go through the door and step into a small corridor behind the walls. It leads to another room that sends a fresh jolt of panic through you.

There is a bed with thick leather shackles attached to the posts of the thick, antique head and foot boards. There are polaroids all over the walls- of you. You taking care of the doll. You sleeping. You showering. You living in the house over the past few months. The masked figure drops you on the bed and only then do you start fighting again. The figure slaps you across the face so hard you see stars; you don’t fight anymore.

“Hajime!” The delivery person huffs. “Your parents said to take care of them! If you break them, I can’t fix them like I fix your other toys.”

The masked form- Hajime - gives a soft sound then strokes your stinging cheek. “Sorry.” His voice is low and gruff and sounds like it hasn’t been used in a long, long time. Before you can entirely regain your senses, Hajime has dressed you in a pair of your underwear and one of your baggy t-shirts, both items that had gone missing over your stay. He shackles you to the bed and turns to take the food from the delivery person. The delivery person hands it over and waves their hand.

“I’ll lock up after I leave and let your parents know everything went smoothly.” They wave to you then disappear.

Hajime is a perfect gentleman. He sets out the food and feeds you. He offers you sips of wine in between bites. The food is delicious. The room is dim except for the amber glow of a few candles. Under other circumstances it might have been romantic. Hajime’s eyes shine behind the mask. After you stomach all the food you can, he eats a little then settles beside you. You have been taking care of the doll all this time.

Now it’s Hajime’s turn to take care of you.

#yandere iwaizumi #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi hajime x you #yandere iwaizumi hajime x reader #yandere iwaizumi hajime #written by iwachan

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lou-struck · 2 years

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Not me thinking about... Yandere athletic trainer Hajime Iwaizumi.

You are a student-athlete at the university he is getting his master's at who gets injured during a practice. When you first come into the training room for your treatment, he thinks your desperation to get back out there is absolutely adorable.

You’re not like the others, the ones who have let their athletic pro them huge egos and a zero-tolerance for minor scrapes and bruises. The ones who flood his office every day asking for ankle tape but can’t remember what ankle was hurt.

You come in, do your exercises, and ask for reassurance that you’re doing the stretches properly.

You’re working so hard that he can’t help being drawn in by the cute way your face scrunches up in determination when you try and shape your body the way it was before.

He knows that you have a little crush on him, You try to hide the little gasps you make when he fixes your stance and massages out your overworked muscles. Sometimes he swears that you’re messing it up on purposes just so he can help you out again, and again, and again.

He always schedules you to come in for treatment when no one else is in the gym, he says it’s for efficiency and targeted training. But the weird thing is none of the other athletes you know are being scheduled for those kind of sessions. The extra attention is flattering for sure but your naiveite makes you oblivious to his true feelings.

But as you get closer and closer to getting cleared to play again he begins to panic, if you’re all better would you still come by to see him? He sees the way other students look at you and it makes his blood boil. If he isn't watching you who know what they would do to a cute little thing like you.

As the weeks pass he realizes that once you get cleared to practice and play normally you won't see him anymore. Playing is the riskiest thing you could do. If you get hurt again it could be worse next time.

Maybe he’ll just have to make you realize that you aren't as far along as you think you are. Maybe he’ll make sure you aren't going to be game ready for a while. after all the best way to keep you healthy is to make sure you stay right there with him

#haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #iwaizumi fanfic #hq iwaizumi #hajime iwaizumi x reader #anime #iwaizumi oneshot #iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu iwaizumi #haikyuu #yandere haikyuu #yandere hajime #yandere iwaizumi

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mango-bango-bby · 2 years

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who would be the top five scariest haikyuu yanderes to run away from and why👀

Hmmmm this is an interesting one 🤔🤔

5. Tendou

Mainly scary because he sees it more as a game. Like a big game of hide and seek. And he’s fast, he will easily catch up to you. You could be screaming and crying about how much you hate him after being caught by him, and he would just chalk it up to you being a sore loser because he caught up to you.

4. Iwaizumi

Mostly just scary because he’s a scary guy in general. He will yell at you. He will yell and yell and yell and threaten you while chasing you. He would never hurt you, no, but he will threaten you. And once he catches you again he will not stop.

3. Ushijima

Absolutely terrifying from how calm he is. He’s so confident he’s going to catch you. Ushijima is a professional athlete, he will catch you in a matter of minutes. He will hold his hand against your mouth to keep you from screaming and carry you all the way home with just one arm.

2. Kyoutani

He is so so so angry. He’s genuinely so mad that he’s chasing after you with practically steam coming out of his ears. He stays completely silent the whole time bringing you home and he will lock you up immediately whether it be in a closet or basement. He has to leave you there and leave the apartment because he’s so angry and he doesn’t want to hurt you physically.

1. Sugawara

You can fight me on this but I think Suga is the most terrifying haikyuu yandere. He is so delusional, he sees this as an act of rebellion. Or perhaps you’re simply a little out of it today. Even so he’s comforting you after you escape. He won’t even listen to your crying and screams. He isn’t afraid to punish you either. You need a rough spanking or two to get you back to your normal self. Or a night or two in the dark cold basement.

#mango speaks #mango answers #🥭🥭🥭#this is the kinda stuff I usually answer on my other blog is it’s weird to answer this here lol #yandere haikyuu #yandere tendou #yandere iwaizumi #yandere ushijima x reader #yandere kyoutani #yandere sugawara

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depravitycentral · 10 months

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Haikyuu Dick Headcannons Pt. 3

Ft. the Seijoh men (Tooru Oikawa, Hajime Iwaizumi, Issei Matsukawa, Takahiro Hanamaki, Kentarou Kyoutani, Yuutarou Kindaichi, Akira Kunimi)

Tw: implied yandere, implications of stalking, lots of talk about cum, masturbation, oral, praise, a sprinkle of degradation, PSA Oikawa cries during sex, very slight misogyny in Kunimi's, fem reader, MDNI

Tooru’s cock is, just like the rest of him, pretty. It’s pale, slender, rigidly straight with a perfectly shaped bulbous tip that always makes this lewd schmuck noise when he pulls out of you. As he gets closer to coming his tip gets a little pink, but it’s nothing compared to the flush sitting high on his cheeks, or the rosy red of his lips. He’s got a single vein that runs along his underside, so it doesn’t marr the smooth appearance but still gives you that extra bit of stimulation when he’s fucking you. It’s just an overall outstanding cock, and he knows it, too - he’s confident in his body in general, but this is particularly true in the context of his penis. He takes good care of himself, shaving and making sure to use expensive oils and lotions to minimize any ingrown hairs or razor burns. He even uses a special genital cologne, just to make sure he smells good too. (The scent is one he thinks you’d like - he’d brought you to a perfumery one time as a joke because he thought seeing you scrunch your nose at some of the smellier ones was entertaining, but he’d been keeping note of which ones you’d found agreeable when he shoved them at you.) He’s not terribly sensitive - particularly when you’re sucking him off, because while it feels amazing to have your lips wrapped around him, he’s gotten enough head through his life that he’s just jaded and too used to it to find it especially pleasurable. But being inside you? That’s a different story - he hasn’t actually fucked that many women, and as a result the moment he slips inside you for the first time he’s gasping, his eyes blowing wide and this strangled, vulnerable little noise coming from his throat. He still takes a while to come, but he’ll gasp and murmur praise in your ear the entire time he’s thrusting into you, because you just feel so good and warm and tight.

He’s a shooter, and it makes this perfect, porn-worthy little arc as he throws his head back and moans your name. He doesn’t produce much in terms of volume, but it’s pretty runny, so it’ll often feel like there’s more there than there really is. His cum is very smooth; there’s no lumps or globs, and when he rubs it against your skin (because he likes seeing you covered in it, and he claims it’s good for your skin - rich in nutrients and makes you glow) it almost feels like a thin lotion. When he comes his whole body freezes up, every muscle going taut and tensing up as the pleasure overwhelms him. He’s still for a moment, but after the first initial wave he’s suddenly moving like a madman, his hips bobbing and thrusting wildly and unpredictably, desperate to get any last bit of pleasure they possibly can. He’s always clutching onto you, too, like he needs to ground himself or else he’ll get carried away by the pleasure. (This often leads to finger shaped bruises appearing on your hips and ass, sometimes even your breasts, and while he’s apologetic about it, he doesn’t feel bad.) He makes this high, airy sort of moan when he’s coming, and his eyes always shut tightly, his thin brows scrunching together and his mouth morphing into a sort of grimace. He looks like he’s in pain, but he’s not - it feels so, so very good, and he’s just trying to stop himself from moaning something stupid or crying. (He does cry sometimes, if the sex is particularly emotionally charged - the first time you tell him you love him gets him sobbing as he bends your knees up to your chin, plugging you full with his cock, and kissing you the whole time, whispering to you in a strained, broken moan I love you I love you I love you, fuck tell me you love me again-)

His favorite way for you to touch him is when you’re simply good for him, taking his cock and letting him do as he pleases with you. He likes when you’re receptive to his touches, and ideally you’d be spread out before him on the bed, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers alternating between running through his brown locks and scratching down his back when you’re getting close. He likes the way your cunt flutters around him, your walls rubbing him and massaging his length in a way that makes him breathless, and sometimes his arms even go a bit weak and he nearly falls down on top of you because you just feel too damn good. He likes when you thrust your hips in time with his, trying to get him in deeper and feel him to a much fuller extent. It makes him feel wanted, like he’s doing a good job of pleasuring you, and if you moan? Tooru’s gone, burying his face into your neck and moving from the languid, sensual pace he’d been fucking you at to a more purposeful, calculated one, aiming for that spot he knows you love with every snap of his hips. He especially likes it when you come on his cock - the way you clench down on him makes him light headed, and sometimes - when your orgasm is powerful enough - you squeeze him hard enough to force him out of your cunt, his cock still swollen and throbbing, your slick coating him while he watches you fall apart below him. He likes the way you spasm around him, and more often than not it lulls him into his own orgasm, spurting cum into you and gasping your name with his lips wrapped around your sensitive nipple. He just really, really likes when you willingly pull him closer and encourage him to fuck you deeper; it’s a surefire way to get him breathless and crying out your name.

He’s solidly five and a half inches, with dark hairs framing his base and naval. It’s the perfect shape, with a slight curve upwards that hits you just right when he’s got you spread out on your back, bulbous tip ramming into that spot over and over again. It’s incredibly easy to arouse him - his cock’s got a mind of its own, and often there’s blood rushing south from the slightest things, like you licking your lips (he can’t not imagine how they’d look around his length) or mindlessly playing with your fingers (they’d look so small against him, running along his chest and gripping around his cock; he bets you couldn’t even touch your fingers when you grip him). He gets hard embarrassingly quickly, and stays hard, even if he desperately tries to get rid of it. This causes quite a few awkward moments when he’s around you, and he tries to wear baggier pants whenever there’s a chance you might be present - just because every encounter with you more often than not leads to him popping a boner at least twice. He’s moderately sensitive, and particularly likes when you give his tip and base attention at the same time. He likes when you suckle at the head and lap your tongue up and down his slit, all while your fingers massage and grope at the juncture between his shaft and his pelvis. It makes him shudder, eyebrows drawing together, and gets his hips bucking forward slightly. Especially if you rub at the spot right above where his balls and shaft meet - it makes him actually growl.

His cum is thick and pretty bitter, landing on your tongue and leaving a residue like thick oil. The taste is hard to get out of your mouth, unfortunately, and when you tell Hajime this he’ll immediately feel guilty for how much he likes to finish down your throat. After that, every time you suck him off he’ll come on your face - he justifies it as being less invasive of your wishes, and because it seems to actually be good for your skin. (One time you’d had a nasty pimple, and after a spurt of his cum landed on it, the next morning it disappeared.) It’s okay, though, because his favorite place to come is actually on you, specifically on your pussy. He likes pulling out at the last minute and finishing himself off, watching as cum dribbles onto your pretty lips, making an absolute mess out of you and leaving you all sticky and warm. He’ll run his fingers through it sometimes, staring with this look of awe, intensely enough that you’ll get embarrassed. His ultimate, though, is when your spread your lips for him, exposing your quivering, swollen little hole, and he comes all over that - it’s dirty, taboo, and it makes his possessive urges towards you calm down a bit because now you’re marked as his, and anyone else can see the globs of his cum that are pressed up right against your most sensitive, intimate area. Of course, though, if you want him to come inside, he’ll never say no. He’s a gasper, his breath always getting caught when he’s fucking you. When he first shoves himself inside, he’s gasping lowly and biting his lip, trying to control himself and hold back the orgasm that’s already dangerously close. He’s not too terribly vocal for the most part, but when he gets close to coming he’s stuttering out your name, each syllable punctuated with a grunt and a gasp, until eventually he’s coming, his eyes blowing wide and a strained slur of your name falling from his lips. He stares the whole time, unwilling to look away, and it’s not until the oversensitivity overwhelms him that he lets the moment end.

His favorite way for you to touch him is when he’s giving himself a pussy job, using - of course - you. In general, he’s utterly fascinated by your cunt - he’s always staring at it, and although he’s certainly no virgin, there’s something about your folds, specifically, that makes him salivate. He’s always trying to rut his cock against you, obsessed with the feeling of the most intimate part of you touching the most intimate part of him, and he wants nothing more than to have you spread out before him, your eyes blown wide and legs spread for him, pretty body on display for him as he fists his cock. He wants to run his tip through your folds, to collect all your slick and wetness at his head, watching the way it mixes with his own pre, leaving him a sticky, wet mess that shines and gleans in the light. He’ll grip himself at the base, harshly exhaling as he runs himself slowly, so damn slowly, up and up, letting himself dip deeper inside every few centimeters, just enough to tease both him and you. He’ll run himself all the up to your clit, muttering out a curse as his tip draws circles against your little nub, his slit feeling so sensitive and needy that it makes him crazy. When he’s doing this, he tends to murmur your name a lot, growls of how pretty you look, amazed comments of how you’re already so wet for him, and curses of how fucking tiny your little pussy are always slipping past his lips. He’s amazed by how he can possibly fit inside you - you look so small and tight, and his cock looks much too big in comparison, and the idea of stretching you out gets him gulping, his cock visibly throbbing. Eventually he’ll cave and shove himself in, apologizing through grunts that he just can’t hold himself back anymore, that he can’t keep teasing himself, that he needs to be inside you and feeling how warm and wet and perfect you are. He’ll come very quickly after doing this - it only takes a few minutes, and soon he’s groaning your name and spilling inside of you, spurts of hot, thick cum plugging you up while he breathes in your scent and basks in you.

He’s a tall man, and his cock reflects that - it’s long, easily six and a half inches, hanging so heavily between his legs that even when he’s fully hard, swollen and practically begging to sink itself inside of you, it’s only standing at about 120 degrees, too weighed down by it’s own size to fully stand up. He’s not especially thick, but he’s veiny, with the raised skin criss-crossing and feeling perfect when they rub up against your spongy, sensitive walls. He’s not too terribly sensitive, but he likes steady, consistent pleasure stimulation, like a constant pace when he’s fucking you, or when you bob your head steadily, tongue lapping at his underside with fervor. His tip is always a darker shade than the rest of his shaft, the color matching his balls, and Issei particularly likes when you pay attention to those two areas. He’s extremely sensitive when it comes to any sort of stimulation to his balls, and the moment that your fingers brush them or your tongue flicks at them, he’s groaning, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tells you to do that again, angel, fuck just like that. He likes when you suck on them, trying to fit as much of each one into your mouth as you can, and just the sight of your lips wrapped around one while you suck and thumb at his tip with your hand makes his head spin, his orgasm drawing closer and closer at an alarming rate. He has a thing for making you kneel below him, and he really likes to be the one standing over you - there’s something about the power dynamic that gets him harder than he’s ever been in his life, and when you look up at him all sultry and dirty like that, it takes everything in him to not force your lips apart and fuck your throat like an animal. (And sometimes, the urge is too strong - you’re left with a bruised throat and a hoarse voice, but everytime you talk to him like that it makes his expression darken, his cock growing hard once more and soon you’ll find yourself bent over the nearest surface, ass cheeks on display while he breaths hard and nudges his tip at your hole, determined to give you a bruised cunt to match your throat.)

His cum is thick too, but sometimes the consistency can be a little strange. It tends to glob up a bit, and because he dribbles when he comes, this can sometimes result in little spurts oozing out of his tip. The volume of cum is quite high, and because of this, when he comes inside you, you can really only describe it as him stuffing you full. (He’s seen your tummy swell before when he’s creampied you - you don’t really believe him, but he swears your stomach got bigger. And just the thought of that - that he stuffed you full enough to stretch that little pussy of yours out - is enough to get him growling and sucking dark hickeys into your neck, his possessiveness shooting through the roof.) He’s not especially vocal in bed, normally preferring to stay quiet and just listen to you, but as he gets closer his breathing starts getting really heavy, pants coming from his lips that sound more and more labored the closer his orgasm looms. Right before it hits, he’ll close his eyes and groan, the sound low and full of timber, making a shiver roll up your spine because it sounds so primal, like some sort of animal. And when he’s actually coming, he’ll groan again - except this time, it sounds vaguely like your name, the last syllable sounding upturned as the pleasure makes his mind scramble. His hips will slow down to nearly a stop when he’s coming, because he tends to get oversensitive really easily and he needs a moment to catch his breath. His eyes are closed the whole time, eyebrows scrunching together and looking a bit like it hurts, but the way his thighs tremble and the way his jaw goes slack tells you just how good you’ve made him feel. He prefers coming inside you, but as long as his cum gets inside of you somehow, whether that be in your cunt or down your throat, he doesn’t really mind.

His favorite way for you to touch him is when he’s on his back, and you’re perched with your cunt over his face and your mouth over his cock. He’s a fan of the classic 69 position, because while it isn’t the most sexually satisfying option, there’s something that he finds really endearing about the idea of pleasuring each other equally. He loves the feeling of your mouth on his cock, and the combination of that plus getting to taste your cute little pussy leaves him light headed and aroused enough to throw you down onto the bed. He likes to get on his back and give you a look, hoping you’ll understand what he wants without him having to articulate it, but if you don’t seem to get the message he’ll grab you and manhandle you on top of him, a hand gently pushing your face down to rub against his cock while his tongue slips between your folds. He’ll admit that the position is a little distracting, because it can be hard to focus on pleasing you when you’re doing such a good job of pleasing him, but he’s normally able to stave off his orgasm long enough to get you falling apart on top of him. He’ll aim for your clit and will sometimes bring a finger up to gently rub and curl against your walls, anything to get you shaking and moaning his name. (Plus, if he gets you wet enough, your slick will actually drip down onto his face - he fucking loves this, because it feels like you’re showering him with evidence of how well he’s touching you, coating his face with your slick because you want him to know that what he’s doing is enough.) He likes the way you gasp and struggle to stay consistent around him when he’s touching you like this, and feeling your fingers tremble as they stroke him and squeeze at his balls makes him sigh and buck his hips slightly. If he gets close, however, and feels like he can’t hold off any longer, his free hand will come down and hold your head in place while he thrusts up into your mouth, balls slapping against your nose as he fucks your face to his heart’s content. He just likes the intimacy of this position, and you’ll find yourself in it very often - especially towards the beginning of your ‘relationship’.

He’s just barely over five inches, but he’s pretty thick. It’s girthy, and when you first see it, the first thing you think of is how the hell he’s going to fit something that wide inside of you. It’s always a pink rosy color, even when he’s not hard, and although he’s embarrassed at first, he actually really likes having domestic moments with you where you see his cock both erect and flaccid - it makes him feel closer to you. (Plus, it normally only takes mere moments for it to go from soft to hard when you’re involved, which is what tends to happen nine times out of ten.) He doesn’t do a very good job of grooming himself, and takes pretty much no time to actually shave or trim or anything of the sort. It’s a bit of a mess down there, but he showers often so it all smells good and is clean. He doesn’t want you to shave or trim either - he firmly believes sex should be natural, and he wants to see you as you are, not as you present yourself. He’s decently sensitive, and while he’s got a bit of experience, he can get overwhelmed pretty easily when he’s inside you. He twitches a lot, especially once he’s settled between your walls - you can feel him moving inside you, bobbing and spasming as he gets closer to his orgasm, and sometimes his whole body shakes in time with them. It’s nice, actually, because it makes it easy to identify what kind of dirty talk gets to him - the moment you let any sort of praise slip past your tongue, he’s twitching and throbbing inside of you, acting as encouragement to get you saying more, to tell him that he feels good and that he’s gonna make me come ‘Hiro, please please please! (Begging normally gets him throbbing, too.)

He shoots, and there’s quite a bit of force behind the stream - it feels like the perfect amount of pressure in a shower, and he’ll always force himself to keep his eyes open so he can watch the way it spurts out of him and lands in ropes on your pretty body. His cum actually tastes surprisingly sweet, given how poor his diet is. It’s on the saltier side, but it’s nothing too outrageous. (You told him that once and he made some joke about how it would make the perfect replacement for that salt shaker that always seems to run out. You didn’t find the joke particularly funny, but the thought lingers in his mind for a while, and suddenly he can’t stop imagining the way you’d look actually eating his cum, not even in a sexual context. The thought makes him flush and have to clear his throat, but he can’t deny the allure.) This is great news for you, because Takahiro loves to come in your mouth. There’s something so dirty about seeing his cum dripping from the corners of your lips, down your chin, your pretty pink tongue coming out to lick it all up - and oh, if you hum or moan at the taste? He’ll melt, a few droplets of whatever remaining cum his body can scrounge up landing on your face without any warning. He’s a moaner, and while it embarrasses him, his voice always gets high when he gets close to coming, sounding less like moaning and more like whining and whimpering. He’ll always try to bury his face in whatever surface is closest by, though he tends to prefer your breasts or the small of your back, whichever is accessible. The moment he’s actually coming, though, he’ll always pull back to watch, because even being a fully grown adult man, he’s still in awe of how your body just seems to affect his, almost like you’re pulling the cum out of him with how hard he orgasms.

His favorite way for you to touch him is when you ride him. He’s not necessarily lazy in bed, but he likes to watch you and let you do most of the work until he needs to step in. He’ll lay back with his head on some pillows and let you straddle him, your cute tummy and pretty tits on display as you slowly slide down onto him. He likes when you grind a bit on him first, your folds rubbing and massaging against his length, and if you watch his tip you’ll see a copious amount of precum oozing out, showcasing his steadily growing desperation to get inside you. Once you slip him past your tight entrance and he bottoms out inside you, he’ll sigh and pinch at your hips, his voice cocky as he tells you to get on with it baby, wanna feel you bouncing on me like a good little slut. It’s uncharacteristic, with how most of his tendencies in the bedroom tend to air on the more submissive side, but the moment you’re actually moving? Well, all traces of cockiness and dominance are gone - he’s gripping onto your thighs for dear life, eyes fixated on the way your breasts bounce and jiggle, maybe even smacking against your ribcage if they’re big enough. He likes the way he’s able to get deeper inside you like this, the penetration going further and making you cry out his name because you just feel so damn full. He’ll stare and watch you, his cheeks bright red, unable to focus on anything except your body and the way his orgasm is drawing nearer and nearer, and eventually he’ll get close enough that he needs to take control. He’ll sit up and wrap his arms around your waist, face pressed against your chest and maybe even a nipple in his mouth as he moves you up and down like some glorified sex doll. He’ll control your body fully, his own hips snapping up to meet yours in a crazed chase of his orgasm, until finally it hits, and he’s moaning your name and his balls are pulsing against your ass as warm cum floods you. He likes the vulnerability of this position, the way he can be touching so much of you at once, and because he gets to see all of you, even the parts of you that you try to hide in other positions. (Like that cute stomach of yours or the fat of your thighs.) You just look sexy, and the way you pulse and clench down onto him like a fucking vice when you reach your own high only spurs him on, desperation for round two and three and four hitting him like a truck.

He’s a little under five inches, but he’s mean with it. He doesn’t have much experience, but he’s nursed a small porn addiction for most of his life, and although he knows porn isn’t realistic, he can’t help but fuck into you with reckless abandon every time he’s got you naked in front of him. He’s not too terribly thick, but he’s veiny, to the point where he almost looks like those veiny dildos you can get online. His tip is extremely sensitive - swiping your thumb across his slit or squeezing at the head makes him splutter, his cheeks turning bright red as his hips jerk forward. It’s easy to turn him on, because he’s really bad at hiding when he’s aroused. Seeing you in anything form fitting will make him feel hot and have him alternating between averting his eyes and staring at every inch of you, but the real nail in the coffin for him is when you touch him in falsely innocent ways. Place a palm to his chest and smile at him and he’s immediately hard, or run your hand over his hair and he’s practically panting, unable to stop imagining the way you’d grip at his hair and beg him for more when he’s got his face between your legs. He gets hard easily, but he’s normally able to make it go away pretty easily too, but his face stays this rich red color and he gets more skittish around you than normal, so you’ll be able to tell ninety percent of the time. He’s actually pretty meticulous about upkeep - he’s not clean shaven but the hair is very short, perfectly trimmed so that you have unrestricted access to everything below his belt. He does this both because it makes him feel cleaner, and also because he wants to be as enticing to you as possible so that you’ll be more inclined to touch him. He’d gotten drunk one night in his early twenties and decreed that he’d be getting his dick pierced, and a buddy had gotten it on video, and he wouldn’t let his pride be wounded, so now he’s got a Prince Albert piercing on his tip. It hurt like hell, but he really likes the way it feels inside you - it makes him more sensitive, he thinks, and you always seem to squirm when you feel the cold metal, the extra stimulation making you moan and clench even harder around him.

His cum is thick and there’s a lot of it. It doesn’t taste great, and the first time you tasted it you couldn’t help but grimace slightly. Kentarou noticed, and while he didn’t say anything about it, he’s been trying to alter his diet to include more foods he’s read help sweeten the taste of cum. He prefers to finish on your body rather than in you, but he’ll never not finish inside you if that’s what you want. Really, if you ask him to finish anywhere specific, he’ll do it in a heartbeat, excited that you want it. He just likes the way you look with it smeared across your skin - again, that porn addiction has left him with a bit of an objectification kink, and while he doesn’t view you as simply a toy for him to fuck, there’s something that quells his possessiveness towards you when he’s covering you with his seed. He tries to avoid coming in your mouth though, just because he doesn’t want to see you grimace like that again. When he’s fucking you, he doesn’t usually say much, but he isn’t super quiet - he grunts a lot, always sounding a little bit like he’s in pain, and he keeps his eyes tightly closed for much of it. He’ll mutter your name under his breath, too, but it’s quiet enough that unless his mouth is close to your ear you won’t be able to distinguish what he’s saying. But as he gets closer to coming, those grunts turn more into growls, and right as he’s on the edge, he’s literally growling your name, along with slurred fuck’s and yeah’s and too damn tight’s. He’s not too expressive, but if his orgasm is particularly powerful he’ll end up sinking his teeth into the skin of your shoulder - not enough to break the skin or hurt, but enough to leave a mark when he pulls away, and enough to muffle the moan that bubbles up in the back of his throat. His whole body tremors when he’s coming, everything from his fingertips to his toes trembling and shaking slightly, the force of his orgasm nearly blowing him away. It takes him a long time to actually finish coming once it starts, too - he comes so much that it just never seems to end, him emptying into you for easily twenty seconds before the last few drops finally come out.

His favorite way for you to touch him is when you take your time and just absolutely worship his cock. He’s never been embarrassed of his body or anything, but he likes the idea of being soft with you, and while he’s just a bit too awkward to take the time and worship your body, he likes when you do it to him. (It’s not that he doesn’t want to worship yours - he does, absolutely, more than you could ever understand. But putting himself into that position where you’re watching his every move and judging him, letting him explore and pleasure you and do whatever he wants with you makes him nervous, the pressure settling on his shoulders to do well making him chicken out at the last second. But when it’s you worshiping him, he can just sit back and watch, letting you do your magic until he’s eventually gasping your name and getting cum all over himself as you fist him and press kisses against his thighs.) It feels like such an intimate moment, and it helps convince him that you actually like him, that you’re actually returning the love he’s so frantically forcing onto you. He wants you to keep eye contact the whole time, looking up at him from your place on your knees, his own body seated in a chair with his legs spread so you have easier access. He wants you to kiss every inch of him, your soft lips pressing against his thigh, balls, cock, navel, everything you can reach. He wants you to pump slowly, telling him how warm he feels in your hands, how he’s so big and makes you feel so good, the compliments flowing off your tongue like sugar and making his face turn bright red. He wants you to suckle on his tip and lick along his slit, teasing him with not quite enough pressure, telling him how good it feels when he brushes against that certain spot inside you that makes you see stars. He wants you to squeeze and touch his balls, telling him how these always make you feel so full, they fill me up so well, Kentarou, I love it when you come in me. He just wants you to praise him and touch him all softly and slowly, showing him that you really love him. Give him hope that his one-sided feelings might be more reciprocated than he seems to think.

It’s solidly five inches, and curves very slightly to the left. He’s confident enough with it, but Yuutarou finds himself wishing he was just a bit longer, just a bit thicker, just a bit more. He spends a lot of time looking at himself in the mirror, and especially once his feelings for you form, he’s always idly wondering what you’d think of him. It’s a pale color, and when he gets hard it turns a gradient of pink down to his tip, where it’s flushed and always swollen within seconds of blood rushing south. He keeps himself clean shaven because he doesn’t want you to be grossed out when he eventually has you in front of him, naked and yearning for his touch. He wants everything to be clean and attractive and perfect, because the first time he gets to touch you and fuck you, everything has to go perfectly. He’s decently sensitive, and he especially likes it when you pay attention to his base. Gripping him there and idly squeezing while you talk to him will make him breathless and light headed, his voice strained and tight when you ask him if he’s wanting to fuck me? Do you want that, Yuutarou? Do you want to make me a mess on your cock? You’re so dirty when you talk to him like that, but it drives him crazy - and when you grip him tighter and tighter and tighter, it only furthers the feeling. He likes it, too, because your hand almost acts as a sort of cock ring, barring him from accidentally coming much too early - something that’s happened often when he was still left to his own devices with only the thought of you and his pillow to work with.

His cum is watery and there’s not a huge amount of it. He comes pretty easily, all things considered, but he has a decently short recovery time, and if the worst case scenario occurs (he comes before you), he’s immediately getting onto his stomach and diving between your legs, tongue eagerly working at your clit and his fingers slipping past your swollen folds to curl and rub at you until you’re moaning and clutching onto the pillow under your head. He’ll let himself calm down, and within five minutes he’s normally able to get hard again, and while this time he’ll likely be shooting a blank, he will keep fucking you until you come for him - and this time he’ll have his thumb working at your sensitive little clit the whole time, his pride out the window because he needs you to come, dammit. When he comes he makes this weird little half-shout half-groan, the sound loud and a little bit jarring. He tries to keep quiet for the most part during sex, because no matter how many times you try to tell him that you like his noises, he’s too embarrassed to freely let them out. Besides, he’d rather hear you anyways. But when he’s getting close, he does tend to start blabbering, his voice slurred and the words coming out so quickly that they’re hard to understand. He’s trying to get every thought out in those last few seconds before he comes, because he has all these compliments and sweet nothings that come to mind when he’s fucking you, but he’s too engrossed in the moment and nervous to actually say them, so he waits until the last moment and all you can hear is y’so tight ‘n good, ‘m gonna come in you, fuck let me come, y’so pretty when you’re drippin’ with me and fuck fuck fuck, here it comes take it take it take it-! He writhes when he comes, unable to stay still, his muscles flexing and relaxing over and over again, leaving him to shake on top of you and then promptly collapse onto you. He’s exhausted after he comes, but he’s still attentive to your needs, and even if he’s on the edge of passing out, he’ll make sure to get his fingers stuffed inside you and his lips on your nipples, absolutely anything to guarantee you’re feeling good.

His favorite way for you to touch him is when you take control. He’s always a little doubtful of his own abilities, nervous that he’ll do something that you don’t like, even though you aren’t the first girl he’s slept with. He’s just a bit paranoid that he’ll make a mistake and eliminate any form of attraction you feel for him, and so he likes it best when you take the wheel, pushing him onto his back and climbing on top of him, leaning down to kiss him and suck hickies into his neck. He likes when you grind on him, your hips moving against his in circles, your very thin panties (that he’d picked out, with a red face, the last time he’d visited a lingerie shop, having bought a few sets for you after learning your panty and bra size) rubbing up against his boxers, the navy material already stained a darker blue with a copious amount of precum. He wants you to move his hands for him, your grinding never stopping as you situate his large palms against your breasts (already bare, your - his - t-shirt haven’t been discarded across the room), squeezing over his hands to encourage him. He wants you to slowly sink down on him, before setting up a brutal pace, bouncing on top of him with reckless abandon while you smile down at him and hold eye contact. He wants you to move his hands to grope at your ass, while you reach behind you to play with his balls, squeezing lightly and feeling the way he tenses up and warbles your name. He wants you to suddenly switch your positioning, so that you’re facing away from him, your ass exposed to his prying eyes while you roll your hips again, the new angle making access to squeezing his thighs easier. He just wants you to manhandle him, really, because while he may be well over six feet tall and is finishing up his collegiate studies, he’s nothing more than putty in your hands, eager to do anything and everything you want.

He’s roughly five inches, with a moderate girth. Overall, he’s thoroughly average - tufts of brown, curly hair sit at his base and a vein or two decorates his shaft, which slims out a bit as it extends, ending in a round, mushroom-shaped tip that’s always covered by pretty, pink foreskin. He produces a lot of precum, to the point where once you get your hands on him, you’ll be surprised to feel that it’s almost like he’s already slicked himself up with lube. There’s just so much of it - but that’s because once Akira gets hard, he stays hard. No matter how hard he tries to distract himself or will away his erection, it takes at least fifteen minutes for it to go away. Even after he comes, he stays hard for a while - he gets oversensitive very easily, so he’ll try to swat your hand away if you reach for it when it’s still coming down after his release, but secretly he hopes you’ll reach for it again because he’ll begrudgingly let it happen the second time, content and pleased that you want to keep touching him. He stays hard, but actually takes him quite a bit to get hard - even with you, the woman he finds so sexually arousing and desirable that it makes him sick sometimes, he has to have a good mix of stimulation and thoughts to get him ready to go. Generally, if you want to get his cock swelling up and turning a deep pink color, kiss his neck and palm over his crotch, whispering his name in the most sultry voice you can manage, maybe even flicking even lightly biting his earlobe as you whisper into it. He’s not too sensitive, and because of this he tends to last a long time in bed, to the point where if he’s really concentrated and you’re in the right mood, he’ll get you to orgasm at least three times before he gets close. He doesn’t groom himself all that much, figuring that if you really have a problem with it you’ll let him know, and while he keeps everything clean and sanitary, sometimes you end up with a bit of hair in your mouth when you’re sucking him off.

He doesn’t produce a huge amount of cum, but it’s decent tasting, enough so that you genuinely don’t mind swallowing it. This is good news, because Akira really, really likes when you give him head. His favorite place to come is definitely your mouth, and the feeling of your lips and tongue against him are often the quickest way to get him to orgasm. He’s a fan of pushing himself as deeply into your mouth as he can and then releasing, so that all of it goes directly down your throat, because he likes the idea of his cum being in you, even more than just in your cunt. He’s also satisfied with pulling back and coming all over your face, because while it isn’t quite as satisfying as finishing in your mouth, there’s still something lewd and dirty about it, especially if you open your mouth and let your tongue loll out. He’s pretty quiet in bed, mostly just breathing hard or muttering commands under his breath - they’re never too harsh, just things like keep going or say that again. But when he comes, he takes this long, harsh inhale - it’s not quite a gasp, but it sounds too uneven and heavy to be a normal breath. He’s not one to moan too much naturally, but he tries to push down any sort of noise if possible because he doesn’t want to turn you off in case you don’t like it - even if you try to reassure him, he doesn’t really believe you, and he’ll still do the long-inhale-thing rather than let out the little whimper he really needs to. His whole body jerks when he comes, and this normally ends up lodging him even deeper into whatever hole he’s buried in, which adds extra stimulation to his already sensitive cock, making him hiss and grit his teeth. His face gets red as he gets close, too, and it’s a telltale sign that he’s feeling good when his cheeks start blooming pink, all the way down to his neck and over his collarbones. He gets sweaty, too, exertion and holding back any sounds taking a lot of effort, and often his bangs will get stuck to his forehead.

Akira’s favorite way for you to touch him is when you take his cock into your mouth. There’s something about the power dynamic that gets to him, because while he doesn’t inherently view himself as any better than you (he may not show it, but he worships the ground you walk on, if all the stalking and tedious collecting of your information are anything to consider), something just feels right when you’re suckling on him like that, your pretty eyes sparkling up at him through your lashes and tears pricking at your lash line every time you take him just a bit too far down your throat. There’s something endearing about the way that you take him so well, relaxing your throat and bobbing your head over and over, and he especially loves it when you get messy. He likes your spit to be everywhere, dripping down his shaft and onto his balls, dribbling down your chin, just getting everything wet and sticky. He likes the sight of you pulling back and panting hard, a thin strand of saliva and precum connecting his tip to your lip, the sight making him gulp and clutch onto the corner of the chair he’s seated in so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He likes the way your lips are so soft against him, how your tongue is wet and warm and so very dexterous, licking around his tip and dipping in against his slit. He just likes the way you give him so much attention when you’re using your mouth; it makes him feel special and pleased that all your time and effort is going into him, to please him and make him feel good. And if you were to reach down between your legs, your fingers playing with your clit while you bob your head and use your other hand to lightly grope at his balls? Well, hopefully you take getting your throat fucked as well as you do bobbing your head, because the mere sight will have him losing control and needing to fuck something, and your pretty little face is the nearest thing.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa #yandere iwaizumi #yandere matsukawa #yandere hanamaki #yandere kyoutani #yandere kindaichi #yandere kunimi #haikyuu smut #_haikyuu #_lee's headcannons #_tooru oikawa #_hajime iwaizumi #_issei matsukawa #_takahiro hanamaki #_kentarou kyoutani #_yuutarou kindaichi #_akira kunimi

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seijorhi · 2 years

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Heedless, Heartless.

An Iwaoi sorta ;)) commission for another and very patient and lovely nonnie <33 Iwaizumi Hajime x female reader, Oikawa Tooru x female reader w.c 5.2k tw: non/dubcon, yandere themes, nsfw, drunk/drugged reader, non-con filming, sex-tape, kinda stockholm-y vibes, smut

Friendships are a complicated thing.

When romantic relationships go bad – feelings fade or change, or somebody fucks up – you’re expected to walk away. The healthy thing to do is walk away.

Iwaizumi thinks he might hate his best friend.

Wasn’t always like that. As a kid, he’d rather have taken a volleyball to the face than admit out loud that Oikawa Tooru was his best friend; that didn’t mean it wasn’t true, though. He might’ve been a vain, arrogant, childish piece of shit at the best of times, but Iwaizumi knew that was all just surface stuff.

It wasn’t only that he was good at volleyball and helped make Iwa better, too. And it wasn’t that he stuck to Iwa’s side no matter how many times the brunet called him names or threatened to beat him up. Iwa liked him, saw beyond all that stupid shit – to the kid who loved volleyball more than anything, who was kinda weird and a bit too into aliens, who wasn’t nearly so self assured and cocky as he pretended to be, with a drive to win so intense that it worried him a little – and without intending to, gravitated towards the kid.

He used to think that he was the one to ground Oikawa. Remind him that he was human and had human limitations. Somewhere along the way, though, that got all messed up. Maybe he lost his influence, maybe Oikawa was just beyond help in the first place.

Maybe he is, too.

Things were fine between them. Good, even–

Until you came along.

—

Iwa makes the mistake of picking an aisle seat at the back of the plane. He’d been under the impression that if the plane weren’t completely booked out, he’d have a better chance of getting a row all to himself, and he’d be able to stretch out and sleep better.

Whether or not that’s actually true, he doesn’t get the chance to find out – not a single seat is empty as the plane takes off. What it does mean, however, is that he has to stand there in the hot, stuffy cabin, waiting for every single passenger ahead of him to grab their carry-on from the overheads and disembark.

By the time he finally makes it off the tarmac, through customs, waits for his suitcase at the baggage claim and reaches the arrivals gate, what’s left of his good mood is hanging by a thread.

The sight of his best friend, fresh faced, sun-kissed and grinning, tests that tenuous grip.

“You’re looking well rested,” Oikawa comments by way of a greeting.

Iwa snorts, “And I s’pose you come off thirty six hours of travelling smelling like roses?”

He shrugs dismissively, as if to say ‘yeah, alright, fair call’, grabs his arm and pulls him into a hug, clapping him on the back. “Glad you made it in one piece.”

“Yeah. Glad to finally be off that damn plane.” Which is the truth, even if he isn’t necessarily thrilled to be confronted with Oikawa’s personal brand of charm this early in the morning.

The drive to Oikawa’s villa – though calling it a villa is like calling a monsoon ‘light rain’ – takes about twenty minutes, each one of them stretched thin. He’s gotten better at controlling his impatience – or at least the outward signs of it – but it’s a particular effort to stop his leg from bouncing and his arms from folding across his chest.

He’s so caught up in it; his anxieties, the unsteady thumping of his heart, flexing his hands to keep them from curling into fists, that he misses it at first. The glint of gold on Oikawa’s left hand as he turns the steering wheel and it catches the morning sun.

A ring.

A wedding ring.

Wide-eyed, he looks to his best friend, his oldest friend, because how the hell did Shittykawa get married without telling him? When? His pulse pounds in his ear, drowning out Oikawa’s voice. It’s meaningless prattle anyway, all he has to do is throw in a few grunts and nods every now and then to trick him into thinking he’s paying attention.

He married you.

The bastard fucking went and legally tied you to him, and it’s a good thing that Oikawa isn’t expecting him to contribute much to this one sided conversation because there’s a solid minute where he’s physically incapable of saying anything. Not without biting Tooru’s head off.

And in his stomach, that slimy, bitter twist of jealousy rears its ugly head.

—

“Who’s that?”

The two of them are spread out over the bench under one of the oak trees in the courtyard, studying.

Or, they’re supposed to be studying. While Iwa has his calculus textbook open, lazily scanning the notes he’d scrawled in class, Oikawa has abandoned the pretence entirely, lying back on the seat opposite Iwa’s, idly playing with the volleyball he’d stolen from the gym that morning.

At least, that’s what he was doing.

Ignoring the flicker of mild irritation, Iwa glances up from his notes. He’s fully expecting to find Oikawa staring at one of their classmates, another stuttering fangirl, even a substitute teacher – someone in the periphery that his supposedly observant friend has never bothered to clock much less remember.

Instead, he follows Oikawa’s gaze to find a girl he’s never noticed before sitting by her lonesome on the other side of the courtyard, headphones in, completely absorbed in the notebook propped up in her – your – lap.

Pretty, in an unassuming kind of way, he decides, watching you for a beat. You look like you’re ‘round their age, another third year, but he could be wrong. New, most definitely. Otherwise, there’s nothing all that special about you from what he can see.

Nothing that should’ve grabbed Oikawa’s attention at any rate.

“Dunno. Transfer student, maybe?” he replies in a bored tone, already shifting his attention back to his notes.

“…Huh.”

—

“You’ll be good for Iwa, won’t you?”

With his hands cupping your face, smiling down at you with that saccharine benevolence, Oikawa isn’t asking a question so much as laying out his expectation for the coming five days.

You will be good for him. You will behave.

Without so much as a glance in his direction, you bob your head – and it shouldn’t bother Iwa as much as it does. Since his arrival this morning, you’ve gone out of your way to ignore him; speaking no more than a handful of words, avoiding direct eye contact. You haven’t so much as stepped within arm’s reach – not beyond that initial, stiff hug at Oikawa’s prodding.

You’re acting like he’s a stranger, and while he’s more than aware that you have your reasons for that – one of them undoubtedly the tall, brunet currently sucking at your face – that doesn’t stop him from wanting to grab you by the shoulders and force you to just stop for a second and look at him.

“It’s only a week, love,” Oikawa murmurs, parting from the liplock with another affectionate kiss to your cheek. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

If you’re comforted at all by the reassurance, you hide it well.

—

“Hey, that new chick, the transfer, she’s in your class, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

Makki shrugs, downing a quick mouthful of pocari, “Well if she’s new she probably hasn’t joined a club yet.” At Iwa’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates, “We could always use a manager.”

“So get Shittykawa to ask, he’s the captain.”

“Oikawa’s not in her class,” he shoots back, grinning slyly. Asshole. “Besides, I dunno what it is, having half a working brain maybe, but she doesn’t seem like the type to go gaga for him. He’d probably say something dumb and turn her off it. You should be the one to ask.”

While the others have joked about it on and off for years, Iwa’s never particularly cared one way or the other about having a manager. Half the teams in the prefecture don’t have one. Shiratroizawa doesn’t have one, and it’s never held them back from systematically beating their competitors into the ground. Seijoh’s a damn good team with a solid foundation in its coaches, and Iwa can’t really see how some girl running ‘round picking up stray balls and keeping score in practice matches is gonna make much of a difference.

He’s ninety percent sure that Makki only wants one for bragging rights, but when the bell rings for recess the next day, he pulls you aside to ask anyway – and the look of confusion that flits over your face is strangely endearing.

“… Oh, um, thanks but… I don’t, I mean– I’ve never played volleyball?” it comes out sounding more like a question than anything else, and the corners of Iwa’s lips twitch. Cute.

It’d be easy to go back to Makki and tell him you weren’t interested, and yet–

“We don’t need a volleyball fanatic or anything, just someone with a good head on their shoulders who’s willing to help out, y’know?”

You nod, absentmindedly nibbling on your bottom lip as you mull over the proposition, and he feels compelled to add, “Just come try it out for a week or something. See if you like it. If you don’t, you can leave; no hard feelings.”

Apparently, it’s the right thing to say, because a moment later you’re straightening up and nodding once more, a small but nevertheless genuine smile brightening your face.

“Well, I guess ‘volleyball club manager’ would look good on my university applications, right?”

Sure enough, that afternoon finds you peeking your head into the practice gym, an application in hand.

—

You don’t speak to him at all on the first day.

Instead, you spend most of it curled up on the couch, shifting your attention every now and then from the book in your lap to the TV he flicks on, playing some random show he’d pulled from his netflix queue on a whim.

Not that he could tell you the name of it if he tried, because he’s too focused on the fact that after years of radio silence, surviving off the barest of updates Oikawa would occasionally throw his way, you’re finally in the same room as him, doing your absolute best to ignore his existence.

And it isn’t that he didn’t expect hostility – he shot himself in the foot with that one a long time ago – it’s that you won’t even give him that much. You’re not glaring or spitting vitriol, you’re not even icy in your detachment, it’s as if you’re trying to convince yourself he simply isn’t there.

He’d be impressed if it wasn’t so fucking grating.

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

Oikawa’s gone for a week, and since he apparently can’t trust his darling wife to be all by herself for that long, he’s left you with Iwa instead.

Settling further into the couch, he takes a long, slow swig of beer. He has time; you won’t keep this bullshit up forever. You can’t, it’s not in your nature.

And Iwa hasn’t come this far to ruin everything by pushing too hard, too fast.

—

“Iwaaaa, go talk to her.”

He suppresses a sigh, “Why? It’s late, her job isn’t to hang around and be your babysitter. She’s allowed to go home.”

“This isn’t about me, this is about the team. We won–”

“A practice match. We won a practice match.”

“–and so we’re celebrating. As a team,” Oikawa stresses. “And if you ask, she won’t say no.”

Iwa glances over to the centre of the court, where you’re still busy helping Yahaba bring down the net. Too far away and too distracted to overhear their conversation. Still, he lowers his voice, just in case. You already don’t like the setter, Iwa’s not in a rush to join him over some stupid comment.

“Because I’m not an asshole who keeps annoying her like you do.”

The setter’s odd fascination with you isn’t something he’s ever taken much effort to hide, pestering you at any and all available opportunities, especially now that you’re their manager. Makki and Mattsun both mock him relentlessly for it, but Iwa finds it more creepy than anything else.

“No, because she likes you,” he corrects, grinning. “And you like her too, don’t you?”

“Fuck off.”

He’s not blushing. His stomach’s fine. Why would it matter whether you liked him or not? You guys are friends, that’s it. Friends – and he’s perfectly happy with that. Oikawa’s just trying to wind him up so he’ll go and do what he wants, and Iwa’s not in the mood to play along.

The brunet snickers. “You do. There’s no need to hide it, you know. She’s cute, and smart, I guess her tits are pretty nice, too. I bet they’d look–”

He’s moving before the comment even truly registers, whirling on Oikawa and grabbing him by his shirtfront, yanking him closer with clenched fists. “Finish that sentence, Shittykawa,” he snarls, “I dare you.”

Oikawa only grins, looking entirely too fucking pleased with himself, and it’s only when the sound of your startled gasp breaks through the haze of anger clouding his head that he realises why.

“Hajime, what the hell?!”

Fuck. His eyes close, breathing in deep, exhaling through his nose. Slowly, he pries his hands from Oikawa’s shirt, stepping away as your footsteps race closer.

The others in the team, the coaches, they’re all used to seeing him blow up at the captain, but you– fuck. He doesn’t want you thinking he’s some violent meathead who can’t control his temper because he isn’t, he really fucking isn’t. Oikawa’s just– the bastard doesn’t know when to shut the hell up.

And he doesn’t care that they’re all watching him right now, Mizoguchi with a hard frown, Kyoutani with barely concealed enthusiasm, Makki and Mattsun both tensed and ready to step in at a moment’s notice. You, on the other hand – yeah, that bothers him.

He tears his eyes away from Oikawa just as you skid to a stop in front of them, mouth opening to, what, explain? Apologise for scaring you? But as usual, it’s Oikawa who gets in first.

“Relax, relax. It’s fine,” he says with an easy laugh, smoothing down the front of his jersey. “Iwa just gets a little cranky when he’s hungry. We’re heading out to get him some food after this, you wanna come?”

“Oh…” Wide eyed, a little crinkle appearing between your brows, your gaze uneasily shifts between the two of them. “Um, alright then. If you’re sure…”

Clearly, you’re not sold.

For your sake, Iwa forces himself to relax and chuckle along with him – a touch sheepishly, “Yeah, it’s all good. Really.”

—

The guest room – the one he’s been set up in – is down the opposite end of the villa to the master bedroom where you sleep, and conveniently situated right by the staircase. Usually, once he’s out he’s out like a light, but jetlag’s still wreaking havoc on his system and being in an unfamiliar place, in an unfamiliar bed isn’t helping – which means he’s wide awake when you creep past his door a little after two in the morning on your way downstairs.

He’s not worried that you’ll try and make a break for it or anything, but nevertheless he drags himself out of bed to follow you. Finds you in the kitchen, holding a tub of ice cream in one hand, a spoon in the other, nudging the freezer door shut.

And it’s so damn unexpected that he can’t help the surprised laugh that bursts out of him. You spin, instinctively shoving the ice cream behind your back in a poor attempt to hide it.

For the better part of two days, he’s been treated to your silence while you walk on eggshells around him, and all of a sudden he finds you raiding the fridge for ice cream in the middle of the night like a kid hunting for snacks after their parents have gone to bed. It’s funny.

You scowl at him, arms folding across your chest (still gripping your prize) – and he can’t bring himself to be mad at that, either, not when this is the first time you’ve actually acknowledged his presence.

“What? Am I not allowed to eat without supervision?” you snap, though the words lack the heat they deserve.

You sound tired. Exhausted, really, and just like that his good mood quickly evaporates.

“You can do what you want, I’m not going to stop you.”

You eye him for a moment, eventually sighing and relaxing your posture. “He’s always so damn healthy,” you mutter, moving past him to take a seat at the kitchen table, popping off the lid to scoop out a spoonful of ice cream.

It’s not an invitation by any stretch of imagination, but Iwaizumi grabs a spoon from the cutlery drawer and pulls up a chair beside you anyway.

“So you’re talking to me now?” he comments, pulling the tub towards him to steal a mouthful. “Or are we going back to the silent treatment?”

“What’s there to say?”

Iwaizumi shrugs, feigning indifference. “I don’t know. I thought that as friends we could talk about some stuff. Maybe like why you’re still here. Why you let him marry you when it’s clear you can’t stand the piece of shit.” Each word comes out more bitter than the last, sharper than he intended, and he can’t deny that small twinge of satisfaction when he sees you flinch as they hit their mark.

Good.

Your hands aren’t quite so steady when you reach for the tub next. “We’re not friends.”

—

He feels sick as he watches it.

Iwa knows drunk, even without the drink in your hand, he can see it all over your face, in the glaze of your eyes when you look at the camera, that dazed, dopey little grin. The way you fucking giggle – you’re plastered.

And he knows the bedroom you stumble into. The shitty plastic trophy on the mantelpiece – they got that when they went to volleyball camp the summer they were ten and won the grand championship. It was the first time he and Oikawa played on the same team; setter and spiker. The best setter plaque on the wall – blurry in the frame as the camera shifts angles – he was standing right fucking next to Oikawa when he got it.

The video never shows his face, it doesn’t have to. Iwa knows his best friend’s voice as it purrs pure fucking filth at you.

It’s like a train wreck, playing out in front of his eyes. All he has to do is close the video, delete it, put his phone away, pretend he never got it in the first place, any of the above, but for the life of him, Iwa can’t pull himself away.

The you in the video is shameless. Clothes discarded, inhibitions gone, you swallow down Oikawa’s cock, let him fuck you face down, ass up, moaning like a two bit whore in a bad porno.

He honestly doesn’t know who he’s more disgusted with; Oikawa, for taking advantage of you while you’re clearly drunk, you, for putting yourself in that position in the first place, or himself, because it’s the third time he’s watching you cum around his best friend’s cock, and somewhere between the rage and nausea, there’s a stirring of envy.

It should’ve been him.

“You’re a real piece of shit, y’know,” is all he says the following Monday, the two of them the first to arrive at practice.

Oikawa, guiltless as ever, just shrugs as he slips off his jacket. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you, Iwa. You were invited to that party same as I was. It’s not my fault you took too long to make your move.”

He was, but unlike Shitty-fucking-kawa, he couldn’t rely on scholarships and a ridiculous intellect to graduate, he actually had to put in work and study.

His future isn’t laid out on a silver platter.

“I’m not jealous, asshole. I’m pissed off because she was clearly drunk, and you went ahead and fucked her anyway! What happened to being her friend first, huh? You really that desperate to get your dick wet?!”

Oikawa smirks, “Friends, huh. You’re telling me that’s all you want with our darling, sweet little manager? Not to bend her over the nearest flat surface and fuck that perfect pussy of hers ‘til she milks you dry?”

Blood pressure spiking, he doesn’t hear the sound of the clubroom door opening, much less the lighter footsteps approaching. “As if I’d want anything to do with your sloppy seconds.”

He doesn’t hear it, but Oikawa does, his grin twisting into something victorious as he watches Iwa unwittingly shatter your heart in one fell swoop.

And the sound of your gasp – that pained, strangled whimper, like a kicked puppy – haunts him for a long, long time.

—

“What do you think happened after that, Iwa?” you ask him.

“He shared the video, you dropped out. Disappeared off the face of the planet, you wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t answer my texts, your parents wouldn’t let me see you, and then six months go by and I find out from Oikawa that you’re off living with him in Argentina. What the hell was I supposed to do with that?”

You laugh, bitter and broken, taking another mouthful of ice cream before you speak. “I didn’t drop out, the school kicked me out, and when my parents found out–” your voice wavers, thick with emotion, “When they found out why I’d been expelled, they kicked me out, too. All my friends thought I was a whore. I had fifty bucks to my name, and that was it. I didn’t have another option.”

He’s silent for a long time.

“And now?”

You swallow, avoiding his piercing stare. “And now what? What’s changed, Iwa? I didn’t graduate, I didn’t get into uni. I’ve never held a job. He’s– he’s all I have. He loves me, in all the wrong ways, and too much, probably, but…” you shrug helplessly, and Iwa’s jaw tightens.

He should’ve known. Iwa did know, technically, because there was no way in hell you should’ve ended up with Oikawa. And he’s not sure whether he’s more disgusted or impressed with his friend; willingly or not, he’s got you wrapped around his little finger, wholly dependent on him.

You might hate him, but you won’t leave. Even if Iwa hadn’t come, and you were left to your own devices while Oikawa was away, you wouldn’t have left. You have nowhere to go.

You’re reliant on the one man who single handedly ruined your life, all because he couldn’t stand the thought of you being happy with anyone else.

Iwa slides an open hand across the table; an offer. “That’s bullshit. You have me.”

—

It takes him longer than he’d like to convince you to come back with him.

You’re adamant that you don’t have anything to go back to. You’d be running away from your husband, starting from scratch with less than nothing, and understandably, you’re terrified.

But Iwa’s there to ground you. Reminds you that you won’t be starting with nothing, because you’ll have him right there beside you the whole way through. He’s your friend, and friends look out for one another. He fucked up back at school, he knows that – will probably regret it ‘til the day he dies – but he’s got all the time in the world to make it up to you.

And he will. He’s never been more certain of anything than he is of that.

Despite the reassurances, it doesn’t escape his notice that you fiddle with your ring finger as the two of you sit and wait at the airport gate. The ring’s somewhere back at Oikawa’s place – he’s not sure where you left it exactly, whether you left a note or not.

He doesn’t particularly care one way or the other, but watching you keep reaching for it bothers him more than it should. Like you’re still not ready to let him go.

Maybe he should give you one of his own when you land. You’ll still be married to Oikawa on paper, but it’ll be his ring you’ll wear.

You’ll be his wife.

And fuck it if he doesn’t like the sound of that.

“Iwa… you’re sure about this, right?” you ask him for the millionth time, minutes away from boarding.

For someone who’s been through so much, you’re still so blindly naive. Too trusting for your own good. It’s hard to be mad at you, though, when you look at him like that, all lost and anxious. “I’m sure. ‘m gonna take care of you, I promise.”

And the smile you give him isn’t quite the blinding dazzle you used to wear, but it’s soft and sweet and wholly his.

He squeezes your hand, and tentatively, you squeeze it back.

—

Four hours into the flight to Houston, you squeeze past Iwa to use the bathroom. That’s your excuse anyway, but the tears you’ve been trying to hide aren’t all that subtle, and Iwa feels that familiar sting of jealousy twisting at his insides.

You’re still thinking about that asshole.

He gives you a minute or two before easing his way out of his seat to follow.

“Just a minute!” you squeak when he knocks on the door, ignoring the unimpressed stare of the air stewardess.

“It’s me, let me in.”

There’s a short pause, “Iwa, I’ll be back to the seat in a sec, I’m fine, I just–” He can hear you sniffling through the door. “I just need a second, and I’ll be fine.”

He knocks again, insistent, “Let me in.”

“Iwa–”

“You’re not fine, and I’m not going until you let me in.”

There’s a sigh on the other side of the door and he waits. Then, finally, the lock slides to vacant and you push the door open.

Cheeks wet, eyes suspiciously shiny, you attempt to say something to him, but he pushes you back, forcing the two of you into the tiny cubicle, shutting and locking the door behind him before you can get so much as a syllable out.

“Iwa, what– I said I was fine, you didn’t need to–”

“You used to call me Hajime.”

Confusion flickers across your face, but he doesn’t offer you the chance to reply before he’s grabbing you by your hair and wrenching you forward into a kiss.

He’s had years to imagine what his first time with you would be like. In his head, he treats you like a goddamn queen, lying you down, stretching you out on his fingers first, then his tongue. He takes his sweet fucking time getting you nice and wet and ready for him.

In those fantasies of his, you’re willing and aching for him, begging for his cock with such pretty little whines.

He’d take care of you, fuck you better than Shittykawa ever could. Better than that video, better than anyone.

He doesn’t have that luxury here. He’s too impatient to wait ‘til he gets you home, and there’s only so much time he can spend buried in your pussy before the queue for the bathroom grows too long and the airline staff start to get pissed and nosy.

If there’s one thing he’s grateful to Oikawa for, though, it’s his obsession with putting you in short skirts and dresses that barely reach your mid-thigh. He doesn’t let you pull away from the kiss as he hitches the fabric up and roughly yanks your panties down.

The startled squeak that leaves your lips, muffled by his tongue stuffed into your mouth only spurs him on.

He palms at your cunt for a moment, frustrated when his fingers come away dry. Only then does he pull apart, letting you catch your breath as you stare at him in wide eyed horror. All you’d have to do is scream. The stewardess who’d seen him knocking probably knows he’s in here with you, it wouldn’t take much to break down the door and rip him away from you if you kicked up a fuss.

You won’t though, even as those pretty eyes fill with fresh tears and your bottom lip – reddened and glistening with your shared spit – wobbles. The quiet, disbelieving, “Hajime?” you breathe strikes somewhere deep. He’s not a monster, he’s not like Oikawa, but he’s too far gone to stop now.

With one hand he covers your lips, and the other he hastily undoes his pants, shoving them just far enough down his legs to free his cock.

He wants to say something, to rid you of that pained, terrified expression, but when he tries the words get stuck in his throat. So instead he lets his forehead fall against yours, closes his eyes as he spits on his cock, mixing it in with the strands of pre-cum oozing at his slit and smearing it along his length.

And the little hitched noise you make when the thick, blunt head of his cock brushes up against your pussy sends a shiver of pleasure shuddering down his spine.

“Shh, be good for me,” he grunts out, and tightening his hand over your mouth, he buries himself inside of you with one brutal thrust.

Iwa groans as the walls of your pussy squeeze and tighten around him, as your body locks up and shudders, a soundless scream working its way through you. He knows it hurts, knows it’s not pleasant for you but fuck it feels like heaven and he can’t get enough.

Hips drawing back, he pants against your sweat-damped skin, kissing your forehead as tears spill from your lashes down onto his hand. He should be gentle with you. He should be careful, but all he can think about is the tightness of your cunt, the dizzying warmth around his cock, and the way you cling to him, nails sinking into his back, your leg slung over his hip as he drives them forward again, stuffing you full. Again and again and again.

Apologies fall from his lips as he pounds into you with a rabid desperation. He doesn't think he means them, he’s not sorry, how can he be when fucking you like this feels so damn good.

He wants to go deeper, bully his cock past your cervix and fill you with his cum, to rearrange your insides so they mould to the shape of him. He wants to fuck you harder, deeper, faster. He wants you screaming for him while you fall apart completely.

And you can’t hate it too much either, because despite the muffled sound of your pitiful cries, with every push of his hips, every stroke of his cock, fucking you deep, your pussy grows slicker, wet, lewd slaps accompanying his harsh breaths, filling the tiny cubicle.

He had every intention of filming this to send to Shittykawa, a final fuck you to drive the message home, but Iwa only has one hand free and it creeps down to rub at your sensitive little clit instead. He might be short of time, but you’re still gonna cum for him, he owes you that much.

He loves you and he’s gonna take care of you, you just have to give him this one, small thing.

And he can always film the next time.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere iwaizumi x reader #yandere oikawa tooru x reader #yandere iwaizumi hajime x reader #yandere iwaizumi hajime #yandere oikawa tooru #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon

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